CHAPTER ONE

The Smell of Bludd

The moon was plump and round, hanging over the ragged, sparse trees that littered the landscape. The forest was thick once the trees started, but the wide-open area around was uncovered, and littered itself with jagged, clumpy dirt and an uneven rocky surface. Cars were parked haphazardly, stuck wherever they could find a place, most of them beat up older models, with the exception of one long, shiny black sedan, which took its normal place directly next to the ramshackle building. By name alone, this locale was deemed exotic, exciting, and surely a wonderful place to visit. It was the “Downunder Brewhouse” of Sydney, Australia…if anyone had heard the name without seeing it, they would have immediately pictured a quaint little bistro just off the sandy white beaches, under the shadow of the famous Sydney Opera House. But this location was far from the Opera House…far from any kind of white, sandy beach, and was barely on the outskirts of Sydney. Besides, the part of Sydney that this thatch of land was closest to, was a part of Sydney that no one ever saw in the tourist’s brochures or welcoming commercials. There were no shrimp here, and definitely no “barbie”. The building was similar to the land it sat on as well; beat up, uneven and slowly eroded over the passage of time. It was a smallish wood paneled cabin-like structure with two large windows and a porch roof supported by twin beams of wood. The door was in the center of the front of the building, led up to by a small stairway and a thin, warped porch. As far as locations went, this one was perfect for this particular establishment, because if there had been any neighbors, the place would have been shut down long ago due to noise violations and other questionable activity. Yes, The Downunder Brewhouse could easily be considered a “dive”, though to say as much would do a discredit to dives throughout the world.

This evening, as with pretty much any Friday evening, was rocking. The place was packed with wall-to-wall patrons, drinking, shouting, playing darts, drinking, shooting pool, and drinking some more. If there’s one thing the Aussie’s did well, it was hold their liquor. In the back of the bar, a booth was set tight into the corner, making a slight ‘U’ shape, with the booth seats supported to the ceiling by ornately crafted thin posts of wood. A man sat in this booth and would have stood out against the ruckus crowd if he had not been a fixture here for many years. He was dressed in a sleek black suit and dark blue velvet shirt, with no tie. The suit fit well around the shoulders and draped easily over his large arms, and was quite obviously tailored specifically for him. Of course, he had the money to do it; he was Giovanni Stone, a man with “questionable” ties to Australia’s branch of the Mafioso. He came here every Friday, and had been doing so for three years, knowing full well that this was the best place for him to make deals and talk business where folks wouldn’t dream of looking. Stone met with a friendly rival here one Friday a month to discuss each other’s businesses and how they could help each other out, instead of taking each other out. But Ricky Francesco hadn’t shown yet, and he was almost an hour late. Still, Stone sat still, making small talk with three other mountains of men who sat in the booth around him, looking like they were enjoying themselves, but moving carefully enough to conceal the large bore handguns strapped to their barrel chests. Giovanni looked rather large as well underneath his suit coat, but the bulging ripples of multi-layered Kevlar often cave the wrong impression of a broad chest. Yeah, he and Ricky were friendly rivals, but there were folks in both camps who could stand to gain quite a bit by taking him out. He leaned back, leaving his glass of red wine still untouched, and laced his fingers behind his head, which was thickly covered by black hair.

Across the bar, a single eye narrowed and focused, glaring deep into the face of Giovanni Stone who sat unaware that through the crowd, he was being watched.

A loud crash and bang announced the rowdy arrival of another almost regular patron…a man by the name of Baxter Proudhouse. He smiled widely under his thick brown beard and his eyes danced underneath his silver sunglasses that he always wore. Immediately the place erupted at his entrance, cheers and laughs and shouts breaking out everywhere at once as Baxter slammed through the front door, banging it against the wall as he always did to announce his arrival. He was a hero to many of these men…a man born of poverty and crime who rose above it to become a national champion Rugby player. He had led his team, the Tasmanian Bruisers to multiple national victories, and had been on the verge of becoming world famous. To the patrons of this bar, he was still world famous.

“Proudhouse!!”

“YEAH!!”

“NUMBER SEVEN!!”

The shouts ripped through the Downunder Brewhouse, bringing a wider smile to Baxter’s face. It had almost let him forget his checkered past, his criminal background, and even his recent turmoil. Baxter was a tall, broad man, wide in the shoulders and thick in the chest, as you had to be to be a Rugby player. As a young man, he used his size to his advantage, accompanying his lifetime criminal father on jobs and heists, and quickly learning the trade. When his father had been sent to prison, Proudhouse went to a foster family and quickly became interested in more normal activities like sports, especially Rugby. Life had been going along very well, with him about to break into the world Rugby league, but bad karma seemed to catch up with him. During a national championship game, televised to all of Australia, and even to parts of the rest of the world, Baxter Proudhouse got carried away. Going for a rough tackle, he struck an opponent and took him down. The player became annoyed and threw a punch, but Baxter struck back. His own massive strength betrayed him as he slammed the man to the ground and inadvertently snapped his neck, killing him on the spot. Life had been rough since then, and he soon found himself barred from competing and resorting to clipping coupons and shopping smart just to survive. The lawsuit that followed pretty much broke his bank, which was considerably fat, and he was again dropped down below the poverty line. It was hard getting used to, but his Friday night journeys to the outskirts of Sydney helped ease the tensions a little bit. To these people, he was still a hero and still a champ.

With a wide grin, he bellied up to the bar, a front stool immediately made free just for him as he walked in.

“Wot’ll it be, friend?” the bartender asked in his thick, Aussie drawl.

