Russian Contract: Contract

By James Purkey

A devastating injury that will shake the Beck family to the core.

A Russian Bratva leader that must be controlled at any cost.

A friendship dissolving in front of their eyes.

An FSB agent with a cross to bear.

New Hitters added to The Company stable.

Changes within The Company will be detrimental to all those involved. With deeper insights into the intricate workings of the organization, new leaders will emerge, as the Cypher is introduced to the noir community.

Deception and lies will quake the world of Bear and Peregrine ending in unexpected revelations that will bring them closer than they've ever been.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Purkey
• Release date: Feb 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386968443

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All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. RUSSIAN CONTRACT is intended for 18+ older, and for mature audiences only.

© James Purkey 2018

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COPYRIGHT

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

SUPPORTING DRAMATIS PERSONAE

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDMENTS

RUSSIAN CONTRACT

PART ONE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

PART TWO

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

PART THREE

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

FIFTY-FIVE

FIFTY-SIX

EPILOGUE

ONE-YEAR LATE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jackson Beck/ Bear: Hitter

Paige Inman/Peregrine: Hitter

David Rickard M.D.: Handler for the Bear

Marco Chernikov: Brigadier for the Kosma Bratva

Jamal: Weapons Trader

Hanlin/Miser: Bodyguard for Jamal

Danna Cortez: Mercenary

Inessa Burov: Russian FSB Agent

Philip Beck: Eldest son of Jackson Beck

Kent Beck: Youngest son of Jackson Beck

Bailey Inman: Daughter of Paige Inman

Chadwick Embry/Maestro: Handler

Ivan Petrov; Dr. R.E.D.: M.D. for The Company

Frames: Hitter

Clown: Hitter

Bingo: Hitter

Kick: Hitter

Frosty: Hitter

Howler: Hitter

Ben: Codename for all male Taggers

Kim: Codename for all female Taggers

––––––––

Hitter: Contract assassin

Handler: Contact supervision for Hitters

Tagger: Surveillance teams/Drivers/Cleanup Crew/Computer Tech

Targ: Target/Mark

Spook: Spy/Infiltrator

My Friend Raymond Mullins, our Rayray. The man didn’t know a stranger, he worked harder than anyone I knew, was great father and a fantastic friend.

He worked every job he could just to know how to do it.

I met him sitting on the front porch of the rescue squad building, the gathering spot for bullshitting and telling lies to each other—always in a good-natured way, he seemed to be a down to earth guy.

Turned out, he was. He was just an all-around great person.

He came to work with me for a while on the ambulance, and we became close friends; it’s hard not to be close when you’re chewing the same dirt.

He got a job offer that he couldn’t refuse, working in Texas. He went to work one day and got dizzy, he ended up at the doctor’s office and got some blood drawn; the beginning of the end.

The night he called me I said, Hey, man, what’s going on?

Without preamble or anything else to soften the blow, Well, I’ve got cancer, he tells me.

I was stunned. It wasn’t a subject that I was comfortable joking around about because of my wife and her battle, so I said, Dude, that ain’t funny.

He laughed, Nawsir, it damn sure ain’t. But I’ve got it.

It turned out that after all the accomplishments the man had made through his life, one thing that he couldn’t figure out was how to fix a debilitating disease that took him too early.

Rayray had one request after all his treatments were found to be in vain, he wanted to come home to die in his hometown of Sneedville, Tennessee.

An ambulance crew with four of his fellow Rescue Squad Crewmen, two of them full-time Paramedics, drove to Texas and brought our friend home.

He got to his room at four-thirty in the morning and passed away around nine-thirty, in his hometown. They were able to fulfill his final wish.

I was headed to see him when I got the call that he was gone.

I remember one day I was working on my service vehicle and was trying to change a taillight on it and was getting pretty frustrated because I had about a thousand things to do and a simple light housing had me stymied. He saw me and came over to talk and then showed me where that light housing opened and helped me change out that bulb. He told me that at least I knew where it was for the next time it happened.

The morning that he passed, I turned on my signal light to pull off the side of the road and just...well, mourn the loss of my friend...that same light had gone out again, four years later.

There are a million stories I could tell about him, but there’s no need; maybe one day I can write about it, but for now this one will have to be my teaser for that book.

Miss you, Rayray.

