Authors: Rick Soper
Chapter 3
The Russian – Aleksei Petrenko – grinned as he watched the lowered, black SUV with the shining, silver rims and the loud, thumping stereo drive into his warehouse. Within the context of war, to draw attention to oneself was to invite your own destruction. But the American gangs puffed out their chests, wore their colors, drove their flashy cars, and wondered why they were continually shot at and arrested by police. Their stupidity represented an opportunity for profit, and Aleksei always took advantage of an opportunity when one was offered.
The SUV pulled in front of him. He raised his hand and the men inside flinched: his reputation had preceded him. He pushed the button on the remote control in his hand and closed the warehouse door. He was long past the point of needing to be in the gun business, let alone participating in individual deals, but he still liked to look into the eyes of the men he was doing business with.
Two clicks in his earpiece meant Viktor was signaling him that he had made sure they were not followed, that the jamming device was now on. Aleksei had done his homework. The man he was meeting with was called Tharon, and Tharon always had three other men in the car with him, and four others in a house in Seaside, watched now by Alexei’s man Sergei. Tharon’s crew was up from LA and wanted to make inroads into the drug trafficking in the area that was currently being run by the Mexicans and the Chinese. That venture would be short lived, but Aleksei would take the business while it lasted.
“You the Russian?” Tharon asked as he and the others got out of the SUV.
“I am Aleksei Petrenko.” Aleksei responded sternly, happy to see the sweat, collecting on Tharon’s brow.
“You're the man himself.” Tharon said, his eyebrows raised.
“Yes.” Aleksei turned and started walking away from Tharon and his men. It took a moment before they followed him but they did, not knowing that to turn your back on one's enemy was an insult, a question to their manhood.
Aleksei strode through a maze of crates stacked twenty feet high to an open area with three, sheet-covered tables. He stepped to the first table and pulled off the sheet. “Here is the Heckler & Kock MP5K, a 9mm weapon, which fires at 900 rounds per minute,” he said. Then he took a step to his right and pulled off the next sheet. “And here is the Mac-10, also a 9mm weapon.” Another step to his right and he pulled the sheet off the final table, reaching forward as he did, picking up the gun, “But the best of all is the Kalashnikov Assault Rifle from my mother Russia. The AK47 fires a 7.62mm shell at 600 rounds per minute. It is the most reliable, accurate, and devastating weapon ever made.” He passed the rifle to Tharon, who weighed it in his hands with a look of surprise.
“That’s solid!” Tharon flipped the weapon around and pointed it in the direction of the crates.
Tharon held the rifle low, next to his hips. Alexei hoped that when he fired it for the first time he held it the same way; the kickback would probably break his wrists.
“How much for all of them?” Tharon asked as he looked down at the AK47.
Aleksei’s first thought was that the price was something Hektor should already have discussed – but Hektor could be somewhat unreliable. “Fifty thousand dollars,” he said.
Aleksei sensed Tharon's surprise, despite the other man trying to hide it by tilting his head up and giving Aleksei a low-browed stare. “Hektor said thirty.”
Aleksei did not barter or negotiate. “The price is fifty,” he said, his voice cold.
Tharon looked over his shoulder at the three men behind him and then back at Aleksei, standing alone at the table. He drew himself up and took a step forward. “I have thirty.”
Aleksei stood stone still and spoke in a flat, emotionless voice. “Then you need twenty more.”
Aleksei could see that Tharon was used to people backing down when he stepped up, but Aleksei was not most people. Aleksei could see the thoughts rolling through Tharon’s head: he was thinking about being shown up in front of his men. He was thinking that there were four of them and only one of Aleksei. He was thinking thoughts he shouldn’t, and Aleksei knew what was coming even before Tharon turned the AK47 towards him. “How bout I just take this shit, mother fucker,” he said, snarling.
It was not the first time that Aleksei had stared down the barrel of a gun, and he didn't flinch. “That would not be in your best interests.”
“Fuck you!” Tharon screamed as he pulled the trigger of the AK47.
