Kicking Down the Door

The merc named Rem drove the Mercedes limo, three dignitaries from Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina sat in idle chatter; the other support merc who knew enough about Istanbul to brief the visitors on the city life was chattering like a tour guide. It was a short ride, but a long listen.

“Skip Fahti… they call it the Historic Peninsula. Real touristy, the Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace… pretty stuff, important historic shit, I suppose, but if you’re here for a quick trip, you don’t want to waste time there.”

The three pretenders paid little attention to the social editorializing, but hearing every word of importance if they fell from his mouth.

“If you want a good social night, you wanna stay on the European side… Nisintasi is good. Nightclubs, women like you can’t believe… they fucking party all night here. All night!” He could not impress the veterans enough with the party, nor their duration. This 33 year-old mercenary was a reasonably good promoter. He continued, “Find yourself on Buyukdere Avenue, and anyplace is a good place… And if you want a little finer experience, Bebek is…” he was interrupted.

“Listen, we appreciate your… whatever, your social essay, I guess; I’m sure it’s a great place. Don’t doubt a word of it. But you need to know, we don’t intend on being in Istanbul for any longer than our mission will take. Could be an hour. Could be a day or two – but we’re bettin’ on the hour. We don’t know what we’re stepping into here, yet. But we’d like to be briefed on the villa if anything. What is Kadakoy?”

“Sorry, just thought… Istanbul’s a much nicer place than most maybe think, is all.”

“No, don’t apologize. We understand your intentions, and we get that you guys spend a lot of time here, and that’s why you guys were chosen.” He looked out the back window of their limo just checking on the other Mercedes and the “dignitary’s support staff” – all of them lethal with a long history of disseminating death in various theaters of operation. “And honestly, we’re all feeling a little bit out of the troublemaking circuit… ya know? So, take no offense.” You don’t need the lesson they suffered more than once.

“I hear ya boss, no sweat. So, I’ll just tell ya about the Asian side then… Kadikoy is where you wanna be if you’re gonna be on the Asian side… it’s much more serene, less busy… not much for nightlife…”

The commercial kicked in again, so they just decided to cherry-pick the information that would serve them, Rem would offer the most important in an interruption. “We’re in Goztepe… Just up ahead a little. Make sure your stuff’s in order. We know we’re here for support only, so Me and Brian there will be your doormen, and we’ll stay with the car. Brent and Sandy will be your aids; they go in or stay out, depends on what they allow.”

“Okay, good, but no one shoots anybody unless they’re covering our backs. We want to keep ya’ll out of any of the news, ya know?” It was really a little more feral and selfish than that because they had a ton of payback on their hands, and they wanted to grab every bestial part of that devil.

“We’re good, sir. We got our orders. Squared away! Okay, we’re coming up, down this little side street up here. But if you run into any bad trouble, lose cars, on the loose in any way, whatever; we’re on Operator Cemil Topuzlu Road right now – the main road. You’ll just take it west, and stay on it. Ultimately it’ll take you to the ferry and the tunnel, and you can get back to the European side.”

“You’re not planning on forgettin’ us, are ya, Rem?” Cliff was chuckling.

“No, sir! But, you know, more accidents in warfare than executed plans. Boy Scout shit… Expect the unexpected.”

“Ain’t that the truth! We thank you for the brief and the plan B of escape. But…” he rubbed his chin in confident speculation, “We won’t be needing a plan B.”

“Well, I’m pulling for ya, chief. Speakin’ of, we’re pullin’ up on his villa right now.”

*********************

The formal greeting at the door was more of a shakedown. The dignitaries were bearing gifts: one a briefcase thick with money as a retainer; the other, a very expensive, floral vase set atop a solid cherrywood base, a virtual staple in a Turkish home. It was the diligent security that had them unwrap the gift at the door, so they could verify its contents. And the briefcase, they had seen enough layers of cash in boxes, bags, cans, suitcases, they were satisfied it was good clean fealty. They were guided to the front door, but the aids were denied entry. Brent and Sandy would stay with the cars. The odds were getting worse.

Art was the principal from Sarajevo, Cliff and Johnny were his aids and political ponies, who had the clout and the human resources that might find and provide such a client as this. After the shakedown, they were escorted in, and a heavy man in a yellow linen suit and bare feet came up to them, with a big smile and his hand jutting out for handshakes and cash.

“Thank you for coming to the villa. It’s not often we take business outside our offices, but for these… more confidential meetings, we have found this to be our greater security. You understand, I’m sure. Your name is?”

