by James Burke
‘Mr. Marx, there’s no good news,’ Lin said in near faultless but accented English, the product of a college education in the U.S.
Back in his office, Marx grunted in frustration.
‘Why? How is the general? I need to speak with him.’
Lin made his way out of the room and into the hallway so he could talk more freely.
‘My father is sleeping. The transplant was not a success,’ he said. ‘The doctors call it an acute rejection. It should be treatable with drugs but they’re not working.’
This was the last thing that Marx wanted to hear. He was dependent on the general’s goodwill in fulfilling his plans. What’s more, he did not trust Lin to have his own father’s best interests in mind.
‘Your father is as strong as an ox. Can’t he just get another liver?’ Marx asked.
‘Yes, and within a few days if he so chooses to do so but he doesn’t want to kill anymore fellow Han Chinese, no matter even if they are enemies of the state. He thinks killing them is bringing him ill-fortune,’ said Lin who heard Marx sigh in exasperation.
Yes, Marx knew, killing innocent people for their body parts is a fire and brimstone offence that brings on retribution like no one’s business but that was not his concern. For all practical purposes, Marx needed the general alive and useful if only for just a bit more time.
‘There’s over a billion people in China to choose from Lin, your father is high ranking PLA. What about Tibetans or Uyghurs?’
‘We’re trying to source other suitable liver donors in the prison system but time is running out,’ Lin replied.
Marx tried to hide the displeasure in his tone.
‘Have you had time to follow up on my North Korean arrangements? Your father made some —’
Lin had the phone snatched from his hand. It was Colonel Deng. He bellowed Mandarin into the phone.
‘Call back at a convenient time!’ he yelled before ending the call.
The military officer thrust the phone back into Lin’s hands and re-entered the general’s room.
Marx knew who it was; the voice and the manner were giveaways. He also knew Deng had a deep distrust of foreigners, especially well-connected ones.
Back in the hallway, Lin was exasperated by his cousin’s behavior. He gathered his thoughts. He feared losing his broader connections with Marx. His lucrative business, shipping precursor chemicals into Mexico, relied on it. Thankfully Deng was not included in that, he reminded himself, but his cousin was a part of this new North Korea deal. Maybe Deng shouldn’t be involved with what Marx wants, he thought. Is it too late to have him exit?
Lin’s cell rang again, interrupting his thoughts. He answered it and listened to what was said from the other end. He nodded several times and then walked back inside the general’s room where he approached Deng and offered him the phone.
‘Cousin talk to Mr. Marx,’ Lin pleaded. ‘There’s a lot of money at risk.’
Deng reluctantly took the call.
‘I have nothing more to say,’ Deng said into the phone in Mandarin. ‘We can communicate later.’
Marx wasn’t in the mood for impertinence and time was pressing.
‘I know you comprehend English Deng, so listen up,’ he said.
‘And you speak Mandarin,’ Deng replied.
‘I do but that’s not the point. The point is do you want in on the North Korea arrangement?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then act like it. For the next week you work for me. You are mine to do as I will. Make no mistake about that. When I tell you to do something you will do it.’
There were a few moments of silence before Deng replied.
‘I will honor our agreement, but your threats only mean something while the general is alive,’ he said before ending the call.
No One Laughs in Hell
With the call finished, Marx flung his phone onto the desk in disgust. Several options ran through his mind, but he knew, given the general’s condition, he needed to get to China and then North Korea sooner rather than later. The schedule had to be moved forward.
While figuring how they now needed to travel within the next couple of days he poured himself a stiff drink. As for Deng, he had thought earlier that he needed him but given his behavior on the call he was no longer sure. The colonel may prove a liability, but his options, at this stage, were limited.
Grumbling to himself, Marx, now drink in hand, sat in a leather sofa in front of the large framed portrait of Mao that was a gift given to him by General Zhou some 20 years previous. Back then, Marx was a young intern with an international corporation setting up an office in Beijing where he fell in with a crowd of debauched Communist Party princelings that the older Zhou was a part of. I won’t put into your head what they got up to.
