Sinthetica (2 page)

Chicago, USA - November 11, 2029

1

Ivan Petrovic stared at the TV without really watching it. He had been dressed in his light cotton suit and tie since 7 am. Being up so early was a requirement of the job he had performed since his late twenties, and even though he was rarely called before 8 am, just occasionally Dimitri Molenski, his boss, surprised him by calling earlier.

Whether this was to catch him out or not, he wasn’t sure, but it was moot. Ivan had been ready for the call every time. He was diligent and disciplined when it came to his job and apart from his six weeks in hospital after the ambush, he had eaten and dressed before 7 am every single day of his long tenure as Dimitri Molenski’s personal bodyguard.

Ivan stood up and walked to the kitchenette of his suite. The sink was clean. Had he already washed up from his breakfast? If so he must have done it on autopilot. Then he remembered, yes, he had done it straight after he finished his coffee. He smiled. So forgetful of the little things. It was a consequence of his induced coma. As the doctors had told him during his rehabilitation, one simply could not recover from the trauma of multiple gunshot wounds and near death without some after effects.

Still, physically he was fully recovered and if anything, fitter and stronger than before. If a little forgetfulness was the price to pay for escaping death, he was more than willing to pay it. He went back into the living room and sat down in front of the blank television screen to await the call.

Ivan was a big man, tall and heavily muscled, but he moved with the grace of a big cat. His blond hair was shorn into a military cut, and his handsome Slavic face was serious most of the time. He had a year to run on this (his third) 5-year contract. This time, however, he wasn’t sure he could see it through to the end. It wasn’t the work itself. While it could be boring, there was nothing to complain about. He was earning a good salary, had a luxury suite in his employer’s mansion and got to see from the inside how a big, albeit only semi-legitimate, business operated.

No, it wasn’t boredom or job dissatisfaction that was sapping Ivan’s tolerance for the job, it was Molenski himself. Or more to the point, the things he did or had others do in his name. And it was getting worse.

He owed Molenski a lot. The man had taken him under his wing back in Russia when Ivan was only 15. He had given him a job and a roof over his head, before paying for Ivan’s passage to America three years later. The payback had been Ivan’s absolute loyalty through good times and bad, through gang wars and living the high life.

His near death experience had lent him some perspective, though. The bodyguard had seen and done many bad things in the service of Molenski, but in the last two years, he had seen more personal violence, bloodshed, and murder than ever before. More even than during than the five-year gang war upon which Molenski had built his empire.

It had actually been quiet the last few months, so much so that Ivan began to wonder if he should reconsider his plan. Perhaps the mob chief was finally beginning to mellow?

But no, the events of the night before confirmed that nothing had changed and that the fleeting, bloodless period of calm was about to come to a shuddering end.

This morning, Molenski would be talking to the man his security team had abducted the night before. If the Russian were true to form, it would end very badly for the man.

If there was one thing the bodyguard could use to ease his burden of guilt, it was the fact that Molenski was a very bad man doing very bad things to other very bad people. Most of the time.

Unfortunately, that didn’t negate the fact that over the years, each bullet, each scream, each drop of blood, had chipped away at Ivan’s resolve and loyalty to his boss. Like a tooth that had been eroded by overuse, he was almost down to the raw nerve and was less and less immune to the misery inflicted by and for the Russian.

Ivan kicked his thoughts around like a soccer center forward practicing for a big game. He knew it would be impossible to break his contract with Molenski without either killing him or running for his life. Both would be difficult, nigh impossible, given the resources at his employer’s disposal.

No, it was better to see his contract to its bitter end and take the large sum of money he had been saving all his working life. Easier to jet off somewhere to live by the beach and pay for some top notch counseling to try and erase the damage done by his service to the brutal mob boss.

Given his ruthlessness, Ivan should perhaps have been concerned about Molenski turning on him once the contract ended. He wasn’t. He had been around the Russian long enough to know that his warped moral code put business deals above all else. The contract between them was business and the Russian always honored those deals and expected the same of others. In fact, that was why the man currently sitting in the basement was in so much trouble.

The phone rang.

2

Ivan loosened his tie and collar. The heavy steam of the bathroom had dampened the material of his suit and, compounded by his boss’s cigar smoke, made it hard to breathe. He surreptitiously checked his watch. One hour and twenty-seven minutes had passed.

Surely he will be done soon.

There was a knock at the door. The big man jumped to his feet, his hand reflexively reaching underneath his sports jacket. He stepped lightly to the door, his hand on the handle of his gun.

Molenski, relaxing in his hot bath, didn’t move. He simply blew out a plume of cigar smoke and watched as it curled upwards, mingling and dissipating into the steam. To the casual observer, he may have appeared disengaged, perhaps more interested in his cigar smoke than the knock at the door. They would have been wrong.