Art responded, his hand offered in the brotherhood of conspiracy, “I am Aleksander Babić, my colleagues are Benjamin Mitrović, you might remember?” Cliff bowed his head and shook hands, “And our American counterpart here is Johnathan Petrović. Born in Bosnia but sent to America when his parents died in the Serbian conflict.” Johnny kept his hands folded in front, goodfella style and just nodded. The quiet dangerous man who looked innocent enough. It was the only fun the boys had in building their foreign avatars of repair. “We are good to talk in English here? Since we do not speak Turkish, and it is our discipline to deal internationally in this manner. If this is okay with you, Mr. Gorko?”

The fat man laughed, “Oh, no, I’m not Gorko. My name is Azizbek, but you can call me, Chewey.” He patted his belly, “Because I like to eat!” a gratuitous laugh followed as if they were friends, or he were selling them a car… or hitmen. “I’m only part of your receiving… another layer of security you say. No, Gorko will be outside waiting for us. May I take the gifts?”

They would allow no such thing… the importance of these gifts was too substantial. “No, I’m afraid it is our custom in business to bring them to the Patron. I’m sure you understand. It reflects our respect and sincerity in moving forward, of course.”

Chewey laughed in that smug pretense that was endemic to the world of grifters and thieves. “Of course! Of course! I understand this. Then please come.”

As the group moved through the palatial estate, the two security sentinels that had patted them down and opened the gifts followed along. The numbers were working against them… again.

The home was an homage to grotesque wealth, they could easily assess, not a little bit was Donnie Yankovich’s, too, they were sure. They knew the risks, they were willing to take; but being disciplined, in the face of all that took their friends from them, it would be near impossible not to rage. They had rehearsed these very moments, and it was a certainty that each of them was reciting in thoughts to quell any foolish impulse: “Soon. Soon. I can smell it.”

Chewey led them through a set of open glass sliders that stood 10 feet high, and spanned nearly 20 feet across. The view across the pool and patio was magnificent, and even more serene and spectacular was the view across the Sea of Marmara. The estate was the culmination of perfect corruption made complete. It would make any man, with their knowledge, wonder just how many people had to die for this man’s lifestyle?

“Gentlemen, please meet Patron, Mr. Gorko.”

The man was lean, fit, well-muscled for a man of middle years. Greying in perfect patterns over each ear; hair thick enough to warm a man in winter, slicked back sleaze in disguised sophistication; a pencil-thin moustache that pained the uncouth soldiers, seeing what grotesque indulgence turns a man into. He was the epitome of narcissistic love and self-satisfaction… “Soon… soon… I can smell it.”

“Mr. Gorko, it’s my pleasure to meet you finally. I am Aleksander Babić. You will remember speaking with my collaborators when making arrangements… and by the way, my compliments in the many layers of security to get to you, sir…” Art chuckled, even convincing his comrades of his genuineness, “But please, you remember Benjamin and Johnathan.”

Each shook hands with the man who killed their friends. Each reciting their internal mantra.

“Please, my name is Rene. We talk in seriousness too much, don’t you think? Gorko… it’s my name… it’s the scary name. Scary, yes? Frightful, yes, I say this correct?”

Art didn’t think of the man as a bit scary, “Yes, in English, yes, I think that is correct. Important to have a frightening name, then people listen, no?” again he laughed with vigor and fraternity to the killer.

“Yes, but Rene, this is also me. A gentleman, an art lover.” He smiled benignly. “So, we talk through our people, and now we talk with each other. Please sit… Gaspar? Bring the Yeni Raki and glasses, yes? We celebrate business with our guests.” The servant turned and entered the home as the men found chairs, in perfect opposition to Gorko and Chewey, with the security thugs standing behind the Bosnian dignitaries. Nothing ever comes easy.

The Turk turned serious, “Gentlemen, you please understand, we have to inspect you? Your history. And I must say, we do not find much about you.” He was scrutinizing the opposition, he was not closing a deal. “Can you tell me why we do not find information on you? We check our resources, and only small information. Please explain. I need to know who I am in business with, or who… maybe made a mistake in trying to persuade me into business. You understand?”

Cliff was itching to throttle the cheap hood in fancy clothes, but Art picked up as the principal of the deal, “Of course we understand. And of course, the very reason why we are here, the nature of this tricky business, getting this… important work, yes? This important work gets done by people like you and me. My associates. It’s an enterprise, Mr. Gorko. It is not a little thing that we have our own security. We deal with warlords, tyrants, international conglomerates… you think maybe we should advertise in newspapers?” It was offered in cynical jest, with conviction towards their clandestine practices… in other words, it was a full-face insult to the killer, and it was tactful enough that it convinced Gorko on its face.

