The Simple Orders

[Storm Veritas]

((Closed to the Cinderella Man))

"Don’t struggle. You’ll only make this worse."

Clenched teeth lost their tight grip around his fingerless gauntlets, the fat man below him no longer struggling. There was an initial stir when Storm had rammed his fingers into the snoring man’s mouth, but a quick jolt of electricity had found those gold-filled molars and numbed the man to his cholesterol-riddled core.

Helpless beneath him, the once powerful man would now bleed out. Storm’s dagger proceeded to carve three quick slashes: one across the throat, one dedicated to each of the hapless inner arms. The arteries were opened from the razor-like titanium blade, and the blood loss was swift and fountainous. The sheets were fast dyed a deep scarlet shade, one that would look like black velvet in the moonlight. The ornate suite was surreally silent as the assassin operated, and he calmly removed his saliva and phlegm covered hand from the man’s mouth as his body went completely limp.

A quick wipe of the blade to a fast-reddening set of silken sheets would clean it sufficiently, and the dagger was re-sheathed by his hip. Turning, he walked a few paces, and retrieved a small, nondescript paper bag from a nearby alcove. From here, he casually strode to the large open windowsill, a matter-of-fact professionalism in place. Stepping out onto the lavish balcony, he smiled as he looked down at the doorman below. The man was oblivious; giving a vigilant watch to the incoming and outgoing pedestrians. This night was quiet, and the cool breeze was a fine reprieve from the overwhelming cuprous scent of the blood-welled bed.

Time to run… too f*cking easy. This must be a dream.

He hopped to the rooftop, a simple one-story vault that he could handle with the greatest of ease. He carefully stepped over a single slain man, lying strewn atop the rooftop with a glazed eye; a severed spinal cord belying his otherwise unharmed appearance. A few soft paces across the flat-topped stone, and he effortlessly leapt to the adjacent building, a cat hopping onto the kitchen table. This process repeated twice more, and the third of the stone-faced structures would be the stopping ground. This building was home for now, his hotel for the night. It was deliciously simple, and he longed to sit and rest and end this task. He would descend, enter his own room, and laugh himself to sleep, reading the note again. The note that may have just changed his life.

Entering his room only moments later, he withdrew a tattered yellow paper from his back pants pocket, the elegant bond paper long since smeared with his fingerprints and skin oils. The blotted blue ink was written in divine penmanship, the calligrapher of the inquisition obviously well educated. The words that changed him flickered in lamplight, but he didn’t need to see them to read them anymore. They were ingrained in his head, locked down from countless examinations.

Mr. Storm Veritas,

I come to you with a proposition that I understand a man of your particular skillset will appreciate. It seems to me that a man with lethal ability is easy enough to come by, but finding one that can operate with precision and discretion is far more tedious.

I won’t waste your time. There is a man who has wronged myself and my business more times than I care to mention, and this man must be eliminated. He will be staying at the Excelsior Hotel, Room 406 on Thursday, the 23rd day of this very month. On this night, your services will be required.

The man, Frederick Thurmond, is a man of some notoriety. He will be guarded. The doorman to the Excelsior keeps specific watch for his enemies; a man such as myself would never get inside the door. Two guards will also man the hallway from his room, at opposite ends of the long hallway, securely maintaining a watch on the stairwells. A third is generally the roof-watcher.

I do not care how he is killed; there is no specific symbology behind his death. Only death is required. I will secure one-thousand dollars worth of gold behind the ironing board of his room; something that pompous pig would never dare to touch. Take it as your payment; if this is successful, follow up work will make you a very wealthy man.

The rest of the works, as they say, lie in the hands of the artist. You will hear from me again, should you be successful.

-O-

His paranoia of a police driven set-up washed away into the night, as visions of wealth and happiness overwhelmed him. The days of scratching for nickels and running cheap scams on the market-folk were done; never again would he know the anxiety of a failed pick-pocket or merchant heist.

He was made now, and it was just beginning.

[The Cinderella Man]

Uncle was dead. The cortege crawled down the Owl’s Hill like a legion of crusaders fatigued by the long march and the battle beforehand. The dome above was mirky, ominous, releasing cats and dogs on the advancing procession that moved like a legion of undead. Even the ineluctable chafing sound of the ironed silk suits and gallant dresses seemed like an unwelcome guest, silenced only with the crackle of the farinaceous shingle beneath the soles of their polished shoes. There were no sobs, no sniffles, no troubadours torturing their tin instruments as they made the opus author turn in his grave. Just the ceaseless scrunching of the black caterpillar with a coffin for a head.

Minutes later they all stood huddled around the grave, staring at the ebony coffin and the trickling rivulets that slid down the polished surface. The preacher was flapping his gums in a falsely sympathetic voice, making his way through the tiresome litany of better places, trying and utterly failing to prove to anyone that death was just a beginning. Death was no beginning. Death was the numbing coldness of the void just around the corner. It was the last word on the last page of the book. And it came too early for Frederick Thurmond.

Victor never got an opportunity to get more thoroughly acquainted with the man that most knew as Uncle. About a week and a half ago he was just another bum in the vast collection that Radasanth had on display, a bare-knuckled gladiator down on his luck and fighting for scraps. It was during one of these bouts that Frederick noticed him. “Victor Callahan? Hector’s boy, right?” the fat man mused on that fateful day after Victor’s battle was done. Victor studied him suspiciously, peering over his shoulders in search for the goons that would ambush him and make him pay off some long forgotten debt. Probably break his knees as well. Nowadays, if somebody asked his name after it was clearly pronounced in the arena, chances were they wanted something from him. The goons were there, pressed and dressed, their faces emotionless, their eyes dead, but they made no move.

