TWENTY-FOUR

The roar of the ocean was overpowering, draining out all other sound as waves crashed and broke against the side of the cliff below Fido. The sea breeze pushed against his unshaven face, unsettling the stands of his messy brown hair. He just stood there in complete silence, his eyes staring vacantly out to the swirling mass of black ocean that stretched out before him.

Fido breathed in and out deeply, fighting to control his breath. Something was going on inside his head right now, and he could not quite comprehend exactly what it was. It was almost like he was having otherworldly visions, only they were much more real than that; they were memories of his old life, from a time long before the shooting. And hazy though they were, almost like random clips of film flashing before his eyes on an old projector screen, what Fido saw was enough to terrify him. He had had visions of his old life before, but never this vivid. Never this long.

It was night-time, and he could women and children screaming at the top of their lungs amidst towering walls of flames. There were gunshots and shouts echoing around everywhere in the background. And then, from somewhere out in front of him, a blood-coated knife appeared through the flickering darkness of the fires. At first Fido thought the weapon was floating on its own, but then he saw the man’s outstretched hand holding onto it. Then he saw the man himself.

The man with the knife was a silhouette against the backdrop of the flames. But in those eyes of his, which seemed to glow through the shadows like those of a demon straight from hell, Fido could make out the reflection of a small child. And that child, Fido knew somehow, was himself.

The man with the knife seemed to be looking straight down at Fido, holding out the weapon as though offering it for him to take. Although Fido couldn’t make out very much of the man in the dark, he did notice one distinct detail; it was the man’s belt, one just like Fido had seen earlier back at the Marino Club, around the waist of that man called Sierra. It seemed that somehow the sight of Sierra’s gun belt back at the Marino nightclub had awoken these dormant memories from the very back of Fido’s mind.

Suddenly then Fido saw something else. Another memory, from another time. This one was clearer, no doubt much more recent. General Gomez was there, but he was looking slightly younger than Fido had ever remembered him. He was sitting at a desk, right across from Fido.

“I need your help,” Gomez started to say, but Fido was having trouble hearing his exact words through the mists of his mind. “Just name your price and…”

But then, just like that, the memory was gone.

Fido dropped dropped to his knees on the rocky shore, sweat pouring like a river down his forehead. Jesus, he breathed. What is going on here?! Who the fuck am I?

***

The majority of the car trip had been spent in silence. Ryu was driving the limousine, his face a serious picture of concentration. Nobody else was feeling particularly chatty either.

“So what really happened back there, Sierra?” Vincent finally turned and asked his friend. The two of them were sitting alone in the very back of the vehicle. All of the others were too caught up in their own thoughts to be listening. “You were talking about Mickey Toma?”

Sierra closed his eyes tightly, still trying to clear away the haze alcohol from his head. “He was there tonight, Vincent. I know it was him. That bastardo must have been following us all the way from San Lorenzo.”

“Potentially,” Vincent said. “But I just don’t get it. What would Toma be doing all the way up here in Panama?”

“He’s come here for me.”

“Come on, I understand that the two of you never really got along, but it’s a completely different world out here. To my knowledge, no Guerrero has ever left the Lost Continent. I mean, how could they survive here, giving up the way of the knife and gun, living like…” Vincent stopped himself, realising he had probably said too much.

Sierra turned away, looking out the window, pretending he hadn’t been paying attention.

“What is the deal with you and Toma anyway?” Vincent asked. “The two of you were more than just rivals in the cartel. You really had it in for each other, didn’t you? It must have been something personal for him to go after Lana the way he did.”

Sierra chose to say nothing. What could he say to that? How could he ever expect his friend to understand what even he himself could not?

***

Saito Kojima felt like an emperor as he walked down the corridor of the Kojima-gumi building alongside his closet accomplice, Ichi Fujita. Their insurrection had gone so smoothly thus far that it was all like living a dream; the entire building, along with everyone in it, was now under their control, and soon the rest of Panama City would be theirs for the taking.

They headed for Kazuo’s office, which was now soon to become Saito’s base of operations. The place was massive, decorated like a presidential office. Saito had always dreamed of working from behind his father’s desk, and now he finally had it all to himself. But as soon Saito and Fujita walked inside they found, much to their surprise, that someone else had already made themselves at home.

“Mr Kojima,” Mickey Toma smiled from behind Kazuo’s desk. “I noticed you were a little busy earlier, so I decided to let myself in. Hope you don’t mind.” He was leaning back in the chair with his filthy boots up on the table. His long Guerrero knife was out of its sheath, the blade shone brightly in his hands as he fondled it.

Saito turned back to Fujita, signalling for him to leave them alone. The Smiling Assassin nodded obediently.

“So,” Saito turned back to his guest after Fujita had left. “I thought we had already agreed it was best for us to meet elsewhere, Toma, if and when such a meeting was required.”

“There were some rather unexpected circumstances,” Toma said. “For obvious reasons, I could not wait for you to find the time to see me.”

“Your client won’t approve of this.”

“My client, as you put it, gave me the authority to act on my own accord!”

“Yes,” Saito nodded, “but he also said that he would need to be kept informed of any deviations made from our original plans. And I think this qualifies as a pretty fucking big deviation, don’t you?”