“I understand. Yes, I understand. It is important to be a ghost, yes?”

Art grinned in agreement, then pushed forward. “Rene, I do not insult you, but I must treat you in the same trust as you treat us. In other words, I don’t trust you, you understand?” He chuckled, while Cliff and Johnny were clenching up for the outright challenge, Cliff tapped Art’s shoe with his own. Art openly patted Cliff’s leg in return. “You see? Even Benjamin wishes me to be careful, out of respect. But, Rene, how can I respect a man if he does not respect me as well? We are in the business of death, yes? Is no mystery, Patron. So, let us both agree, you are living in a dark world… but in a very beautiful villa, no?” Again Art laughed in command of the moment. “But you are the same man as we are. So, do not expect that we would be so foolish to let the world know who we are. Our value to our clients then disappears, you agree?”

Rene was nodding his head in subtle agreement, “I understand. You know why we ask.” He looked at Chewey, disclosing nothing, as the servant came back in with the liqueur and glasses. “Ah, so now we know each other’s ugly secrets, let us drink to our enterprise.” The glasses of pungent clear liquid were poured, the veterans would not tip the drink to their nose – a very American thing to do. It was robust enough to clear their nasal passages just sitting with the open bottle in the room. “So, to bad men who get the jobs done! Şerefe!”

“Şerefe!” they all collided glasses and took a long pull from the king of Turkish drinks to confirm the deal. Not a single scowl or flinch, and it was almost like getting shot in the stomach. Rene smiled, the men were horses he could do business with. He was grinning at Chewey, and Art took that as his signal.

“Now, Rene, allow us to present our gifts to you?” He opened and spun the thick briefcase so their host could see the contents; stacked and bound $100 dollar bills, as neat as any gift can be. “This is the first tranche. $200,000 dollars.” Art then turned the briefcase back to himself, and he reached under the front lip to a pull tab, and held it.

Next Cliff picked up the vase and held it on his lap, with one hand underneath the cherrywood base, but as he held it, he depressed the bottom, and the spring load released a small box. Cliff just held it on his lap, unmoving, but in the box was two handguns, Sig Sauer P365, the smallest, most potent concealing handgun in the business which carried a magazine of nine, plus one in the chamber. Johnny was ready.

“And one more gift, Rene… and it’s here in the briefcase again. Art lifted the tab, hoisting the divider that separated the stacked bills, opening up to a clandestine space where he withdrew a computer… beat up, but still fully functional. And he put the computer on the table.

While Rene had eyes for perhaps jewels, some exotic wealth, he looked down, confused. “I don’t understand. You bring me old computer? What is this?”

‘Soon… soon… I can smell it…’

“Well, Rene, this gift came to us, so we bring it back to you. It comes from Yusef…” the Turk froze as the confusion left him, and he realized, what had happened to Yusef, and his operatives had something to do with that computer… maybe these men. “You remember, Yusef, don’t you? Your business associates, Lenin, Paki… your six killers you sent in to mop up the Americans? You remember?” At this, Art also deftly pulled a matching Sig Sauer that had lain in the same divide within the briefcase, and at the exact moment, all three vets pulled their weapons and turned on the security men, and the thick toughs instantly turned into victims as they were both dreaming of the Yeni Raki without a clue to the subterfuge, or a notion to what it felt like to die.

Cliff and Johnny both fired rapidly at their big chests, hearts and lungs, hearts and lungs. Incapacitate and kill, don’t miss with fliers trying for a kill shot to the brain. And it worked sensationally well. Four and Five rounds pierced the torsos of their victims before they had a hand on their own weapons, whirling as if to find cover, but only finding the floor, grappling with the marble, and slippery blood as it sprung from them like a miracle… a painful, fading miracle.

Art’s weapon unloaded three fast slugs into Chewey’s yellow suit, immediately altering its fashion; the “layer of security” flopped over backward in the Rattan chair, and lay still. The artistry of payback, but looking to Rene, he was running for the steps to the balcony, the fake Bosnian gave chase.

**********************

On the street, leaning against the outside of the Mercedes, the mercenary team heard the shots, and they reached under their suit jackets and withdrew their own weapons. The two house guards outside turned at the sound and hurried to enter, mistakenly ignoring a couple drivers and assistants at the driveway. The mercenary’s 9 mm’s rang against post and wood and bodies, as the two men crumpled at the door; one turned to fire, but was repaid with a second barrage. Not a single bullet came from either of those guns held by the dying security team.

