Underground screaming
Aug. 19, 7:54 p.m.
"So what happened?" — Brosman stopped the SUV in an empty parking lot (also an obscure fact — how did we manage to "dig" a vacant parking lot out of the ground) by a hefty column and "started looking at me perplexed."
"Do you know what they just told me? — I literally lashed out at the driver, and without letting him make a sound, I continued. — They told me that the whole fucking city with two tens of thousands of cops is already looking for me in every nook and cranny… Oh, you know what for?"
"For what?" — His opponent's bewilderment grew even greater.
"Yes for the fact that someone had a particularly bad time at the Paladin, tortured two heroes there, and then killed them… That's why they're looking for me…"
"Well…" — the bewilderment was replaced by puzzlement. "That someone is you! Is it clear now?"
"Ahhhh… Well, what can you do… I should have spoken more confidently in front of the real flicks…"
"I should have known that gay men, like normal men, can't breathe underwater!" "Well, what can you do " he repeated a second time. — But, actually, I was giving
him plenty of air. "
"Okay, either way now we need to get rid of the Zippy quicker."
"Are you implying you can't kill him yourself?" — Brosman's hand reached under his jacket.
"No, I'm implying that we should interrogate him and get him the hell out of here as soon as possible," I snapped at my interlocutor and kicked the poor guy as hard as I could.
He woke up and mumbled something like, "What? Who?"
"Tell me where the rest of the papers are!" — I growled at Leatherman and kicked his shin again, but not as hard.
One could understand from his incomprehensible cries that he was in great pain because of his shot legs and at the same time unpleasant because of the dust bag on his head, because all the dust of this "nightmare" was in his mouth. Speaking of wounds. They turned out to be so serious that the whole bottom of the car under this "piece of leather and lightning" turned dark red.
The "victim" groaned, appropriately enough.
"Where's the rest of the paper, fuck, I don't have time for you Talk!" — my voice
became completely rough.
"Ahhhh… He's at CIA headquarters in Langley… Don't hit "
The last words put me (and not only me) in a completely different state of mind. If the documents are there, nothing can be done. This is the base of one of the strongest intelligence agencies in the world (we have very few people there, half of whom are old people who don't need anything and can't do anything anymore, and half of whom are newcomers who have no access to really serious documents), where there are advanced technical means, thanks to the "tsar's" financing.
"You didn't misspoke?" — I questioned the buttoned-up man. "No, they're there. " — The man replied, continuing to whimper.
"I see. Oh, well I repeated Brosman's phrase. — Thanks for your help."
"Don't hit "
"No one's going to hit you again — I assure you of that," — my bass reassured the victim. "Thank you. Thank you very much."
I took the Glock out of the holster and, leaning the silencer close to the head of the doomed man, pulled the trigger, then threw the firearm next to it (the same thing was done by the Lightning at home, that's what all professionals do; "If a gun is lit once, the second time it will burn with its owner", that's how my brain thinks every time I throw away a gun, this time it was a Glock 26. It was a shame to throw away such a thing, because instead of the usual 40 thousand effective shots that characterize a good gun, it gives 160 thousand; now in our brutal team only Brosman and his Kurtz had guns, although I had a secret weapon under my armpit, and Lonje had already thrown out his Israeli monster at home at the "Zasped") and turned to Amoramente: "You know, we'll have to burn your jeep after all…".
"Yeah I just…"
"It's okay, it's okay. I'll buy you a new one. There was a lot of blood here anyway because of the wounds in my knees."
"It's not about the money. It's just that it was given to me as a gift…"
"I'm sorry, but there's nothing you can do… There's too much blood… In the meantime, by the way, get behind the wheel… We may have to get the hell out of here… I know you're good at ramming…"
"Well, anyway, yeah," — the guy was clearly being modest — if he hadn't become a hitman, he would have become a racer, and what a racer, too….
He should be driving a tank
August 19, 20:03 PM.
Five minutes later the Cosa Nostra team is back on the road, but this time Amoramente and I are in the front and Brosman along with the corpse in the back.
If earlier I had said that Lonje could easily become a professional racing driver, now, watching his careful and tender handling of the car, my opinion of him was raised to the extent that he could not even afford long-haul flights on a Boeing 747.
After two minutes of such tenderness with pieces of metal, plastic and rubber for the "Sicilian Schumacher" came the test — turning left after the intersection, a police cordon appeared ahead.
"Quickly they…" — came from the back seat.
"Next time you do a forceful interrogation, don't forget you're not in the 'Wild West' — after the speech, I directed my gaze toward Lightning, immersed in a world of speed 100 percent.
The cordon consisted of three Ford cops placed perpendicular to the street bed, as well as the usual ordinary uniformed cops.
The cordon was 150 meters away when Amoramente "blew his foot" on the gas pedal, causing the car to accelerate at a speed that would have been able to get around a Porsche Boxter.
The cops in the cordon took notice of our car.
Sicilian Aerton Senna overtook cars so easily and effortlessly that it seemed as if he was playing some simple video game.
Finally, we reached a distance of about four meters to the nearest cordon car (at this point the car was speeding forward at 90 km/h — in the city, and especially in New York, such a speed with such a flow of cars can be recognized as a record), and the cops opened fire with single shots.
At that moment, Lightning jammed his foot into the brake, with the speed dropping to 30 km/h, and twisted the steering wheel slightly to the right.
With a wild roar, the Cherokee threw itself into the side of the Ford's trunk with the left corner of its steel bumper. After the collision, the Ford spun 210 degrees to the left, thus opening up the road for us, and Lonje put even more pressure on the throttle.
Flicks numbed from what they saw and stopped shooting, and all because Amoramente is not just a great driver, but because he also knows his armored car perfectly….
Minus one fool
August 19, 20:28 PM.
"I don't know how to get you out of here. — replied Luciano Anastozzi, the youngest "ambassador" of Cosa Nostra in its history (31 years old), who commanded in New York (his nickname was Vychico; why he had such a nickname, there is no explanation, maybe it was his childhood nickname, but he was a unique person. A lover of arguments and fights of such size and frenzy that they were remembered for a long time, not for him, but for the victims. If anything went wrong, as he wanted or even worse, from his mouth came just a terrible mat that I, sometimes being near, enriched my vocabulary. And, if he did not like something and seemed useless, he "processed" it with such words, that indeed, sometimes it could seem so. Among other things, he made a particularly good impression from the first minutes), fidgeting in his fancy chair for two thousand dollars. — They won't even take you alive anymore…"