Yes, Marx has quite a checkered past. Much more than what the FBI were aware of and even more than what you think you already know, so I’ll get to the point.
Marx has made a deal with the devil. The 13 Demon Kings of the Pit to be spot-on exact.
I hope that didn’t come across as flippant.
There’s nothing amusing at all about Hell believe me, and that’s something Marx was aware of.
I may have taken you to a scene in Hell earlier in this tale, but it was limited by design. If I could actually convey to you just a bit of Hell’s reality, you’d probably never be the same again. Believe me when I say — no one laughs in Hell.
Fundamentally most of you, to varying degrees, are decent people, even if you forget it at times. As for Marx, he’s evil to the extreme and he knew that. He embraced it. Indeed, he believed he had much in common with the demon kings. A shared hatred of creation being just one example.
In a bid to join their ranks, he agreed to be the human facilitator for the end of times, a version at least that the demon kings wanted to see played out in their favor and on their terms. They got the nod from their boss Satan and just went for it. Their goal was everyone ending up in Hell and Marx agreed to help with whatever was required.
Undeniably, the fund manager was proud of the ‘bargain’ he made with the demon kings, a deal which, if he was successful, would see him enthroned as the 14th king upon his return.
If he failed, however, there’d be no throne waiting but instead an eternity spent at Hell’s lowest level. Despite his bravado and wickedness, that thought horrified him and drove him onwards to play his part in bringing on humanity’s demise. He presumed that was why he was permitted to have such memories of not only his time in the abyss but, more importantly, all of his past earthly existences as well.
As for the coming earthquake in Rome, that was actually Marx’s idea based on a throwaway suggestion made as he bargained with the demon kings, who surprised him by taking it onboard.
A large digital clock on a cabinet told him it wasn’t long till that would transpire. He finished his drink and then found his TV remote and turned on the walled television in preparation. For a moment, he thought of asking War, who was probably busy drawing in the boardroom, if he wanted to come in and watch Rome be destroyed but quickly changed his mind. For some reason, Marx found War’s presence unsettling. Otherworldly types have a habit of doing that, he supposed.
Hungry Henchmen
Away from prying eyes, Tina and Gabriela flipped a coin in the kitchen to see who would deliver Quintus his desert order of carrot cake and ice-cream. Gabriela won the toss and whopped in delight. Tina laughed, going along for the fun of it. Privately, she was only captivated by the stranger’s striking halo. She only wished to talk with him to get to know who he was and what he was about.
The subject of their attention remained seated at the diner counter waiting for the aforementioned desert. He was checking his watch. It was just a little over 20 minutes until the anticipated destruction of Rome.
Given that the diner was now three-quarters full, Bill was busy making drink orders by the coffee machine at the counter. But, like pretty much everyone else, his mi
nd was on what could happen to the Italian capital and what that would mean for the rest of the world.
‘Tell me if something happens okay?’ Bill asked Quintus regarding the TV.
‘Will do.
‘It’s surreal isn’t it?’
‘That it is.’
Then on the TV, the chubby, but well-dressed figure of Chuck Goyette appeared.
‘Okay Bill, they’re back interviewing that guy Goyette,’ Quintus said nodding towards the walled television. Bill paused what he was doing and grabbed the television’s remote to increase its volume.
Everyone in the diner turned to watch. Tina and Gabriela even exited the kitchen to see Goyette being interviewed outside a chic hotel in LA’s West Hollywood. Bill had the volume up just in time, so all could hear the news reporter’s one and only question.
‘It appears Rome’s residents have largely ignored your predication, most of them are reportedly remaining in the city. How do you feel about that?’ the reporter asked Goyette.
‘Of course, I feel sorry, I do feel sorry for them, and it’s only natural that I feel this way as I made the announcement in advance for their sake and no one else’s, certainly not mine. I doubt the people of New York City will be as foolish,’ he said before walking off, leaving the reporter.