The gun made a clicking noise, but didn’t fire: Aleksei never put the firing pins in his guns until the deal was done. While they had been speaking, Viktor had silently made his way behind Tharon’s men and at the sound of the click he sprang into action, wielding two, Siberian Sabers one in each hand. His first strike was up and through the hamstrings of the two men closest to him, and then he continued the slicing motion of the sabers as they rose up to a point, into the neck of the third man standing behind Tharon, nearly severing his head clean off. Not stopping or even slowing down, Viktor swung on his feet and slammed the sabers back down through the throats of the men who had fallen and were grasping at the back of their legs. Then he spun, took two steps forward and thrust the sabers through Tharon’s stomach. They exited through Tharon’s back, but Viktor twisted them anyway, before pulling them back out sideways, leaving a gaping wound through which Tharon’s intestines spilled onto the ground.
Aleksei had stood silently during the attack and he waited after it was over, watching Tharon and his men quiver, spasm, bleed, and die. Then he looked up at Viktor’s grinning, blood covered face and said in Russian, “go get Petr, meet Sergei and take care of the rest of them.” Viktor nodded and started to walk away.
“And Viktor," Aleksei said, "once you get done with that, go get Hektor! We need to have a discussion.” A discussion about why this opportunity had become a problem.
Chapter 4
The man who would call himself Gabriel wanted to be left alone. He wanted to be out in the wild, away from people, left to the hunt. He wanted to remain dead. He wanted to avoid his resurrection. But they’d brought the fight to him, they’d invaded his territory, they’d threatened his way of life, and now he had to react.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun with it.
His body bristled with anticipation. He waited, in the mansion, by the second floor railing that overlooked the front door. Across his knees was a rifle. On the floor on either side of him rested two, loaded handguns. It was more firepower than he really needed, but better over prepared, than under armed.
Any hunt involved planning, preparation, and execution. But this was far beyond hunting an animal in the open wilderness. True, this prey lacked instincts he normally had to circumvent, but it was still beyond anything he had ever attempted. This was an equal, and when equals collide, anything could happen.
Outside, the sound of thumping music made its way down the driveway. It stopped in front of the doors, and a laughing group made its way in. As they entered, Gabriel let the breath flow out of his lungs, waited until the door shut, and began firing.
Ten people had walked through the door, four men and six women. Gabriel fired nine times, and within moments nine out of ten were lying on the floor. The only body that remained standing was that of five time NBA all-star T.J. Jones.
“What the fuck?” Jones said as he looked down at the bodies around him and fell back against the wall next to the front door.
Gabriel picked up the two handguns next to him, stepped forward, jumped over the rails of the balcony, flipped once in the air and landed gracefully on his feet. He pointed the guns at Jones, who cowered against the wall. Gabriel didn’t fire; instead, he dropped the guns on the hardwood floor under him and motioned for Jones to come at him.
Jones immediately went from being terrified to pissed off. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m going to kick your fucking ass!” he said as he jumped over the bodies towards Gabriel.
Under his black mask Gabriel smiled. Jones was known for his temper, and Gabriel had counted on him acting just like this. Jones was on him in a moment, throwing a wild, roundhouse punch that Gabriel easily ducked under as he popped past him and shot his elbow hard into Jones' ribs. Then he kicked his foot into the back of the larger man's knee, sending him sprawling onto the floor, just in time for Gabriel to slam his fist into Jones' kidneys.
Jones deserved this and a lot more. Gabriel let him struggle back to his feet and attempt another punch. This time Gabriel grabbed Jones' arm, pulled him over his shoulder and threw him into the nearest wall. When the big man hit, the plaster behind him cracked, and then rained down around him as he crumpled onto the floor. Jones tried to raise his head again, but this time Gabriel slammed his fist into the side of his jaw and knocked him dead cold out.
Gabriel shook his head. He had been expecting better. Jones was a world-class athlete, but Gabriel had taken him down in under a minute. With the amount of training he had put himself through he should have expected nothing less, but you never knew what could happen until it does.
Gabriel walked over to where he had dropped his guns, picked them up, holstered one, and then walked back with the other in his hand, pointed it down at Jones' chest and fired. Then he reached down, grabbed Jones' arm and lifted him up over his shoulder. Jones was nearly a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier but Gabriel carried him easily. It was time to punish Jones for his transgressions. After that it would be time to call an old friend.
