Chicago Wildlife - 13. With Kindest Regards

Chapter 12: With Kindest Regards

The woman with lilac-colored hair stepped out of airport and immediately took stock of her surroundings. Yes, she would be able to kill anyone within twenty yards without fail. This small infant in stroller next to her? How she envied baby. No one would expect baby to pull double-barreled shotgun out from behind and end their hedonistic lives. But for her? She seemed to exude aura of dangerous intent, no matter how few pistols she displayed on her. She could never fool someone into thinking she was helpless damsel, and for mob enforcer and sometimes hitman, this only served to make job more difficult. She considered teaching baby lesson for hurting her feelings, but her restraint was par none. The mother of baby turned to lilac woman.

“He’s a cutie, isn’t he?” said mother.

“He makes a fine adversary,” replied woman, as she turned and walked away.

Mischa Blayde (her pseudonym that she cleverly constructed to obscure profession) had been given mission: deal with what was described as smelly manchild. He would not be that hard to find. No one ever was. But with only several firearms, poisons, and knives strapped to body, she felt, how do they say, “underdressed.” She would have to procure some additional “emotional support” before she begin her favorite sport: hunting man. She would start with finding antiques store. A city this big, there was bound to be one sufficiently stocked.

Mother presented her with butterfly knife. The girl later known as Mischa was six years old. Mother said girl needs to protect herself. That Mother and Father cannot always be there to protect her. That butterfly knife was elegant. An elegant tool for an elegant lady. An elegant lady who needed to protect herself from foes who would do her harm. Mischa took knife with childlike wonderment. She peeled it open clumsily. Mother smiled and bent down to girl’s level, took knife from her. She said that’s not the way to use it. Then she flipped knife open in impressive display. A showing that burned itself into child’s mind forever. Mischa would master knife. It is what Mother would want.

Later that day, Father walked into her room. He presented her with Ruger P89. Mischa couldn’t know name of gun day before, as Father had hidden it from her up until now. Father said elegant weapon wasn’t useful if she couldn’t reach foes. Gun, however, never had to worry about distance. Ruger would protect her. Ruger would protect them all. A powerful tool for a powerful lady.

Such fond memories. The shooting, the stabbing, the 4am ice baths. Real family bonding moments. But now was not time for reminiscing. After obtaining vital information from future victims (jaded fools who saw nothing peculiar with hulking woman carrying armory on her), she found location of nearest antiques store: Karen’s Antiquities and BBQ.

‘This whole city needs to burn,’ she thought, entering store.

“Howdy, welcome to Karen’s,” said cashier unenthusiastically.

Mischa read nametag as “Karen.” How pitiable. The store’s owner, reduced to cashier status, her life put on pause, even as it starts to decay before her. Mischa could swear that Karen’s eyes screamed out for her to put bullet between them, but first she needed to know where Karen kept halberd.

“I wish to obtain long ranged, bladed weapon.”

At this, Mischa noticed Karen’s eyes ever so slightly brighten and lift. Clearly, first half of store’s namesake hadn’t been much adored by consumer base.

“Oh? Are you part of a film crew?” she asked. “What kind of movie are you filming? Looks like it’s medieval, judging by your looks. Where’d you get those prop daggers? Those don’t look like they came from me. What kind of blade are you looking for?”

Mischa, in her infinite wisdom, decided only to answer last question.

“A halberd suits my needs. If you have selection, I shall determine which can withstand my might.”

“Oh, you’re one of those method actors, aren’t you? That must be so hard to do. A halberd, you say? Yes, yes, come this way.”

Karen power-walked her way to opposite side of building, away from tantalizing smells of barbequed brisket. Mischa followed. They arrived at antiques portion of building. Quaint. Mischa allowed her eyes to scan arrangement of various weapons hung with care along walls. Most of them of very poor quality. That, Mischa could tell just from eyeballing them. Thin layer of dust coating all weapons didn’t dissuade from prognosis. None of these would be fit for battle, but it’ll have to do for her purposes. She spotted halberd hanging in corner. She strutted over.