As it turned out, Uncle Frederick was in fact Victor’s distant uncle that moved out of Scara Brae some years ago. “That town became to small for me, boy.” he used to say, following it with a guttural laughter that send visible ripples through his voluminous abdomen. He took Victor in, gave him a clean place to sleep, threw in some money for fresh clothes, and all because... “You and your father, we used to be like this, Vic. And I can’t let his rascal run around in rags without a pot to piss in.” From that day forwards he was one of the guys, the new muscle, another member of the family, entering the Thurmond pyramid at the lowest level. Debt collecting, protection money, interrogations, intimidations, all the little unseen occurrences that take place in some random dark alley, Victor became an integral part of it. He strayed from the holy and righteous path that his late father adamantly preached about and he even found eventual slivers of enjoyment in it. Being the bad boy certainly had a bittersweet charm.

The figure of the sermonizer, clad in pristine white robes made out of glittery silk, closed the book serenely, bowing his head for a moment of prayer. The drenched sullen mass that stood around the coffin did the same. It was an automated motion; nobody here really cared too much about this inane crap. Because Uncle wasn’t in that black piece of polished wood that lay before them, he wasn’t in their hearts, in their memories, in any other fictive place whose mention was supposed to bring momentary solace. He was gone and no sentimental bullshit could change that.

A majestic woman with her face covered with a semitransparent black shawl stepped from the bulk. Even though she made mere two steps, pride and trained elegance could be clearly read in her motions as she placed a single yellow rose on the surface of the casket. “Yellow.” Victor thought. “The color of love.”. Contrary to what the folk believed, a yellow rose signified love, not a red one. She was soon joined by another female figure, tantalizing even in the concealing black attire as she squeezed her left hand through the crook of the woman’s arm. Her svelte pale hand lowered a burgundy rose next to the yellow one. “Red, for the blood spilled.” Two men flanked the females, their footsteps mute on the soft carpet made out of damp grass threads. They stood in silence for a couple of moments before they led the procession up the hill and ultimately towards the Thurmond estate.

[Storm Veritas]

The next few days were interesting ones, and Storm enjoyed his hours of silent celebrity. The entire town of Radasanth was positively abuzz with the news that Frederick Thurmond had been “hit”. His ties to organized crime in the area were far-reaching, and there was no doubt in the minds of speculative bartenders and whiskey swallowers that this had to have been some form of payback. A wealthy merchant strong-armed one too many times, a competing so-called businessman trying to work his way into more coverage, or an unscrupulous politico trying to hide his indiscretions. All were interesting theories, but Storm mused that ignorance was bliss.

And no one in town has a f*cking clue.

The morning paper was nothing short of entertaining; a stream of developing tales surrounding the newly-felled kingpin. Police had formed composite sketches, large and frightening images of scary men and rough-neck types. Even the cause of death was held close to the vest – although Thurmond’s assassination was confirmed as foul play, Veritas was told by more than one tavern-dwellar that the killer was obviously a sniper, as the open window and string of off-facing hotels offered far too many opportunities. Naturally, he agreed. It had to be a sniper; anything else would be preposterous.

At home not four days later, he received yet another letter under his doorway. It seemed that the original executor was serious in their claim to have a string of plans in waiting. Holding the crisp, wax-sealed envelope beneath his nose, Storm took a long, deep breath before opening it. The anticipation was half the fun, after all. Unfolding the letter, he sat firmly at his bedside table, wondering how elated his face must look before the candlelight.

Mr. Storm Veritas,

My sincere thanks for the skill and discretion displayed with the handling of prior business. I trust that you received your documented compensation. It appears you have a flair for the dramatic, but I suppose that is to be expected of such a job.

The lingering threat of the Thurmond estate lies not in the hands of the patriarch alone, but also in the sons. Edward and Jake are both threats as well, their newfound power all-too soon to be abused. These boys have long been a thorn in the side of my own enterprises, and I feel it is necessary for them to be eradicated as eggs before the hatching of the snake.

Do not be mistaken into thinking I am asking for the disposal of two hapless children; both Edward and Jake are coming-of-age threats that must be dealt with. Edward is nearly twenty now, and Jake, at fifteen, is already fast learning the ways of a tyrant in training. Should they not be dealt with now, the tyranny that Frederick reigned upon the town of Radasanth shall seem to be Halcyon days.

They spend much time together now, and their arrogance will lead to little security being allowed near them. They normally stay at the manor, wasting away their youth behind silver spoons and the lives men dream of.

I must alarm you – speed is positively CRITICAL in this endeavor. There are many servants at the manor, and they all parade with much regularity. I think your simple electrical prowess would work best – they do tend to enjoy the pool a great deal when they drink. To see these bastards suffer a painful death while lounging with such conspicuous consumption would be exceptionally attractive.

The compensation for these duties shall be 4,000 dollars, nestled taut in the plant pot to the fence-side of the cabana. Of course, you can simply take the money and run, but if you choose to perform the duties, your third (and final) task will earn you upwards of triple such an amount.

-O-

It was better than he had even dreamed. Fortune was knocking roughly at his door, and it was high time for him to answer.

[The Cinderella Man]

((Sincere apologies for the delay. I'll be home tomorrow and back to the usual posting pace.))

Though the setting shifted from the sopping ghoulish graveyard to the lofty parlor of the Thurmond manor, the general ambience was like a bad odor that stuck to your nostrils and refused to go away. Black suits and conservative gowns went about like phantasms, their words mere obtruding whispers, their eyes evading the lamenters that Frederick left behind. They were all welcome, but none of them wanted to be within these grievous walls any more then the Thurmonds wanted them to creep through the hallways of their home, offering their superficial condolences and piteous glares.

