Once Dead: Chapter 6
Vladimir ‘Vlad’ Roskov had little tolerance for failure. Little as in none. As he stared at the big man strapped to the chair in the center of the warehouse, anger pulsed through the veins that lined the sides of his forehead, making them writhe like tiny purple snakes. Normally he left failure’s punishment to his lieutenants, but not today. Today he would make a very public example of what lay in store for one of his people should they choose to violate his specific orders and go off mission.
To his right, Gregor Lins angled his video camera to frame the scene to max effect, so that the glare from the high windows lining the west wall provided optimal lighting. Most of the time, cellphone video was good enough, but not today. Today Vlad wanted the video quality only an expensive camera could provide.
When Vlad shoved the Sig Sauer’s muzzle into Klaus Diebert’s mouth, the man’s pleading came to a gagging end, his eyes rolling in wild terror. Grabbing a handful of Klaus’s blond hair, Vlad turned his head to the right, facing directly toward the camera, twisted the Sig, and pulled the trigger. The bullet carried several teeth and part of Klaus’s jawbone out through the ragged hole in his left cheek, spraying blood in an arc that would look spectacular on the internet. Klaus’s screams mingled with the gunshot’s dying echo to add just the right acoustic touch.
Releasing his hold on Klaus’s hair, Vlad stepped back to admire his handiwork. To his credit, unlike many others who had been the subject of Vladimir Roskov’s art, Klaus didn’t pass out. That was good. Maybe they could get through this in one clean take, instead of having to pause every few minutes to revive his star performer.
Due to the bullet taking a large part of Klaus’s tongue out through his cheek, the man’s noises had devolved into a gargling, bestial keening. Setting the Sig on the metal table to his rear, Klaus picked up the five pound, ball peen hammer and turned back toward the man whose face had become a horrible parody of an evil clown’s.
Placing a hand on Klaus’s head, Vlad stared into the gargling man’s eyes, before dropping to a knee to remove Klaus’s shoes and socks. Then, with the grace of a London Symphony Orchestra conductor alerting his musicians, he raised the hammer above his head. Whereas the opening act had been strictly for show, the main act was all about the sound.
By the time the video recording stopped, the sun had sunk below the horizon, sunset’s red glow bathing the scene in a fitting, bloody light. Vladimir laid the slippery hammer back on the table, stripped off his clothes and walked across the concrete floor to the industrial shower on the north wall, feeling the satisfaction that only a good day’s work could bring. Without waiting for the water to warm up, Vlad stepped beneath the sprinkler showerhead, grabbed the half-used yellow soap bar and lathered up, letting the red swirls carry the blood and flesh globules away from his body and down the drain.
When he stepped out to take the towel Gregor held for him, he took his time, making sure his body and hair were completely dry before putting on the new Armani suit that hung from a rack along the near wall. By the time he stepped out of the warehouse and into the black Mercedes, he looked like he’d just walked out of the Berlin Opera.
He had no worries. With Gregor directing the cleanup team, the warehouse would soon be returned to its normal state. Vlad took the camera from Gregor’s outstretched hand and, with the push of a button, raised the rear window. Then with a one handed signal to his driver, he launched the powerful automobile into the night.