Chapter 5
As Bernie Smith woke up, his hands shot to his pounding head. As well as the blinding pain at his temple, his muscles were sore, his bones ached, his stomach was in knots, and on top of everything he had a God-awful taste in his mouth. He tried to open his eyes but they were gummed up – he had to use his fingers to wrench them open. When he did, what he thought was overwhelming pain suddenly became secondary to the horror in front of him.
Blood was everywhere. It was on the fingers of the hands he had just used to pry open his eyes. It was on the stone floor beneath him. It was soaked into the white robe that he wore. For a moment, he thought he was the one who was injured, but a quick, panicked look revealed that he was unhurt. Why was he wearing the white robe? Why was he naked underneath it? Whose blood was he covered in? Where was he? Satisfied for the moment that he was unharmed, he looked around him, which only deepened his growing panic.
“Jesus!” he said.
Stone walls rose up twenty feet over his head, wrapping him in a huge circle. At the top of the room, a sculpture depicted a snake, twisting around to swallow its own tail. In the center of the circle a chain dropped a chandelier made completely of human bones and topped with black candles that had spilt centuries of wax down and over the bones. Thirteen ribs went from the floor to the snake sculpture in the ceiling. Each rib followed a pattern. It went up six feet to an altar of bones that held another black candle. Above the altar were paintings, each one depicting a gruesome scene: a human head being torn off by a wolf, a sword wielding savage standing on a tower of bodies, a devil staring out from a throne with fire in his eyes, and others just as horrible. On top of the paintings was a sculpted spur on top of which sat a series of stone figures, alternating between demons and snarling animals.
But it was between each of the ribs that the walls held their most horrifying treasure. Four feet up from the floor, shelves were carved in the walls, thirteen shelves high, longer on the bottom, shorter next to the sculpted snake. Each shelf was lined with bright, white, human skulls: single skulls on the top, two on the next one down, three below that, and on and on until there were thirteen on the bottom shelf. Each skull was placed on a wooden stand that had a carved name on it.
“Nice of you to rejoin us, Mr. Smith.” A skull-faced figure pulled away from the wall, dressed in a rough brown robe with a wide hood.
“What’s going on?” Bernie stammered.
The figure ignored his question and waved a robe-covered arm around the room. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”
“I... I…”
The skull-face figure walked around the carved stone table in the middle of the room opposite Bernie. “What you see above and around you represents over twenty-one hundred years of history. Seventy-two sets of thirteen members of this group are here on these walls looking down on us, guiding us to our own greater glory, pushing us to the limits of what we can achieve through the power they have bestowed upon us.”
“But…why?” And what did this have to do with him?
The figure moved around the table and walked closer to Bernie.. “Mr. Smith, you made the wrong decision, you got in our way, and now you will become part of us.”
“What?” Bernie asked, baffled.
“
What
is simple.” The figure asked as he came to a towering stop over Bernie. “You do what we ask or face the consequences!”
“Okay?” He just wanted to be out of this nightmare.
The skull-faced figure laughed. “You're agreeing because you think that is what will get you out of here, but beyond these walls we are all around you. We surround you constantly. We see your every move. Right when you think we are gone we will be right there beside you.” The figure dropped a bloody mass on the ground in front of Bernie.
He leapt back away from it even before he saw that it was a human heart with a chunk bitten out of it; when he did he threw up, and kept throwing up until he thought there was nothing left. Then he saw the blood, and the bitten chunk that had come out of his own stomach and he threw up again, until there was only a burning bile flowing out through his mouth and nose and it felt like his eyes were about to pop out of his head.
The figure above him laughed and then spoke again, its voice rising to a scream. “Yes, you did that, as part of your initiation. Now you have to understand what will happen if you don’t do what we ask. We’ll take your children, your wife, your friends and your job, and then when you have nothing left and you’re begging us to kill you we’ll use all we have learned in our twenty-one hundred hears of history to stretch your death out for weeks, for months!"
Bernie had crawled up against the wall and pushed and pushed against it, trying to get away from the horrifying creature. “Please, no, no, no," he screamed. "I’ll do anything! Please…”
“Yes you will, yes you will,” the skull-faced figure said as another robed figure appeared and punched a needle into Bernie’s neck.
END Chapter 5
The Rock Star
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