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Athemisia:
@Danieljunior more update please...

Sorry for the delay dear. I had some issues with my system. Next update drops shortly

Athemisia:
Your club did won, waow

The desk Sergeant, Harry Renick, was making movements with a pen in his mouth. Bored, he stared sightlessly; at the screen before him. He was a thickset, middle-aged man, with close-set eyes. A man who had lasted some five years on this desk job, and who promotion seemed to be far from.

His face brightened as he saw Rico.

“Good day, Mr. Jamie,” he said, as Rico came to rest at his desk.

For the man who sends the whole police lot, a turkey, and a bottle of whiskey on Thanksgiving Day, his demeanor switched to the quiet, deferential manner; of an up-and-coming lawyer dealing with a prospective wealthy client.

“So sorry about your driver... Lieutenant James is expecting you. First floor, second door.”

Rico nodded, walked up the stairs to a door, knocked, turned the handle, and walked in.

Lieutenant James Hamilton, a tall, slightly built man of over forty years of age, sat behind a small shabby desk; in a small, shabbier room. Two plainclothes detectives stood in front of the desk.

Lieutenant James stood up as Rico came into the office. The detectives who were with him left the room after a brief nod, directed at Rico. James drew out a chair for Rico to sit in.

“Sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Rico.” His cop voice hushed to show deference. “But, I thought it better we talk here as the press has gotten onto this.”

Rico sat down as James went around and sat in his seat behind the desk.

“A sad business it is, Mr. Jamie... Accept my condolences.”

Rico inclined his head, took out his cigarette case and offered it to James. When the two men had lit cigarettes, Rico said, “How did the press get onto the information so fast?”

“That I don't know... it must have been from an anonymous call.” James shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Is your gun with you, Mr. Jamie?”

Rico smiled inwardly. The uneasy look in the Lieutenant's eyes secretly pleased him. He knew James was a shrewd, clever police officer who wanted to do his job, but he couldn't, for fear that he might withdraw his support from his two kids at private universities. Such was the enormous overheads; required to run his business smoothly, but then it paid dividends.

“Why would you need my gun, Lieutenant?” He paused, then went on. “Well, I just discovered the gun missing after your call. Is it going to be a problem?”

James shrugged.

“I've talked with the Dr. He says Pascal was shot around two o'clock this morning. He was shot from the door. We didn't find the gun, but the cartridge shell we found lying in your office, shows; a bullet from your gun killed him. I don't think you've got anything to do with this, but I believe any information from you would veer us toward solving this murder.”

Rico nodded, his eyes thoughtful.

“Pascal isn't important. So why the eagerness to solve his murder quickly? Or is anyone breathing down your neck to do so?”

James sat back and inhaled a lungful of tobacco smoke.

“Pascal might be unimportant, but you are, Mr. Jamie. From now on, every TV news would devote considerable time to Pascal's murder. It is your name that would be in the headlines of the local newspapers. He wouldn't be known to them as Pascal, but as Mr. Jamie Rico's driver. It would mean unpleasant business for you. If the press gets onto the information that your gun killed him, the stink could be much worse. So, me wanting to solve this murder quickly, is because I want to repay part of the debt I owe you.”

Rico stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the desk.

“Let them kick up as much stink as they want to. It would all die down after a week. I'm no politician. Their stink does not affect me. I do not want this case solved, but make no mistake about it. I want his murderer found, but not the case solved. Do you get that?”

James hesitated, then assented.

“Just as you say, Mr. Jamie... It wouldn't be the first murder case in this city that will remain unsolved.”

“Yes, it won't be the first, nor would it be the last. And when you find this killer, call me. I love to handle my business myself.” Rico paused, then went on. “Now, what information do you want from me?”

Pulling a scratch pad towards himself and picking up a pen, James asked,

“When did you discover your gun was missing?”

“Just this morning, after your call. I've searched for it, but can't find it.”

“When would you say you saw the gun last?”

“Last night before going to bed.”

“And what time was that?”

“Few minutes past one o'clock.”

James scribbled something down on his pad, then looked up.

“That would mean that whoever that had killed Pascal had been into your apartment and had taken your gun a few minutes after you fell asleep. For Pascal was shot around two o'clock. The killer must have been watching your apartment for some time. Did you hear any suspicious noises throughout the night? What about a tail? Have you noticed anyone on you recently?”

“I was asleep throughout the night. You might not know, but I'm a deep sleeper. Pascal's a professional. If there had been a tail, he would have spotted it.”

“Does Pascal have any personal beef, you know about?”

“What do you mean?” Rico replied.

“Pascal isn't someone special. He drove to your agency with his killer seated behind him in your car. He was shot in your office, with your gun. To solve a murder case, you need a strong motive. Now, this killer had been in your apartment and had you at his mercy, yet he hadn't touched you. I want to clear out the angle that this killing has nothing to do with you, but Pascal.”

Rico nodded.

“It might be a personal thing Pascal had, but nothing that I know of. You might also look at the angle that this killer wants to make a little trouble for me. The word hasn't gotten out, but let's keep this between us. I'm getting out of the game. Think of it as a motive.” Rico stood up. “If that would be all, I would take my leave now.”

Lieutenant James stood up, and both men shook hands.

As Rico reached the door, he turned back.

“How are the kids, James? Remember that's where true wealth lies.”

James smiled; a smile that could be seen only on the face of fathers; who were truly proud of their children.

“They're doing all right, Mr. Jamie. Thanks to you.”

“I want you to know, though I may go out of business, I would remain solidly behind them and if you get me that killer in three days, I will add a hundred thousand dollars to your account.”

This chapter is dedicated to Arsenal's victory

Chapter Sixteen

Natasha sat tensely on one armchair in the sitting room. She had only taken off her coat. Her hand rested on the gun on her lap, while her mind busied itself. A sudden noise from the front door brought her alert. Her fingers closed over the butt of the gun and as she stood up, the door lock clicked.

Moving quickly, she tiptoed across the room and peered into the foyer. Seeing Rico, she relaxed and brought down the gun.

As Rico edged into the foyer, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He took out the phone, sighed as he saw the name of the caller. It was Lieutenant James Hamilton of the Homicide Bureau. He answered the call.

A hard, metallic voice attempting to be respectful came up.

“Mr. Rico?”

“Yes. This is me.”

“Could you please pay us a visit at the headquarters?” There was a moment's pause. Rico felt he could hear the uneasy breathing of the man at the other end of the line. Then, the voice added, “When coming, could you please come with your gun. A .38 automatic, number 5534 with pistol permit number 66220.”

“All right, Lieutenant. I'll be there shortly.” He hung up and dropped the phone back into his pocket.

“Who was that?” Natasha asked as he moved into the sitting room.

“Lieutenant James, City Police. He wants me to visit them at the headquarters and to bring my gun along when coming.” His eyes shifted to the gun in Natasha's hand, and the line of his mouth twisted into a sour smile. “That gun ain't safe anymore, dear. It was the weapon that killed Pascal.”

He saw Natasha stiffen.

“You would have to get rid of it, while I go see the cops. Anywhere, but far from this place. It doesn't matter if it's later discovered, but it mustn't be found on you.”

He walked over to an oil painting of a nude girl, standing on a cliff, looking down at the sea, and swung the painting on its hinges aside. Behind it was a luxury wall safe. He keyed in his password and got the safe open. The top shelf was stacked full of wads of hundred-dollar bills. On the lower shelf was a pistol.

He took out the gun and carefully drew out a wad of hard cash. He closed the safe, turned around to face Natasha, who was standing behind him.

“I'm going to see Lieutenant James now. I've broken the news to Pascal’s girlfriend. She's broken, but she's a strong woman. She would recover in no time. I want you to get rid of that gun, then go and comfort her. She's still at Pascal's apartment.”

He extended the money to Natasha.

“Give this to her.” He paused as Natasha took the cash from him, then went on. “With the level of love she had for Pascal, I doubt if money could be quarter a compensation for her loss. But, give it to her anyway. That is the best I can do for her.”

Natasha flicked through the roll.

“The gun?”

