THIRTY-TWO

It had been just under thirteen hours now since the ageing Marcus Grotti, who by rank was third in command of the Paravinchi Crime Family, had been carted away from his private residence in an ambulance after suffering a mild heart attack. He had been taken straight to the Punta Pacifica Hospital.

The Paravinchis had offered to look after him with their extensive medical facilities at their mansion compound, but Grotti had always preferred the care of his private doctors when it came to matters regarding his health. Little did he know, his health concerns had actually prolonged his life somewhat, given that he had been unable to attend the scheduled meeting at the café that morning in which his colleagues had all been blown away by Leon Sphinx.

Awaking now in his bed as a patient, Grotti glanced down across his chest and winced. All through his life he had been such a powerful man. His strength and ruthlessness had helped the Paravinchi Crime Family grow into the multinational powerhouse it was today. But now his body was finally starting to wear out on him. Everything he had gained for himself would soon be taken away. He had no family to share his possessions with, which meant that when he died all of his wealth would go straight back into the organisation he had already given up his entire life to.

“Mr Grotti?” a voice suddenly asked from his doorway.

Shiina turned his head painfully to the side, expecting to see a doctor. But as soon as he saw the five men in suits standing there inside the doorway his blood turned to ice. He knew he was in serious trouble; he recognised their faces instantly.

The man on the far left, wearing all white — a skinny, well-groomed individual with permanent smirk imprinted on his face — was Billy ‘Bones’ Bonatello, and he had once been one of Mafia boss Fabian Paravinchi’s most skilled triggermen.

The man next to Bonatello, who was dressed in orange, was one Shiina knew as Rocko ‘The Rock’ Rocka. He was a solidly built thug with a square jaw and two massive hands which were capable of crushing a man’s skull like an eggshell.

The third man was dressed in green and wore a big Texan cowboy hat. His name was Rex ‘the cowboy’ Montana, and he was a hitman for hire who had moved down all the way from Texas to the wealthy drug economy of Panama City in order to apply his trade for a higher price.

The fourth man was dressed in pink, and had a weasel kind of face with a thin French moustache. He was called Dan ‘The Weasel’ Domingo, and his story was simple: he enjoyed killing people, and would have done it for a hobby was it not already his profession. Luckily for him though, it was.

Then finally there was the man who Grotti was most familiar with, and whose presence alone would have scared him half to death. He was dressed all in grey and stood in the centre of the pack; their leader. The name this man went by was Antoni ‘The Wolf’ Lupo, and he was the Paravinchi crime family’s most feared enforcer. In his hands now he held his trademark sawn-off shotgun, which was a favoured weapon of choice in mafia killings all over the world. Twin barrelled and holding exploding cartridges, Lupo’s shotgun was designed to make a mess of its victims. It was loud, powerful and easily concealable; a real statement-maker.

“It’s been a while, Mr Grotti,” Antoni Lupo said. “Ever since you designated the role of Princess’s babysitter to me, I have hardly seen you around. It’s nice to make your acquaintance again.” His face was like that of a poker player, giving away nothing at all in the way of emotion.

“Who sent you here, Antoni?” Shinna forced his words out, the breath catching in his throat. “Paravinchi? Princess?”

“Nobody sent me here, Mr Grotti! Nobody sends Antoni Lupo anywhere. I am here of my own accord. You are merely a loose end brought on by unexpected circumstances. I could have sent somebody else to close the book on you, but where would be the fun in that? I have never liked you, you useless old fuck!”

“Guards!” Grotti shouted out, his voice carrying out down the corridor.

“Don’t even bother,” Lupo said. “Your bodyguards are all lying dead downstairs. But be patient, I’m about to send you to see them.”

A few moments later an eighth-storey window of Hospital Punta Pacifica shattered outwards, sending a shower of glass raining down all over the sidewalk outside. The screaming body of Marcus Grotti quickly followed, hitting the asphalt head-first and exploding all over the street like a piñata full of red paint.

Gazing down through the shattered window, the five Mafioso killers stood there for a moment and admired their handiwork.

“Okay, let’s get moving,” Antoni Lupo said as he turned and walked away.

One after the other, his four satisfied colleagues followed.

***

The traitorous rookie policeman Benny Pupshaw sat alone in his car at his usual meeting spot, beneath a tall concrete overpass in Panama City’s Santa Ana neighbourhood. His employers were already running late; they had left him waiting for over thirty minutes now, and his impatience was growing by the minute.

Pupshaw wound down his window and looked outside. The meeting site was bare and barren; little more than a dumping ground nowadays. Nobody, bar perhaps the odd homeless man or a sneaky teen with a porno magazine, would ever bother venturing down from the overpass. It was clear why his employers had chosen this location to meet.