The news broadcast cut to a commercial break. Bill muted the sound.
‘He didn’t sound too sorry,’ Bill remarked to Quintus as he went back to making drinks.
A split-second later, the hair on the back of Quintus’ neck stood up. It wasn’t a delayed reaction to the TV interview or any pre-quake nerves. He just felt something very wicked come his way. Instinctively he half-swiveled around and the first thing he saw was Vacher entering the diner. Their eyes met. For several seconds both men held the other’s stare.
Quintus then shifted his gaze onto those who Vacher accompanied; Irfan, Peach, Herera and Chavez. After they walked past he noted four additional suspicious looking types — Herera’s bodyguards — loitering outside by a parked Humvee and a limousine.
Meanwhile, Tina took Vacher and the other four to a window booth. Vacher couldn’t help but notice how nervous the young woman was and how she avoided eye contact with them all. As she handed him a menu he gave her a gruff look while eyeing her nametag.
‘Why thank you Tina,’ he said curtly. ‘You can get us five coffees for starters.’
Tina nodded and then mumbled about returning to take further orders. She left them, gave their order to Bill and then went to clear another table. Before collecting an armful of plates, she patted down her brow, wiping away beads of sweat.
The amount of darkness she saw entering the diner with the five men had startled her. She’d never seen such a concentration of evil. Each of them was covered in clouds of darkness up to the point their figures were nearly obscured. The four men outside waiting by the vehicles were likewise swimming in darkness. It was a complete opposite to what she saw in Quintus.
DING!
Time was moving quickly, and Bill hit his little call bell by the coffee-making machine. He placed three coffees on the counter and Tina came to pick up.
‘For table 13. Two more to follow,’ Bill told her. ‘Be careful,’ he added, referring to the ominous five.
Quintus watched Tina take the order to the booth. He noted how they gawked at her as she handed out the coffees.
‘Hey chicka that’s three. We ordered five,’ Herera said menacingly.
‘Yes, two more are coming, they’re being made now. Won’t be long,’ she softly replied.
As Tina turned to leave, Herera gave her a noisy slap on the behind.
‘Be quick then chicka. Ándale! Ándale!’
The others in the booth cackled but the act caused a hush throughout the rest of the diner.
Tina walked on, red faced.
At that moment, Quintus wanted to deal with the men in the booth there and then but restrained himself. He remained seated out of concern that any intervention would only escalate matters, making it worse.
However, Bill had had enough. After abandoning his coffee machine, he came around from the counter, passed both Tina and Quintus, and approached the men in the booth.
The five stopped snickering and looked up at the owner-manager with the big mop of hair in front of them, hands on hips.
‘Excuse me, you can’t mistreat my staff,’ Bill said.
Herera rolled his eyes and moaned.
‘C’mon man! You hire people like that, what do you expect huh? The chicka has a nice rump,’ Herera said. ‘Smokin’ hot!’
Bill glared squarely at Herera.
‘Take your trash talk somewhere else. Finish your coffees, then get the hell out. If you’re not gone in ten minutes I’m calling the police,’ Bill said.
Herera quickly stood up and got in Bill’s face.
‘Hey, you show some respect tipo!’ Herera yelled as he began to poke Bill in the chest with a finger. ‘What do you want huh? You want me to get loco on all your people here?’
Behind them Vacher didn’t want trouble. He leaned over the booth’s table and tugged on Herera’s shirt.
‘Hey not here, not now,’ Vacher said quietly. ‘We can sort this out by other means, another time.’
Herera swatted Vacher’s hand away and he continued harassing Bill who was now wondering if this guy was all bluff or just downright insane. He was beginning to realize that it was probably the latter.
‘Best you leave now, no one wants trouble,’ Bill said, trying not to look or sound alarmed.