That was one of the reasons why the mourning family cloistered itself in a grandiose study, each arrogating a portion of it as their personal asylum. However, despite the death that transpired and the sepulture that robbed them of the last remnants of Frederick, sorrow and grief failed to linger with them in the room. Instead there was an aura of respect between them, solid and unyielding, like a charge of electricity hissing in the stuffy air. They weren’t mourning; they were all too proud to mourn, too aware of the fact that if you keep pushing, eventually somebody pushes back. Frederick kept pushing, for himself, for his family, and they were paying homage to his efforts.

The aroma of polished leather and yellow book pages stood at the thin line between a fragrance and a malodor as Victor stepped into the study. Jacob – or Jake for those that fraternized with him - was the first to notice his presence, the boy diverting his eyes from some random book at the bookshelf beside the door and onto his distant cousin. With long black hair slicked and incisive azure eyes, the youth already stepped into the world which his father built around himself like a fortress, wooing the significantly older maidens even at such young age. He wasn’t the chip off the old block yet, but Victor was pretty certain he was on a good path to become one in a couple of years. He would lose the fraction of innocence that still stuck to his beardless face like a placard and become a real Thurmond.

The path that Jake trekked, Edward crossed already. The older of two sons sat behind the mahogany table, his back rocking the tawny leather chair perpetually, his face adamant in hiding any and all trace of emotions. He wasn’t the spitting image of his father, his subtle mustache and goatee presenting a tranquil man that deviated from the impulsivity of his predecessor. His brown eyes noticed Victor’s entry, but ultimately fell down to the desk again as his back restarted the rocking motion.

To the left, sitting on the windowsill with her hands folded in her lap and a figure of a goddess outlined by the gray light from the outside, was Mariah. Out of all the Thurmonds, she was the only one Victor remembered from the time they still lived in Scara Brae. “Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” his mind always spoke, making him recollect the time when both of them were mere runts exploring certain aspects of their bodies. She showed him his. Their parents prevented him from doing the same. It was the anecdote that everybody selectively forgot, an inadvertent incestuous encounter between two kids that didn’t know which went where. But it was one of the moments that just stick with you no matter how much time passed, constantly teasing your mind and provoking the immoral thoughts. Even now, when her father was served to the maggots and she sat as frigid as a corpse, he could hear those words and look only for a second how her chestnut hair cascaded down her shoulders. She was the black sheep of the family - another thing in common with the prizefighter - a castaway that found nothing but dislike within her family members. Victor didn’t know what the reasons were for this and when they spoke, Mariah never wanted to talk about it, keeping herself veiled in mystery.

“My dear Victor, come here. Pull up a chair. I wish to have a word with you.” the fourth and final person present spoke from a majestic leathery armchair to the right. Despite her eminent age, Elena was still an imposing woman. Her brown hair was pulled back into a coiffure that allowed two streaks to encompass her pale face, her eyes gently outlined by dark mascara. Her dark burgundy lips managed a courteous professional smile as she motioned with her hand towards Victor to join her. The prizefighter obeyed instantly, taking one of the chairs and placing it beside the armchair before he took a seat.

“My lady Elena. If there is anything I can do for you and your family...” Victor started in a hushed tone, his voice an outlaw in the wasteland of silence. The woman cut him short with her disquietingly cold fingers wrapping around his large hand in a tender icy grasp.

“There is. With Frederick gone I...” she paused, her eyes fleeing to Edward first and then to young Jake, both sons now looking at their mother. “...I fear for my family, Victor. They are still young and I don’t think they are ready to carry the burden that their father left behind.”

“That’s nonsense, mother.” Edward retorted immediately, his voice only mildly disturbed as he paused the rocking motion. “We will hunt this dog down soon enough and continue father’s work. I already set the hunt in motion. We will prevail.” Jake nodded to these words ardently, standing beside his brother.

“Perhaps. But we have to be extra cautious because Frederick’s death might have been just the beginning. Frederick was good to you and you served him well. Would you do the same for those he left behind?” she spoke in a gallant refined voice, her emeralds looking into Victor’s plain browns.

“Of course, my lady. I will join the search immediately.”

“No. I want you here, in the manor. Streets speak to everybody with enough gold. But I prefer to out our safety into the hands of our kin. And stop with the my lady. We’re all family here.” Elena concluded, releasing his hand and announcing that the conversation is over. Edward and Jake merely shrugged their shoulders, complying with their mother’s desire and paying no more heed to the matter. She was being paranoid, they thought. The manor was almost like a fortress, an impregnable sanctuary diverse enough to fulfill all of their desires.

“Very well.” Victor replied, bowing his head before he made himself scarce from the presence of the Thurmonds. With a corner of his eye he managed to catch Mariah’s visage, noticing the minute smile pointed in his direction before it was effaced and her eyes returned to the downpour outside.

[Storm Veritas]

It had been three long, wretched days of toiling since he had received the letter. Rain, mist, and cold were the purveying themes, all making the execution of his task impossible. On this morning, he was woken by the sun and uncomfortable heat, something that told him it was finally time to work.

Radasanth always settled into a slump when the heat struck, all but overwhelmed by the sizzling weather. It felt to be at least ninety degrees here, an unseasonable warmth, but this part of Corone was a funny place. The markets would smell, the fish turning over by late morning. People would walk and move more slowly, many opting to stay indoors and behind the safe protection of their basements, the stone walls surrounded by pleasantly insulating earth. The poor wandered the streets, seeking isolation and shadow, miserable in dirty clothes that were always too heavy, and wouldn’t come truly clean until after the cold bit back at them in October.

Perfect day for drinks in the water, now that I’m sure all that pesky grieving has come and gone.