Cliff and Johnny turned to follow in pursuit of Gorko, seeing Garson, they levelled their weapons on the man; he just put his hands up trembling… “Sadece iş! Sadece iş!”, then he remembered in his panic, they were speaking English, “Work… work… prease!” The two vets turned and leapt the stairs three at a time hearing the familiar ratchet sound of an Uzi.

***********************

Cliff and Johnny bulled their way without caution or cowardice, they had lost enough friends. They smelled the cordite, that fresh smell of weaponry at work, and followed it without hesitation, guns out front, left hand beneath in support for stabilizing accuracy. Art was lying on the floor, snugged up against a wall out of Gorko’s firing line.

In alarmed but hushed voices, “Art…” they ran to him, the wounded man waving them against the wall with him. “You hit bad?”

Gritting his teeth, air wheezing out, “I don’t think so. Damn Uzi’s, fucker doesn’t know how to shoot it, or I’d be dead.”

“Where’d he get ya?” Johnny was already following the blotting blood in the man’s shirt.

“Upper. I’m sure he broke my clavicle… maybe shoulder… not sure… I think shock might be getting’ me. I don’t feel much.”

Johnny wrestled his shirt up to find Art had a nice stitch-job from his right breast on up to the shoulder, like Betsy Ross was sewing him up in pieces. “He got you with four. You’re lucky. You might have one in the lung, but the rest is mechanics.”

“Yea, he lost the gun and all I remember was seeing him shooting the ceiling… I crawled here.” Cliff looked up, and indeed saw a string of pockmarks in the plaster – far more than were in his friend’s body.

“Fuckin’-A, you’re lucky. There’s prolly 15 in the ceiling. That shitty gun. Lucky fuck, Art.”

“Thanks, Benjamin.” He grinned, chuckled, leaned his head back against the wall.

Such pedestrian moments, near-death didn’t hit all men or women the same way. And these veterans of death were once again renewed in their baptismal waters of conflict. Surviving was notable only after all the killing was done.

“A bedroom. He around that turn?”

“Yea, it’s a big bathroom. That’s all I know. Short hall, a closet I think on the left side, but I haven’t heard anything. Probably waiting for us to enter the funnel.”

The funnel, where there is no alternate way, it is forward without options. Even the untrained neophyte of conflict understood advantages. The Turk had all the advantage right now.

“If I go low, and he sure as shit hasn’t figured out the kick of that gun…” Johnny interrupted him.

“Don’t be stupid, even a guy who can’t shoot that weapon with 20-feet to close, he’s gonna get you with that machine, and you know it.” Then Johnny yelled out, “Gorko! You want to buy your life today?” He winked at his comrades, for the Turk, a dealer of all things life and death, his own would be a premium. He yelled it again, “Hey, Gorko! You want life? You pay the price.” Cliff was red in the face.

“Fuck that, Johnny…” his friend of 33 years held his hand out and said, “I know, Cliff. Just let’s see what he does.”

“How much money?”

Johnny ignored the query, instead he whispered to Cliff, “He’s ours. He doesn’t want to die. He’ll be slow to his gun. I’m crossing the hall, I’ll give him one pop to give him something to think about. You drop at the base, and give him all the love.”

Now Cliff was smiling, as all the planets were back in alignment. “Don’t get killed or I’ll kill ya!”

Johnny smiled, patted Art on the head, then stood, shouting out one more time. “Money for your life, Gorko!” and he darted across the open hallway, and he let off one shot, looking for the Turk.

Gorko returned fire, strafing the upper wall and into the drop-ceiling, again losing control of the machine pistol. Cliff immediately dropped, turning his head and weapon into the hallway, seeing the greasy killer leaning over an ottoman in the middle of the bathroom. Cliff let off three quick rounds, pow-pow-pow, and a scream came from the Turk as he vanished below the view line.

Johnny jumped at the opportunity and rushed the hallway, his Sig Sauer seeking its designed kill, and he got to the door, only to see blood spatter and the Uzi in pieces with a dented breech, and blood on the facing of the weapon. He ducked down on the other side of the ottoman, looking left and right… only then, he realized “the pieces” from the Uzi he saw were fingers. “I’m in, Cliff. Come on down! His weapon’s down!”

Cliff crept to the door of the bathroom, leaning on the right-hand wall, seeing Johnny, giving him the thumbs up. Then Johnny gave him a shrug, ‘don’t know where.’ Then with his back to the ottoman, he saw in the vanity mirror, a shadow casting though an opaque sculpted glass at the shower. He turned to look. A large pass-through shower, water nozzles on both sides, almost like a car wash, he thought.

