"Ahhhh, that's the one on 5 knetna st…" "Yes."
"Wait two minutes." "Waiting."
It's been two minutes.
"Barcelona, Hotel Indala Park, room 155." "Okay, thank you."
Finding the six was no problem, unlike finding the boss himself.
Trouble with livestock
4:36 p.m. Aug. 17.
I broke in the door, not entered (there was no point in pretending to be a pizza delivery guy — the subject had seen me before). The victim had a very puzzled look on his face (he's just a six-pack who doesn't understand or see anything), but his appearance was of absolutely no concern to me: "Out of order with the banks?" A question to start a conversation — it's clear to the elephant that he knows nothing about the underpayment. "What do you mean?"
"Where's the payment?"
"Payment?… Ah, didn't you get the money?"
"Why, you sheep, do you answer a question with a question?" "Who told you that?"
Just then, some dick with a shotgun pops out of the bathroom, chilling nearby, and starts pulling the trigger. "I didn't know you hung out with such maniacs," I said after our hero lay down from three Glock bullets. — А? You're such an asshole… Well, okay, who do you work for?"
"Not on anyone."
"Shame on you for lying." "It's…"
"I have other methods, though."
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Richard's number, "Send a man…" "Indala Park?"
"Right."
I knew that in a couple of minutes Edgar Norman ("Sugar", if you don't understand, it's because of his insensitivity to the life and death of others) would arrive in a black BMW. How many people this man killed for no reason (for fun) is God only knows. For him the expression "no witnesses" most likely meant that no one should see him at all.
And before he killed someone, his face was blurred with a malicious smile, and his eyes did not glisten, as in most killers, but glowed with red-black flames.
living three blocks away in a small house, so he didn't even order dinner, but bandaged the front of the hands and back of the legs of the "pig" (code name of the courier, given by me recently), and put the body of the "shotgunner" in the bathroom, took off his gloves, heavily doused with the famous liquid and, pouring the water set it on fire.
Gestapo methods
4:42 p.m. Aug. 17.
"Okay, how do we leave?" — Norman asked, walking in and closing the door behind him.
"Through the door, how else?" "We can through the window…"
"No, consider there's no window… We'll go out the second exit by the pool so the clerk won't notice… Come on, grab that teapot and get it in the car, I'll be a little later."
I went back into the bathroom, filled it all the way up with water, tossed the tequila bottle that had been standing in the hall before, added my own liquid to it, and lit it once more (I don't know if it didn't burn all the way through).
I left the room, walked down the stairs, left the hotel, got into a BMW parked nearby and asked Norman, "Oh, where's the six?"
"In the trunk…"
"Well, yeah your style." "Going to the warehouse?" "Yes."
We left the city and, having covered a distance of 15 kilometers, stopped at a small hill (behind which even a BELAZ could hide), where there was a barely visible steel door. We entered it, walked about 200 meters along a narrow tunnel and, opening a banal wooden door (on the other side it was a wall, that is — a secret passage), saw right in front of us a "torture chair" (an ordinary chair with a lot of straps) in a large dusty room. This was the so-called warehouse, but there were no materials there.
I asked the fateful question, "What's your name?"
Finding herself in such a wonderful environment, the victim managed to squeeze out, "Robert."
"Where do you live?" "In hotels…"
"In what?"
"Where the boss says…oops…uh…"
"Well, there, see, you've got a boss now…" "I don't have a boss!!!!"
"Yeah, well."
"I'm an independent!!!!" "No way."
"That's right!!!" — the guy totally freaked out.
"Yeah, come on kicking yourself I turned to Norman, "You can calm down.
Norman came over and started a showdown (what's the point).
The first blow flew with a crackle into his stomach, the second into his nose, the next fifteen into his jaw. Norman pulled out the knife.
"I'll be killed if I say, KILLED!!!!" — The victim was screaming like a slaughterer, though he had not yet been touched by the cold blade of the cleaver.
"Wait…," I ordered Norman, "See he's gotten worse. "
"Robert, tell me, what do you want?" "Security "
"Yeah, security… Hear, Edgar, he needs security Well, okay, Robert, your guard will
be… will be… will be… well… Oh! That's right, your guard will be Norman "
"Don't "
"Come on, Edgar, guard him. "
A knife appeared in the courier's shoulder, further beating, but now after the twenty- fifth blow Norman stopped and redirected the knife to the other shoulder, after a brawl involving one.
"I'll say, I'll say!!!" — the victim had all the strength in the world. No one thought to interrupt. "Cave, I work for Albert Cave!!!" It was the seventieth stroke…
"CAVE, CAVE, CAVE!!!"
I stopped the 'charging', "See what it's come to "
"Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah," said the "boxer" and the "pear" with different intonation. "So you say we need "
"Cave, Cave, Albert Cave!" "Very well. Where does he live?" "New York."
"More specifically "
"I don't know."
"How's that? It's not clear. Norman, he doesn't know "
"Jack knows, Jack knows!" "Who is it?"
"He was with me at the hotel "
"I see… Uh-huh Well, who else?"
"More… more… more… more. "
"Norman, he wants more!" "Don't. No! Buttoned up "
"No, Edgar, your aim is obviously off. — I scolded Norman and continued with Robert, "Now, who are you calling buttoned up???"
"No, no, buttoned up knows "
"I see. Oh, who is this guy anyway?"
"I don't know "
"Great! Where is he?" "In Beijing "
"Beijing… No, I'm not going there. "
"This is the chief of police of Barcelona speaking. Surrender. The building is surrounded! — A voice in Spanish (which I didn't know, by the way) suddenly started blabbering.
"Fuck him left," Norman whispered. "What does that mean?"
"Everything sucks… Our friend needs to be finished…" "Yeah, what was said? Stop pulling the cat by the…"
"Surrender the building is surrounded… And friend must be ended…" "Surrounded by whom?"
"Cops… No, a friend needs to cum…"
"Friend knows nothing, leave him alone, let's run for the door."
"No… we have to run him out…" — Norman pulled out a Beretta 92F (Italian 9-caliber pistol; very handy in practical sense, the pistol's peculiarity is a convenient safety; weighs 1.1 kilograms, muzzle velocity — 375 m/s, magazines for 15 and 20 rounds, maximum aiming range — up to 100 meters, muzzle energy 500 joules) and put two bullets into Robert's head. He didn't have time for the third one, five bullets crashed into him…
Running without looking back
4:55 p.m. Aug. 17.
Saying, "Well, I'm off…", I rushed to the secret door. The "balalaikas" started blaring as if I were not a "common criminal" but the first terrorist in the world. I reached the steel door and found it closed.
Edgar had the key, and he wasn't the same Edgar he'd been — he had five extra holes in him. "If we can't get in the door, we'll get in the window," I thought of a movie.