Once again, I want to thank all those involved in getting this book off the ground. My beta readers; Stephanie, Carla, Nicole, Kasey, Brian, Jay (surnames redacted, again, for their protection), and my beautiful wife, Christin. Their constructive criticism has helped me build a solid manuscript.

My publicist and cover artist, Chelsea Barnes, fantastic work, as usual; she just can’t be beat.

My editor, Silla Webb, always able to fix some craziness I’ve written down and make it make sense.

A quick story about my first beta read on this book; I was done with thirty-three chapters and asked my wife, Christin, to read it for me.

She did, then asked me every two or three days if there was anything new. I actually had a little bit of writer’s block and over the course of about three weeks, I didn’t write a thing.

After about three weeks she came in and threw her tablet at me and said, If there’s not something about Russian Contract on that in the next two days, don’t bother sending me anything else until it’s completely finished.

I didn’t know what to say, I couldn’t put enough on there in two days to keep her going. She was just going to have to be mad.

And she didn’t disappoint. She stayed mad about this book until I told her I was finished and sent her the final draft.

Then she came in mad again about something a character did. I had to stop her and remind her that it’s fiction and didn’t really happen; you ever tried to give a cat a bath? Same issue with trying to tell a woman to calm down.

But she’s happy with the final result, and that makes me happy.

Hope you enjoy it.

There’s always a struggle inside a person; an internal struggle between good and bad, evil and virtuous. Some would say there can’t be one without the other.

I agree. There cannot be.

To have good you must have the balance of bad. And then there’s the over-the-line portion into inherent evil.

There are different shades of each, and if evil was a color, it would be the deepest black you’ve ever seen. I’ve seen that evil. I’ve been that evil. I’ve reveled in it. It felt good...at the time.

We should never be alone in the blackness. We need that one person who can pull us back from the edge just in the nick of time, or keep us in a dynamic area that never allows us to fall that far in the first place.

I’m Jackson Beck, I kill people. Not just any people. I kill specific people. People that I’m paid to kill.

I am a contract assassin. I get paid very well to kill people. I don’t think about it. I get a call, I act. I’ve been with The Company for nine years; we have a static ten-year contract that becomes very flexible after that first decade.

I have a Handler, and his name is Dave, David Rickard. He’s a medical doctor. He makes everything happen with a phone call.

I have a partner...well, in life, not in the field. She is a computer genius. She’s also a smart, fast, clean killer. She’s been with The Company for three years. Her name is Paige.

The Company is a conglomeration of higher-ups that make the decision on the contracts. Someone pays someone else some money, they call us, and we go make them dead.

We are what The Company calls Hitters. We do the actual killing.

Paige and I have code names that we live by. She is The Peregrine. I am The Bear. These names are what we answer to anytime we are on a mission.

She lives with me. She and I got close after my wife was killed by another Hitter...well, one of his minions anyway.

We were trained by the best of the best; she and I are Marines. I was originally a Marine Scout Sniper, and she was a logistics analyst. Some would say we’re former Marines, but if you ask one we will always tell you: Once a Marine, always a Marine.

We were taken from the Marines and trained by the CIA for clandestine situations. We have been trained by many different agencies, but those were the ones we spent the most time with.

We kill. We kill without remorse. Men, women, kids—it doesn’t matter to us. We were identified by our aptitude testing to be lacking a conscience when it comes to death. Our personal lives are very important and we care about those closest to us, but when it comes to others, we are, for lack of a better word, disconnected.

She and I have kids; although, not together. We have a Brady Bunch type of household. We have three kids. My two boys—Philip, he’s eleven now, and Kent, he’s nine—are smart, strong, and two of the greatest kids ever.

Peregrine’s daughter, Bailey, is now five. She’s an adorable little thing who has stolen my heart, just like her mother.

They have helped me heal. I was broken; now, I’m only slightly bent.

In the past year, I’ve had grief and heartache. Some holes were patched, some were not. I was taught early on in my adult life to improvise, adapt, and overcome. I’ve done that.

I now have a healthy life with great kids, a great woman, and great friends. If not for them, I’m not sure where I’d be right now. Things never got so dark that I contemplated suicide, but they did get dark.

Peregrine saved me from myself, I suppose. She gave me something no one else could: someone to fight and to love, at the same time.

And she doesn’t pull punches, figuratively or literally. She’ll beat the hell out me, and later she’ll kiss it and make it better.  But she’ll also tell me if what I’m doing is stupid, doesn’t make sense, or if I’m right, she lets me know.