“This's your present. Compensation for losing the other one.” He turned the gun in his hand and extended the butt to Natasha. “Keep it close to you, but it isn't registered and shouldn't also be found on you.”

He put his hand on her hips and kissed her cheeks.

“Clean the gun off prints and get rid of it fast, baby. Then, go to Rose. She shouldn't be left alone for long.”

With this, he walked out of the penthouse apartment and into the elevator.

…

The time was 12:25 when the Lincoln came out of the underground garage. Gorevoy started his engine. A moment later, a break came in the traffic and the Lincoln edged into the road. As it drew away from the condo, Gorevoy eased his car out of the curb and went after it.

As he went past the condo, he peered in. He glimpsed Natasha coming out of the building. Instinctively, he trod down hard on his brakes and swung the car off the fast lane. Just by the margin of a coat of paint did he escape a collision with the bus behind him; as the compact car veered into the slow lane.

The driver of the bus slowed down and poked his finger out of the window in a curse sign to Gorevoy, who smiled mirthlessly.

He swung his car to the curb and continued to watch Natasha through the driver’s mirror. She was carrying a paper parcel. She looked up and down the street. A moment later, a taxi drew up at her signal and she got in.

As the cab sped past him, he edged out of the curb and into the stream of traffic, about a hundred yards behind.

After about ten minutes of fast driving, the cab slowed down and pulled up beside a narrow alley.

Gorevoy sped on and pulled up a hundred yards ahead. He watched Natasha step out of the cab. She waited for it to drive away, then glanced to her right and left and went briskly down the alley.

Gorevoy quickly slid out of his car and trotted to the alley. But before he could reach the alley, Natasha was out. The parcel was no longer in her hand.

Sharply, he turned and began staring admiringly into the lighted windows of an electronic gadget shop. It was too quickly done; he thought. But Natasha was not a professional. She took no notice, hailed down a taxi, got in and it drove away.

Gorevoy turned and walked into the narrow alley. He glanced to the right and left, then up at the building. Satisfied no one was watching him, he walked down to the garbage can a few yards from the mouth of the alley.

He peered into the can, lifted a trash bag. Under it was the paper parcel. He picked it up. His hand felt through the thin paper; the outline of the gun.

Dropping the parcel into his pocket, the corners of his mouth twisted into a crooked smile.

Ofez:
Come Arsenal win oh

no chill oo . So una dey follow.

Athemisia:
Like say Spurs no dey pray too...

;DAnyhow we'll see as it goes today

Elvictor:


See Iphone 50 pro max

No reason am oo

I am a football lover and Arsenal fan. If Arsenal wins Spurs I'll drop two more episodes today. So guys pray for Arsenal oo

Good morning everyone following

Chapter fifteen

Rico rapped on the door to Pascal's apartment, then thumbed the bull push. He listened to the distant sound of the bell. There was a brief delay, then he heard the thud of naked feet approach.

“Who is it?” A woman's voice came from the flat.

“Jamie,” Rico returned.

He heard the door chain slid back, then the door opened. Rose Alison appeared in the doorway. She smiled at him, but he could see it wasn't an easy smile. Then she stepped aside and motioned him into the room.

“Come in,” she said.

She was dark, with brunette wavy hair. Her body was pleasantly thick with provocative curves, her dark eyes, which were usually alive with energy, showed she was nervous.

She usually visited Pascal twice a week and stayed over on weekends, but today was a weekday and her day off. So, she had come prepared, with her plans; a long list of unspeakable things to do to Pascal.

Rico could see the outline of her heavy breast with its hard nipple pointing straight at him from under the skimpy material of her night garment, but his mind was too busy to notice. He walked into the room.

“Let's sit down for a moment.”

Rose closed the door, slid back the door chain, crossed the room, and sat on the sofa away from where Rico sat. Crossing one leg over the other, she raised the neckline of her nightdress, but it was a futile effort as it fell back in place, exposing the top of her breast. She left it at that. Her eyes regarded Rico, holding an inquiring look. She hesitated, but after a moment of silence, she asked, “Where is Pascal?”

“It is because of Pascal that I've come,” he said quietly.

He took out his gold cigarette case and a gold lighter from his inner coat pocket. He stood up, crossed the room to where Rose sat, offered one to her. She unwillingly took it and he lit it. He sat down beside her, took out a cigarette for himself, lit it, and then returned the case and lighter back to his pocket.

“Is he in trouble?” Rose asked.

“No, it's worse than trouble.” He purposely took a long drag on his cigarette to let his statement sink into her head.

Breaking the news of death wasn't so much of a path he hadn't walked on. Back then, when he was a little farm boy, he had been the one to check up on the farm animals every morning, and not so often he had found an animal or more dead, and he had had to break the news to his soft-hearted father. But, then it was the death of an animal, now it was breaking the news of the death of his own man to his fiancé.

“Has he met with an accident? Is he hurt?” She looked up inquiringly at him. She had taken no drag on her cigarette, and it continued to smolder between her two long fingers. Her eyes met Rico's, and she stiffened. “He's not dead… is he?”

“Yes, he's dead.” Rico put his hand around her and rubbed her shoulder. “I wish I could say he isn't, but he is.”

She swallowed hard as the cigarette dropped from her hand.

“Dead?” she asked finally, as a tear broke from her eyes.

Rico nodded, drew her close, placed her head on his chest, his hand rubbed her shoulder soothingly as she cried on.

After what seemed to him like half an hour, she raised her head, sniffed, wiped her nose with her palm, and stood up. She plodded to the liquor cabinet, poured herself two full tumblers of whiskey, and gulped it down.

It was good, strong whiskey, and immediately it had its effect on her. She turned to look at Rico. The beautiful features of her face seemed to have fallen apart, and when she spoke her voice sounded a little brittle, but a sudden hardness had appeared in her eyes.

“How did he die?”

“That, I don't know myself, but I've seen him. My manager found his body, sitting behind the desk in my office with a hole in the head.” Rico paused, trying to decide if he should go on or not. He decided to. “I've made inquiries about the gun which shot him and I discovered he was shot with my gun.”

Rose dropped the glass cup on the hardwood of the cabinet with a loud click. She poured herself another glass of whiskey and gulped it down.

“Just a few more days to our wedding,” she sobbed.

“Rose, you know I loved Pascal. I liked the idea of you two getting married. I couldn’t have hurt him. This's some kind of frame-up.”

She stared at him with eyes lost in thoughts, then she nodded slightly; a nod which told him she wasn’t completely bought, but he could proceed further with his case.

“I know you'll never do that. I know you took him as a friend, but you should know who had killed him. For it was you who had called him out last night. For if you hadn't called him out, he might still be alive at this moment.”

Rico drew in a deep breath. He didn't like where the conversation was going. These were dangerous waters, he told himself, and he had to paddle artfully through it.

“Rose, would you believe me if I tell you I've no memory of whatever had happened last night? I don’t even remember calling Pascal last night. But, I don't deny it.” He added quickly as she opened her mouth to say something. “The call record is there on my phone. It had lasted for fifteen seconds. I believe someone drugged me.”

“It was you, Jamie. You had called him when we were... well, never mind. But, I heard your voice. I heard everything you said. You told him, to get up here quick. So, how can you say you suddenly have no memory of it?”

The distrusting look in her eyes disturbed Rico and he laid one of his several aces on the table.

“Did Pascal ever give you a hint that he was wrapped up in some dangerous business?”

She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded.

“He mentioned it and said no more about it, but what he never mentioned was getting himself shot today.”

Rico inclined his head. With this discovery, he felt it would be easier to bend her to do his will.

“Pascal was a good man, my closest ally, but the game he was hooked up in came with too many oppositions. Many people desired him dead. Whoever put that slug in him, isn't only a coward who can't man up to his actions, but a fool; to try to frame me.”

He stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray on the table and stood up. He crossed over to where Rose stood, placed his hand on the side of her face, and with his thumb, he wiped the tears off her left cheek.

“I swear to you, Rose,” he said, meaning every word. “Whoever had squeezed that trigger will reap a harvest that is more than he bargained for. But, I need a favor from you, Rose. When the police come asking questions. I want you to say nothing about last night's call. If they're smart enough, they will check, but before then, I would have had the memories of last night's events.”