Storm walked comfortably through the house of the Thurmond estate, staying to himself but not out of sight. There were many people working here, all in simple white gowns, an elegant but easy uniform. All, of course, with the exception of a tall, slim fellow who had met an unfortunate accident with a stairway and a garrote. He was still in the basement, slumped nude in the closet. The earliest to arrive, he was very easy to take care of this morning.

With his hair pulled back into a simple servant-style knot, Veritas laughed at the pitiful security. All the crew had specific jobs, none conversed with each other. Middle aged women and young girls were cleaning, and a scarce few portly twenty-somethings patrolled the house, oblivious to the stranger in their midst, disconnected. The Thurmond feel of power was absolute, even in these dark times. It made for easy pickings.

Stupid motherf*ckers. I guess they didn’t miss their father too much, with a martini poolside order at ten AM. Shit… I guess it’s noon somewhere.

The task was pitifully easy, and Veritas almost felt bad taking part in it. Some olive-complected lovely asked him to prepare two lime-heavy margaritas with no salt for the boys, who had entered the pool only seconds before. With a full bar only feet from the refrigerator, and large pyramidish glasses hanging overhead, Storm happily complied, noting that it would be twice as simple to just drop something less desirable into their drinks.

Whatever. You’re getting paid to juice them. No sense in asking questions.

A bit of triple sec, a heavy dose of tequila, and a splash of lime juice later, Storm was parading out across the back lawn to the pool, tray in hand and polite half-smile draped across his face.

The boys sat in the pool, nestled in corners while the sun soaked them with warming rays upon their tanned faces. A raven-haired mongrel of a human was sitting on the right edge of the large, pristine pool, with a cocky smile and shit-eating grin.

“Thanks, but you need to work on those tits to serve me drinks, sweet thing.” Eddie began, taunting the servant and sealing his fate.

“Come on, bub, at least he’s got an ass on him. I bet the Crawford boys on Sycamore would give that a bid.” The doe eyed accomplice Jake was no less vulgar, juxtaposed brutality from his innocent appearance. With a lithe frame and child-skinny arms, this one had the look of brilliance upon him, terribly misused.

“Bah, you’re probably right. Well, pool boy, better get to mixing up another round. And try to give us a shake when you walk back. Next time you come out, you’d better have some bigger cans and maybe some hips to match.” The imbecile again, the larger one. Brutish.

Oh f*ck no. This just turned into a dream job.

Storm squatted by the waters, his cotton clothes hitching up a touch. Offended, the young one scooted up a bit, his chest huffed. Something was up, but it hadn’t worried his hairbrained brother. It didn’t matter; it was far too late for either of them. Plunging his hand into the crystal clear waters, Storm let it dance a bit, the young men flabbergasted by his boldness.

“You know, you two little pricks will die just as easy as your pa. Did you know he bled like a fish and cried like a bitch?”

Without another word, Veritas fired his energy, emitting a strong electric pulse. Tiny rivulets of purple-live electricity danced through the pool, sending thousands of high-current volt to the young fools. He focused on Eddie, the larger one, who instantly convulsed. Within five or six seconds, he was done.

And so was Storm, noticing the lesser of the two brothers also sinking back into the waters, looking glazed and inhuman. With a few practiced steps, he walked to the rehearsed drop point, and picked up his pretty paper bag. Elegant in its simplicity. A single, smooth walk with a pair of garden shears in hand, and he would hop the fence to freedom and wealth.

Sometimes I think I’m just too f*cking good at this job for the sake of humanity.

[The Cinderella Man]

((A bit longish... >_<))

“Do you remember the Rinsing Falls, Victor?”

He did. It wasn’t the recollection he liked to retrieve, especially not now when she stood before him in a dress prone to reveal more then it hid, but even before she spoke his name at the end of the sentence, the image flashed before his mind’s eyes so fervidly, it burned itself into his cranium. They were twelve, thirteen maybe, careless and oblivious, throwing themselves into the frothy water and making a contest out of who made a larger splash. She was more of a woman then he was a man back then, parading her svelte hoyden figure around in a yellow two-piece, and even though Edward and Jacob always tagged along, Victor always felt like it was just the two of them. Just the two of them, the vague rainbow in the midst of the condensation at the bottom of the falls, and an endless afternoon of ignorance and verboten glances.

“Everything was so much simpler back then. Life was just... just an unknown road beckoning you to explore, to see what’s beyond the next corner.” Mariah continued, reading the answer from his dreamy brown eyes with a gracious smile. The boyish pliancy was successfully eradicated by the inevitable maturation now, giving her a sizzling figure and a fair noble-like complexion that she wasn’t afraid to show. Her white silken dress touched her skin apologetically, creasing on all the right places and allowing a glimpse or three through the semi-transparency. The straps that held the garment were like lifelines, one of them falling down her bare shoulder like a teasing renegade. Compared to her pallid skin, her lips were like fire, as red as fresh blood and as untouchable as flame tongues. One of her hands was touching the fence of the loge in which the two stood, the other folded in front of her, amplifying the curves of her breast prominent enough to provoke eyes drooping, but subtle enough to reveal no clear intention.

Victor moved his eyes – had to move his eyes - onto the garden that stood splayed before them like a battlefield map, basked in the powerful sun that announced the soon arrival of the summer. The air was heavy, humid, burdened by the evaporation of the rainwater that showered Radasanth three full days, but it made the environment look rejuvenated. The dull navy green gave way to the lively viridity of the nature, the sky presenting the most azure hue it had in its arsenal. All of that served as an effective distraction from the vixen at his side.

