Karta Stryker

Chapter 1: Between a Rock and a Hard Place

I knock on the door of a private pub, the peeking hole quickly opening in reply. The scummy, stoned eyes of the bartender stared right into mine. The scent of American whiskies came crashing out of the hole, making me grin in response. I started thinking about whether I'd have scotch or bourbon, but then I remembered I don't have much in the way of dough. That's why I'm here of course, on an errand for business. Gotta take down some guy someone wants dead, then that's 10,000 dollars in my pocket, cash in hand. It'll cover bills for a fortnight, if I'm lucky.

"Oi, password or piss off." The man said, a gruff English accent almost as prominent as his alcohol-dressed breath.

I look up blankly as I try to remember what it was, as I wasn't given exclusive access to this place. I looked back down, scratching my head in confusion.

"Ah fuck..! Just had it in my head..."

"Fuck off, then." The man was about to close the panel to the peeking hole.

"Hey, hey! Give me a second, jeez."

The guy who hired me told me to make sure I remember 'triple S', but the words made no sense in context whatsoever. Then all of a sudden...

"Syndicate sells sockets?" I muttered indifferently.

There was a momentary mutter, as the bartender looked back, supposedly at the guy running the place. They exchange some words, and then the man looks back at me.

"Alright, come on in."

Shackles on the door were undone and granted me access to the pub. I shook my head at the bouncer, announcing my distaste for the password. I make my way over to the bar, immediately to grab a drink.

"I'll have your strongest scotch neat, thanks. I'm going to need it."

A man walked up behind me, and placed his hand on my shoulder.

"Something doesn't smell right about you. You smell... nice. And that makes me uncomfortable." The man had a Russian accent, and a sharp black goatee. His hair was gelled back, with a fine 'M' for his hair line. He wore a grey singlet under a leather motorcycle jacket, and a pair of blue jeans which had a chain coming from his left pocket to the top of his brown belt.

"Cologne does the trick, I think. You should try it." I said, looking over my shoulder.

The man continued to sit down next to me at the bar. He slid a bill of 10 dollars across the bench, smiling to the bartender.

"The usual, comrade. Oh, and by the way, the name is Vladimir." The man smiled as he switched his attention to me.

"Karta Stryker." I grinned.

"Well I'll be damned. You do exist. Your reputation precedes you and your work." Vladimir raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"My work, huh?" I took a sip of the beverage that the bartender just served.

The bartender shot a concerning glance towards Vladimir, who waved his hand as if to tell the worker over the counter to not worry.

"You're not on their paycheque currently, are you?"

"I work for many different clients. You gotta be more specific."

Vladimir lightly chuckled, not soon before he took a swig of his Russian-imported vodka, which had a much nicer aroma compared to your average hand sanitiser.

"I, of course, refer to the Apostate."

The name brought a sharp, stinging sense of anger to my mind, but I couldn't even begin to fathom why. I was familiar with the Apostate; a recently resurging ancient power that seems to manipulate all tides of war across the world. No country is safe from them and their influence. Haven't been strangers to well paying jobs, though.