‘I’m fine with trouble,’ Herera said. ‘Bring it on!’
And with that Herera raised his right hand above his head and made a signal to three of his four henchmen outside in the parking lot to come in.
The three saw their boss’ signal and assertively rushed into the diner.
Quintus saw them each pulling out pistols as they moved. They were going in the direction of Herera and along the way they’d have to go past Quintus who was closer to the door entrance.
Once the three were positioned in the diner Quintus knew these thugs would take further control of the situation. He figured it was now or never to deal with this mess before it got any worse. As the first of the three thugs rushed past he put out his foot.
‘That’s enough,’ he said steadily.
The first thug tripped over Quintus’ foot and fell down hard face first. Quintus next dealt with the two following. His punches were swift and exact, hitting acupressure spots that would result in both of them being paralyzed for at least 12 hours. Having dealt with them, Quintus turned his attention back to the thug he tripped who was now trying to get off the floor. He grabbed a square metal napkin holder from a table and wham! He used it to hit the thug on the head.
‘Sorry pal, best you stay out of it,’ he said.
The thug was out cold.
Nearby the coffee machine, Tina watched Quintus move across the dining area towards Bill and Herera by the booth. To her he was an orb of magnificent light cutting through a massive cloud of darkness.
Once Quintus reached the booth he pushed Bill out of harm’s way and then tried to take out Herera but was blocked by Vacher who sprung from the booth with pistol in hand. Quintus responded with a powerful roundhouse kick that connected and propelled Vacher off his feet, sending him over the table and out through the diner’s plate glass window.
Herera tried to flee but Quintus grabbed him by the collar and yanked him around and then jabbed him sharply in the armpit, directly pressuring a sweet spot. Herera was now frozen in a crouch-like stance. As a follow up, Quintus did the same to Chavez who toppled over onto the floor.
With a knife in hand, Irfan sprang at Quintus from the booth only to be sideswiped by Bill who came back into the fight with a three-punch combination.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Then things went up a notch as someone outside began firing an automatic weapon into the diner. It was the thug in the parking lot.
He was shooting from the hip with a bullpup assault rifle.
Bullets slammed into glass and furniture. The diner’s patrons and staff screamed and sought cover.
Near Quintus a single 5.7 mm round hit Peach in the head. His dead body promptly slumped back into the booth’s seat.
Dodging bullets, Quintus dived to the floor and then heard someone yell in pain. An expanding pool of blood quickly came his way. It was being spilled from the femoral artery of Bill’s left leg. A bullet had hit him behind and above the knee cap. Quintus knew the bleeding had to be quickly stopped or Bill would die.
As bullets whizzed over him, Quintus crawled to Bill and with his abnormal strength he ripped Bill’s jeans to get to the gunshot wound. Next, he yanked a tablecloth from a nearby table and swiftly ripped it into a manageable size. He folded the material into the required thickness and applied it to the wound. Back during World War II, he had done similar for soldiers and civilians.
‘You’re going to be alright, okay,’ Quintus reassured Bill who faintly nodded. ‘Keep your hand on it and keep the pressure there. Compression needs to be applied for at least ten minutes to ensure bleeding stops,’ he added.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
A firefight erupted outside. The FBI agents from the van had appeared on the scene; it was now one cartel thug versus four well-armed feds.
At this point, a crazed Vacher returned through the front door. Blood was streaming down his face. A fighting knife was in hand. Bent on revenge, he charged at Quintus tending to Bill. But, in almost comical fashion, he tripped over a paralyzed thug and crashed to the floor. He dropped the knife which skidded away. A partly groggy Irfan came to Vacher’s rescue and dragged him to his feet just as the thug from outside made a fighting withdrawal into the diner, bringing with him the firefight and all its noise.
Amidst the confusion, Marx’s henchmen fled into the kitchen and from there they exited the diner escaping into the night. By the time they had jumped a fence beyond the parking lot the gun-wielding thug had been shot stone dead.