“What then am I to tell them?” She asked, her voice hard, her eyes looking straight at him.

His hand caressed her face.

“This is what I want you to tell them. Pascal woke you up around, well, you didn't check the time, but you guessed it was around midnight. He told you he was going out to see a friend. You weren't surprised because he usually goes out by this time. You’ve been waiting for him to return not until I came and broke the news of his death to you.”

He paused as he looked into her eyes. Her eyes looked back straight into his, asking him; why should I lie to them? Why not tell them the truth?

“Telling them the truth wouldn't bring back Pascal, nor would it do any good for me as I have no memory of last night's events, but make no mistake about this, I would find his killer.” He paused, then went on. “Would you do me this favor?”

His eyes were hopeful, and when she nodded, he gave her a thin smile of appreciation.

“I'll run along now, Rose. There are a lot of things to put in place, but I would be back. I'll send Natasha to you.”

He made to leave, but Rose held him back. He turned to her.

“I want a return favor from you, Jamie. When you find the son of a bitch, promise me, I'd be the one to pull the trigger.”

Rico hesitated. He hated making promises. They were a chain a person ties around his neck, not knowing if he could ever free himself from their grip. He looked into her eyes. They told him that there was no other way out of this.

“I promise,” he said finally.

Rose released his hand. He crossed to the door, unhooked the chain, and as he turned the handle, he glanced back.

“How're you better off for money, Rose?”

“I've got a job,” she returned coldly, not taking her eyes off the whiskey she was pouring into her cup.

“Don't worry about it. I would give Natasha something to give to you.”

He opened the door, hesitated to leave, wondering if he should caution her to go slowly on the bottle, then shook his head. It would be hopeless anyway, he told himself and moved into the corridor. He closed the door behind him and edged to the elevator.

Elvictor:
I love the way he carried out the explanation, are you in America author?

Kind of give a good picture of their streets.

For where. I am a 9ja brought-up
Here is a link to my Facebook page for those who will like to connect www.facebook.com/danieIJr/

“Whose?”
“Yours.”
Rico stiffened for a moment. He remained motionless as his mind worked swiftly, then he smiled; a smile that could almost pass for a grimace.
“The killer should be smart enough to know that I have half this city's police force in my pocket. They wouldn’t touch me for a clumsy frame-up like this.” He crossed to where Cain stood. He took the case from him, examined it, and rolled it between his fingers, his mind working.
“What do you suggest we do with the body, Mr. Rico? Mario's still in our debt. This is just right up his alley. He could clean this up, while we later hunt down Pascal's killer.”
“What if that is exactly what the killer wants us to do? For me, I see a man who wants to get rid of another man but doesn't want to be landed with a body. So what does he do? He pushes his dirty work to me.” He paused, then asked abruptly, “What about yesterday's shipment?”
“We have moved it to the warehouse.”
“Have we got any more weight in the house?”
“The building's as clean as an infant's first tooth.”
“And we expect no visit from the police?” Rico asked after a moment's pause.
“If it's going to come, patrol officer, Abe Randy would tip us off.” Cain paused, then went on. “This would be easy to clean up. Pascal's a kid dropped from the sky. No parents, no relations. No one would miss him.”
If only, Rico thought.
“He's got a girl; a press woman. Pascal promised her marriage before the end of the year. She'd raise a hell of a stink if he suddenly disappears.”
Cain's irritation clearly showed on his face. He had no consideration for women. A man's life was made complicated by them.
“I could arrange it, so she meets with an accident,” he returned ruthlessly.
“No,” Rico said firmly, shaking his head. His mind worked swiftly. “That would be swimming up to the hook the killer has dropped for us.” After much consideration, he said, “We'll bring the police into it. They should expend themselves trying to solve this murder.”
Cain's lips pressed tightly together.
“That would mean unpleasant business,” he said pitifully. “We haven't had police trouble since Gorevoy's incident.”
“Well, now we'll have, and we'll have to manage through it,” Rico said with raised shoulders. “Give me half an hour to talk to Pascal's fiancé; before you make the call.”
He made for the door, and as he reached the door. Cain asked the question that was nudging him.
“Is your gun missing, Rico?”
“With this.” Rico jerked his chin toward the dead body. “It must be missing.”
Cain shrugged. He wasn’t expecting a direct answer. Rico wasn't the one to lay his cards on the table.
“How would the press love this?”
“They certainly would,” Rico said, turned, walked out of the office and to his car.
…
Rico had only met Pascal's fiancé once. That was about two months ago at a double date dinner party, which Pascal had eagerly arranged to introduce him to his girl and to ask for his blessing. She was an ardent football follower and was a fan of Miami FC, same as him, and naturally, the two of them had hit it off. They had talked about ball games, local politics, international politics. There was no subject he brought up that she didn't have something to say about.
Remembering the way she and Pascal had sat, holding hands throughout the evening, he did not doubt that great love existed between the two but wondered if she knew Pascal's true racket.
…
It had been a frustrating half-hour wait for Gorevoy with no further development. So, when he saw the Lincoln turn into the avenue and down into the underground garage, he felt relieved.
He slid out of his car, hurried down the avenue to a drugstore. He pushed open the door. There was no one in the store except an elderly man in a white coat, reading a newspaper behind a soda fountain. He glanced up to give Gorevoy a nod of greeting, then went on reading.
Gorevoy crossed over to a row of pay booths, shut himself in one booth, and rang the Miami Herald.
The soft voice of a lady came on the line.
“Take my tip,” He whispered, his lips close to the mouthpiece. “There's been a murder in Rico Truck Agency.”
He replaced the receiver immediately, giving the girl no opportunity to reply.
He came out of the drugstore, walked up the avenue to the condo, and cautiously down the ramp of the underground garage. He searched the garage, sighted the Lincoln, and then returned to his car.
He lit a cigarette, settled himself, and waited.

ashatoda:
Seriously this is getting so interesting. I am always refreshing for updates. Thanks for the dedication and more please.

You're welcome. Next update drops in 9hrs

dawno2008:
It's getting more interesting,nice update

Thanks

Elvictor:
The pace of the story is in sync with my soul, your choice of words is excellent.

I salute your literal prowess.