“Yes, it was. But years don’t count backwards and we all have to grow up sometimes. And before you know it, throwing yourself in a river gets a whole new meaning.” Victor replied solemnly, keeping his eyes away from the enthralling woman. Sure, she was his distant cousin. Sure, even thinking of her in that manner was despicable. But he wasn’t the one that kept sending all these signals that prodded at the deepest desires and waking them up from their rightful slumber. Down below, Mariah’s younger siblings were chiming their glasses loaded with liquor, bellowing a laughter at some distasteful anecdote.

“Poor thing. Life has been so hard to you.” she approached him, breaking the safety perimeter he tried to maintain and embracing one of his arms. He tried to decipher whether or not she masked a dose of sarcasm in those words, but then she leant on his shoulder with a sigh and his thoughts were erased as if he wrote them on a chalkboard. “And look at us. At them. A person would think that they haven’t lost their father mere days ago.”

Victor’s mind tried to grasp some inane thought, something about her flamboyant attire acting in unison with that idiosyncrasy, but her proximity was too captivating for him to form that mentation completely. He didn’t respond to her comment though, didn’t even look at the Thurmond progeny. Pricks or not, the two below and their mother were his employers now, providing him with the fine black suit he was now wearing as well as a roof over his head. And that was significantly more then a multitude of others offered a prizefighter down on his luck.

“I just feel like sooner or later, all of this would backfire on them and...” but even as she spoke, Victor froze in her arms as if something down below petrified him, turning him to stone.

“Something’s wrong.” he uttered swiftly and by the time she tracked his gaze to the pool below, he pushed her away and ran for the stairs like a madman. In the pool, Mariah’s brothers floated lifelessly. The woman merely sighed and reentered the manor at a steady gait.

***

By the time he arrived to the poolside, the servants already fished out the pair of bodies out of the crystalline water. Edward looked so hapless, as pale as bleach with eyes peering into oblivion, his body cramped, his muscles caught in a deathly spasm. A pair of servants was still trying to get water out of his mouth, pumping his unremarkable chest, slapping his face desperately, but he seemed as lifeless as his father already, with his balled hands giving out an occasional seizure. A vicious though appeared in Victor’s mind for some reason.

“You don’t seem so cocky now, jerk.”

What they failed to do to Edward, the servants managed to do with Jake. They massaged the Thurmond heir, twisting and turning his sylphlike body to extract the water from his windpipe, and after what seemed like hours (and in fact was only two minutes), Jake coughed weakly and opened up his eyes. His muscles still stood convulsed, making him resemble a marionette whose owner cut the strings all at once. But he was alive and breathing in short frantic gasps. From the doors that led out of the backyard and into the house, a desperate voice outcried.

“MY BOYS!!!”

***

Victor hated hospitals with a vengeance. He spent hours upon hours in hospitals, sitting in frigid waiting rooms that smelled like chemical substances and overly strong cleaners, looking at the degradation of the human being that was once his father. His sister Yavannha would have called it a childhood trauma alongside some other tedious psychological mumbo-jumbo that would only confirm the fact that he felt utterly disconcerted once he walked into hospitals. But he had to do it. Jacob summoned him, asked for him explicitly and it was the least the boxer could do after failing to prevent the death of his big brother, Edward Thurmond.

Three checkpoints of armed Thurmond guards - set on the crucial stairways and intersections in the hospital – and two searches after he entered the hospital, Victor found himself in Jake’s room. The room was the apotheosis of a hospital chamber - white and cold and completely uninviting - and only a pair of muscle-bound grotesques with revolvers deviated from the usual scenery. Jake seemed motionless, his sickly wan face almost blending in with the comfy bedroll around him.

“Leave us.” he said in a raspy feeble voice to the two guards that obeyed soundlessly.

“How are you doing, cousin?” Victor asked, walking up to the bedside and looking down at the bedridden man.

“I’ve nearly been electrocuted to death. How the hell you think I’m doing?!” came from below in a disrespectful growl. Victor made no retort. The dog that barked didn’t bite, especially if it was your cousin. “Never mind me for now though. I’ll be fine here. I’ve got some of my finest men protecting me while I recover. It’s Mother I’m worried about.”

“What about Mariah?” the prizefighter asked, his question immediately resulting in a bitter cramp on Jacob’s face.

“I don’t care about that bitch. In fact, I think she had her fingers in this.”

“But she was with me...”

“Not directly, you numbskull. Keep a vigilant eye on her... But no too vigilant, if you know what I mean.” Jake attempted a wink, but it came out decrepit and horrible, disfiguring his deathly face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, right. I don’t care about your sick games. But if that bitch is behind all of this, I want her dead.” the Thurmond spoke, placing an emphasis on the dead part. Victor wasn’t sure if he would be able to do it; in fact her was rather certain that if the time came and he had to pull the trigger to ruin the perfection of that sweet face, he wouldn’t be able to execute her. But he nodded all the same. Surely she was innocent and Jake was having his paranoia amplified by his scorched brain. “Anyways, Mother went to our estate up in the Jagged Mountains. She didn't want to, but things are heating up in Radasanth and I don't want her get caught in the crossfire. She took an escort with her, but whoever is doing this knows his way around sentries. I want you to protect her, Vic. Do whatever it takes. You hear me? Whatever it takes!”

“I understand.”

“One of my guards will give you some weapons. Now scram, I have to rest.”

[Storm Veritas]

Success had come easily to him, and his prolific working was making Storm quite comfortable. He enjoyed the warm summer’s light, and soaked it in as he sat at the wrought-iron table of the lovely caf&#233; he had grown quite fond of. With his left foot draped casually over his right knee, he leaned on the table as he allowed his cigarette to burn freely. The air was fresh, his coffee warm and smooth. The people of Radasanth buzzed around him, hustling and hawking wares and trying to earn a buck. Dressed well in freshly purchased linens, the opulent Veritas enjoyed his newfound wealth. He smiled as he sipped the coffee again; a subtle hint of hazelnut accompanying the flavor.