“Yes, she’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Karen cooed. “I won her in a bidding war in Australia, and I just knew that I had to have her brought to my store.”

Mischa ran calloused hand across shaft. Even wood felt more varnish than mass.

“She has seen better days,” she said bluntly, trying to be as courteous to haggard woman as she can.

“Oh, she might not be battle ready, but she’ll look pretty in front of the camera!” Karen offered.

Mischa knew sight of exotic weapon was just as much weapon against prey as blades themselves. Still, her reputation would suffer greatly if people thought she was armed with plastic toys. Thankfully, she wasn’t little girl playing with little toys anymore.

Mischa peered closer at halberd. She studied curvature of beak, thickness of blade, if socket appeared too worn out.

“We offer same day delivery,” piped up Karen. The woman stank of someone desperate for sale. Mischa, however, was satisfied with purchase.

“This will do,” she stated, hoisting halberd off hinges.

Karen made move to stop her, perhaps in effort to protect merchandize still legally hers, but stopped when she saw Mischa handle weapon with dexterity of someone with years of specialized training.

“And will you be paying with check or card?”

Mischa knew of this test. It had been presented to her many times in past. Through trial and error, she solved riddle.

“He will take care of it,” she answered.

There was brief pause.

“He? Oh, you mean the producer! Yes, I suppose it was silly of me to think an actor would have to pay for their own props.”

She had passed test.

“So if you’ll just give me the halberd,” she continued, holding out hands, “I can wrap that up and put in the order to have it delivered to your set.”

Mischa gripped shaft harder. She was done with lady. Karen wasn’t target associate, though, so she couldn’t just dispose of lady as she pleased. Fortunately, Mischa was quick-witted.

“Producer will be by later. I take this now. I need to practice, break it in for…scenes.”

It was clear Karen wasn’t too happy about arrangement, but also clear she really wanted to justify this part of business model with sale. The idea of one of her items being used in movie probably also helped.

“O-okay then! Is there anything else that caught your eye?”

Mischa supposed she could use small armory to intimidate prey, but time it would take to transport all weapons to safehouse would leave no time remaining to hunt prey.

“Perhaps later. For reshoots.”

Karen seemed delighted at idea of steady, high-profile customer.

“Of course, of course! Just let me know if you need anything. I’ll even let you reserve items in advance!”

Mischa decided that ending Karen would be kinder fate, but alas, she was on clock, and superiors would look down on her for causing unwanted attention. And disapproving superior meant cement shoes. Pity for poor Karen. Mischa exited Karen’s Antiquities and BBQ with new weapon.

The girl later known as Mischa was now eleven. It was her birthday today. Mother and Father were there, and so was Grandmother and Grandfather and all local uncles and aunts and cousins. It was harsh, cold day, as all were in Russia. All of family gathered into home, where fire was lit and borscht never ran scarce. Raucous laughter could be heard from all nine corners of house.

“It’s so sad that a birthday, can only happen once a year,” they all sing.

Mischa thought hard about birthday wish as parents pulled on her ears eleven times. She was already tall, but she needed to be taller. Much taller. Tall enough to protect whole family, if needed. Eight tugs. Nine tugs. Ten…

The door slammed open, bringing in chill from outside, along with unwanted guests. Despicable men raised guns and started firing indiscriminately. Shrieks and screams bled into walls. Mischa hid under table. All that training, and still she was as frozen as lake outside. Her faithful Ruger was carelessly left in bedroom, too far away to be of any use to her now.

Family not immediately killed started rushing gunsmen. Fists and daggers started flying; unfortunately, whoever sent mob wouldn’t have sent if they didn’t know how to throw punch. For brief moment, gunfire stopped.

Mischa seized opportunity to run to nearby wall, where family halberd was hung with care. She lifted it off hooks and turned around. She saw Mother being thrown to ground. Savage man drew rifle and cocked it. Mischa flew like majestic double-headed eagle.