Thanks for the complement

Another chapter dedicated to you @ashatoda you started the comments

Gorevoy watched the Lincoln through the windshield, as it swung into the street, and came to a stop in front of the condominium. Rico and his wife got out, then he took out the traveling bag from the back seat of the car. They paused at the entrance to the building for Rico to answer a call. After the call, he saw Rico draw his wife close to him, whisper something in her ear, then in one swift movement that wasn't lost to his trained and alert eyes, Rico transferred something from the pocket of his overcoat to hers. A gun!
He smiled his crooked smile. He guessed Pascal's body had been discovered, and now; Rico was giving his wife the weapon of Pascal’s death to get rid of. So, when Rico got back into his car and drove off, Gorevoy remained still to see what she would do.
…
A five-minute fast drive through the back street and alleys of downtown Miami brought Rico to the agency. He parked his car in one of the bays in the big compound and got out.
A short, thickset man, with restless gray eyes; walked up to him. He was the one responsible for the phone call Rico had received earlier. A serious, ruthless, and ambitious man, he was. A man who couldn’t be satisfied by any position for long. In a little short time of three years, after he had joined the drug game, with deadly, ruthless efficiency, he rose with speed, up the ranks from a mere operator; to the second in command in Rico's drug organization. Rico had enormous respect for this man. He had his uses, but he was wary of him. He wasn't the man you'd have behind you and not fear a stab in the back. That he was five years older than him didn't help matters. His name was Alfred Cain.
In silence, both men strode to where a group of truck drivers; in actuality, Rico's drug organization operators stood before an open door with a morbid interest in their dull-witted eyes.
“Disperse!” Cain snapped. He waited until the entire crowd got out of his sight, then his fat hand slid into the pocket of his coat and brought out a pair of silk gloves. With his gloved hand, he passed it to Rico.
Rico collected the gloves and wore them. He could perceive the smell of death coming to him from the open door, and he wrinkled up his nose in distaste. He was no stranger to it. It was just an intrinsic part of this business to which he had committed himself.
Moving as if wading through water, Rico entered the office. He paused at the sight of Pascal, slumped on the executive chair behind the desk, his head thrown back over the headrest of the chair.
His face was an ugly mask; a mixed expression of fright and surprise. Blood from the wound in the middle of his forehead made a dry red trail on the side of his face and a puddle of dark blood on the cream-colored ceramic tiles.
The muscles in Rico's face tightened at the sight of the massively built young man who had saved his life twice. He thought of the journey of the young man and how far he had come, and his eyes moistened.
He hid his face from Cain as he walked to the dead man. He touched the side of his face. The body felt revoltingly cold and immediately he shifted his hand. He wiped off with the back of his palm the tear that was threatening to fall. Well, we’ve filled our tables with the gun and if we die by it, we shouldn't feel sorry.
“He's been dead a long time,” Rico said quietly.
“A quick and expert job, done by a professional… too quick, that he hadn't the time to defend himself. From the shocked expression on his face, I’ll say, he didn’t expect to be shot.”
“Where was Jason when it happened?”
“Pascal and his killer had come in your car, a few minutes after two,” Cain returned. “Jason said, Pascal had been the one behind the wheels, and when he had opened the gate, Pascal had paused by him and told him to leave the gate open; the boss would be out, shortly. He just wants to pick up some papers and that was all.”
“So, he didn't see the killer?”
“He couldn't have,” Cain returned patiently. “The rear windows of the Lincoln are tinted. The killer had driven out with speed and with both headlights off.”
“Did he say what he made of the frame of the person who drove the Lincoln?”
“A man, he says. But, wouldn't swear to it. The Lincoln had driven out of the gate in haste, and he could be wrong.”
Rico said nothing but stood thinking, and Cain went on.
“It's a sad business, Mr. Rico, when you look at it. Pascal couldn't have driven a man who he knew was going to kill him to the agency; without taking his chances with him on the way. I've checked his body, there's no evidence of a struggle. Which means he knew his killer and had willingly driven him. Looking at his face, the surprise on it is clear. He wasn't expecting to be shot.”
“Except, if he had believed the lie that his killer had been after some files only, then he would have willingly driven him if nudged by a gun and in a helpless position. It was better than taking a false chance. The surprise on his face is too great to go with your theory. I guess his killer had worn a mask and had taken it off before he shot him. It is my guess, his killer was someone who surprised him. Have you checked our files? Is any of it missing?” Rico said.
“The safe hasn't been tampered with, which surprised me. The mission had been to get rid of Pascal. But, why not slug him in his house? Why take the risk of bringing him here and dropping him?” Cain took from his coat's pocket a small object, raised it, and rolled it in his fingers. It was a cartridge case.
“You'll understand why I said, this's a sad business. It was all staged for a frame-up. I hadn't expected this to be registered when I placed a call across to Lieutenant James.” Cain's small, restless eyes regarded Rico intently. “Guess whose gun it was?”

Happy weekend guys
Dedicated to Elvictor

As Rico settled himself in the driver’s seat, Natasha asked, “Why are you the one driving today? What about Pascal?”
“Developing feelings for him?” Rico said as he thumbed in the start button. “Well, a loving husband has taken his responsibility, today. Anything wrong with that?”
“No... I'm just wondering how loving this husband is.” Natasha replied as they drove out of the airport.
Halfway down the road, Rico glanced at her. She hadn't spoken since they left the airport. She appeared to be staring, lost in thought, through the windshield. The lines of exhaustion on her forehead and the dark rings under her eyes made it clear to him she lacked sleep and had a lot of thoughts running through her mind.
But what could it be? Certainly not the loss of the old woman, for he knew no mother and daughter relationship existed between the two. She hadn't even bothered to tell him a thing about her. The only time he had asked, she had told him in a bored, flat voice. “She isn't an interesting subject to talk about.” Pleased, he had left it at that. No family, no problems.
“Natasha, you seem unreasonably quiet. What do you have running through your mind?” Instinctively, he added, “Sorry about your mother.”
Natasha turned to him. He had that downward stern tilt to his lips that gave him character. The smell of his readiness to confront any of her problems was pervading. Her sensual lips creased into a thin smile. It was a comforting and pleasing thought to know that she had a strong wall of defense, something to fall back on.
She thought of telling him about her mother's letter, knowing how he would take it in his stride to find her father, but she decided against it. This was something she had to handle herself. She wanted to be the first to know who her father was.
“It's nothing,” she lied glibly. “Just the ironic death effect. We take them for granted, never appreciate them, not until they're dead. Then, we remember the significant role they played in our lives.” She paused as she looked down at her hands. “I feel guilty. For the past three years, she was suffering from breast cancer, and I, her only child and daughter, knew nothing about it. I ask myself, what if she had told me would I have cared?”
Rico put his hand on hers and squeezed it. “Don't beat yourself over it, dear. If she didn't tell you, she never wanted you to know.”
Natasha faced him. Her eye, suddenly serious and probing.
“You don't look your usual self, too. What is it? Is it trouble? Where's Pascal?”
Rico peeked at her. The eyes he saw bore through him. Well, he shrugged. She knew what his business was, so she might as well know.
“I don't know where Pascal is myself.” He took his hand from hers and dropped it on the steering wheel. “I woke up this morning with a terrible headache. It was like my head was threatening to tear apart. I tried to remember what went wrong last night, but only two images kept replaying in my mind. I saw myself drawing the curtains open. The second image was of me holding a bottle of whiskey.”
He glanced at her.
“I felt like someone had drugged me. I prepared coffee, and after a cup, I felt better and could think straight. The curtains in my bedroom were drawn, which didn't surprise me as it confirmed to me those images; replaying in my head, happened. The whiskey bottle stood empty on the wet bar; another affirmation. I tried hard to remember something else that happened last night, but couldn’t. Well, I shrugged, took a shower, got dressed. And as I made to call Pascal, I saw his name first on my call record list. I checked it. I had started the call about some seven hours ago; that was around two in the morning. The call had lasted fifteen seconds.”
He focused on the road, stepped on the gas pedal, slid in front of the truck before him, and then went on.
“I dialed his number. After the third ring, a girl picked up. I recognized her voice. She was Pascal's fiancé. I asked her where Pascal was. She said he hadn’t returned since I called for him.”
“If I hadn't seen my call records earlier, I would have thought her crazy, but I had. I ended the call with an okay, sat for a moment to think, then I reached for my gun, checked how many slugs were left in it. I saw two. Surprising, I was sure I had left three. I smelled the nozzle. Someone had fired it recently. My sudden amnesia troubled me and I thought of its cause. I rushed to the hidden recess in the closet. One of the X vials was missing. The last shelf was emptied of cash.”
He slowed down as he turned into the street leading to the condo, then turned to look at Natasha.
“I have no illusions. Pascal would be found dead. But, what I can't wrap my head around is, why am I still breathing? This intruder had had me at his mercy, yet he did not touch me. I can't understand what his game is. It made me realize how easily they could have gotten to me and how far easier it would be for them to get to you. So, I’m taking no chances with you. My instincts tell me danger is near... I've many oppositions, and if they have taken Pascal, they might aim for you, knowing how much you mean to me.”
Natasha remained expressionless. She didn't look scared, and her hardness filled him with strength.
“If your instincts tell you danger is near, then it certainly is,” she returned quietly. “It just depends on how much we have prepared for it.”
“We've brought enough oil. The bridegroom ain't taking us by surprise,” he said as he pulled up outside the condo.
They both got out of the car, not noticing the 1990 Toyota Corolla model, parked about a hundred yards from the building with its driver watching the Lincoln, an intent expression on his face. As they entered the building, Rico's phone vibrated in his pocket.
They stopped in the doorway as he took out his phone, stared at it for a moment, and then placed it in his ear. He listened to the agitated voice. Watching him curiously, Natasha saw his face darkened, and she guessed whoever had called had brought the chicken home to roost.
Rico said, “Don't touch him. I'll be there in a few minutes.”
He hung up to meet Natasha's inquiring gaze.
“Trouble,” he said, with a sour smile. He hugged her and whispered in her ear. “Pascal has just been found dead in my office with a hole in his forehead.”
Still cuddled up against her, his hand slid into the pocket of his overcoat, drew out his gun in a swift movement, and slid it into Natasha's coat pocket.
“Take care of yourself for me, Natasha.”
With a kiss on her cheek, he handed her; her traveling bag and strode to the Lincoln. As he edged the car out of the curb, he took one last glance at her. She still stood at the doorway, her eyes didn't show any sign of fear, but were imploring him to be careful.
A Russian migrant, he thought. He was damn sure she hadn't handled a gun before, but the calmness with which she accepted all this filled him with a rush of love for her. Damn it! She's got a core as hard as a diamond, and I'm the one lucky son of a bitch who has broken through it!