A waiter came to bring him some fresh warmed croissants, delicious pastries the trim murderer indulged in politely. His eyes were all about the place, and he feasted on the soft piano playing from inside. Out here, he was the royalty now, and the time of luxury was perfect for him.

Easiest money a man could ever make. The life of f*cking Riley isn’t a bad one to suffer through.

After easing his way through the late breakfast, the lithe diplomat stretched once more and rose, watching out as a vigilant eye over the peasants that would now live to serve him. He smiled again, leaving a healthy stack of currency with his bill, smiling to the waiter with a debonair ease as he left the handed the tab over. Being nice was easy enough for him – it’s never difficult to be pleasant with a fistful of cash. People seemed to give him anything he wanted for a few pretty slips of paper.

The street was quiet as he strolled, humming back to his house with a skip in his step. There had been little follow-up to the death of the Thurmond boys, and he was able to leave there without incident or question. He was a ghost, hidden in plain sight, and was very well paid for his efforts. Hopping up the stone stairs to his semi-permanent hotel room, he carelessly pressed through the door, coat in hand and ready to hang.

Oh, shit… looks like a visitor.

His second step had landed upon a piece of paper, a sealed envelope with a single “O” pressed in cherry red wax over the flap. With a flip of the wrist he dispatched the bond with a singular slash of his iron dagger, allowing the envelope to fall to the floor as he read intently.

Mr. Veritas,

It seems as though you have enjoyed your riches quite easily, taking to them with fervor. The clothes, the women, the fine dining… I’m glad to see that our arrangement has brought you such pleasure, although I cannot similarly claim such happiness.

Jake Thurmond is alive. This was NOT part of the plan, as you damned well know. Security around him right now is razor tight, and getting to him presently is out of the question. I am thereby forced to move on.

Evelyn Thurmond is your new target. The wife has been removed to the family’s vacation spot, one nestled in the foothills of the Jagged Mountains just outside of town. No more than a day’s ride, or few day’s walk. You can find the Thurmond summer home in the valley between the two largest peaks from an east-to-west view, and it is situated just off the Concordia Pond. It is the lone red house on the lake, and will churn smoke from the chimney on cold nights.

She will not be alone, and this will not be simple, but it is critically important. In this event you will not be directly rewarded, but the successful mission completion will lead to the true final issue – cleaning up the loose ends of young Jake Thurmond, wherein you shall be properly compensated.

You have seven days to kill Evelyn Thurmond.

-O-

P.S. By attacking the boys, you have waived your right to decline this offer. Should you fail, or choose not to attack, the police will have their eyes opened to more of the details surrounding the death of Edward Thurmond. Finding someone capable of the crime committed will be easy even for these bumbling fools – Radasanth is not a very large place.

He read it once before dropping it from trembling hands. Frantic, he lit the oil lantern at his desk and forced himself to study the letter again. Carefully caligraphied letterwork, lack of personality to the writing… there was nothing there.

He was both scared and excited. He could still run, he knew full well. The ports were poorly secured, and he could hit the next ship to Alerar within a week. Yet this was a ride he did not yet wish to get off. Taking a fast swig from his bedside brandy, he breathed deeply as he considered what he was about to attempt.

He had work to do, and not much time to do it.

[The Cinderella Man]

Despite the grievous task at hand, Victor couldn’t help but stand amazed by the landscape that surrounded the Thurmond villa in the Jagged Mountains. The summer house – though given the size, house wasn’t the word that could properly portray the Scarlet Manor – rested on the east shore of Concordia Pond, jutting boastfully out of the docile scenery of the small flat plateau that stood between a pair of looming white-headed peaks. To the three sides the slopes darted upwards almost vertically, like ramparts provided by nature during the time when the earth was young. To the south, a narrow canyon led to the lowlands of Radasanthia. The lake was small and round, a crystalline tear of the gods that got captured in the natural vessel. The grass around it was lush and tame, plagued with wildflowers that sent their scents on the wings of the freshest air Victor ever breathed. It was a good place to live in. And an even better place to die in. One day in this heavenly refuge could make a man die without remorse.

Victor sat on the balcony of the majestic manor with a revolver in his lap and his eyes soaring over the plateau and towards the mountain pass. In the room behind his back, Evelyn (or Elena for those who knew they were allowed to call her that) went through some papers with a studious look cast over her low-hanging spectacles. She should be safe, he thought. He set up the watch himself when he arrived to the Scarlet Manor three days ago, placing two guards in her chambers at all times, two more in front of her door, creating a secure perimeter in the yard, one man at every staircase. The place was like a fortress, only better guarded. She should be safe. And yet his guts churned in that strange disconcerting the-storm-is-coming kind of a manner, in that strange manner that old badly-healed wounds ached before the downpour.

Would they come for Elena? Probably. This wasn’t some personal grudge as it seemed when the Uncle kicked the bucket. Somebody was out to exterminate the Thurmonds, crush them into fine dust and let the wind erase every track of them. Was it Mariah? He didn’t believe in that. He couldn’t believe in that. Not even when Elena told him the entire story about her renegade daughter, not even when he heard of the disownment of her father and the harsh words that flew on some day years ago, not even then he believed it was his cousin. Because he looked into her eyes, looked into her eyes every day as she moved around the manor like a fairy, teasing him with every glance, every movement, every sigh... No, there just couldn’t be a wolf hidden in such a sizzling fleece.

Victor’s fingers played with cylinder of the six-shooter in his hands almost reflexively, producing silent clicks at regular intervals. He never held a gun until one of Jake’s goons pushed it into his hands, mockingly explaining at which end he should be when he squeezed the trigger. He never fired it either. But the heavy weapon simply radiated power, hardening his balls until they felt like metal and injecting him with a shot of authority. Because people looked at you in a whole different light when you packed heat and showed no hesitation to hand out a handful of hot lead.

