Twice As Nice
Byron Black checked that his H&K USP was properly loaded, a round in the chamber, before taking his MP3 player out of the front pocket of his dark gray waistcoat and holding down the button in the middle, the black screen blinking to life. He’d need music to help him find his groove in things.
Rockwell Haywood adjusted his cap, brushing his shaggy blonde hair out of his eyes, and then set down the large black dufflebag the two had brought with them. Unzipping it, he lifted the heavy piece of gas operated machinery from within. Usually the two weren’t for anything extravagant, and Rockwell was used to using his bare hands in their work, but Byron had insisted they try something new. “Variety is the spice of life,” is what he always said. Another saying read in a book or a magazine the young killer saw fit to regurgitate at any opportunity.
“Sorry Hall and Oates, no can do, this time. What do you think, Rocky? Heart? Devo?” Byron mused aloud, using his thumb to browse through his list of available music.
“Mm. Faster paced, maybe,” Rockwell offered, unfamiliar with what he was holding, looking it over and making sure all he had to do was pull to get it to come to life.
“Gotcha, gotcha. Maybe some Daft Punk? LCD Soundsystem? Oh, no no, I’ve got it, Goldfrapp is the order of the day. Allison is my lady,” Byron said, grinning and getting the song ready, not playing it yet. “Alright, Rocky, we’ve got, I dunno, a couple minutes before these idiots decide to ditch the elevator way and use the stairs? Should be more than enough to clear the floor and take out the suit. Hey hey, closed casket funerals all around, alright? I didn’t spring for that thing so that you could cut em up neat. Make it hurt. Now, let’s get into character.”
Byron made sure his earbuds were securely in-ear before hitting play and retrieving his gas mask from the bag and putting it on, helping Rockwell affix and loosen his as well, the massive man barely fitting into the mask. He then prepared the first cannister of tear gas, attaching another to the back of his dark gray slacks. Rockwell pulled the panel of the elevator free and yanked on some wires, making the compartment nearly pitch black. The hissing of escaping gas and the gentle hum of the lift was the only noise between the two.
Bodyguards flooded the hall outside The Chairman’s office, some ready with firearms, others ready with bats and pipes, ready to quell the rabble that had blown through the lobby security. More men were on the way. All they had to do was protect their Chairman, the one keeping order, and the ones no doubt coming to kill him would be stopped. The Elevator dinged, and they readied, but were greeted only with a cloud of gray smoke, causing some in the front to choke and move backwards. Then, the roaring began. A chainsaw. A man almost twice as tall as any of the armed security charged out of the smoke, wearing a gasmask with lenses that reflected their last horrified moments as he cleaved men in two with a single swipe, their intestines and blood spilling out like confetti. A second came from the smoke, pistol readied, gunning down ranged threats before they could do too much damage, the massive brute able to shake off the few bullets that had struck true and made him bleed.
Each time more melee suited guards stepped forward, or tried to flee, Rockwell Haywood charged and carved them to pieces. Each time there was the show of a firearm, Byron Black moved around his friend, or even over him, to fire. The two were perfectly in sync, as if part of one individual, each suited for their own task, dispatching their enemies quickly and brutally, Rockwell occasionally stopping to make sure a corpse was appropriate gored. “Closed casket funerals,” Byron had said. This was a piece of advice he had most certainly not picked up from a magazine, or book.
The Chairman was a leader. A man of vision. A man who had decided to unite organized crime in a manner of unstable alliance. Had it broken? Had one of the many factions inside the walls of Las Vegas conspired against him? Someone seeking to replace him as Chairman? It wouldn’t be hard. The Chairman had no name. No face. At least, not as far as the others were concerned. Perhaps it was time he was replaced, he thought. Retirement wasn’t supposed to have this many screams.
“Are we going to be safe, in here?” The man he was meeting with asked, shifting nervously in his chair.
“We should be. Those doors are reinforced, and triple locked. They won’t break through before more men arrive. There’s nothing to worry about,” the Chairman said.
A meeting for medicine. Pharmaceuticals. The Chairman didn’t like to deal with those outside Las Vegas’ walls, preferring to keep all necessary operations inside the city, but his people were dying. The constant raids from Rome were taking their toll. Famine, death. It was war, and it seemed the path of isolation was contributing to their defeat.
Rome.
It occurred to the Chairman all too late.
Rockwell Haywood only needed to get a running start to knock the double doors down, startling the two, the man meeting with the Chairman scrambling from his seat to get out of the way of the assassins. Byron Black stepped forward, Rockwell silencing his bloodied chainsaw in order for his partner to deliver the pre-mortem one-liner.
Byron said something and aimed his pistol, but sighed when he realized the Chairman couldn’t hear him through the gas mask. He took off the mask, smoothing out his brunette hair and making sure he looked immaculate, as always.
“Listen, it’s… I was asked to say this, so don’t go thinking I came up with this material on my own,” Byron said, firing twice to shatter one of the many windows letting in the hot southwestern sun. “Caesar sends his regards. He only wishes you could live long enough to watch your city burn.”
Rockwell got in front of Byron so that he could toss the large desk to the side, Byron taking the lead once more in order to kick the Chairman in the chest, sending his chair wheeling backwards, and out the window. Both of the assassins approached the wall of windows, making sure their target hit the ground in a bloody splat, Byron nodding in approval.
“I guess it wasn’t that bad of a line, but still, I hate it when they write material for us. Who cares who did him in? He’s dead, and everyone who would have heard the line is dead too,” he said, sighing.
Rockwell tapped his friend on the shoulder and motioned to the terrified businessman in the corner.
“Oh, perfect. Guess it wasn’t a total waste. Hey, I know you, don’t I? Maybe not. Say, today’s your lucky day. I hate not getting publicity out of these kinds of jobs. Kind of a pain to get the name around when you kill everyone on the job, you know? Ah, he knows what I mean. Here, take a card. Hunters for Hire, at your service. I’m Byron Black, he’s Rockwell Haywood,” Byron explained, pausing so that Rockwell could wave with the hand that wasn’t holding the chainsaw.
He fished around in his pockets, taking his earbuds out and stopping the song that had started playing next, and then handed the trembling man a business card with the pertinent information on it.
“You ever need someone found, or worse, you call us. Best in the business, ask anyone. Well, preferably the people we haven’t killed. Dead man tells no tales, right?” Byron said, grinning and shrugging before taking his leave, strolling through the carnage as if nothing were amiss.
“Say, we should grab a bite before we leave town, I’m starved,” he said to his large friend.
“Mmm,” Rockwell agreed, crushing a body underfoot as the two reached the stairs, readying their weapons once more for the trip back down to the lobby.