El Caravaggio was an old friend of DeShawn, loyal only to him and no one else. Rickard had not come across him in the files assigned to him, but Marlon had told him about the man once they were inside his home. El Caravaggio had been a mob doctor from New Orleans, back when it had been profitable to be involved with the Italian mafia. But when the new boss came into power, everyone loyal to the old bosses had been scrapped off the list. DeShawn had been young and impulsive at the time, just like his brother, but saving El Caravaggio's life was a wise choice. One which seemed of much importance even more now.
Rickard sat on the old worn out leather couch, together with Marlon and Bo. They were in a dimly lit room, cluttered with brown paper, the kind that you'd wrap fresh produce with, while Caravaggio fixed DeShawn up in an adjacent room. A single light shone over both of them, unlike the one DeShawn had been carried into. The air smelled of sterility, alcohol and burnt things. El Caravaggio lived in a spacious suburban house, but it looked nothing like it.
"Marlon", Rickard said, trying to alleviate the tension. "It's going to be alright."
Marlon didn't even look at him. Slowly, words came out of his mouth, almost robotic. "Rickard. I know you mean well. But I think silence would be better."
Rickard couldn't take it anymore. He wanted to go home again, and just sleep. He got up and began pacing the room. Yeah, DeShawn will survive. I don't know if I will.
Suddenly El Caravaggio came out of the adjacent room. He wore a doctor's scrubs, bloodied around the edges. Underneath, was a blue linen shirt, with gloves coverered up to his wrists, ending at the plastic tips of the scrubs around his wrists. He removed both his gloves in a methodical way, then took off his mask with the little finger of his left hand. Rickard swore he saw a glint of gold up his sleeve. All of them stood up to listen to what he had to say.
"Well, well. He's going to be okay. His ribs are broken, multiple lacerations to the torso and liver's damaged as hell. The bullets must remain inside, there's no infection. Whoever drove him here did a good job."
Marlon and Bo looked at each other, then Marlon let out a chuckle. "I knew about the liver. Motherfucker had more alcohol in his veins than blood." Marlon looked like a burden was lifted off of him.
"How much, doctor?", Bo decided to cut to the chase.
"Don't worry about it, Rimes and I have a special kind of deal between us."
"And how much time till he gets back on his feet?", Rickard asked.
"About a month till he's fully healed. But he'll be back up in, say, three days", the doctor said as he went towards the room where DeShawn was and opened the door. "But I think you'll find him just okay for now."
The three of them went inside. Rickard smelt singed hair in the room. Cauterization, no doubt about it. DeShawn lay on a sturdy metal platform, wearing nothing but a yellow plastic wrap around his waist, his bloodied rags tossed in a dirty bin in a corner of the room. The smell of alcohol was on him, the kind you drunk, and also the kind you used to sterilize raw flesh.
"Holy shit, y'all okay?", DeShawn was, surprisingly, conscious after that ordeal.
"We?", Marlon said, "Oh no, no, no. We're okay. But I don't think so about the dumbass who just got shot while he was chilling in the car."
DeShawn chuckled. Marlon did the same. Rickard went over to the other side to take a closer look at his wounds.
"Man, don't worry about me", DeShawn said when he caught Rickard looking at his wounds. "Stop staring at a homie while he laying near naked." Bo was trying to stifle a laugh. DeShawn turned to look at him. "That's what Bo does." Bo's expression turned into a poker face.
Just then Marlon's phone rang. "It's House. Lemme take this." He strolled out of the room. Bo followed suit.
"Come on, Rick. Let the man take a nap." Bo called out to him as he went outside the room. Rickard turned and began to walk but DeShawn's voice caught him by surprise.
"Rickard", DeShawn called out suddenly, the seriousness booming in his voice. Bo stopped in his tracks to hear what he had to say.
"Yeah, boss?", Rickard answered.
"Good job out there. Marlon won't admit it, but you're starting to feel like one of us. For a mercenary, you're quite adept at what you do. Thank you for your loyalty."
"And thank you for giving me a chance. Listen-", Rickard thought how he wanted to say this. "I wanted to ask you something."
"Go on, I won't bite."
"What happened to the reinforcements your brother promised us?"
"So Marlon told you all about him, huh? Well I guess he's earned his reputation for it now."
"Don't you think it's suspicious that they arrived, what, an hour late than when they were supposed to?"
"I trust Griffin, he would never turn on me."
"Okay. Sorry for pressing this onto you, boss."
"Yeah", DeShawn smiled weakly. El Caravaggio arrived into the room, a vial in his hand. Rickard turned to leave.
Bo turned towards Rickard. "I'm thirsty. You want a water?"
"Sure." You are always thirsty.
Bo went into the kitchen, Rickard followed him. He took out a bottle of cold water from the cooler and handed it over. He took a beer for himself.
