Rimanoa

Escape from Manhattan

August 20, 22:31 PM.

When I reached the other shore, the sun had already disappeared behind the city and it was starting to get dark. Not far from where I was docked, there were two blue Ford Mondeo cars (right under the bridge itself; if I told you this story, you wouldn't believe it) with dark windows, so you couldn't see if anyone was inside.

Dripping with muddy East River water and a light sweat thanks to the bag I had to drag behind me the whole way, I waddled over to the nearest car and knocked on the window.

The car door opened. Brosman was behind it.

"Oba-na," I muttered with the last of my strength (the stench of the subway took the lion's share of it). — You again."

"Yes, me. In person."

"Okay. Anyway, I need to get changed, and you wait," I got in the backseat and began to transform into a seasoned assassin. After changing, the wet, smelly, decrepit, bloody waterproof suit slid into the trunk, and my discussion with Pierce continued, "So, what are you doing here?"

"The boss told me to get you out of town and bring you to Palermo. He wants to talk to you."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know, he just asked me to bring you there."

"Who's in the second car?" — The finger of my right hand waved toward the second Ford.

"Yes, that's right. Bros…"

We got into the car (once again, traveling with Brosman, I sat in the back seat — there was still a danger of being seen, but the dark windows helped) and drove toward the airport.

The "lover of cool stuff" did not introduce me to the very brothers who followed us all the way, which meant that either he was ordered not to show me to them, or vice versa. Since the first option has almost no right to exist (those sitting in the car could easily see my face from the distance they were at, unlike myself), let's consider the second one.

Why can't I see them? Perhaps because some of them are familiar to me, and that could somehow interfere with plans. Their plans. Their plans. What were their plans?

Officially, they were supposed to be guarding me and Brosman. What if it was just Brosman? But either way, if I look at them, it won't stop them from guarding whoever they are. So that's not the point.

How about we start all over again? Two cars came to meet me. Why was Brosman, a Category Five man, there? The information that my boss was waiting for me "at home" (in Sicily) could have been given by anyone, since it contained nothing secret. So the main purpose is not to escort me to the airport. Why?

Let's go back even further. According to Brosman, his boss told him that I should work directly with him, arguing that the case was serious and there was no room for error, but what if it were otherwise?

While I was thinking, it was completely dark. And it was that darkness that helped me think it through.

"Look, Pierce, slow down, I gotta take a piss…" — said my thick voice to the driver (there was no one in the car but me and Brosman).

As soon as the car stopped, I slammed my fist into Brosman's head with all the force I had, and it was enough, so he lost consciousness instantly. It is impossible to see this gesture from the second Ford — besides the dark windows in both cars, it was completely dark outside.

I took the MP5K out from under the driver's jacket, hid it under my raincoat, then opened the door, got out, stepped back a bit, and started pissing. It lasted for about forty seconds (I don't know how I accumulated so much, because as soon as I wanted to, I started almost immediately — my wise thoughts in the car during the road ended not only with the conclusion, but also with the need for a natural need).

After finishing the business of emptying my bladder, I neither quickly nor slowly approached the front corner of the second Mondeo and, lightning-fast, I grabbed a submachine gun from my sinus and opened hurricane fire on the windshield. Having fired the entire clip, I leaned over the hood and recognized the dead men: the first one was "Lightning", the second one was unknown to me, sitting behind the steering wheel, who, by the way, got the most, was bleeding more than a slaughtered pig, and the third one, placed in the middle of the back seat — Paolo di Nicola — Cosa Nostra's specialist in counterintelligence (nickname — antiseptic; because of how many traitors (or allegedly so) he found and destroyed; how he works, rests or lives I have never seen or even heard).

This was the physical evidence that I was being "checked for lice" to the organization and, obviously, that I had already been sentenced, because there was a myth that all especially important sentenced traitors to the organization were killed personally by the chief of counterintelligence. Almost no one knew him. Almost. Except for me and a few others. That's why Brosman didn't show me the owners of the second car.

The only one of them I felt a little sorry for was Amoramente. He even managed to get under his jacket and grab what was obviously Jericho, though he didn't have time to do so-just a second before I drew my gun myself.

I put the firearm on the hood, then dragged Brosman to the spot where I was shooting from, lifted him up, pulled out the Groza SMG and put two single bullets in his head. After he fell, he shoved his personal weapon into the dead man's hand and threw his minigun next to him.

Now the story was that Brosman shot the passengers sitting in the second car, and a third person (that is, me) killed him afterward. Such an episode should have given me some more much needed time.