Yes, this weapon would do nicely. Now better prepared for fight, she could move on to next step in plan: obtaining information about prey. The kinds of people she hunted, they tend to be affiliated with shadier people on street. Bars, alleys, seemingly abandoned buildings, all ripe with rotten people, all potential targets for future jobs. And rotten people have rotten loyalty. Pay them shiny enough coin and they’ll squeal like pigs.

Mischa found herself in darkened alleyway. A wrecked woman smoking gas station cigarette loitered. Woman did not seem startled at Mischa’s hulking appearance. She was either brave or defeated, Mischa thought.

“I am looking for a smelly manchild,” Mischa asked.

“Heh…lady, you’re gonna hafta be way more specific than that.”

Ah, so this was exceptionally smart target superiors had ordered her to deal with. The ability to blend in with background has always been trait she wished to possess. But her big frame and unwillingness to go anywhere without assortment of weapons prevented her from having that.

Displeased, Mischa stomped off elsewhere.

Eventually, she found herself at seedy bar of ill repute. At least, she was told to stay away from bar by well-meaning bystander, which meant it was next destination. She strutted inside. All eyes landed on her. But in Mother Russia, all her eyes landed on them.

That one. That one looked like squealer. She marched over to where cowardly man sat. His compatriot stood, apparently intent on taking on woman holding halberd and sporting at least five other kinds of weapons strapped on her. He whipped out small gun. She sliced off his hand. He screamed. The squealer screamed. Patrons screamed. Ice cream. They did not have it so much in motherland. Too cold. Father loved crème brûlée flavored ice cream, but she was always partial to black cherry.

The squealer backed up in his chair until he almost fell backwards. No one in bar made motion to help. Not their problem. Mischa walked over, ignoring partner that was bleeding out, and grabbed man by collar.

“Let us chat,” she growled.

She hoisted him up and removed both of them from bar, relocating to alleyway behind. She threw him down like Americans threw down Putin’s generous offer of leadership. She positioned herself so that man knew there was no running from her.

“Tell me where smelly manchild is,” she commanded.

The man was panting for his life.

“W-who?!”

She did not have time for this.

“He is big and fat and stupid,” she clarified.

“T-that doesn’t help me out any!”

So he was playing dumb American, was he?

“Smelly manchild is old, surrounded by beautiful women he did not earn, and currently running cocaine trade with popular American condiment.”

“J-Jacques?” the squealer squealed, before eyes flittered open and hand raised to mouth, realizing he said something he should not have.

“Yes,” she replied coldly. “Smelly manchild had ridiculous foreign name. Where is he?”

To make point, she gripped halberd harder and twirled it around before aiming point mere inches away from man’s face. Of course, in real combat, such unnecessary twirling would result in fatal wound dealt by enemy, but this squealer was far from being considered threat.

“He said that he was going to be down by the Lake Michigan docks tonight! That’s all I know! I swear!” shrieked little man.

This was good. She still had time to stalk place out. Make it her own. But now, what to do with squealer? Reward him as squealer deserves? Eliminate all witnesses to mission? Let him breathe so that he may squeal for her again? Her superiors are fickle when it comes to such small matters. Her actions will determine for how long they see her as an asset.

“The Morozov family thanks you for your service,” she says.

Then she slammed halberd into man’s chest. His screams were but short notes in a symphony not yet concluded. Not for her.

Morozovs were always a superstitious and cowardly lot.

‘Never light the way to the family,’ they’d say. ‘But always snuff out the light and let loose the roar of the Morozovs.’

Never tell anyone where they were, but also make sure everyone knew it was they who made all the power moves. A cheap tactic. An amateur tactic. But pay was good, and prey occasionally challenging. Would Jacques be challenging?

Mischa made way to docks.

“She will be as essential as your beating heart,” Father said.

The girl later known as Mischa was nineteen. Father was standing before Morozov family. Mother was beside him. They were in Morozov family-run restaurant. It was late at night. The patrons had left. Mischa stood off to one side, stiff, unmoving, like cattle to be sold. It would be great honor to be sold to Morozovs for labor. The honor it would bring to family name.

