Blind Goose Chase

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Svetlana Yulia Kozlovsky

My feet were sore from all the running but I couldn’t rest on this foreign soil. I needed distraction for these two days; the shipment cargo was leaving in about an hour from now and the Russians, my own blood, were fighting tooth and nail to get a chunk of my flesh.

Their young Tsar candidate was dead.

The Bratva was vast as Russian lands that extended like a strip on the map. The Kozlovsky Syndicate was just a patch of garland in it but their alliances and influences, never-ending list of underdogs and rats networking gave them an invincible hold on our ancestors' trade routes. 

But this was about people trusting their knowledge to the extreme and a rational belief that your prey is unaware of you creeping in closer but I knew this hunting game too well to be an unsuspecting prey. The same that happened with Igor—the former next heir and presently a rotten body—he didn’t bother restraining me because he was too confident of his acting and manipulating skills and that I was unaware of the eggshells I was walking on.

I had killed him.

Now Igor could spend his days rotting to pay all those shitlords in hell back. I snorted at the thought of the weasel.

A part of my stone-cold heart twitched and flared my rage. How I wish it was me craving out the cornea, lungs, and kidneys out of that betraying bastard. I would fucking donate them to some junky!

He was my blood-related uncle.

He was the closest thing I had to a brother, father, and an ally because of our close age, but this is what happens when you trust a weasel. He didn’t think twice before trying to drug me and attempt a hideous act!

He, like always did everything immaculately just that he didn’t know I had a strong consciousness and prior experience with drugs.

The wind was running a wild marathon, singing operas and howling hymns in my prolonged death sentence. It was humid but it was a clear sky. The tall trees and bushes battled against the current. My feet didn't halt, with a rhythm I was walking. Not running, steadily walking. Running would get attention on me. 

I slit his throat in one clean swipe, with a dagger I plucked from his pelt.

I paraded across the deserted night in the public park. So now I was officially a fugitive and a traitor of the Clan. Taking a deep breath and stretching my neck I walked to the nearest dark street knowing well I was being followed. A little inconvenience.

Taking a turn I walked into the dark alley, I had felt intense eyes on me exactly when I was crossing the bridge on the lake. In a park, anybody could see me. The alley was safe, no one will notice me and I could not afford any kind of attention right now. Any ruckus would delay me. My ride was arriving in about minutes and would be here any moment.

I looked up at the moonless lonely sky and knew it was going to be a chaotic night. I rolled my eyes as I heard the shuffling turn more amateur, either they were new in this gig or fated to early graves.

“I know you are following me. Show yourself!” I yelled almost jaded with the repetitive ordeal. 

Four bulky men in dark uniforms stepped out after their earlier hesitation, clad in enforcer jackets, combat boots, and kitted together with firearms.

I frowned at the sight. Mafia syndicates had ordered but none wore such kitted uniforms, it was like painting your ass red for the bull to strike. These awfully resembled guards. Mafia men preferred suits, just to be cryptic, like in funerals.

They did not belong to the Kozlovsky Syndicate, their uniform and symmetrical ways say it. If it was them, they would be done with me by now. One shot behind my head when I least expected. Clean and efficient. But even they wouldn’t use these fancy-dressing props.

My eyes did a quick once over. The intimidated men were trimmed like a ferocious wolf wearing a bow, but neither their stature nor their posture screamed rogue. I just needed to confirm. They were not here for me; I didn’t know a single gang that dressed up as clowns on a hunt day. Maybe they were somebody I messed up with and don’t remember messing with, which wouldn’t be a shock to the seers.

I took a deep breath and rounded my shoulders, “What is it that you want?” I demanded coldly, meaning business. Trying to know who was it this time that I had offended was always a good start at dealing with them.

If nothing more I will get names for the tombstones, if I'll ever want to put flowers.

“Miss, we are ordered to get you home. We mean no harm.” Their leader asserted in a respectful manner. No Russian accent, they were Americans.

I was utterly confused now by their behavior. What is with the respectful tone? And what ‘home’? I had none. Is this their new trick?

Then my thoughts drifted to my deadbeat father but... I shook my head. Sending these proxy marines wasn’t his style. If he wanted me back at his Estate, he would have dragged me by my hairs screeching and screaming. Even now when half Russian was betting on my head, he couldn't be bothered to make an effort of giving a fuck.