It’s not your normal relationship. In fact, most would say it’s an unhealthy one. From the outside perspective, it may look like domestic violence. It’s not, but it sure could look that way.

But right now, I have to deal with a different kind of violence, the kind that I get paid for; the kind that I want to do. Ultimately, the kind I need to do.

What’s she done? I don’t care. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: I get paid to do this, not to give a damn about the Targ.

I get a dossier on every single one. I read it, I lay it down; I go kill somebody. Simple as that. I find out about them. Sometimes it’s interesting reading, sometimes I get bored and fall asleep on the way there.

Today, well, today is an inquisitive day; I read the file and was intrigued.

This one was a silly girl who screwed over the wrong guy. Took him for a ride and let him off without a second thought. She took him for a lot of money and dumped him out of hand.

One thing she didn’t think about was the fact that he had a lot more money, and some connections that would allow him to purchase something she couldn’t.

He knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy, who put him in touch with a guy who got him in touch with The Company, who tapped me to come kill her.

My Taggers have located and surveilled her and know where she’ll be at thirteen hundred hours. She’s at a local restaurant that she visits every Thursday afternoon.

In the past, I did all my killing at night. Now that I have a more flexible schedule, I can do it anytime they need me to. Today, I’ve had a nice lunch and as soon as she finishes hers, I’m going to walk out and beat her to death in the shrubbery behind the restaurant.

It was specified that she should be beaten. The guy who hired me is a little sadistic, and just in general... kind of mean. He wants her humiliated. She’s very pretty, he wanted that fixed. I can handle that. I’ll have the death done in one shot; the destruction of her face will be fixed in about fifteen seconds after that.

I think I can do this all in less than twenty seconds. Peregrine and I have kept a running tab of who kills the quickest; I’m ahead by a minute and thirty-six seconds. I suspect it’s only because I’m stronger than her; she’s fast for a girl, even faster for a female Hitter.

Considering she’s the only female Hitter in The Company, that says a lot.

I see the Targ settling her bill. I get up and leave before she does and make my way out the door to the left. I go stand near my car and pretend to fumble with my keys.

She comes out; she’s dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. One of my options for taking her out was to do it at the little farm she has, bought with the money she’s scammed off no telling how many men. But that would have taken longer to find her body; here it would be within minutes.

By then I’ll be long gone to rendezvous with my Taggers and get back home.

As she walks past me, she seems to be digging around in her purse; she looks up at me and gives a little crooked grin and keeps walking.

She takes out her cell phone and stops in front of her Jeep, puts on her sunglasses, and starts either dialing or texting.

She moves the phone to her head; a call.

Um, ma’am? I say to get her attention.

Yes? She keeps the phone to her ear and turns toward me.

Did you see a little Yorkie run past you? I ask.

Sorry, no, I didn’t. Sorry, she replies.

Oh, okay, thank you. I pretend to look for the invisible dog and walk to the shrubs.

She continues having the conversation, I have to pick up the kids, I’ll be over after that.

She looks in my direction. Sir, there’s something moving behind the shrubs right over there. She points in the furthest direction. I’ll stand there if you want and make sure it doesn’t come out. She’s still on the phone with whoever she dialed up.

Would you? That’d be great, I say.

I go into the shrubs and head in the direction she pointed.

To keep up my ruse, I call for the dog, Here, Sugar, where you at? Come on, sweet girl.

The Targ hangs up after finishing the conversation and walks toward me. Is she there? she asks.

Yes, but the little thing is stubborn, I tell her.

Maybe I can help. She walks over to me. In her dossier I read that she’s an animal lover; she’d love to help me out.

As she comes between two shrubs and makes eye contact with me, she sees an entirely different scene.

I’m standing with my tactical assault gloves on, the ones with large Kevlar finger covers.

I cross the five feet between us so fast she has no time to react.

I hit her in the temple as hard as I can. She falls limp immediately with a surprised look on her face.

She makes a little yelp before she goes out. She’s dead and doesn’t know it yet.

I grab her limp form and ease her body to the ground. A couple of quick punches to the face and I crush her zygomatic bones on the right and left side.

A quick hammer fist to her lower jaw separates it from her mandibular joints on both sides, also tearing the corners of her mouth almost up to her earlobes.

Twenty-two seconds total until I hear the last breath escape her gaping mouth.

Am I losing my touch? I should have been quicker.