“She is but a child,” said the pakhan, dismissively.

He waved her away, but Father was insistent.

“She has been training since she was child. She learned to shoot before she learned alphabet.”

“So she is stupid.”

“She has already mastered four languages.”

“Any child could master four languages at such a young age.”

“But could they have also mastered art of blade, of bow, gun, and martial arts?”

“Could those children have also fought off armed men when they invaded their family home?” chimed in Mother. “At such a young age?”

The pakhan was still hesitant.

“It is a risky investment, pouring my resources into such a fragile thing as a small girl,” he concluded.

“She is no small girl,” Father said. “She is living weapon. A trained killer.”

Various Morozov family members started coughing violently, along with guards stationed in room. They foamed at mouths and, one by one, dropped dead.

The pakhan, bewildered, looked straight at Mischa.

“They were embezzling you, so I poisoned their soup last night,” she stated plainly.

She said nothing more, as there was nothing more to be said. Though her parents wouldn’t show it, they were very proud of her.

“So,” Father said, “do we have agreement?”

Mischa looked down at body. She had bulked up since then.

After a spell, she had thoroughly surveyed docks. She knew ways in and out, where blind spots were, where to hide bodies, and how far someone could scream without being heard. With that, she sat, hidden amongst storage crates.

The moon eventually hung high in sky. Docks empty. Then, a big, fat, stupid, smelly manchild with pumpkin orange scarf started waltzing down pier. He was supposedly awaiting payment for job well done. He did not know how badly he messed up.

Mischa stepped out of shadows, revealing herself to him. He screamed an undignified profanity before running away. Too far to reach with halberd, but it was never about using weapon. It had done its job, terrifying man with possibilities. She took out trusty Smith & Wesson, took aim, and fired round into Jacques’ leg. Morozov family wanted him alive.

“Crazy bitch!” he cried out.

He hobbled few more feet before collapsing. She sauntered her way toward him.

“A message must be sent,” she said. It was customary to announce to prey slated to be caught and released exactly why they were being hunted.

“I-I-I don’t even know what I did wrong!” he replied, his hands raised as if meant to protect him from harm.

“To atone for one’s mistake, one must acknowledge one has made mistake,” she said. She was feeling rather generous in granting him benefit of doubt. Perhaps obtaining halberd had put her in good mood. “You, smelly manchild, have made grave mistake with previous employer. The shipment, yes? You did not send shipment to where it was supposed to go.”

“Th-the ketchup?” he stammered.

So he did know his situation. Good. She was not so generous as to play along with “dumb American” act.

“Yes, ketchup laced with opium you were supposed to ship to Russia. You ship instead to China. This makes Morozov family very angry. They send me to send you a message.”

Mischa reached into one of utility belts and brandished pair of fist cuffs. Their freshly cleaned polish belied their long, violent history.

“They tell me to ‘deal with smelly manchild.’ I say okay. You get wonderful deal, manchild. Fifty percent off. I only break fifty percent of your bones.”

A generous deal, indeed.

“No! No!!!”

She struck with deadly precision. Did she know beforehand which bones to break and which to leave intact? No, she did not. She wanted to derive some enjoyment in thrill of learning which bones would break first, and work from there. Jaw, finger, forearm, rib, leg…all potential candidates. One day, perhaps she would break only bones on left half of body. It would be likened to art. This body, though, did not warrant such beautiful art to be laid upon it. Instead, it would be messy.

Finally, she was done. The man had stopped screaming long time ago. His body gone limp. No hero or self-conscious anti-villain came to help. She stood up. Some early morning joggers would find body. He would live. He would learn. If not, she would see him again.

Her burner phone buzzed. She answered.

“Is it done?” said voice on line.

“Yes.”

“Await further instructions.”

The call ended. She threw phone into lake.

Where would she go next? Was there more business in Chicago, or would she leave country again? It was not hers to say. But perhaps, until that time comes, she could reward herself with pierogi. She merely only had to ask around for lead.