Elvictor:
I like the story

Thanks

It was his luck that as the traffic lights stopped him at an intersection leading onto Rico's apartment; he saw the Lincoln shoot out from a corner with the stream of traffic traveling down the avenue.
He recognized it as Rico's, and immediately; he stamped on his brakes, engaged gear, maneuvered the compact car into the moving line of traffic, turning into the avenue, and went after the Lincoln.
He parked the car in one of the empty bays in the enormous courtyard of the Miami International Airport, a good hundred yards from the Lincoln. He saw Rico get out of the car but remained in his.
It wasn't long before he saw Rico returning to the car, a traveling bag in his hand, a woman by his side; a woman which he guessed would be his wife.
He regarded the woman with professional interest. A beauty, he thought, and with a body as sensationally built as hers, he was well damn sure that one look of invitation from those whorish eyes would send fresh blood running down the loins of many men, but not him. Long ago, made aware of the nature of women, he had had nothing but disdain for their kind. But along the line, his heart was stolen. It had been a hard task for him to come to terms with, but when he finally accepted the facts, he allowed himself the luxury of surrendering to one woman, and only to her charms was he a prisoner.
He reversed out of the bay and drove out of the airport before the Lincoln.
…
“Oh! Jamie, darling. Who would have thought you'd make out time from your tight schedule to come to pick your wife at the airport.” Natasha flickered her eyelashes sensually at Rico as she got into the car.
Holding the door open, Rico said, “There are times I wonder if you know how much you mean to me.”
Natasha smiled thinly, arranged her legs as he closed the door. Truly, she'd wonder if their marriage was founded on the core values or the excitement that they afforded each other. She hadn't been a girl who believed in love. Love was just a high school girl’s fantasy, she had thought. But, funnily enough, she knew deep down she loved him.
A year ago, she had been a hostess at the Gigi Club; a middle-class people's club in downtown Miami. One evening, Rico had wandered in. It was his first time in the club. Her table had been empty. He wandered to her, asked to share her table. She regarded the thirty-eight years old, handsome man, dressed in a plain T-shirt, black pants, and loafer, with her sensual smile, and she had asked, “why not?” They had got talking. She found him an exciting change from her usual brash, tough-looking characters, wealthy clients who couldn't hide their impatience to get to the final issue. He was gentle, his eyes humble, his smile the kind smile of a politician. As the evening became old, he had asked her to dance with him. They left the restaurant for the dance floor, and as they danced along, she noticed a bewildering adoration in his eyes when their eyes met. No one had ever looked upon her that way, and for a moment, it threw her off balance. She was emotional, but not for long. She knew the rules of the game.
Later, she learned from the bartender that he had money, a penthouse, and ran a Lincoln. So when the club had shut down, with eagerness, she invited him back to her room. She speculated a gentle lover, and prepared herself to give him the thrill of his life, but was thrown off guard when he took control of her, became fierce and possessive with her. It had ended in a convulsive and explosive fusion; the best love-making act she had ever had. And in her attempt at throwing her hooks into him, she found to her dismay that she was hooked herself.
From then on, Rico was continually at the club every night, spending more money on her, and, of course, more time in her bed.
Before long, Chanel, Celine, and the rest of the lush stores, wherein women with more money to know what to do with, insisted on shopping in, became her choice of stores; for clothes shopping. At first, this had intrigued her, but then it scared her, for she feared when it would all be over, and she would return to her normal, dreary life.
One night, after dancing in the club, Rico had invited her to his penthouse apartment. After their series of fierce and explosive lovemaking, he proposed.
Stunned and exhausted, she laid on the king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling, scarcely believing her ears.
“Look, Natasha, we're perfect for each other. Why don't we get married?” He repeated, his hand squeezing her hand, his face turned to her.
She turned to look at him. There was that look in his eyes. She could bet her life it was love. She knew she fascinated men, but wasn't too sure if she inspired love.
At that moment, the thick, strong thread of hardness and resistance, which had formed in her; for over her past twenty-two years of life, snapped. Tears trickled down from her eyes to the bed.
“Yes.” She struggled to moisten her dry lips. “Yes, we can get married.”
“Next Week?”
A nod was what she could afford, and she nodded.
He reached out and grabbed her. Her exhaustion was suddenly gone with the winds, and fresh energy took hold of her, her hands slid down the thick muscles of his back. She gave a loud cry. Her fingers dug into his naked back as she felt him move into her.

dawno2008:
Nice update, I can imagine the look on jack's face when he discovers the money

haha!