“Cliff, where would you wash your camel in here?” He was grinning as Cliff put his head into the bathroom, seeing the shadow and a little blood trail at the shower entry. He motioned he was going right, Johnny would take the left.

The veterans separated, then standing at the entrance to the walk-in shower, they had a hand-count from three to zero, and they both turned with their weapons on the Turk, and he flopped onto the floor crying, “My hand… you shot my fingers off… Get me some help… I’ll pay you big money!”

*********************

It was not mercy that they didn’t shoot Rene Gorko on the spot. It was mutual and clever minds arriving at another thought. One of which Donnie, Laz and Mark would give full approval. And on a measure of mutual intuition rarely seen, it was the steam room that caused them both to choose another course.

“You comfortable, Gorko?” The Turk wept, his hands bound in front with electrical tape, and lot of it, and fully secured to the slats in the bench with the same bindings. He wasn’t going anywhere. As a special, grim present, Cliff taped the two lost fingers back onto the hand, in no relative arrangement.

“You’re a Picasso, Cliff.”

“Well, self-expression was always one of my highest and best traits.” Even Art laughed, coughed… and spat. “Rene, we’re gonna give you some time in this magnificent steam-bath of yours… My God, you could fit twenty hookers in here, couldn’t you?” More tears, more money offered, now well over Donnie’s net worth. And then they broke the other bad news to the broker of murder.

“Well, you can’t buy us, Gorko, because what we got behind us is U.S. Military Intelligence retirees, and we got hackers that teach hackers, boy. You know that computer gift I gave you?” even in all his fear and pain, he looked up in new interest for some greater loss that might be discovered, “We got wizards crawling through all the correspondences, and the passwords and codes, and then we got access to your information through that old trail that you assumed was quiet. Your killer’s shit exposed you. Poof! Your sorry ass is going to be the largest benefactor to the Donnie Yankovich fund for needy children! How’s that for turning a criminal life around?”

“What you do? Iss encrypted…”

“Was encrypted. Codebreakers work overtime when a military man is killed in the field of service… or living a fuckin’ life. But don’t worry, we aren’t making this our life’s mission. Just got a feeling we won’t need to. Whatever we don’t bother with is yours to keep. Once you get out of the steam.” Cliff lifted his eyebrows in amusement. He looked up at his comrades, “Case closed, let’s get Artie to your doctors, Rem.”

“They’re already notified. We’ll get you guys there quick.”

“Good, good… thanks very much.” He turned back to the Turk, as he stood at the steam room door, “Mark Denton’s father, Brigadier General Denton sends his regards. Good-bye, Gorko, or should we say, Hoşçakal?” His grim smile meant so much more. The burden of death was never fulfilling. Though sometimes righteous.

They closed the door and slid a couple broken bedposts through the handle, wedging the door closed to a level of permanence. The Turk only cried for all he lost… and his day wasn’t even done yet. Cliff then turned the temperature control to max… figuring what a cooked Turk might look like. “You’re gonna enjoy the most of your steam bath, Rene. Fucker. Let’s go, people.”

To the mercs, as they were walking down the stairs, “You guys dotted the house with those detonation units.” He was once again a commander of a full military unit, yet eager to retire once again.

“Yes sir! C-4 packs are set, four of them. Enough to blow this place into dust. We got them in some interior places to keep the damage to neighbors to a minimum.”

“Very good. You guys do good work.”

“You do too if I might say so. There’s always work if you guys want some.” Cliff was just shaking his head in solemn rejection, as he was imagining an end finally, not a new start. The silence was answer enough for Rem. “Well, sir, we better hustle, the authorities are gonna be showing up soon. Our people slowed ‘em down in response time, but they got neighbors calling, for sure.”

“Nothin’ stoppin’ us now. Art, you humpin’ along?”

“Aye Sarge… Can’t feel a thing thanks to the candy man, Brian here… these guys are great hosts…” He gave a raspy cough and spat more blood but remained smiling in weird satisfaction.

They walked over a bloodied entry step, but the dead guards had been neatly tucked away. The Bosnian dignitaries jumped into the back seat, Brian followed them in.

Rem got on the radio, “Knight to Castle, the gift has been delivered. We’re heading over for complimentary cocktails at Dr. Albon’s. One thirsty gamer, but he’s good for some years on those tires yet.” He winked back at Art, who was happily into his Vicodin ride. “ETA 30 minutes. Coming in smilin’ and proud. Out.”

Both Mercedes limousines turned around the circle and exited the only way you could. Into the bottle then back out.

**********************