I pop my head up over the shrubs to see if there are any witnesses. There are none.

Her phone rings. It’s lying next to her body. A picture of a woman comes up. Oh well, she won’t be answering that one.

I step out of the shrubs and yank my gloves off then head to my rental car.

I start the car and back out. I grab my phone on the way out of the parking lot and call my Taggers and tell them I’m on my way.

Peregrine had investigated some strange things she found involving David Rickard, my Handler. She found what she needed and kept tabs on it, but for the most part let it go.

She had been hunted by Russians for finding the information; how much of that information, they didn’t know. What they did know was that she had gotten into their files, and they didn’t like that.

Dave’s name was the first to catch Peregrine’s eye. There were others that she found there on that list, including some Fortune 500 and major political players.

None of which mattered, Dave’s didn’t either really. As long as he was simply making money, it didn’t matter to either of us. If he were on the payroll for any other reason than that, I would have confronted him.

The Russians are into everything from human trafficking, guns, cyber-crimes, to drugs and money laundering. They aren’t like The Company; they don’t have specific rules to follow. They do have a structure; it’s more like the Italian Mafia in the structure if you look at it on paper.

The Bratva, the Brotherhood, is what they’re called. There are several different Bratva, but they don’t work together; they’re in competition.

Peregrine found reference to three different Bratva in the files. There was only one that Dave had anything to do with, though.

Somewhere along the line, someone in The Company made contact with the Bratva and called them off of Peregrine. They just stopped.

Who made the call? We don’t know. I don’t really care; I don’t have anyone who’s stalking me or my family.

The Company has a very long reach with many friends in many places. Apparently, Russia is one of them.

The stars tattooed on his body claimed him as a Brigadier, or Captain, in the Bratva; one that is a master thief and one that bows to no man. Those were the important ones; the ones earned with blood, sweat, tears and prison time.

His suit covers them all. He would’ve never thought himself to be one to wear a suit. He was from a poor farm family that always knew their lot in life. They never expected anything that they didn’t earn, and sometimes... not even that.

His father was a strict man with moral values passed down from his father, another farmer. They were strict, but they were fair.

They got their fair share of beat-downs when things didn’t go the right direction on the farm.

From this, Marco Chernikov learned his violent ways. He learned that leaving the farm when he was old enough to go would lead him to being a thief.

He learned eventually that prisons in Russia were all pretty much the same cold, relentless, hateful places where you had to do what you had to do in order to survive.

These places are where he learned to kill. It’s also where he earned his second tattoo of a knife piercing his neck, denoting his ability to murder and his willingness to do it again.

His father was ashamed of him. He didn’t care. Family was a strong part of his life. Having seven brothers and sisters made it a decent environment, but the violent rages his father would get himself into was more than he could stand.

He regarded and respected his father for being the man who provided for them, but he despised him for the pain he had put them through.

There are times that he wishes it could be blamed on vodka, but his father never touched alcohol. In today’s society, he would’ve been labeled bi-polar. Back then, his папа, or papa, was simply just mean.

He’d never do anything to try to get back at him for the beating and fits that had been pushed his way; Papa was an equal opportunity smacker. It didn’t matter if you were the oldest, youngest, male or female, you could catch a backhand without thought; even if you weren’t the intended recipient.

All this, in Marco’s mind, made him stronger. It gave him the chance to be someone else once he was old enough to get out and away.

Once he was separated from the farm, he could be anything or anyone he wanted. He did. He became a member of the Bratva, and now he stands as an Brigadier.

Marco deals with selling and money arrangements. His commitment comes from three angles: weapons, women, and drugs.

He’s over fifty percent legit in his dealings now. Once the money comes in, he reroutes it to several shell companies and brings it home. Many of the companies are American and Swiss, and most all of them are medical type companies.

Once the money is brought in it moves to the shells and is redistributed through the governments systems, which are incredibly easy to fool and notorious for simply letting things flow if there are no obvious errors found. Marco has people who will not let those errors be found. After it has been cleaned, the money comes home, Marco gets the credit, and everyone in the Bratva is happy.

There are times when he wonders what the farm life is like now, though. Is Papa still chugging away at the non-productive soil? Are any of his siblings still there?

He knows that his mother and father are alive, and he sends money to them regularly, but he never has any contact with them; why should he, he’s someone else now.

There has been a glitch in the system; Marco had been informed several months ago of a subcontractor that the Bratva had been using that had gotten into too many accounts that they weren’t supposed to be into.