“My lady Mariah, Victor specifically ordered that nobody should leave the house.” a simplistic rough voice came from below, specifically from the small wooden pier that protruded into the shimmering water. Victor’s eyes tracked down the origin easily. Mariah ambled down the docks in a silken lilac robe, two of the muscular guards following her like puppies. She didn’t respond to them. Instead she paused her advance, turned just so her chestnut hair moved out of the way of a glance over her shoulder, and puckered up her lips towards the sullen man on the balcony. Victor didn’t know should he feel honored or abhorred by such a gesture. His groin seemed to have no such predicament, especially once she cast away her robe and stood in nothing but that same yellow two-piece as years ago. She got older though. She filled out. The swimsuit was definitely a couple of sizes larger, but still tight enough to hand out heart-attacks like candy, especially with her bombastic porcelain figure.

The prizefighter pondered on what to do... for about three seconds.

“Steven, take my place on the balcony.” he instructed one of the two buffoons that sat near the door. The man, possibly half a foot taller then Victor, rose up, folded his newspapers, placed them below his armpit and obeyed. The prizefighter snatched the papers from him as he passed by. “And leave that inside.” The bodyguard grunted something, but ultimately just shrugged his shoulders and took a seat on the balcony.

“You’re certainly keeping everything in order, Victor. But is it really necessary? With all the precautions we took, I doubt anybody would be bold enough to try something.” Evelyn spoke, lowering her glasses and giving him one of those motherly patronizing looks that were both cold and benign.

“There’s no such thing as too safe, not when it comes to saving lives. Now, if you would excuse me.” he politely responded before he left her chambers.

Getting out of the villa was like getting out of the maze, but luckily by now he got used to the grandiose red-carpeted hallways and the multitude of unused furnished rooms that collected dust. Outside the sun was setting, painting the lake orange and giving one last breath of life to the surroundings. Mariah sat at the edge of the wooden docks, her suave pale feet messing up the calmness of the water surface.

“I thought I made it clear I wanted everybody inside. You’re not safe here.” he spoke in a strict tone as he approached her. She giggled at his authoritative attempt in a sweet unoffending manner that only women could.

“Aw, don’t be so uptight, Vic. Come, sit with me.” she said, giving him yet another captivating look over her bare shoulder this time. “I’m just so lonely and mother is always a drag to talk to.”

Victor, whose will was seldom adamant about majority of things, was defeated easily. “Leave us.” he said to the two guards before he sat with his legs crossed beneath him. Mariah instantly shimmied closer to him, breaking the safety perimeter yet again. Victor’s mind made a good excuse for being here though, stating that at least he could keep a close eye on the potential murderer but that was a bunch of baloney. He wanted to keep a close eye on her, but for a completely different set of reasons.

[Storm Veritas]

Preparation was easy; the walk was the hard part.

Storm knew full well how to take out the woman. She’d be guarded, sheltered, but still very vulnerable to someone bold and capable. Security, as he knew, was the most tedious task in the world, and people grew tired, drowsy, and lazy. Night time brought alertness, as the strike always came after dark, yet as the night grew old, eyelids grew heavy. Human nature was on his side, except for the voyage out to the cottage.

He started early, making his way through the gates of what was once called Radasanthia on foot, thinking carefully as he took the long walk. It was hot; the dry air filling his lungs with dust, and Storm could barely think of the task at hand in lieu of the assault of other glaring sensations. The heat distorted his vision, creating waves of quivering illusion above the pebble-strewn path. The smell of discarded horse fuel was foul and plentiful, not easy to avoid in some paces.

Ugh. The only thing worse than Radasanth are the people treading hard to get in. Don’t you assholes have jobs?

There were others on the path, men and women wandering to town, most full with carts of wares for trade. There were wanderers as well – mostly poor, as he would appear to the untrained eye – and they gave Storm a pleading look before he would inevitable rebuke any suggestions of charity. He looked like a fool, donning a V-cut twill white shortsleeve peasant shirt and shorts, heinous denim things which hurt his very eyes to gaze upon. A small but considerable satchel was tucked over his shoulder, and he couldn’t help but play the part of the traveling buffoon. It was tortuous, and he resented the very sweat which was beginning to circle his neck, chest, and underarms, making his groin itch and uncomfortable. It was miserable. The whole voyage seemed an odyssey, and yet lasted merely two hours of high paced stroll before he saw the colossal red “cottage” by the lake.

Holy f*cking shit. The paper-boy has me chasing down the King of Althanas. This place is ridiculous.

The lavish house was easy to view in the cut path from the simple pebble lined road, a swatch of dense maples giving cover to the area. They hugged the massive house as a loving mother, keeping some desolation to the home in spite of its size and select location. Marching from the street to the forest cover, he was able to see the tall, opulent establishment with a lingering, careful gaze.

And they can see you, if they know how to look. Take it easy.

He would wait and plan and think. Time was on his side, and it was a powerful ally.

~*~

Night crept in on cat feet, stealing away the sun behind the twin peaks to his west in an awesome purple haze. The bugs in the forest were bothersome, but Storm was prepared with an answer. Opening his small travel satchel, he withdrew two thin rolls of black cotton, which unfolded into small, taut fabric forms. The clothes were little more than a simple shirt and pants, looking not so dissimilar from thermal underwear, yet were very effective in keeping the nasty biting little things away.

He moved quickly, low and steady in the brush. While not so meticulous that he wouldn’t ruffle leaves or snap twigs, he was careful to keep his head down and look no more inconspicuous than some four legged nocturnal hunter. He was the panther, closing on the house, spotting a few possible points of entry.

