The Recoil Of The Mind

Chapter 4: We've Only Just Begun

Rickard checked his phone. 2 text notifications. He unlocked his phone and viewed them. They were from Bradley.

"He's using you as a private gun. There will be no liability if you're killed. I'll be feedin ya info stay frosty"

"I've looked over the data the dealer is a gun smuggler. Careful tho he got mercs"

Rickard rolled his eyes and put his phone back into his pocket. Bradley wasn't one known for his texting skills. But nevertheless he didn't give him any information other than what he already has been told by DeShawn. The mob boss has called Rickard yesterday just as he was eating his breakfast. The task, as he put it, was to kill a gun smuggler who had disregarded the terms of a previous deal with the Hounds, or to take him alive. Rickard knew that the job wasn't going to be easy as shooting up the place. Time has proved wits to be as good as brawn.

Rickard opened the glove compartment of the car Marlon had lent him. A silenced Walther p99 lay unclaimed. Rickard grabbed it and stuffed it into his pants, along with the two magazines that came with it. Enough to kill a dozen, as put into words by Bo. Rickard unlocked the door and exited the car. He walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk. A satchel filled with tools came into his view, his own handiwork. He grabbed it and proceeded towards a gray building on his right.

The building looked deserted. The task has brought him to a deserted part of the town. The building lay in a state of disrepair, the painting falling off the frame of the walls and exposing the concrete skeleton underneath. Perfect for a drug deal, a place to shoot up heroin, or a place to hide bodies - depending on the choice of your crime.

Rickard went up to the entrance. There was no door, and the path was open for anyone who had the courage to walk up to it. Rickard continued on. The men were supposed to be in the basement. They probably did not know that the Hounds had sent him. As he walked he spotted a camera watching his every movement or of the corner of his eye. Perhaps they knew after all. And Rickard knew too. DeShawn had informed him of the goods they had in their possession. A real assassin never uses his own tools. DeShawn had given him five thousand dollars to pay for the weapon if his choice. He was to get near them disguised as a prospective buyer. A foolproof plan, if not for Murphy's law, Rickard chuckled.

After a few minutes of walking, Rickard could see the door to the basement. There lay a circular opening in the bottom half of the door. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small bag filled with bottlecaps and tossed it into the opening. The code for a deal, according to DeShawn. The dealers had taken measures to discourage people who didn't know who they were.

The door clicked open. A man wearing a hockey mask opened the door and Rickard stepped in. The dimly lit room was filled with crates and two men with guns pointed at him stood in the far corner of the room. A man with the same type of hockey mask and wearing a leather jacket was sitting on a leather chair. But before Rickard walked up to him, out should say anything, the man got up and said the word that made Rickard's mouth go dry. "Rickard."

Rickard froze. His plan had seemingly gone out of the window when the man had uttered his name. "Who the fuck are you?", Rickard shouted across the room. "How do you know my name?"

The man gestured towards the guards and the three of them walked towards him. "Rickard. How did you find me? Who sent you?"

Rickard stood in his place and said nothing. Finally the man raised his hand and closed his fist; and his guards lowered their guns. Then he reached around the back of his head and pulled off his mask. Rickard recognised the face at once. It was Greco.
Both of them stood silently, taking in the situation, their mind processing it. Finally Greco broke the silence.