Gorevoy's face darkened.
“He would know all right.”
Jerry brought the coffee over, handed one to Gorevoy, and with the second cup, he sat down. He stared at Gorevoy for some time, hesitating. He hadn't missed the tightness in Gorevoy's voice.
“Gorevoy, sometimes I wonder if Jamie wasn't behind the whole set-up. It was too glib that only you got implicated, and who gained most from it? Jamie!”
Gorevoy said nothing, but Jerry who was watching him saw the muscles of his face twitch. He took a sip from his cup.
“Things aren't the same way they used to be before you went in, Gorevoy... a lot has changed.”
The corners of Gorevoy's mouth twisted into a sour smile. Looking at the old man was enough confirmation that a lot indeed had changed.
Ten years ago, he had met Jerry at a cocktail party hosted by a man up the food chain in the drug business. The two had got talking. Jerry had taken a liking to him. After the party, they had met up several times. Jerry knew his racket and had confided in him.
“I'm an artist,” he had said. “Passport, certificate… whatever it is, I can handle it. We never know when we'll need these things.”
Jack Jerry wasn't so much of an ambitious man and he had been content to work shifts as an elevator attendant at one of the big hotels, and he owned this apartment. He was a man who was satisfied with himself, whose standards weren't high, who was beyond caring about the vanities of this world, but he had been a man of extreme handsomeness. Looking at him now, Gorevoy saw that age had taken away whatever claim he had to that title.
“A lot has changed, Gorevoy,” Jerry continued. “Jamie isn't the same man he was ten years ago. He's added a lot of weight, money, and power.” He paused as he drank from his cup. “Whatever you're planning, take this advice from an old man, be careful.”
There was a long pause, then Jerry dropped his empty cup on the table. Leaning forwards, he asked, “What can I do for you, Gorevoy?”
“A change of identity,” Gorevoy said. “Your special.”
Jerry's eyes smiled.
“Then, let's get to it. As you said, you haven't much time.”
“What is it going to cost, Jack?”
“For you, my friend... it comes free,” Jerry said, getting to his feet. He crossed to his inner room and brought back with him a briefcase. He set it on the table and opened it.
From the suitcase, he took out scissors, a shaving stick, and a make-up set.
He began by cutting Gorevoy's thick black hair to a crew cut, then he led him to the bathroom where he gave the hair a strong peroxide rinse.
“We would have to get rid of the mustache.”
Gorevoy ran his fingers over the thick bristle mustache that had taken him so many years to grow.
“This's some kind of identification in my family. My father had a thicker one than this before he died. But, anything you say goes, Jack.”
Thirty minutes later, Gorevoy was completely transformed.
A tall, blond man with a crew haircut stood before the full-length mirror in Jerry's inner room, regarding himself with startled eyes, but full of interest. The clean face rid of mustache and beards made him look ten years younger.
A nice transformation, Gorevoy thought. That was as far as he would admit to himself, for he wouldn't admit this was a more handsome man than his former self.
“Good work, Jack... good work,” he said, nodding appreciatively.
Jerry beamed. He thrived on praises.
“Now, for a means of identification for our new character, what name would you propose?”
“Pick an American name for me, Jack,” Gorevoy said absentmindedly, still admiring his reflection in the mirror.
“You've got a passport?”
“Yeah.” He brought out a small envelope and handed it to Jerry.
“I guess a passport to return to Russia?” Jerry asked.
“No... A driver’s license.”
Jerry raised an eyebrow and focused his gaze on Gorevoy, but Gorevoy turned away from his reflection in the mirror, went out of the room, into the living room, and sat down in the armchair.
Jerry followed him out, his eyes looking inquiringly at him.
“You don’t know what it’s like to be a jailbird, Jack. The world is unfavorable enough as a place; for the man with a job, but hell for a jailbird. The system designed it so he would starve. I intend to use it to get a job. It wouldn't last more than a week, but the pay is substantial.”
Jerry lifted his shoulder in a shrug of disappointment. He wasn't born last night to believe what Gorevoy had just told him.
“I've got this feeling you are planning something, Gorevoy. But whatever it is, be careful. Vengeance is a two-edged sword.” He paused for a long moment, then went on. “Won't you tell me what it is you've got up your sleeves?”
Gorevoy shook his head.
“The lesser you know about this, the safer you would be if it fails. And tell no one I'm out.”
Jerry nodded and crossed to his inner room.
Thirty minutes later, the door leading to the inner room opened, and he came out.
“This's it,” he said, as he came into the living room. He handed Gorevoy the license. “It's a beautiful job.”
Gorevoy examined the plastic card. It looked genuine enough, and well-worn, as it had only six months before its expiry. The name on the card was Larry Gates. Address: California. He nodded approvingly.
“It's a marvelous job, Jack… you sure you want nothing for it.”
Jerry's mouth tightened.
“Gorevoy, you've had a tough time in jail... Keep what you've got left, you'd need it better than I would.”
Gorevoy smiled.
“You're a loyal friend, Jack.” He took his empty coffee cup from the table and waved it at Jerry. “One more of this, please… it's a damn fine coffee.”
This pleased Jerry. He took the cup from Gorevoy and hurried away to the electric percolator. As he reached the percolator, Gorevoy glanced back. He saw the old man pouring coffee into the cup and quickly; he took out one stack of dollars in his overcoat's pocket and slid it under the newspaper on the center table.
Jerry returned with the cup full and gave it to Gorevoy, who collected it appreciatively. Carefully, he emptied it, dropped the cup on the table, and stood up.
“You've done a lot for me, Jack,” he said, taking the old man in a warm embrace. “One of these days I could repay.”
“You owe me nothing, Gorevoy,” Jerry said firmly.
Gorevoy left the apartment with Jerry staring after him. As he reached his car, Jerry closed his door.
In the car, he glanced once again at his reflection in the driver’s mirror. He knew it would last more than a week. Soon, his hair would grow dark again and the make-up would fade. Well, one week was enough time to finish his business in Miami.
He started his car, drove down the street, and turned onto 18th Avenue, heading for downtown Miami.

Next episode drops in 12hrs

ashatoda:
I have liked the last post o please don't wait for 20 likes pity we that follow back to back. Thanks for the update

Haha! For your sake and the sake of others following, I will drop another episode today

This chapter is dedicated to @dawno2008
If this chapter gets up to twenty likes, I would drop another episode in 24hrs


The plane touched down at 10:55 a.m. at the Miami International Airport. Among the passengers to leave the plane, Natasha alighted. A Hermes handbag hung over her left shoulder, a diamond and emerald necklace on her neck, and a small-sized leather traveling bag was on her right hand.
She walked briskly to the Arrival center, passed the police control with a wide, sensual smile to the officer in control, and walked out into Miami's cold winter morning.
She hurried to a waiting taxi, and as she opened the rear door, a hand dropped on her shoulder.
Startled, she swiveled around. Seeing her husband, she relaxed, then smiled.
“Are you going to enter that, not when I've been here for the past half hour waiting for you?” Rico said. A false, stern expression on his face.
…
Gorevoy Egorov came slowly and lazily awake. He turned over on the small-sized bed that barely fitted his muscular frame and grimaced as his leg contacted the floor. He drew back his leg onto the bed, picked up his phone that laid on the floor by his side, and opened it. The time was 8:15 a.m.
He looked around the closet-sized room and concluded that his den back in prison was a lot spacious than it. Stretching, he yawned, ran his fingers through his dark hair, and then reached for a cigarette. He lit it, sat up, and relaxed with his back against the wall.
Even through the thick material of his cotton shirt, he could feel the coldness and dampness of the wall.
He drew down a lungful of smoke, coughed, then stared up at the now brown but formerly white ceiling. Twice, he had woken up in the night and dialed Anya's number. Not that he had expected anything different, but he considered there was no harm in trying.
He stared at his phone, hesitated, then made another hopeless attempt as he dialed her number again.
As the bored, flat voice of the operator came on the line, he cut off the call, locked the phone, and dropped it on the floor beside him.
He let the smoke drift down his nostrils. It was no use getting himself worked up. In six days, he would have finished his business in Miami and be on his way back to Russia. Once in Russia, he reflected, he would surely know what had happened.
He stubbed out what was left of the cigarette on the floor, threw off the sheet, and rolled out of the bed. He got rid of his clothes, crossed the room, and went into the bathroom.
The apartment was a dreary one-room affair with a bathroom and a toilet. It was the best he had afforded; for three days since he got out of prison. He didn't grumble. It wasn't in his nature to grumble. After all, he had seen better days. But, while he lived in jail like a caged animal, he had promised himself revenge when he got out.
As he shaved, he recalled when he had turned on the light in Rico's office. The sudden expression of fear and shock, which had appeared on Pascal's face; when he had lifted his head and recognized him. He would give anything to see the same expression on Rico’s face. But he had to be patient. He had to find out first if Rico was truly getting out of the game. If he was, then there could be money in this for him.
He took a shower and patted his face with an aftershave. Returning to the room, he took his suit from the hanger. He polished his black shoes, put on his shirt, tie, and pants.
Then he lifted the foam and upturned it. Tucked inside the foam; were the dollar bills he had helped himself to from Rico's hidden recess. He took it out. There were fifteen stacks. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Not a bad sum of bread for a jailbird to get his hands on.
He tucked in his shirt, then tucked in the money into his pants, around his waistline. The waistband of his pants held the bills tight. He left two stacks out on the floor, fastened his belt, and turned the foam back.
He put on his suit, satisfied himself that the money showed no bulge, then wore his shoe, put on his black overcoat, and black hat, dropped the two remaining stacks with his gun, and its silencer, in his pocket, and left the room.
Mrs. Atabei owned the apartment block. It was a derelict two-story building in Little Haiti. She was a large and floppily built woman, well into her late fifties.
Her old floppy face fell when Gorevoy told her he was moving out.
Well, he didn't blame her. He guessed her husband had handed the apartment over to her. She was just a woman who was trying to make a living off what she had but was finding it difficult because she couldn't keep pace with the fast-changing times. He had to admit that even the homeless wouldn't find it so exciting to live here.
He dropped a hundred in her hand, and before she could bring herself to thank him, he was out of the apartment.
He crossed the street to where he had his car parked, got in, and started the engine.
It was 9:05 by the time he reached Little Havana. He turned off the avenue and into SW 6th St. and pulled up in front of an abandoned-looking bungalow.
Jack Jerry had a basement apartment in the bungalow.
He got out of the car, shifted his hat to the back of his head, and walked down the path to the front door of Jerry's apartment. He rang the bell and waited.
There was a brief delay while he stood in the early morning cold. Then, the door opened. A small, shadowy man wearing steel-rimmed spectacles appeared in the doorway.
“Who is it?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper.
Gorevoy said nothing and the old man, probably in his sixties, adjusted his glasses and peered closely at his face.
“Is it you, Gorevoy?” he asked in doubt.
Gorevoy smiled.
“It's me all right, Jack.”
The small head jerked backward, threatening to snap out of its frail-looking neck. His mouth hung open for a moment.
“Is this you, Gorevoy? After all these years... Well, come on in,” the old man said and stepped aside.
Gorevoy, pleased to get out of the cold, moved into the passage. The heat from the house welcomed him, and his hunched shoulders relaxed. The hard light stretching out into the dark passage from an open door led him to the living room.
He moved into the shabbily furnished living room and took a seat in a well-worn armchair, while Jerry locked the front door. Looking up at the elaborate chandelier which produced the light in the room, he noticed only two of its many bulbs functioned.
Jerry came into the room. He took a seat on the sofa opposite Gorevoy, his face beamed with pleasure.
“When did you get out, Gorevoy?”
“Some days ago,” Gorevoy said, relaxing back in the chair.
“Pardon my manners, Gorevoy. Let me get you a cup of coffee.”
“You needn't bother, Jack,” Gorevoy protested, but the old man was already across the room at the electric percolator. “I haven't much time, Jack.”
“Come on… I know you want something ... that's why you're here, but I wouldn't hear of it not until after a cup of coffee.” Pouring the coffee into the cups, he asked, “Does Jamie know you're out?”