"Look, I know you mean well, but you're still a newbie to us, okay? He'll entertain your questions, but the others, oh they won't." Bo said as he gulped down his drink.
Rickard took a swig of the crisp, cold water in his hand. He paused for a moment. "Trust me, I am already regretting asking him. Let's just find Marlon."
Bo and Rickard arrived into the passage, the one with the dirty couch, but Marlon wasn't there. They found him sitting on the stairs leading to the main entrance to the house.
"What did House want this time?", Bo asked as he leaned in onto the stairs.
Marlon looked up. "He's sending a car. He wants to meet us, as soon as possible. Uncle Lou never sends his men unless it's something big."
"What do you mean? What's happening?"
"He insisted on telling us in person."
Rickard's phone buzzed with a text alert. Not knowing who it was from, he went over to a secluded corner of the room, while Bo and Marlon went over what they should do next. Rickard couldn't be bothered. He unlocked the phone and checked the text. It was from Bradley. The texts kept on coming. Richard read them one by one.
Ricky
I'm gonna be quick wit dis
Intel has found out that the current leader of the East is dead
That's DeShawn
Intel has also found out that his brother is gathering a host of DeShawn's crew leaders to hunt down the Chinese
Stay sharp
When Bradley was sure that Rickard had read all his messages, he deleted his texts and cleared the chat. Rickard did the same, but not before sending out a message of his own.
DeShawn ain't dead yet. Who's your informant?
Bradley responded with a single message that made Rickard skip a beat.
He's a high ranking triad
One by one, both of them deleted their messages and cleared their chats. However, Rickard's was spinning. A triad informant? And a high ranking one at that. The world was not so simple anymore. Should I have given the data about DeShawn to Bradley? After all, every one had their own interests at heart. What could stop this informant of Bradley's to smoke out all of the remaining loyalists, the ones who had not turned to Griffin? Nothing. That's what. Rickard wasn't sure whom to trust anymore.
Suddenly, the ringing of the doorbell startled him. Marlon went to open the door, but the locks wouldn't budge. Eventually, El Caravaggio himself came out. He pulled out a card out of the left pocket of his pants and swiped at a seemingly inconspicuous card reader. A beep was sounded, and then he unlocked the door, one lock at a time, and by hand and swung it open.
"Scared of the girl scouts?", Marlon said and walked out of the doctor's home.
There was nobody waiting for them outside. Instead, a black sedan was parked ominously outside the lawn, its engine still running. Marlon went over and opened one of its doors and promptly sat inside. Bo and Marlon followed suit.
Once inside, Rickard couldn't not help but notice that the car was too bare for comfort. The guards didn't say a single word, there were no accessories to the car's credit, even the seats and dashboard was designed to be as bland as possible, a useful thing to not get stopped by the cops. Cold and functional. Just like House.
- - -
In an hour an a half, the car arrived at a mansion perched on a cliffside, overlooking the Miami sea. Rickard struggled to make out the sheer scale of the cliff, but he noticed that there was only one way in - through the winding road running through the thicket surrounding the road. There were steel railings and guards posted on either side of the road - House was a careful man.
They arrived at the cliffside estate, a mansion which towered over them. The car stopped in front of a pair of tall doors, with set of stairs leading to them. They got out of the car, and no longer had they stepped on the stairs than the doors opened. A butler in a three piece suit stood up to meet them. He gestured over to them to follow him, and then turned around and promptly began walking at a brisk pace.
Rickard took a moment to take in the interior of House's home. The mansion had three floors, a set of stairs leading from where they stood up to the second floor, and then around these were another set of stairs which led up to the third floor. There were glass chandeliers and marble pillars and some things that even Rickard didn't know. The butler stopped before another massive door on the third floor, and turned around to meet them.
"Before you go in, I will have to respectfully ask you to relinquish any weapons you might have on yourself."
Marlon was the first to take out his Uzi and drop it to the ground. Rickard did the same but handed his gun over to the butler, while Bo placed his Magnum on the table beside the door. Before the butler could say anything, Marlon strolled over and opened the door. He walked in and Bo went with him. Rickard took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the bright lights within and did the same.
Louis House was sitting at the end of a long table with Courtney at his side. Both of them wore matching black suits. A very frustrated looking Vel, wearing a white suit in top of a gray dress shirt, was standing beside him on his right, towering over Courtney. On his left was a man Rickard hadn't seen before. He sported a full beard and was dressed in a tan leather jacket and wore matching leather gloves, very unlike the others. When they walked in, all the eyes went towards them, a thing which made Rickard uneasy.
"Mr. House." Marlon was in no mood to waste time, and called for House's complete attention.
"You three." Uncle Lou was visibly irritated, but whether it was due to the Chinese, or the fiasco at the mall, or Griffin, Rickard did not know. "You've been a pain in my ass. But what can I do, after all, you do whatever DeShawn tells you to. But this event was a failure, don't you agree?" He paused. The rest of them didn't say a word.