Of course, given the fact that the estate was watched over by twelve armed guards, a sophisticated security system and was also under 24-hour remote surveillance, he could perhaps have afforded to be relaxed, but Dimitri Molenski was a man that never left anything to chance.

His hand moved imperceptibly closer to the folded towel on the arm rest of the tub, or more accurately, to the compact Ruger LC9 pistol under the towel.     

“Da?” Ivan called.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said a woman’s voice. Ivan relaxed. “I tried knocking at the bedroom door, but no one answered. It’s Marina; please let Mr. Molenski know that his… delivery has arrived.”

“Da, okay.”

Her footsteps retreated.

“Did you hear?” Ivan asked, his chiseled face neutral and hiding any curiosity he had about the delivery. 

“Dah,” said Molenski, waving his cigar and sending a sprinkle of ash onto the marble floor.

The bathwater lapped at the heavy silver cross resting against his tanned chest as he settled and took another drag of his Cuban.

It was
finally
here.
He felt a thrill of anticipation but didn’t allow it to manifest itself physically. Since his volatile, formative years in Russia, he had become a master of self-control. That was how he had become so successful, first in his hometown by taking out the leader of his gang, Marat, followed a few years later by wresting control of a major Moscow crime syndicate.

Every move was thought out. Nothing was done on impulse. Nothing left to chance.

Finally, when he arrived in Americ
a
at age 30, it was that famous self-control that had helped him take down the Italians, the Triads and the Croatians, seizing organized crime in Chicago by the balls and within ten years making the city his very own ‘Russian empire’.

No, as excited as he was by the arrival of the package, his gratification would have to wait. He had other business to attend to first. The cigar hissed as he extinguished it in the bathwater before letting it float away like a tiny, breached submarine.

Molenski clicked his fingers and began to rise. Ivan, who had only just sat back down, was back on his feet in an instant and reaching for his boss’s bathrobe. It didn’t pay to keep Molenski waiting. The mobster stood, dripping wet and unconcerned with modesty.

At 47 years of age, the Russian was in impressive shape, his frame spare but ropy with muscle. His deceptively pleasant face was relatively line-free and, partnered with his thick black hair, made him look younger than he was. 

Ivan led the way into the large bedroom. His boss followed, a comic yet sinister sight with his open bathrobe flapping and Ruger in hand. Minutes later, Molenski, darkly handsome in a black sweater and freshly pressed chinos, slipped on a new pair of Vans and tucked the Ruger into the back of his pants before turning to Ivan.

“Has he been softened up?”

“Dah, Boss. They kept him awake all night.”

“No one has touched him?”

“Nyet.”

“Good
.
Let’s go.”

On their way to what Molenski had dubbed the ‘Red Room’ in the sub-basement of the sprawling mansion, they stopped in the kitchen on the ground floor. There were two short blacks, freshly brewed waiting on the counter top. His 10 o’clock shots.

Ivan looked around for the cook Isabella, but she was nowhere to be seen. The mob boss downed the coffees, one after the other.

“Come.”

Molenski scorned the purpose built lift and ran lightly down the stairs, whistling as he went, his Vans silent on the marble steps. His bodyguard followed the bigger man just as light on his feet as his boss.

The long staircase was interrupted by a large landing on the basement level. Molenski had converted the whole level into his games rooms and a private cinema. They continued and arrived at the bottom, where a large double door opened onto the northeastern corner of the sub-basement.

The sub-basement level of the mansion was huge and ran the entire length and breadth of the big home’s footprint.

Entering, it looked much like an underground car park and, for the most part; that’s what it was. On the eastern side, or rear of the home were the cars of Molenski’s staff and security team. Opposite, along two-thirds of the western, or front wall, was his collection of rare and luxury vehicles, then a ramp that led up to the driveway.

On the far southern wall, opposite the opening they had just walked through was a guards quarters, the armory and the Red Room
.
The guards on duty were sitting in a circle playing cards and smoking. They stood up as Molenski approached, still whistling as he casually made his way across the expanse of polished concrete.

“It’s fine boys,” he said, good-naturedly. “Continue your game.”

The men slowly relaxed and sat back down.

Molenski’s target was the bright red door to the right of them. Ivan could almost detect a skip in his walk. Was it the anticipation of his appointment with the man in the Red Room, or the mysterious package?

As per the protocols he had established years ago, Molenski stopped before reaching the door and allowed Ivan to come forward. The mob boss hardly ever knocked or entered a door before Ivan. If there were to be a surprise attack, Ivan would bear the brunt of the assault, allowing Molenski valuable seconds to take action to protect himself or escape if need be.

