Messenger of Death

BY

ALEX
MARKMAN

Asteroid
Publishing

MESSENGER OF
DEATH

By Alex
Markman

Published by
Asteroid Publishing at Smashwords

All rights
reserved.

Copyright ©
2009 by Asteroid Publishing, Inc.

eISBN
978-0-9811637-0-3

MESSENGER OF
DEATH is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are the
products of author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons,
organizations or events is coincidental and not intended by the
author.

www.asteroidpiblishing.ca

[email protected]

Chapter
1

I

August 1995. It
was a sunny afternoon, the time when the streets of St. Michel are
flooded with people. Hordes of office workers invade restaurants,
bars, and cafes; competing for tables on sidewalks; and chatting
and laughing under the accompanying ring of forks, knifes, plates,
and glasses. In a short Quebec summer, clients prefer to sit under
the sky, enjoying the fresh air and nice views of the city, while
watching crowds of passersby.

A man in his
middle thirties entered a small, but rather charming restaurant at
the corner of two streets and took his place at the most distant
table outside, by the railing separating pedestrians from the
clients. He was neatly groomed with a touch of gray hair and a
casual, but expensive, dress; he had the respectable look of a
white-collar worker. The only dissonance to his otherwise peaceful
impression was his wrestler-sized neck, not that conspicuous at the
moment when hidden by an oversized turtleneck.

“Just coffee,”
he requested, and the waiter rushed off. This client always gave
good tips, no matter how big or small his order, was the waiter’s
thought. The waiter had another incentive, too. He was dead scared
of this visitor.

No sooner was
the coffee served when a different kind of man sat at the table. He
had a short and tidy beard and brownish, with a shade of red, hair,
which was combed back into a thick ponytail. His drawn, wrinkled,
suntanned face made him look like a sailor who had just crossed the
ocean on a small yacht.

“Hi,” he said
in greeting, and, after shaking hands, diverted his attention to a
young woman in a tight miniskirt, passing by the separating fence.
“Nice ass, ah?” he asked with a smile, as if looking for approval
of his taste for female beauty. His dark eyes were alert, as if he
was waiting for something.

The question
hung in the air. He put a cigarette in his mouth and clicked his
golden lighter.

“What’s the
rush, Marcel?” he continued, drawing in the smoke with apparent
delight. “You could’ve told me about the meeting yesterday.”

“Too busy with
skirts lately, Stash?” Marcel asked. Stash exhaled a huge puff of
smoke, diverting his attention to other seductively swaying
hips.

“We work to
enjoy life, don’t we?”

“We do,” agreed
Marcel with a smile, which had nothing kind in it. “So do many
others, who we don’t like.”

“Here’s
Machete,” Stash remarked. It was an opportunity to change the
direction of the not-so-pleasant conversation.

A touch of
contempt spread across Marcel’s face as a large man approached
their table, unceremoniously grabbed a chair from a neighbouring
table, and dropped onto it. He leaned back, making the wood under
him squeak. Marcel pulled up a sleeve on his left arm, flashing a
Rolex wristwatch.

“Hard to beat
the traffic,” said Machete, explaining his being late, his coarse,
rough voice supplementing the obvious absence of rudimentary
manners. The waiter brought another two cups of coffee, although
only one had been requested, and asked, “Anything else,
gentlemen?”

“Beat it,”
Machete grumbled. The waiter bowed politely and quickly stepped
back, like people do at the sight of a rattlesnake. Marcel observed
Machete disapprovingly. Machete wore a T-shirt, tightly stretched
over large, but sagging muscles. His thick arms—those of a former
athlete—were densely wrapped in tasteless, colourful tattoos. He
had a dishevelled beard and long, uncombed hair. He looked like a
pirate from a sunken ship. Marcel sighed and shrugged his
shoulders. It was too late to teach this hoodlum anything. This was
Machete, well known in the criminal world by his physical strength
and pathological brutality. About 10 years ago, he had earned a
black belt in karate. Now, however, excesses of drugs and alcohol
had taken their toll on his body.

Marcel did not
like Machete. Like a mad dog, this biker resorted to violence,
whether it was necessary or not—even when it was detrimental to the
interests of the gang. However, all members stayed behind him in
times of trouble—as this was the code of the club—especially when
tough guys, so plentiful in the underworld, sought revenge.
However, Marcel needed Machete. The man was a leader in his own
right. He controlled several violent gangs, which served him well
when beatings, murder, or destruction was being contemplated.

“I was about to
say to Stash,” Marcel began speaking, “that we are at the point
when some decisions must be made. We can’t sell our stuff in some
areas, like before, because the Ghosts have a cleaner product.”

“Don’t look at
me, man,” cut in Machete, returning the grim stare. “I told you to
get rid of them, but you didn’t listen. Who in his right mind would
set up an outlaw biker club without our permission? And you—you put
up with it.”

“I told you
before that you’re dumb. Did it help?” asked Marcel in false
kindness. Machete’s eyes narrowed, but Stash intervened, depriving
him a chance to demonstrate the biker’s dirty vocabulary.

“What do you
suggest we do with the Ghosts, Marcel?”

“I will take
care of them,” Machete stated, and lit a cigarette.

“You know that
they don’t wear colors,” Marcel said. “You can’t make them out on
the street.”

“Gimme one of
them, and I can find out where everyone else is. It won’t take long
until all of them are out of the game.”

“I know only
one.” Marcel said mockingly. “Jason. He’s the president.”

“Let’s start
with him,” suggested Machete.

“You’ve smoked
too much pot lately,” Stash chuckled. “Jason is well connected with
the Italians and Columbians. They do a lot of business together.
You know that.”