After getting his soldiers to pay a visit to the contractor it was found that it was a she, and that she was very well connected with American assassins. A group that he himself had used on occasion to handle things that he didn’t have time to take care of; all it takes is money.

After the visit, the well-connected woman in question was brought in by her comrades and interrogated.

After assurances that she would not be interfering in anything to do with the Bratva, and a call by one of the influential higher-ups in The Company to Marco, he was satisfied with the result and held off on anything drastic. A call from the Handler would reinitiate the plan to eliminate the cyber rat that had infiltrated his business dealings.

Marco didn’t expect that call to ever come. He did, however, beef up his encryption and find new people to watch over his accounts.

With that came finding new people to do his skim off the top. He knew the people who were doing it before wouldn’t take being released from their cushy jobs very well and would attempt to use that against him, so he eliminated the threat.

He never particularly enjoyed the killing, but it was a required evil in this business. If you wanted to be taken seriously you did three things: make your word your honor, do your job the best way you knew to do it and last, but not least, do your own dirty work.

Their bodies would never be found, and maybe the last two didn’t need to be killed, but the first three did. After freezing, then chopping them up and grinding them down, he’d actually turned a little profit off the police for his five hundred pounds of freshly ground dog food for their canine divisions.

My trip home was uneventful. During the day missions my beer is replaced by some form of fruit juice, but my midazolam isn’t. I get my injection after debriefing and sleep until we get home.

My ride home is peaceful. I know that Peregrine is getting the kids from school and that today is the only day we don’t have an after-school activity planned, so we can cook and unwind and have the night to ourselves.

Peregrine doesn’t have an assignment tonight, and that’s always a plus on these nights. We actually get to sit on the couch and just vegetate.

No, that’s not a normal thing for us; mostly we’re busy running here and there taking the boys to a tournament, or to their Jiu Jitsu classes or their football or baseball games, or our little Bailey to ballet or gymnastics class.

But tonight, none of that stuff. Tonight I fire up the grill, make dinner, help the boys with their homework and watch them play video games, watch Bailey have tea with them as they play, and all of us settle down for a movie later.

That’s all that’s on my mind, a normal night with my family.

While standing on the back deck of our house with a beer in my left hand and a spatula in my right, I tend to the chicken that Peregrine requested and the burgers that the rest of us wanted.

My phone alerts me to a new text message. It’s Dave, my Handler; he wants me to call him.

I dial the number. What’s up, buddy?

"What did you tell me about the Targ you took down today? Was she on the phone when you got her?

She was, but she hung up before I finished the job. Why? I ask.

Apparently, there’s a witness that saw you talking to her, and she snapped a picture of you on the phone before she came over to help, he tells me.

Oh, Dave, this is what I hate about daytime Targs. There’s always the possibility of something like this.

I know, but there is also the element of surprise during the day. But anyway, The Company has dispatched a team to fix the problem. It seems there are more and more problems like this all the time...involving you, he says.

This isn’t my fault, Dave. They wanted her out in public in the daytime. I just did what I was supposed to, I argue.

Bear, you screwed up. You’re better than this. For the last few months I’ve had to cover your ass with them. They’re starting to ask questions about whether or not you’re turning into an issue like Cody.

Cody was a Hitter with The Company who went rogue about a year ago. We went through a lot tracking him down and killing him and his Targ that he’d decided to start a new life with.

Incidentally, he’s the one who had my wife killed. Something that made me hunt him much harder than I would have if he had just been an assignment.

Dave, I can assure you, there is nothing of the sort going on. I can come in for an evaluation if they want. Be more than happy to. But I can tell you now they won’t find anything. I’m as sound as I was before Cody came along, I offer as I flip the burgers.

Look, it’s not me, Bear. They just want to make sure you’re alright mentally. Would you mind coming in and doing the eval? I won’t be the one administering it; it’ll be another doctor who does this stuff. I’m not qualified for the deep psych evals, he tells me.

More than happy to, Dave, no problem. When do they want me to do it? I ask.

Tomorrow. They want you there by nine. I’ll text you the address.

Okay, we’ll make it happen. Will you be there at all?

No, I’m not allowed. They don’t want a sympathizer there. And us being as close as we are... Well, you understand, he says.

I do. Well, I’m going to get off here and finish dinner for everyone. Text me that address, and I’ll be there.

Okay, call me after you get out of there. I’d like to know what they say.