The rear of the house was an option. Second story window, with a trellis access. The trellis was wood particleboard, likely weak, and may not hold him. Were he to use it successfully, it may bring him right to the point of action.

But I’m not falling and breaking my f*cking neck from that little vine-line.

He contemplated the front door. Perhaps he could blast his way through the front, disregarding stealth and using the powerful lightning he commanded to dispatch any and all in his way.

Unfortunately, all the lightning in the world won’t do sh*t to stop a bullet.

He saw a bulkhead, finding it peculiar. Most of these lake houses lacked foundations entirely, sitting instead on blocks of concrete. There was likely something else going on with that operation, and the organized crime ties of the family probably operated down there.

Head downstairs, meet with Tony Two-Toes and Frankie Fast Finger? Not a f*cking chance.

Balcony. Gutter. Roof. Jackpot.

He smiled as he saw the balcony from what had to be the master bedroom. Open door, sharp overhang, no easy way to access it from underneath. The setup was not so dissimilar to the balcony he had used to execute Frederick, the leader, who died with so small a struggle. Life was moving fast, and plans were not in accordance to adjust.

He moved scary-fast, a slick sprint to the wall and sprint to a higher spot of a single drop-pipe tin gutter. It quaked as he hit it, but his hands grasped taut about the metal close to a wall mount, and the pipe did not break free. With quick feet, secure hands and a scary confidence, he scaled the gutter, an arching acrobatic step and pullup bringing him to the slate shingled rooftop. The view was breathtaking, he surmised, a single deep breath before running to the front of the house, the spot where the balcony stood.

Move fast. Can’t give them time to react.

He was ill prepared but acting quickly and outside of their expectations. He leapt and landed smoothly, looking up not at the demure bride of the Mafioso, but rather a large, beastly and slightly startled sentinel.

F*ck.

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor tossed and turned more then a fish caught in a net and it was all Mariah’s fault. They talked for what seemed like hours on that pier, reminiscing, recalling both the good days and the bad ones with melancholy in their eyes as the sunlight faded like a burned out candle. Their entire lives wound up compressed in the words they shared, telling the story in leaps from one major event to the other. She ultimately told him – through what seemed like the most genuine tears Victor saw - her side of the story, how Frederick molested her, how she feared the footsteps on the stairway and that creak of the floorboard before her door that announced another night of horror. And when she finally summoned enough courage to oppose him, he disowned her, threw her out of the house like a dog that just made a tear on the couch. Compared to that, his unfortunate story seemed trivial.

But it was not her story that upset him this night. No, it was what followed afterwards. She wound up sobbing, her head on his shoulder and her hair spilling over his chest like softest silk, her voluptuous body shivering in the evening chill that swept over them soon after the dusk. And when he wrapped her in his coat and pulled her closer, telling her that the worst had passed, she lifted her head and kissed him as gently as if her lips were rose petals. A part of him wanted to push her away, a ruthless, righteous part that still crusaded for the right things to do. But the part that yearned for those lips ever since Rinsing Falls – the part that ultimately made him lay in bed with his eyes staring at the ceiling – embraced her as if she was made of paper and accepted her expression of gratitude.

And yet, the unholy caress wasn’t the thing that chased away his sleep either. Or rather, it wasn’t the only one. It was what she spoke in a whisper after their lips parted and her lipstick left a lingering taste for Victor. “It’s getting cold. Maybe we should continue this somewhere more cozy. Like my room maybe.” She hovered away like a fairy, down the pier and into the house, leaving him with her scent still prominent in his nostrils and her kiss still warm on his lips. And in the end, it wasn’t her offer that brought this disconcerting turmoil in his mind, but the fact that he was actually considering to accept her invitation. After all, they weren’t exactly direct cousins, it wouldn’t be that bad.

Victor lifted his head for gods-knew-what time since he lay down, turned the pillow around, fluffed it a little bit, then sunk his head back onto the significantly more comfortable surface. “It’s still early. She could still be awake......Sleep, you sick bastard!” yet another conflict broke out in his mind. “Maybe she just wants to talk some more......Do you want to go there and talk?” No, of course he didn’t, not after what happened on the pier. There were enough innuendoes in her words and looks to make it clear talking was the least they would do. “Tomorrow. Sleep over it, let it settle.” Finally his mind’s voice didn’t contradict itself and provided a plausible solution. The morning was always smarter then the evening. Though, whether or not he actually wanted to opt for the smart or the wise or even the right solution in this instance was something he was still unable to decide.

The prizefighter turned amidst the velvety sheets in the queen’s bed once again, facing the balcony that served as an extension of the master bedroom. Elena was rather upset when he told her that she was not to sleep in the room, but after what happened to Frederick, that was something Victor insisted on. Whoever was knocking the Thurmonds off the grid was cunning enough to know how the minds of the royalty figures works. Frederick found out that the hard way, so did Edward and only luck saved Jake from buying the farm with his big bro and his father. Now, instead of the defenseless lady, the murderer – if in fact there was one coming to the Scarlet Manor – was bound to find a pair of buffoons and an extremely light sleeper with a six-shooter.

It seemed his gamble paid off because another ten lustful thoughts about Mariah after his last turn, the bulky figure of the sentry that stood on the balcony was joined by another. Their shadows fell inside the room, outlined by argent moonlight, providing the only illumination of the benighted room. The second guard – a lazy scrawny looking thing with graying hair and a pair of daggers – sat in the corner of the room with his head sunk to his chest and his figure hunched forwards almost enough for him to topple over. Victor decided not to wake him. His fingers cocked the hammer of his revolver beneath the sheets, pointing the barrel towards the balcony doors and waiting for the mysterious visitor to enter.