The protocol had only been tested once, during the ambush at the hotel thirteen months before. It had worked as planned. While Ivan had almost been shot to death, and another guard killed, their misfortune had allowed Molenski and his lieutenant, time to take down the shooters,

Ivan knocked on the door. It was opened by a big man in a white, sleeveless undershirt and black pants. Andre, Molenski’s lieutenant.

Andre Chichenko was a scary looking customer. His heavyset frame, hairy apelike arms, and heavy brow gave him the appearance of being a few rungs back on the evolutionary ladder. But despite his Neanderthal-like appearance, he was intelligent, dangerous and quick.

He looked over Ivan’s shoulder and nodded to his boss before stepping back and allowing them to enter. Ivan allowed Molenski through and closed the door behind him.

3

In the center of the windowless room, facing away from the door, was a timber chair with a naked man tied to it. His head and shoulders were slumped. Another member of Molenski’s security team, a new guy called Marco, stood at the rear of the room, an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder. He was taller than Ivan, though not as well built.

“How is our guest doing?” asked Molenski, pleasantly.

“Tired and emotional,” Andre replied, smiling grimly.

“Excellent.”

Molenski walked to the center of the room and rounded the chair, looking down upon his captive.

“Robert.”

The chin of the man in the chair rested on his chest, his messed hair obscuring his face. He shook his head as though denying the name.

“Robert! Look at me.”

The naked man slowly raised his head. Robert Kittinger’s eyes were red-rimmed, and the normally well-groomed businessman had a line of snot running from his nose to his upper lip. He didn’t say anything but did raise his knees in a futile attempt to preserve his modesty as a fat tear squeezed its way from the corner of his eye. 

“I am sorry to see you in this position, Robert,” said Molenski, in his clipped Russian accent.  “You look terrible. Andre, please, clean his face, the man deserves some dignity!”

Kittinger latched onto the small kindness. 

“Mr. Molenski, they’ve treated me like shit since they… since they… since they kidnapped me yesterday afternoon. I know they’re your men and all, but surely after our history…”

Molenski raised his hand.

“Now, now Robert, just calm down. I apologize for any inconvenience, but we’ll get to the bottom of this,” he said, as Andre handed him a small towel.

The naked man nodded and sighed in relief. The mob boss proceeded to gently wipe Kittinger’s face clean and sweep his hair from his brow.

“There, that’s better. Now, do you know why I had you brought here?”

Kittinger’s eyes were frightened but calculating. After a moment he shook his head. Molenski leaned over him, placing his hands on the restrained man’s knees. He put his face very close to Kittinger’s.

“Now Robert. I need total honesty from you. Your life depends on it. Do you understand?”

Robert Kittinger’s bottom lip quivered, and he nodded.

“Why are you here, Robert?”

“Because…”

“Yes?”

“Because I- I made a deal with the Columbians.”

“Bravo Robert! I applaud your honesty, and what was the deal?”

Kittinger’s shoulders slumped.

“To let them know the route of one of your shipments…”

“Continue!” said Molenski.

“So they could – please Mr. Molenski I-”

“
So they could
?” he screamed.

“So they could intercept it!” Kittinger wailed, tears springing to his eyes.

Molenski clapped him hard on the bare shoulder causing Kittinger to flinch.

“There, that wasn’t so hard was it?” the Russian asked, before straightening and folding his arms. He looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully.

“Now, how do you think I felt when I discovered your… treachery?”

“I- I don’t know- upset?”

“No Robert,” said Molenski. “Not upset…
murderous
!”

“I’m sorry Mr. Molenski… I can make it right, really I can. Just tell me how much and I’ll pay it – I - I’ll pay anything.”

Molenski theatrically exhaled and looked down at his prisoner.

“Robert, it’s not about the money. It’s about the betrayal. There is no monetary compensation that can heal my broken heart. Not only that, with your tiny dick hanging out, I find it very hard to take you seriously.”

Kittinger again raised his feet to try and hide his exposed manhood.

“Please! I… ”

“No Robert, it’s too late for please and sorry. You betrayed my trust, and so you must be punished. Andre, is my toolbox ready?”

“Da, it’s on the bench.”

“Excellent. Ivan, bring me, Bertha.”

Ivan walked across to the bench. Upon it sat a red toolbox. He opened the lid, an accomplice to the violence to come. In truth, there weren’t a lot of items in the toolbox, just Molenski’s favored instruments of torture. He picked up the claw hammer and closed the lid before taking it over to his boss.   

“Robert meet Bertha, Bertha, Robert,” said Molenski.

The man’s eyes widened, and he began crying and shaking his head as the Russian turned the hammer this way and that, inspecting it like a master tradesman.

“Oh, look at that, would you. Bertha wasn’t given a bath after her last adventure.”