"Yes", Marlon answered.
"And why was it so?"
"Griffin played us. The reinforcements arrived an hour late, despite the time of arrival being the same as us. They were supposed to be our cover. They are the ones to blame."
"Interesting. First Raoul, and then this. Bad luck follows you around, or so it seems. But Griffin told me something else. He told me that DeShawn changed the time at the last moment. And so they weren't ready when you said they were supposed to be. He also told me that you three were untrustworthy."
"With all due respect, Mr. House, you can ask Vel, he was there when this was planned. And I don't think DeShawn plays around with all this. He thinks it a serious matter, unlike his brother. Where is he, by the way?"
Vel spoke up. "He's telling the truth. Besides there's no profit in doing what Griffin told us. DeShawn cared about all this. Look who's profiting now."
"First of all, who the fuck is this guy", the man in the leather jacket said while pointing at Rickard. "You let a newbie come before us?", He spat at Marlon.
"Oh Rourke, shut up for a moment", Vel spat back.
House tapped the table with his fingers. "Enough." He turned towards Vel. "Your run with Rourke was a success. Don't let it cloud your judgement." He finally turned towards the three of them and looked them in the eye, each of them. Rickard looked back at him. House's eyes sparkled with rage. Rickard felt his eyes burning. A minute passed, but for Rickard, it was like an hour.
Finally, House spoke up. "Let me tell you what Griffin is up to. He wants to 'avenge' his brother, despite what Marlon told us about DeShawn being safe and whatnot. He's gathering a host, his own army. Once he attacks, do you know what will happen? War. This city was already resting atop a fragile base, what with the Irish coming in and whatnot. And this boy, who wants to play at war, thinks he can end this conflict with a simple pull of his finger. War would bleed us dry."
"It's the last thing we want", Vel said.
"Yes. And you know the one thing that doesn't make any sense? The Chinese have denied all responsibility, which, is you know so, is very unlike them. And they wouldn't even dare to do something like this, unless there was heavy backing, which there is not. My sources have been very thorough. So either it's that someone is acting independently or this city has gotten crazier."
"I couldn't agree more", Rickard spoke up for the first time.
"Hey! You can't speak!", Rourke spat. "Man, I swear you're gonna get jumped with that attitude. Newbies never speak unless spoken to, newbie."
"Relax", House said to him. "Besides he is of great use to us. Don't you agree?"
Rickard was confused. "What do you mean?"
"You were a mercenary. You were a gun runner. You sold to the whole city, right? You had contacts. And I just needed one."
"What do you mean, Mr. House?"
"You'll see." He turned to face the butler, who was standing right at his back, unbeknownst to them. Rickard took a quick look at him and couldn't decide whether he was present for the whole thing or just decided to come sneaking in stealthily. "Bring Mr. Wolfe in."
Mr. Wolfe? Rickard didn't know who it was. He turned to look at the butler, who went out of the room.
"I think it's time you guys meet for once. I hear you're already acquainted with him. Or you were."
Rickard tapped his foot against the floor impatiently. Was House playing one of his mind games on him?
"Oh, and by the way, this is Rourke." House said, gesturing towards him. "He rules the East together with DeShawn, or rather used to, since now his brother is in power. He is the one you need to thank for getting your friend back in shape."
Friend. A single name crept into Rickard's mind. Bradley. Had they found out the truth about him? It wouldn't be, for he was still alive and standing. If they had found out who he really was, even a friend like Bo would have executed him without a second thought.
The butler returned. He stood outside the room and gave a quick bow to signify the errand had been completed, and then promptly took his leave. But Rickard heard another set of footsteps approaching, along with rhythmic metallic taps. A man with short auburn hair and a beard full beard to match came limping into the room, his walking assisted with the help of a cane.
Greco. There was only one thought that came into Rickard's mind now, a word that described Greco perfectly. Motherfucker. He had made sure that he couldn't walk again, courtesy of Greco's own lead, and wanted nothing more to do with him. But fate had a different idea in mind. Maybe House had the same.
Greco came in and sat down in a chair. "Hello, Rickard. Fancy seeing you again."
"What the fuck are you doing here?", Rickard wanted nothing more but to punch his perfect teeth into oblivion. He had betrayed his own team after all.
"Taking in the spoils of war, it seems. Oh and this- ", he said while looking over to the cane in his hand, "I have to thank you for this. Your shit at the den made them cut my leg off. But I guess now I can kick you with a metal leg of my own, so there's that." He grinned.
"Glad to see you reminisce, but I think we have matters to attend to. And Greco's specially asked for you, Rickard", House spoke.
Well then. It seems I am at an impasse. Rickard could do nothing but nod, at the notion of them working together. Griffin had united them both, again. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. But who were his enemies? The Hounds? Greco? Griffin? Rickard didn't know. And he certainly didn't care.