Looking at them strangely, I responded in a bored monotonous manner, “How much?” It hit me now, these morons could be some newly recruited bounty hunters; It was always money.

They held no resentment or vindictive vibes, enough sign that it was no banshee seeking revenge for a vendetta. There was no benefit in breaking a sweat when I could just bribe my way out.

“How much is it? I will double it.” I hollered in the empty valley edge.

“Miss, please! Don’t make it hard for us. We don’t want to resort to extreme measures but we are ordered to escort you back.” He informed in a stern voice though I could detect agitation in his tone.

If he was trying to be intimidating, he was failing. Nothing fazed me. No matter what their extreme was. I was going to get out of the region and my bloodthirsty relatives’ reach, and Sicily was my best shot at it.

Russians could freeze you out but the Italian Mafia, Cosa Nostra, kept them at bay in their territory. Italian worked differently, they didn't switch loyalties on whims or additional credits, they were bound in alliance with arranged marriages or brother-bonds, which was dirty-play if you ask me, but a substantial way to dominate the market. Bratva wouldn’t risk a proxy war when the internal power struggle was at its peak. My heart was beating an irregular rhythm. It was high time I alight my ride but I was stuck here.

I wouldn’t even have come to Chicago if not for due farewell to the only people I gave a f*ck about. But now it seemed more and more to be my last fanfare.

I was observing them all with my laser-sharp scrutinizing when the last of the man shuffled, most particularly fishing for something to strike me down with.

‘Extreme Measures’ I see. It has always been this way. No Benefit to talk it out with morons. I was offering them fortunes worth sacrificing their firstborn! But sound like thinking seems to be a foreign concept to morons. Now I'm short on ideas that barred getting my hands dirty.

In my defense, I did try to sweet-suckle my way out.

I needed to deal with this tactfully or I could land in some prostitution house the next thing I know. That's where most unsuspecting Russian pretty dolls ended up.

I heaved a sigh and took off my hood and their eyes widened in awe but still stayed alerted. I didn’t need a catalog to decipher the infatuation in their eyes. I was appealing to men and I had known it the bitter way.

“Okay... I will go with you but please don’t hurt me.” I pleaded gingerly, as I took hesitant steps forward, closer to the men.

“Absolutely Miss! We will... Ah!” Getting close enough, I twisted his left arm and stuck my hand on the junction between his shoulder and neck, the man fell on the ground, motionless.

The three sub-coordinates watched with horror, their leader falling dead cold. I give them my most benevolent smile which must look like a hissing snake if the look on their faces was anything to go by. Nevermind courtesy then.

I tilted my head ingenuously at their stunned-incredulous gazes, “He isn’t dead.” The assurance flickered along with terror. So I was told, I am not the best conversationalist.

But that was all the emotional and mental conflict I needed to invade their private space without them getting a hint of my motives.

Swishing was all they heard and a needle-prick is all they felt. Their face twisted in different shades of agony that I observed with a placid look on my face. They moaned and their faces flushed with the blood flow before too falling unconscious like their leader. They didn’t even see it coming because I may not be the strongest but I was definitely the most agile.

I had learned this art from a fellow Chinese assassin on a failed mission we were both stuck under the debris for 38 days with 7 dead civilians. The needle was laced with enough doses to send them to lala land for about an hour or two. When they wake up their body will be cleansed of toxins and physically weak for a week or two.

I looked at my watch and scoffed, 1:51. My ride was supposed to pick me up at two sharp. I was running off the schedule. My palms were sweaty in apprehension. I can't miss it or I'm doomed.

I went back to take back my bag and keep the needle safely inside the box. I knew exactly where to hit and where to not because I knew the human body like the back of my hand. These little patriots will live.

I was a surgeon back then—people called me butcher because of the mutilation and gore in my portfolio but I preferred the professional term— a one-of-a-kind but still a surgeon. All thanks to—

“Ah...!” A yelp left my lips as I felt a sharp sting piercing my shoulder skin, numbing my tendons and thoughts. I felt up my skin to take out a dart that potentially had a conscious seizing drug by the light-headedness I'm feeling. As my sight flickered, in and out, and voices lost recognition, I figured it must be shot through a gun from above the building. I looked up and saw a blurry reflection of men on the buildings before the darkness consumed me.

In the pit of my stomach, I knew: I was gonna wish they had poisoned me instead. 

Cocksuckers!