Quite a young guy — about twenty-five years old, but how it works.
For him, work is a means of making money for a living, so he evaluated it objectively, and in our business it's always good to be able to look from the outside not blindly.
I'm glad to deal with him, because I used to be the same, but now my "roof" is completely off — I've killed too many people, seen too many corpses: I'm sick of everything.
So the guy knew how to kill, kill fast and without pleasure, and what else do you need for a "clean" crime. He's fast-moving, reactive, quick on his feet, quick on his feet, not much of a wordsmith. "No hot phrases. The thing is that some people before killing someone like to show off and say something like "Allah akhbar", "Bunchos Muchos" or, finally, "Die, you bastard!!!". Amoramente's in great control, which is why he's never been caught by the cops. I would like my son to be like him, but unfortunately, my son in his twenties is worse than "Sukhar", "Faust" and "The Executioner" combined.
"Lightning drove a black Jeep Cherokee he bought four years ago.
After fifty minutes of driving, we arrived at Westside Street, at house 15. And what did I see there?
A crumbling brick building that probably hasn't been lived in for a hundred years. It was a rather long structure (about 150 meters along the street), two stories high. The former plaster was lying near the wall, the bricks of which were coming together and falling out (while we were looking at all this with our mouths open, five sun-dried pieces of sand "managed to disappear" from the wall). In the middle of the wall there was an entrance (without doors, of course).
I got out of the car and headed for the entrance. Longe followed me.
When I reached the door, I slipped my hand under my cloak and clutched the Glock with slightly sweaty fingers so as not to be taken by surprise, then stepped inside.
I have already told you what the building was like from the outside, but what was inside was not only obscene, but even impossible to talk about. Some kind of urine was always flowing from the walls, and there were toilets everywhere (just imagine: the whole building was a piece of shit!).
Nevertheless, after forty seconds of running exploration, nothing was found in the house. This is supposed to be where Joseph Gutgold lives, isn't it?!
Now I'm doubting that there is such a person. So, no client, no victim. Just a courier who handed over the money in Prague and was shot dead by Norman near Barcelona.
It's too dubious, and it's right before the hunt for Koza Nostra. Maybe it has something to do with this?
Well, let's say. In that case, what evidence do we have? A hidden camera at the Hello Bar. What would it be doing in an ordinary establishment? So it's a setup: they are especially prepared to wait for me in the eatery where I made the appointment. The courier enters, of course, their employee, pours money on the counter and thereby provokes me to active actions against the fat man with a shotgun. The hypothesis looks pretty good…
Let's put it another way. I wouldn't have an SMG Thunderbolt tucked under my armpit. Consequently, I wouldn't have been able to get away with a shotgun attack. What would they do then… Most likely, they just wanted to keep the money (even Interpol could use an extra million dollars), and kick me out of the bar and send me to the party. This is where it gets confusing. After all, the situation looks implausible: what if I came back and shot them all to hell? No, they probably knew about my surprise with the spare gun. In that case, I take my hat off to the highly skilled work of Interpol. Or maybe there's more than just Interpol involved. Doesn't Koza Nostra have enough enemies? Don't I have enough enemies? Plenty. Including the living and the dead. It raises questions again.
Interpol is too strong an organization to be on the strings of anyone. Even if someone anonymously informed them that, for example, Koza-Nostre was involved in some terrorist act or murder, why should they believe them, let alone open a hunt.
It is also possible that Interpol itself offered to cooperate with a syndicate. But what kind of a syndicate is it that has enough information and power to help the flicks, and in addition to that to break all the unwritten rules of the mafia and go to work together, thereby incurring the wrath and fury of all criminal organizations without exception.
The stumbling block is that Interpol is not strong enough to take on this case on its own and with such success, and there is no possibility of alliance with anyone.
Here one very interesting thought flashed in my head: "Interpol cannot work with such a scale in the U.S., with which it worked in Europe (Americans do not allow on their territory to quietly fight not their organization), namely in Washington, where there were cameras everywhere, where, now it is obvious, the FBI was waiting for us. And the FBI belongs to the USA. From this fact the following is deduced: Interpol was cooperating with the FBI. And I don't think that's all. Americans like to stick their noses where they don't belong, and here they are just invited. Why not use foreign intelligence and poke around overseas?
My cell phone rang. "Hello."
"It's Richard, we found a guy who might know something about your case." "What other guy?"
"Robert Brown…"
"What the hell is this nonsense?" "Anyway, Brosman did his best and…" "Stop fooling around…"
"Just listen to me already!"
"Okay, talk…" — a little grudgingly, I allowed Heart to speak.
"So. Brosman found out that Albert Cave doesn't exist, and that there's a Robert Brown in his place…"
I almost laughed into the tube at the words "in his place".
"So what now? Do I go and bilk the money out of Brown instead of Cave?"
"Well… I don't know Oh, and by the way, Pierce will be waiting for you personally at
the Hilton Hotel in #413 in five hours." "What's that for?"
"I don't know exactly, but rumor has it the Boss ordered him to help you." "I see, bye," — a little taken aback by the last phrase of the interlocutor.
The Lionheart call confused the hell out of me. Some Bobby in New York knows something about my case… And Brosman found out it on behalf of the Boss And now
he'll be waiting for me at the hotel What can I think? But anyway, Pierce's credibility
is as good as mine, and he's worth listening to and going to this town.
"Silent Dialogue."
August 21, 17:48
Covering the three hundred kilometers from Boston to New York is no problem at all, but figuring out what's going on is the real challenge. First of all, what is there to ask Bob? Secondly, this monstrous question — why did the Boss suddenly decide to attach Brosman to me and, finally, from whom did Pierce find out about that guy? Oh, come on. We'll get there. We'll find out.
There was a muffled knock on the door, and ten seconds later a questioning voice came from behind it: "What else?"
"Our own," Brosman knew my voice, so I didn't have to come up with anything witty. The door opened abruptly, revealing the muzzle of a silencer screwed onto an MP5 Kurtz (a compact German submachine gun with a rate of fire of 900 rounds per minute, 9 millimeter caliber) with a bent 30-round clip. "Lightning" instantly pulled out his "Jericho" (a bulky Israeli-made pistol with a significant muzzle energy of 450 joules, 357 caliber, 9 rounds in the clip). They almost started shooting, but the two "paranoids", not being too nervous, managed not to pull the triggers of their monsters too hard. "Phooey," Brosman was resting after a not-so-rare incident in crime, when "guys from the same team" could easily finish each other off, and me, too….
I brazenly stepped in between the 'dogfighting', "You guys would fuss a little less." Brosman put the gun away and gestured with his hand to invite the guests into the room. Lonje settled down a little and followed me inside before the lights in his eyes could go out.