Will do. I hang up and put my phone down on the edge of the grill.

I get lost in the scene that I caused earlier today. I specifically kept my eye on the Targ and watched her put the phone in her purse. I also remember that there was no one else around or I wouldn’t have done it. Oh well, tomorrow I’ll let them psychoanalyze me and be done with it

There was a point in time that I would have pitched a fit over having to see a shrink, but this was what The Company wanted, and who was I to spit in their faces?

I can simply walk in, talk to them, answer whatever questions they may have and walk out. My life is simplified now.  Great kids, great woman, great job...what more could you ask for?

Going by in the morning and breezing through it won’t be a problem for me. I keep telling them there’s nothing wrong, my circumstances just aren’t optimal when I go out now.

Oh well, I’ll go and have it done and they’ll report back to Dave, and it’ll be finished until they think I need a tune-up.

A rich little man who has made his money in light weapons trading, Jamal decided that he needed no last name about twenty years ago. It’s easier this way. All they need to hear is the name Jamal to know that they will be dealt with correctly and get almost anything they ask for.

Dealing with everything from small handguns to rocket propelled grenades, he’s the one guy everyone calls; from Russians to Africans, he’s the man.

Dealing with anything bigger than that, he has contacts. He once sold a fleet of decommissioned fast attack helicopters to a group of mercenaries that fell in love with him after getting them and were soon wiped off the face of the earth because the old model was nothing compared to the new models. What did he care? He got his commission and kept his reputation intact simply because he delivered the merchandise.

Jamal isn’t his real name. He was born and raised in Canada, but after spending time in Argentina he developed a nice tan and grew his hair out and put it in short dreadlocks. He assumed a Jamaican accent and viola, he was someone else.

He doesn’t like to think about the reasons he fled to Argentina, but now, his worries are behind him for the most part. All he had to do was make sure things that got ordered were delivered on time. He had never failed to do that since he left Canada, either. 

Today is a small order of a thousand Kalashnikov rifles. No problems getting those anymore, and with such a reliable weapon, there was no problem selling them.

Meeting a man named Tony for the transaction, Jamal waits in the backseat of his car with his smart phone pulled up to the banking app that they would transfer the funds to.

Jamal isn’t naïve. He knows there is always the possibility of someone attempting to jack the weapons and not pay for them. That’s precisely why he has a bodyguard and a sniper positioned to fix any problems that arise.

This bodyguard isn’t the first one he’s had and most likely won’t be his last. They die. They’re disposable. It’s what they’re there for.

This one he calls Bob. He actually decided after his first two that learning names was a bad idea; it caused attachment to them and provoked them to want to talk to him. He didn’t need that, he needed protection. Hence the catchall name. It’s also an acronym for Big ‘ol Boy, which is what he always searched for in a guard. At least six-feet-two and no less than two hundred fifty pounds that was mostly muscle.

This particular Bob was six-feet-six and two hundred eighty pounds of pure muscle with a large brow, high-and-tight blond hair, and a resting bitch face look that would scare little kids from a hundred feet away.

Bob had been with him for about two years and hadn’t let him down...yet.

The sniper that he employed was faceless, but his name was Cortez. All he had ever known was that he was there. He had contact with him via email and had never spoken to him. Jamal would tell him where to be, and the sniper took care of the rest. He had come to his rescue three times in the few years that he had known him. Jamal paid him a great deal of money just to be his own little guardian angel. Well, he paid someone for it anyway. He was never sure if he was paying the sniper directly or renting him from someone who brokered him out.

He was sure it was the same person every single time, though. He only knew that from the text he would get from him. It was always a smiley face picture with a bullet hole in the forehead. That’s when Jamal would know that he was in place and ready to work.

Boss, the truck is here, Bob tells him from the driver’s seat.

Good, I’m ready to get dis day over with, mon, Jamal says in his fake accent.

Bob exits the car first and waits for the panel truck to park and the passenger and driver to exit the cab. Two large men, very thick in the upper body, both with short black hair and clean shaven faces, almost identical in appearance except for their clothing.

Bob walks over to meet the passenger while Jamal sits in the car.

He moves around the truck to confirm the interior of the box is empty and there aren’t any extra thugs waiting inside.

The box is empty, simply the two of them. Bob gives the driver instructions on where to move the truck for loading; after, he escorts the passenger to the front of Jamal’s car and opens the rear door to