dawno2008:
Following quietly, weldon @DanielJunior

@dawno2008 thanks for the encouragement

Seated in the first-class cabin of a Boeing 747 flight; from New York to Florida, Miami. Natasha Orlova stared blankly through the window at the blue sky and white clouds.
Her mind was unsettled. She turned her attention again to the white envelope, which she held in her hand. The words, drawn by the black ink, “To Natasha Orlova.” stared unfeelingly back at her.
She couldn't help but take out the paper, unfold it, and read through its content yet again.
The first sentence struck a knife into her heart. As she read further, each word pushed the knife deeper, each sentence twisted the blade in her heart.
“Your father might still be alive. Ever since your conception, I promised myself I wouldn't let him know of you. He was bad. I wanted the best for you. But you struck a knife in my heart, child, as you grew up to be as bad as him. I was stubborn to believe this. You're my child. Then, when you moved to America, I knew it was fate. It was by every means drawing you closer to him. Attached to this letter is a photograph of him. His name, I've sworn not to remember. I wouldn't want to stand in the way of fate. Goodbye, daughter.”
She flicked the paper and stared at the small-sized photograph of a young boy, probably only eighteen, dressed in a suit that was far bigger than his age. He was pretty handsome. There was something about his smile that inspired a smile from her.
So, this is you, father? But, how do I hope to find you in a country with so many people, with no name, but only a photograph dated over two decades ago? Well, there was no length she wouldn't go to, to find him. But the letter had said he might still be alive. What if he was long dead? Then, she would find his grave and drop a bunch of roses on it. She would visit every week with a bunch of roses. Who knows, her father might get up one day and say he was sick of her roses. She smiled. But what if I find him? What will it be like? Who was he? Will he accept me as his daughter? He knows nothing of me. What if he isn’t the man I imagined him to be? Will I make compromises?
Natasha thought for a moment, then decided whatever he turned out to be, she would embrace him. She was no better herself. For as long as she could remember, she had always longed for that fatherly love. Now was her chance to get it. She would not screw it up.
She thought back in time, her earliest memory, she imagined, she was age five then, when she first confronted her mother about the absence of her father.
Seated on an armchair; the only chair padded with foam in their clumsy, airless two-room apartment, her mother stared gloomily through the dirty windowpane at the quiet street below.
Natasha, close to the fireplace, played with a big bear doll; a doll her mother had barely afforded from her proceeds of walking the streets.
She had turned abruptly to her mother.
“Mama,” she called in her little voice.
Her mother turned to her.
“Why is papa never around?”
Her mother's face had hardened. She could still remember the look of anger that had jumped into her mother's eyes. It was the first time she had seen her look like that. And it was that look that had kept this memory indented in her mind.
“Natasha, how many times do I have to tell you? You have no papa.”
She noticed the struggle her mother made in keeping her voice calm, but with the innocent obstinacy of a little child, she pushed her case even further.
“But Lydia has a papa.” Her little index finger pointed in the direction of the room opposite theirs, where a girl about her age lived with both parents.
“Yours is dead. He's dead to me, and he should be to you.” Her mother had stood up, crossed the room, and shut herself in the bedroom.
Later, she heard her sobs from the bedroom and her curiosity transformed into guilt as she imagined the pain she had caused her mother. For years, she probed no further about the subject.
But growing up in the cold city of Moscow without a father wasn't easy. She tried to stay content with her fate, but then, the sight of any young girl of her age with a man she presumed to be her father would bring to the surface; the pain, the bitterness, and the envy she felt inside. For she knew she could never be like them.
At thirteen, she took up the courage, and in a quiet voice, she asked her mother, “How did papa die?”
To her surprise, her mother had flared up.
“What is it about your father? Do you think he was any good?”
This reaction from her mother, she remembered. For it was what sowed the seed of coldness between mother and daughter.
As she grew into the age to be legally engaged in her mother's life of sin and excitement, a thought haunted her. Maybe she was the product of a foolish mistake made by a prostitute. Maybe her mother didn't even know who her father was because she was having it off with too many men.
As this thought continued to nudge her, that seed of coldness germinated into resent.
At eighteen, equipped with beauty and a body, men thirsted after. She made her plans. Men were dogs. She had the merchandise they wanted, and she knew how to sell it. She wasn’t kidding herself that they would find her attractive forever. A time might come when some other younger girls struggling to survive; would push her down the line of desirables, but before then, she would have had her fair share of all the money the world offered.
At nineteen, with enough money saved, she migrated to America.
A voice from the loudspeaker in the plane brought her back from her thoughts.
“Flight attendants, prepare for landing, please. Cabin crew, please take your seats for landing.”

ashatoda:
Sincerely this is an awful way to die. Gorevoy is a real killer haba taunt your victim and only allow him see your face for a second and shoot him straight not allowing him to soak in the surprise very awful. Thanks @DanielJunior asking for more

That's why I labeled the story hardboiled. Thanks for the comment dear. Dropping the next episode shortly