“True enough,” Toma smirked. “So, do you want to be the one to call him now and tell him about this little meeting of ours, or should I?” He took out a phone from his pocket and slid it across the desk, offering it to Saito.

Saito did not bother to make a move for it. “May I ask why you’re here?”

“It’s your brother; he escaped tonight,” Toma said as though it was really not such big deal. “Your sister too, actually.”

Saito looked as though he had just been punched square in the gut, the wind knocked right out of him. He shook his head in disbelief. “I gave you the time and the place. What the hell went wrong?

“How can I know? I wasn’t there,” Toma lied.

“Well, have you spoken to Lacroix’s men yet, to find out how they screwed it up?”

“That would be quite a trick; all five of them are already dead. It seems the idiots somehow managed to kill just about everyone at the club except for the two people they were actually supposed to.”

Saito’s fist trembled slightly. “The men guarding my brother were unarmed. How did—”

“The how of it is not important at the moment, Mr Kojima,” Toma cut him off. “Right now the focus needs to be on on finding your brother and finishing off our job before El Maestro starts getting his balls in a twist and loses his patience with you.”

“You mean…”

“He knows. And he’s already been in touch. Needless to say, he wants this mess cleaned up as quickly as possible.”

“My brother is an idiot,” Saito said. “Surely he will come running back here. That was the reason we hired the Haitians in the first place, to flush everyone back to us.”

“Yes, that same thought crossed my mind, Mr Kojima… nearly two hours ago!” Toma hissed, turning his blade over in his hands. “But if that were the case then surely Kenji would be back by now, don’t you think? I know what the traffic can be like in this city on a Friday night, but come on, let’s be realistic!”

Saito’s shoulders lowered slightly. “Have you checked with our men in the police? Maybe he went to them.”

“No, I’ve already exhausted that avenue. The police have no idea where your brother is either. Most of his entourage have been accounted for though,” Toma smiled. “Clearly Kenji is far more resourceful than you give him credit for. Perhaps my client came to the wrong Kojima brother.”

“You watch your fucking mouth, assassin!” Saito’s face turned the colour of a tomato. “Who the fuck do you even think you are, talking to me like that?!”

“Calm down, Mr Kojima,” Toma dragged his feet off the desk, sitting up straight in his chair. “Go have a few drinks, find yourself a woman, and relax. Don’t worry, I will handle this myself. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

***

They had all gathered at their boss’s meeting place. The entire room was buzzing with pent-up testosterone. There was not a single smiling face to be found amongst the impatient dreadlocked crowd.

“Welcome, my soldiers,” Loa Lacroix called out as he emerged from his private quarters to address his men. “Baron Samedi’s conquerors!” He raised his arms, holding his long black cane high over his head as silence quickly spread through the room.

“I be bringing good news for you all tonight,” Lacroix said with confidence, swishing his dreadlocks around. “Baron Samedi be promising us that our final victory will be soon. All that is needed now is for us to stay on the path he has prepared. Believe in the great one, and trust in me as his messenger.”

The response was not quite what Lacroix was hoping for; rather than thunderous applause, there came only a few subdued cheers from around the room. It was clear the remnants of his posse were now growing restless with inaction. Added to that, the fact that their numbers were depleting between each of their meetings was not passing unnoticed. And now, with news of the slaying of Kirby Kosta’s crew already spreading through the ranks, frustration with Lacroix and his indecisive leadership methods had started to set in.

Lacroix began to walk around the room like a caged lion, his eyes wide and empty as though he was in some kind of trance. “What demon be silencing you all now?!” he roared at his underlings. “This entire city soon be our master’s kingdom, and we, as his servants, be living as kings amongst men! Be showing your master some fucking respect, or else Baron Samedi will cut out your eyes, your tongues and feast on your hearts!”

“What about the white boy kochon?” a voice suddenly called out from somewhere in the crowd. “He still be on our tail. He be following us here to Panama City, just like he did back in Mexico and then New York. How can Baron Samedi be looking favourably upon us if we cannot even be killing the one man who continuously fucks with his plans?”

All eyes turned to the man who had just spoken. The skull-faced Orlando Nesta may have had the IQ of a twelve year old at times, but that didn’t change the fact that what he said was the true. The others all knew it too, Lacroix could see it in their eyes.

Even though Loa Lacroix wanted nothing more than to take his cane and shatter Nesta’s spine, he knew he could ill afford to upset his men any further. Morale was already low enough as it was. He looked around at each of his remaining men, sensing discontent in each and every single one of them. He knew he would need to appease them, or else he could very well have a mutiny on his hands.

“Do not be worrying about the white boy kochon,” Lacroix said. “Our great master sent him here to test our devotion to him. That is all. Place your faith in Baron Samedi, my soldiers, and he shall guide you through these dark times. Soon the white boy kochon will haunt us no more. His time in the land of the living is fast nearing its end. Money answers all earth-bound problems. I be knowing soon where he comes from. I be knowing soon where he sleeps. And I be knowing soon the company he keeps. Now it be time to turn the screws on our enemy, and end him once and for all!”