He used his fingers to pull away a small clump of hair that was stuck in the fork of the claw on the hammer head. He held it up in front of Kittinger and then flicked it to the floor.

“No please Mr. Molenski…”

Molenski stepped forward and raised the hammer.

“Please! I’ll do anything!”

The Russian lowered the hammer, looking thoughtful.

“Anything?”

Kittinger nodded vigorously.

“Would you sacrifice your wife, Robert?”

Kittinger looked dumbly at him, as if not understanding the question.

“I take it that’s a no?”

With a swift movement, he raised the hammer and brought it down on his prisoner’s right knee cap. There was a terrible, meaty crack and an equally terrible scream.

Molenski let the scream drag on until it ended in a pitiable gurgle as the businessman’s chin again found his chest. There was now a deep, rapidly darkening purple indent where his kneecap had been.   

“I asked, Robert, would you sacrifice your wife?”

Kittinger didn’t look up, just shook his head hopelessly.

“Hmm… okay.”

Molenski raised the hammer again, bringing it down on the other knee. The noise of the kneecap popping and the shrieks that followed made his men wince.

After the screams faded to heavy sobbing, the mob boss again addressed the whimpering businessman. 

“Now, before I smash your dick and balls into bloody pizza, I want you to answer my question.”

The threat to his manhood revived Kittinger, and he looked up at his tormentor. Molenski knew the man had come to the realization that he wasn’t leaving the room alive.

“Tell me, Robert. Would you sacrifice your wife?”

“Fuck you…”

Molenski shook his head, a disappointed father to an obstinate child. He rested the head of the hammer on the wooden seat between Kittinger’s bare thighs, just a few inches away from his shrunken manhood.

“Guess what? You already did.”

Kittinger looked puzzled. Molenski nodded to Andre who went to the back of the room and picked up a container. It was a fancy hat box, white with a red ribbon tied into an extravagant bow on top. Ivan watched with a sinking feeling. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out what was in the round box.

“Show him.”

As soon as Andre appeared holding the box, Kittinger understood. He began to wail, not from physical pain, this time, this was the raw emotion of a man who had lost everything. He turned his head away, refusing to look in the box.

“You have to look, Robert,” said Molenski, nodding at Ivan. “I’m sorry, but you must know the consequences of your actions before you die.”

Ivan felt ill but nevertheless came forward. He placed a hand on either side of Kittinger’s sweat soaked head and twisted his head around to face Andre. The man struggled, as Ivan forced him to look down, but the bodyguard was too strong.

Andre lifted the lid theatrically.

Kittinger’s mouth opened in a silent scream, closing his eyes against the horror in the box. Ivan released him, and Kittinger turned his head away and doubled over, puking the contents of his stomach onto the concrete floor.

Some of the vomit spattered the shoes and pants of Molenski.

Andre’s eyes widened, and he quickly evacuated himself from the area. The rage he had seen in his boss’s eyes had been fleeting, but Andre knew that the next few minutes would be… confronting, to say the least.

“Hold Mr. Kittinger’s legs apart for me, would you?” asked Molenski, calmly.

Andre nodded sharply to the new guy, Marco, who rushed forward, eager to please, and grabbed one of Kittinger’s feet. Ivan also stepped forward to grip the other foot. They pried the legs of the broken man open with no resistance. They both looked away, the younger man because the man’s private parts were exposed and rested against the wooden seat, Ivan because he knew what would follow. 

And what followed was brutal and bloody, and it didn’t end until the tortured man had passed out. 

Molenski wasn’t done yet though.

“Wake him up; I want to see his eyes when he leaves us.”

Ivan let go and moved away, and Marco followed his lead, his blood spattered face pale with shock at what he had just witnessed.

Andre threw a bucket of water over Kittinger’s head, and the poor bastard spluttered awake.

“Knife!”

Andre pulled out his flick knife and opened it before handing it to the boss.

Molenski stepped forward and gripped Kittinger’s hair before pulling his head back sharply and resting the blade against the right side of his neck. He looked into his victim’s eyes.

“Time to die Mr. Kittinger.”

True to his word, after nicking his carotid artery, Molenski looked into the man’s eyes as his heart emptied his body of its atrial blood, in bright, spectacular spurts. When the gouts had finally diminished to a trickle, he let the man’s head drop.

“Get this mess cleaned up,” he said to Andre and headed for the door.

Ivan rushed to make it through the door first, relieved he wouldn’t have to stay in the slaughterhouse any longer than necessary. He paused to allow his boss to take the lead as they walked back to the basement to the stairs.

Molenski would head upstairs to shower and change. As he had learned to do so many times, the bodyguard put the horror he had just witnessed out of his mind, determined more than ever that within a year, he would be out of the Russian’s poisonous sphere of influence.