Machete’s
answer was populated with dirty words. The meaning of his response
was Let’s take care of business, no matter what.

“That’s not the
way to deal with them,” Marcel said. “Too much trouble.”

Machete uttered
a strange sound.

“Never heard
you bothering about troubles. What then?”

“We’ll tell
them to close the club. Jason will know what that means. For sure,
he has tough guys around him, and that’s okay, but he’s the clever
one among them. He knows that they are too small. He would
understand that eventually none of them would survive. Let’s give
them a choice. I’m pretty sure that they are not mad dogs, crazy
for a fight. On the contrary, most, if not all, of them are
businesspeople. There is a good chance that they will come to their
senses.”

“When and how
are you going to do this?” Stash asked, as Machete spit on the
floor.

“Today. I’ve
already talked to Jason over the phone,” Marcel said. “The meeting
is in an hour, at 2 o’clock. I have already told everyone in our
other chapters that we have a meeting with the Iron Ghosts.”

Machete and
Stash exchanged glances. Marcel enjoyed the effect of his words. He
liked surprises.

The last time
they had seen Jason had been at least 15 years ago. Since then,
Jason had led a very secretive life and, as the entire underworld
knew, was flying high. Marcel remembered Jason as a cunning and
diplomatic business guy, who enjoyed swimming with sharks in the
dark waters of the drug trade. He always tried first to find a
peaceful solution with his foes, and was surprisingly good at that,
if one takes into consideration that very few in this business
accept a compromise. Jason never used drugs, very seldom used
alcohol, and knew well what is right or wrong in the underworld.
With all that, he was capable of making terrifying decisions in a
split second and executing them with speed and ferocity, which
impressed even the most daring gangsters. Marcel was sure that
fighting with him would be costly and deadly.

“How’d yah find
him?” Machete asked.

“An Italian
helped me. Do you have your colors with you?”

“In the car,”
Stash said. Machete nodded silently.

“Let’s go now.
Follow me.”

Marcel rose to
his feet and threw a fistful of dollars on the table, not waiting
for the waiter to bring the bill. He led the way; the other two
followed him to their cars. Marcel’s new jeep started with a hardly
audible crank. The jeep and the other two cars cruised along the
crowded streets. At the outskirts of the city, the traffic subsided
and at last disappeared as they entered a rural area. Marcel pulled
up in front of a lonely, strange-looking building, hidden almost to
the roof behind a high, brick fence. The other two cars parked
behind him.

Marcel put on
his colors—his biker’s jacket with insignia, emblems, and other
imprints of their club. The very sign of all these attributes meant
to intimidate anyone who would dare to mess with one of the most
powerful outlaw motorcycle gangs in the world.

“Almost 2
o’clock,” he commented. “We got here in time.”

They passed
through the gate in the brick fence and approached the entrance to
a large one-story building, on the wall of which the emblem “Iron
Ghosts” had been painted like a large seal. The guard at the door,
a menacing-looking and sturdy fellow, looked them up and down with
a suspicious, hostile stare.

“Carrying toys
with you?” the guard asked. Marcel spread his hands like the wings
of a bird, exposing his whole body for observation.

“Wanna
search?”

“Go ahead.” The
guard nodded and stepped aside, allowing the three bikers to
enter.

Marcel threw a
quick glance around as the door behind them closed with a metal
click. The windows facing the yard were large, admitting plenty of
light, some of it drawing attention to a bar overflowing with
bottles in the left distant corner. Sofas, chairs, and coffee
tables had been set up around the floor with a purposeful disorder
that was, apparently, meant to encourage casual, informal sitting.
Everything was new, of good quality, and sparkling clean.

A skinny man in
tight jeans and a T-shirt—he looked less than thirty—was sitting in
an easy chair. As the three bikers entered, he got up and gave a
brief nod, inviting them to follow him down a narrow corridor. He
swung open one of the doors before them and led them through it,
his face emotionless, like a stone. Marcel and Stash found
themselves in a room brightly lit by fluorescent lamps. Unlike the
previous room, this one had no windows, no other light. A long,
polished table stretched before them, 10 people sitting around it.
None of the men looked older than forty; they watched their guests
with serious, calm faces that showed more than a bit of contempt.
The skinny guide closed the door and pointed to the end of the
table, where a few chairs were vacant.

“You can sit
there,” he stated curtly before moving to the other end to take a
place beside a man who had the sharp, abrupt facial features of a
boxer and dark hair with contrasting white skin. Marcel took the
offered chair. As he moved, he observed each set of eyes at the
table, testing its owner’s guts with a momentary, penetrating
stare. No one blinked.

“Jason.” Marcel
greeted the man at the opposite end of the table. Jason gave a nod
in return.

“Wanna talk
business, I s’pose.”

Jason was a
leader—an obvious conclusion even by casual observation. But it was
the man beside him, the self-confident fellow who had led them in,
who truly interested Marcel. The bastard had been examining Marcel
with keen interest. Marcel reciprocated, calmly studying the
longish, pale face, the blond, shortly cut hair, the icy cold blue
eyes, and the small scar that accented his left jaw. Leaning back
in a relaxed pose, smoking leisurely, he exuded calmness and
confidence. Undoubtedly, this guy was one any leader would chose to
be close by his side.

“So, you guys
call yourselves an outlaw motorcycle club.” Marcel started with the
heart of the matter. He paused, testing the reaction to his
statement. Jason’s expression did not change. He did not say a
word. No, a man with a lazy eye, halfway down one side of the
table, was first to react.