Jesus, Pupshaw thought, how had he gotten himself into all this, working as a freelance killer in the world of organised crime? He had been carrying out jobs on the side now for a crime syndicate for a little over two months now, yet he had still yet to meet any other insiders, except Detectives Randy and Jackson, and also the two men that he was meeting with today — a pair of veteran policemen named Tucker and Grimes.

It had been Tucker who had approached Pupshaw the very first time, not long after he had first started out on the force. The man had offered him ten thousand dollars just to deliver a small cardboard parcel over to a local business across town. It had been easy money at the time, but soon after that Randy and Jackson had paid Pupshaw a visit at home in his apartment and then the rookie had suddenly found himself in deep with a major crime syndicate.

This had all suited Pupshaw just fine to begin with; the pay was far beyond good and, at least up until last night, the jobs had all been fairly routine. But now the rookie had been pushed a little outside his comfort zone, helping a deranged Haitian cult murder his partner’s entire family was quite the step-up from running simple deliveries.

All in all though, Pupshaw didn’t mind. He had never really liked his partner anyway, and today he would be getting paid fifty thousand dollars for his troubles. Not too shabby for just a few hours of his time. He figured the money would be more than enough to drown out any small lingering guilt he still felt for the part he played.

It was ten minutes past twelve by Pupshaw’s watch when Tucker and Grimes’ finally drove down beneath the underpass in their brown Land Rover SUV. Pupshaw watched them as they came to a stop behind his car and then Tucker got out carrying a black bag in his left hand.

It was at that exact moment Pupshaw’s smartphone started to ring in his pocket, so he took it out and glanced down to check the caller ID. It was not a number he recognised. He picked up, half expecting a telemarketer, hoping maybe it was that woman he had hit on in a bar after his job the previous night. “Hello? Benny Pupshaw here.”

It was neither.

“Shut up and listen to me, kid, there’s not much time,” the voice on the other end was distorted electronically, making voice recognition impossible. “Those two men meeting with you right now are about to try to kill you. I know because it was my colleagues who sent them. They view you as a loose end and want you dead. But I may yet have some further use for you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?!” Pupshaw’s eyes opened wide and he glanced in his rear-view mirror. Tucker was just approaching his car now. “You’re joking, right?!”

“If you’re lucky enough to still be alive in five minutes, I’ll call you back,” the voice said. “If you don’t answer, I’ll assume you’re fucked. Good luck, rookie.” Then the line went dead.

Pupshaw’s mind began to race. What the hell was going on? Was it a prank? But he knew he couldn’t afford to take that sort of chance. He quickly reached into his coat and pulled out his police issue Glock 17, stuffing it in under his crotch just as Tucker approached his side window. He figured if he even sensed a hint danger, he would be ready.

“Hey, kid,” Tucker greeted him with a neutral grin, doing nothing to steady Pupshaw’s nerves.

“Hey, Tux,” Pupshaw did his best to act natural. Even though he appeared calm on the surface, his heart was thumping and his chest felt tight. “That bag’s for me?”

“Yeah, kid.” Tucker passed Pupshaw the bag through the open window. “Your money’s all here. Open it up and count it if you want. Good work, by the way, truly. Lacroix’s men were really happy with how you went. They see a real future working with you.”

Pupshaw forced a smile, taking hold of the bag, and that’s when Tucker made his move; in the corner of his eye Pupshaw noticed him reaching into his coat to pull out a gun. But the rookie was ready for any surprises, and it was he who drew his weapon first.

“Too slow, you fucking rat!” Pupshaw shot Tucker through the heart and then another time through the head, just to be sure. Blood splashed all over his face, but he didn’t even notice; he was too busy starting up the car’s ignition and jamming it into reverse to get the jump on Grimes.

Back in the Land Rover, Grimes pulled out his sidearm and opened fire, his bullets shattering through Pupshaw’s rear window.

The vehicle roared to life and Pupshaw floored it, slamming his car back into the grill of the Land Rover. The force of the collision was jarring, knocking the weapon from the Grimes’ hands.

“Die, you motherfucker!” Pupshaw roared, firing back through the vehicle.

Grimes jolted in his seat as his window shattered and bullets pounded into his chest, splashing blood all over his lap. He collapsed onto the steering wheel, his face pressing down the horn.

Pupshaw got out of his car then and approached the SUV, his weapon raised. “You want to kill me, you fucker?! You’ve got to do better than that!”

He opened the driver-side door and Grimes fell out lifelessly at his feet. The man was still alive — mortally wounded, but still breathing for the moment. Pupshaw shot him once through the back of the head to finish him off, then he stumbled away from the corpse, nausea brewing in his gut.

He was still trying to calm himself down a few minutes later when his phone started ringing again in his pocket.

“I see you’re still alive,” the voice said as soon as he picked up. “Congratulations, Benny, it seems I still have some use for you after all. The name’s El Maestro, by the way.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Pupshaw asked. “What do you want from me?”

“155 Morez Avenue: just shut up and be there in forty minutes, if you want to live.”