Dedicated to @ATHEMISIA

As Pascal edged to where the Lincoln was parked with the dark man following behind, his mind worked swiftly. Any moment from now, he felt the man behind might slip up. He might come too close before they got to the Lincoln. Then that would be his chance, he thought.
As they reached the Lincoln, the signaling lights of the Lincoln flashed. Pascal stopped abruptly, but the gun nudged him forward.
“Get in the driver’s side.”
With fallen shoulders, he got the car door open and got in. His gamble hadn’t come off. The thought that he might be dealing with a man as efficiently professional as himself brought cold sweat to his forehead.
The dark man got in the back and settled himself directly behind Pascal.
“Get us to the agency,” he said and relaxed back into the luxury of the car.
Ten minutes of steady driving with the speedometer needle flickering over forty and fifty brought them to Rico Truck Agency.
Pascal sounded the horn twice at the big gate. He had this sick feeling he was only a few minutes from death. He had to think of a way out, and he had to do that fast.
“Listen, pal, I know the dude on today's shift; some slick fellow. He might be in one of these clubs in downtown Miami having himself a good time with some girl he's recently caught while we stay here hooting-”
The abrupt movement of the gate stopped the words in his throat. The high beams of the Lincoln beamed on a rotund man in his late sixties as he rolled open the gate.
Jason Carter had been gateman now for the past ten years. He was a man who hardly slept. He believed sleep was for the younger man. What all old men like him could do at night was lie in bed and relive good old memories. He had heard the Lincoln hoot, and surprised, he had rushed out to open the gate.
“Tell him the boss wants to check some papers in his office shortly, that he should leave the gate open.” The dark man spoke for the first time since leaving the underground garage.
Pascal engaged gear, drove through the gate and, as he paused beside Carter, he felt the barrel of the silencer dig into his side.
“Speak out loud. I'd like to hear your voice,” the dark man whispered.
He did as he was told and drove into the agency.
Carter thought there was something wrong with Pascal. Well, maybe the young man isn't too happy to have had his sleep disturbed. Shrugging, he walked down to a chair in front of his lodge and sat down.
Pascal brought the Lincoln to a stop between two trucks.
“There's the boss’ office.” He pointed to the door at the end of a rectangular building lined with offices.
The dark man got out of the car, then he signaled for Pascal to follow suit. Pascal dropped.
“As we move to that office, you might have the temptation of sliding behind one of these trucks, but I assure you, such rash actions will be unhealthy. I'm after some files. Let me have them, and you'll be safe.”
And with a rough shove from the gun, he set Pascal moving.
Pascal peered at the face of the dark man before moving. He didn't make out much from the face as the man had his back to the security light and his face was in darkness.
As they approached the truck, Pascal saw his chance of getting behind it. But, the words of the dark man echoed in his mind, “I'm after some files, let me have them, and you'll be safe.” Why not let him have them, then go after him later? He didn't know how fast this man was with a gun.
As they passed the truck, Pascal told himself, if he were to try anything, it was now or never. If he waited for a second longer, the opportunity would pass. But he could not bring himself to do anything. The cold professional manner of the man behind him hinted at speed, and with the barrel of the gun, he could feel grinding into his spine, he warned himself against such foolishness.
They reached the office.
“Get the door open,” the dark man said from behind him.
“I think we left behind a vital instrument. The…”
He was still speaking when he felt the butt of the gun slammed down against the back of his neck.
White-hot pain ran through him, and he stifled a cry. His left hand rubbed the back of his neck as his right hand felt in his pocket for a pick-lock.
He found it, inserted it into the keyhole. It took him a few seconds to turn the lock and, opening the door, both men edged into the office.
“Get your butt on the chair behind the desk. I want you where I can monitor you.” The dark man motioned him to the executive chair they could just make out in the darkness.
With the pain still nudging him at the back of his neck and holding a hand to it, he moved compliantly as an obstinate child who had just been tamed. He reached behind the desk as the lights came up. The thought that with the light now, he could see the face of the dark man came to his mind, but he dared not turn around. Any movement he made now with his neck drove sharp pain down his spine.
He continued to the chair, sat down, and looked up.
His face suddenly went white, his mouth became dry as he stiffly gaped at the tall dark man standing a few feet from the door with the gun pointing at him.
“Gorevoy?”
Beads of sweat popped out from the side of his face and went trickling down to his neck. So, this was how it was, he thought, and suddenly; he was afraid to die.
He attempted to shout for help. His mouth opened, but that was as far as he went. The slug caught him in the center of his forehead, shattering his brain.s
Gorevoy turned off the lights, edged out of the office, closed the door, and with the headlights of the Lincoln off, he drove out of the agency.

Athemisia:
Thanks for the constant update man...
ATHEMISIA is impressed....

And Daniel is grateful

Next episode drops in 14hrs

Suddenly, Rico’s feet seemed to stagger. A heavy thud vibrated the floor where he laid as Rico's massive frame hit the floor. His head dropped to the floor a few inches from the closet door. The noise came as sharp and loud as it could be to the dark man, who had his ear to the ground. He got up, swung the door open, and crossed over the body into the room. He moved to the wet bar, drained the remaining whiskey in the bottle, and rinsed the tumbler.
Then, sliding his gun into his pocket, he hoisted the massively built body over his shoulder. He moved with difficulty across the room and dropped the body on the bed. He arranged the body, lifted its head, and pulled the pillow under it. His eyes caught the wedding ring on Rico's finger, and he grunted.
He moved to the wet bar, picked up Rico's gun. He checked how many slugs were in it.
Three.
He crossed to the bedside drawers. As he drew the top drawer open, he heard a soft creak and smiled his crooked smile. Things seemed to benefit him.
His fingers closed over the silencer in the drawer. Taking the silencer with him, he tiptoed across the room, climbed onto the wet bar, and propped himself against the corner. He screwed the silencer to Rico's gun as he waited. Just as he finished, he saw the door handle turn slowly.
A voice called out in a whisper, “It is me, Jamie.”
The man, having discovered the door was locked, called out again.
“Jamie? Jamie?”
There was a pause, then the dark man heard soft clicking noises. He guessed he was picking the lock. Before long, he heard the lock turn. He readied himself.
The door handle turned slowly and eased open a few inches. The voice called again. “Jamie? Jamie?”
The door opened wider, and a man peered cautiously into the room. Seeing nothing, he edged in cautiously, his gun moving before him.
As he moved past the door, he felt the barrel of a cone-shaped silencer touch the back of his head.
He stood still.
…
“Don't make any rash movement. Just drop the gun.” A voice behind him said in a smooth, deceptive mildness.
Pascal's face hardened, and he let the gun drop to the floor a few inches away from his leg.
“Kick the gun away, Pascal,” the voice whispered.
He did as he was told, and the man behind ran his hand over him. The barrel of the silencer bumping against the back of his head as the man frisked him.
The dark man pulled out and threw across the room the two daggers tucked into his pants and held by his waistband.
As all this was going on, Pascal dug into his memory. There was something about the voice which sounded familiar. That this man knew his name...
“I'm not here to kill anyone, Pascal.” The voice brought him out of his search. “I’m after some files. As you can see, your master's fast asleep. I've searched, but can't find them here. I reckon it's going to be in the agency, so you'll drive me there now.”
The man behind, motioned him out of the room with the barrel of the silencer tapping gently on the back of his head. Even though the gun was so close to his head, he noticed the man was at a distance.
He slowed his pace, trying to draw the man closer, but the silencer pushed him forward, and he moved on.
“This is going to be so much waste of time. Rico keeps no file in the agency.”
“I will confirm that after I've searched. Now, fast with your legs and do nothing rash. Remember, there's a silencer to this gun. I might pull the trigger even if I feel threatened.” The dark man chuckled.
Pascal stifled a shudder. Again the voice, that chuckle. It was all too familiar, and again, his mind groped into the past but failed to pinpoint its proprietor.
They crossed the corridor, and as they got into the foyer, a key thrown forward landed a few feet before his legs. He felt the man behind him withdraw.
“Get the door open.” The voice came from behind.
As he bent to pick the key, the dark man's voice came again with its deceptive mildness, but this time with a little chuckle.
“Be careful, Pascal, try nothing brave or smart. It wouldn't be an exciting experience for me to drill a hole in the back of your head.”
Pascal remained motionless. That chuckle had a way of unnerving him. It reminded him of a sanatorium. He felt a chill of icy fear run up his spine. He realized the man behind must have sensed what he was up to, and attempting to steady his shaken nerve, he said, “You can chuckle all you want now, you've got the upper hand. But, I advise you, hold on to it. For when I take it, you will find nothing more to chuckle about.”
“Don't talk too tough, baby boy. I might get scared,” the dark man said with a false quaver. “Now, get that door open!”
Pascal picked up the key, and as he turned the key in the lock, his mind made another frantic effort at placing the voice. He had a poor memory, his mom had always told him. Well, now he agreed. But of one thing he was sure, whoever owned this voice was as lethal as it.
He contemplated turning round to glimpse at the man, but the knowledge of the gun pointing toward his spine dismissed the thought from his head as fast as it came.
Ten years in the drug business, and he counted himself lucky that up till this day, he had recorded no bullet wound, but secretly, he dreaded the day when he would have to put one, two, or more down in the register of his memory.
The lock clicked open, and as his fingers moved to turn the handle, he suddenly realized a shadow had fallen on the door, and the barrel of the silencer dug again into the back of his head.
“Careful Pascal, I don't want you running out into the corridor.”
He hadn’t heard the man creep up on him, and that movement did a lot to his nerves. He took a breath, swung open the door, and both men edged out of the foyer. The dark man picking up the Lincoln Navigator’s key from the top of the small table, which stood close to the double doors. He closed the door behind him, and they crossed to the elevator.
With the gun ramming against Pascal's spine, the elevator whisked them to the underground garage.

ashatoda:
Wow! I really appreciate the dedication it makes me so happy. Meanwhile the action and suspense is really tingling

Thanks dear. I appreciate.