[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Jqhg9Zb.png[/img][/center] [b]Manhattan[/b] Mal Resnick rolled off the woman with a sigh of contentment. He'd needed to get laid badly, and the whore beside him had been good for that and then some. She was blonde and shapely and had legs that went on forever. The looks were important, but she did more than that; she made Mal feel like her whole world was about Mal and pleasing him. For Mal, that's what you paid hookers for. Not for the sex, or the looks, or even the leaving; but for the attention. Every other broad he screwed in his life wanted something out of him. Money, drugs, stability, etc. And yeah, the hookers wanted money, but there was no illusions and the high-class ones were damn fine actors that was for sure. "You were great," he wheezed to girl as he went for his smokes on the nightstand. "Thanks for meeting me on such short notice." "Don't thank me," the girl said quietly. "Not yet." Mal didn't understand what she meant by that. He turned away from the nightstand and was about to ask her when he saw it. Him. He saw him. Parker, coming through the goddamn fire escape with the raised window sill in one hand, a pistol in the other. ---- [b]Four Hours Earlier[/b] Parker stared at Graves from across the table. The old man calmly added sugar to the steaming cup of coffee in front of him. Parker didn't say a word, his big mitts in between his own hot cup of coffee. "How goes the Mal hunt?" Graves asked, blowing on his coffee before taking a sip. "I think you know," said Parker. "And I still haven't figured out what Mal Resnick has to do with you. You part of the Syndicate?" "Do I look like I'm part of that group?" asked Graves. "And if I was, I could certainly have Mal Resnick taken care of by someone closer to him than you, Parker." "So what's your game?" "What if I told you three things, Parker?" Graves ticked points off with his fingers. "One: Mal Resnick has an attraction to high-end call girls, one of whom is on the way to a rendezvous with him as we speak. That rendezvous is away from the secure building. Bodyguards will be watching the front, but the building has an easily accessible fire escape." "Then why am I still talking to you?" asked Parker. "Two: Mal's double cross of you was intentional, Parker. He was in deep with some Syndicate people and your would-be murder would wipe away his debt and then some." Parker shook his head and looked away from Graves. "Bullshit. Why would anyone in the Syndicate want me dead? It's ridiculous. I've always been an independent operator. Never pulled a job for them." "It's not the Syndicate," said Graves. "It's the people behind them. The Vasco Family." Parker shrugged his wide shoulders. "Never heard of them." "Yes you have," Graves said with a smirk. "They own this city and half the eastern seaboard. They're behind the Syndicate, they're behind the governors of sixteen US states, they're behind GE. Crooks, businessmen, and politicians all in one neat little package. And they're after little ode you, Parker." Parker stood up. He looked down at Graves and shook his head. He started towards the door before Graves grabbed him by the wrist. "Where are you going?" Parker scowled. "Somewhere the hell away from your crazy ass." "It's true, Parker. They want you. Not for anything you've stolen from them as a robber, but what you did to them as a Minuteman." Parker frowned and looked down at the old man. "Minuteman?" "That's the third thing, Parker," said Graves. "Croatoa...." The word seemed to slide from Graves' mouth and it echoed through Parker's skull. It pounded inside his head. He heard drumbeats, he smelled saltwater and heard seagulls. Atlantic City... The Seven Minuteman. Parker's knees buckled and he blacked out. --- [b]Center City, WA[/b] Tracy Lawless sat in his car and watched the comings and goings at the deli. Mixed in with the usual patrons seeking out chopped liver and sandwiches were hard men who went straight to the backroom and would emerge without having bought anything from inside. Belyakov's Delicatessen served as the base of operations for Center City's ROC contingent. Russian Organized Crime moved into town about five years ago and had been spreading its tentacles ever since. They started in LA after the Cold War ended and the Russian Mafyia consolidated power in the former USSR, their idea of American colonization. The gangsters succeeded in American penetration where Marx, Lenin, and the KGB had failed. Like a snake, they slithered up the west coast through the big cities until they arrived in Center City. Hyde watched their movements with a wary eye. For now, ROC paid up like the rest of them but they were growing stronger each day. Time would come that Hyde would have to cut them down. If Tracy's information was good, that time appeared to be now. The names Ricky Fat gave Tracy all matched members of ROC, the number he dialed last night was that of Belyakov's Deli. It appeared to Tracy that ROC committed an unsanctioned kidnapping in Center City. If Tracy knew Hyde like he thought he did, there was only one solution to this problem. But that would come afterward. For now, getting Linda Flynn back safely was priority one. --- "And you're sure about this, Tracy?" "As sure as I can be." Thomas Flynn leaned forward in his chair and spread his arms along the rich wood surface of his desk. Tracy saw the gears in his head turning, he could practically hear what Flynn was thinking. Which is why it was no surprise what he said next. "I don't want to pay the ransom," he said softly. "I love my daughter, I do... but her stupidity and weakness has cost so much. If daddy keeps bailing her out, she'll keep doing it again and again. She needs to pull herself up by her own bootstraps." Tracy's neutral look did not betray the thoughts he had in his head. He used to think Sebastian Hyde was a cold son of a bitch, but now Thomas Flynn was the standard bearer when it came to that regard. Teeg Lawless had been an abusive, hateful man, for sure. But if Tracy or his brother Ricky had been kidnapped, Teeg would have moved heaven and earth to get his boys back. He wouldn't leave his sons to the wolves, and he certainly try to justify it with bullshit conservative rhetoric. "Who runs these Russians?" Flynn asked. "Konstantin Belyakov. He owns the deli where they congregate at and a half dozen other front businesses in the city." "Does he work for... you employer?" "Not exactly," Tracy said with a shrug. "He pays a cut to my boss like everyone else does, but he doesn't work for anyone but himself." "Tracy," Flynn said slowly. "These people will be calling me within the hour with ransom demands. They want five million dollars that I don't want to give to them... but what if we had something they wanted?" --- [b]Manhattan[/b] Mal Resnick, nude and fighting for his life, smacked away the pistol in Parker's hands. That was okay with Parker. He needed to do this by hand. After what Graves told him, that was the only way he could do it. "Parker..." Mal stammered as he tried to take a swing at Parker. Parker blocked the shot and slammed a big fist into Mal's solar plexus. The shot made the chubby little man gasp and fall to his knees. Parker got his big hands around Mal's neck and squeezed. He imagined that Mal was Javier Vasco, Medici, and anyone of the Thirteen bastards who'd done this to him. Not only had they taken his life away from him, but Vasco had made a move against him in this new life and that brought it all back crashing down. Mal Resnick let out a little gurgle as Parker broke his windpipe. He let Mal's twitching body fall to the floor. He looked at the naked woman who eyeballed Parker with a frightened look on her face. "Put on some clothes," was all he said as he picked the gun up off the floor. "And give me the keys to your car." For better or worse, Parker was back. And he was pissed.