“Foster’s, Mate. Oil can…yeh should know that b’now!” Proudhouse grinned and the bartender was quickly back with the beer in the large, round can affectionately referred to as an “oil can”. It was a lot of beer, and fairly cheap, which was a bonus for the hurting ex-Rugby player. Proudhouse turned and glared over the bar, smirking when he saw Stone sitting with his cronies. His head turned slowly the other way and caught the single, staring eye and his face wrinkled. Baxter shrugged his shoulders and tipped the beer to his lips, chugging quickly. Before he could set the large can down, the door slammed open again and he turned to see which one of his fans had entered. Then his face fell. It was a crowd he was familiar with, but not too fond of. They usually showed up on a particular Friday, and as he glanced at the date on his watch, he noticed that this was one of those nights. It was pay day for these lugs…a once a month paycheck, which they often blew a nice chunk of the night they got it. They were laborers, and like most of these other people, they were Rugby fans. But not Proudhouse fans. They often jeered slightly and poked fun, but it didn’t bother Baxter much. Tonight, though…tonight, it would bother him plenty.

“Well, well, well! If it ain’t Proudhouse? How ya doin’, killer?” the man in front said, laughing. Baxter felt his blood rise.

“Doin’ fine, Russel. How’s yer sister?” Proudhouse replied, his eyes narrowing underneath the silver sunglasses.

Russel glared over at him. “Wot business is that o’ yers?”

“Well, I know the girlie was pretty happy last night, after I got done with her!” he laughed heartily and many of the patrons roared as well, even though the joke had been done several times before.

Russel frowned. “Break anyone’s neck lately?” he asked with a hiss. This little comment had also been done many times before. But tonight, Baxter would have enough of it.

“Naw,” replied Proudhouse. “But the night’s still young yet!” he jumped up from his seat to the shock of everyone and swung a massive right cross. The fist drilled into the side of Russel’s chubby face, collapsing flesh and crunching bone with the thunderous impact. Russel stumbled back, blood spraying from his twisted lips, his stool flying out from under him. The group he came in with dashed forward, and chaos ensued as only a bar fight could provide.

The single eye strayed for a brief second as he heard the thump of flesh and bone against flesh and bone, and a smile widened the thin lips just under the much thicker black moustache. The man stood, his body shrouded by a long brown trench coat, which fell around his large frame and draped over his closed fists.

One of Russel’s buddies charged in suddenly, shouting incoherently, spittle flying from his lips. Baxter sidestepped and drove a sharply bent knee into his ribs, doubling him over. Proudhouse spun and flipped the guy almost effortlessly, sending him back first into the nicely polished oak bar. His spine twisted over the brass rail as he pounded against the top of the counter, then slammed down onto the floor behind. Cheers erupted as more men swamped in to help out the champ.

The man in the trench coat walked easily towards the chaotic bar fight happening just ahead, bodies rushing past him to join in, and bodies flying out towards him, forcefully ejected from joining in. With no outward effort, the man slipped through the bodies, his hands firmly in his pockets and his body shifting slightly to avoid contact.

Another man charged in, not someone from Russel’s group, but someone wanting to take down the champ, but Baxter wasn’t going to be taken down. Not tonight. The ex-Rugby player slammed a closed fist into his gut and threw his head forward, pounding it into the other man’s forehead. They connected with a dull whump and the attacker’s forehead split on contact, oozing dark red and black. His eyes rolled and he slumped as another man ran in to take his place.

He ducked as another man was thrown from the battle, and he stumbled over his arched back and rolled to the floor. With another skillful sidestep he slid to the left and avoided another almost contact, sending that man crashing into the bar. His single eye still bore into the well-dressed man sitting at the booth, who remained there, smiling broadly at the sudden entertainment.

“This is great,” Stone muttered with a wide grin, watching the festivities.

“You want us to go in there and break it up?” asked one of his sidekicks, the largest of the three men.

“No, stay here. Ricky should be here anytime.”

“All right, boss.” He leaned back against the thick cushion of the booth and glanced over the thrashing bodies, battling feverishly in the bar. He sat to Stone’s right and another man was just to his left. The third sat further to the left, near the edge of the booth. A thick round wood table stood surrounded by the “U” shaped booth. The man in the trench coat eased ever closer, to this moment still unnoticed by the target, or his bodyguards.

He took two last, easy strides moving with the telltale grace of an accomplished physical specimen, the long London Fog coat swirling around his legs, covered in baggy brown pants, stopping just above the black combat boots. The boots clumped on the wooden floor as he strode and came to a stop, just in front of the circular table and corner booth. Long sleeves draped over his flexed arms and hung loosely by his hands, almost covering them. With careful scrutiny the three men in suits glared at him and shifted nervously, not quite sure what he was after. Slowly, the man to Stone’s right stood and closed in.

“I have a message from The Dragon,” the one-eyed man said slowly and surely, his voice crisp with the familiar Australian twinge. He fought the urge to chuckle at the ridiculous nickname of Ricky Francesco, which he could only attribute to the gangster’s love for old time professional wrestling.

“Oh you do, do yeh?” Stone asked, his normally Italian voice now slightly grazed with the Australian dialect after he’d lived here for many years. “I’m sure yeh’ll understand if my boy here makes sure yer not packin’.” He gestured to the man who had stood and now walked closer to the man shrouded in the brown coat.

“Do what you must,” the mustached man replied, lifting his arms slightly over his head, which was covered by a thin black helmet.

Stone glared up at the stranger. “Nice headgear, there “patch”. Where’d Ricky find a freak job like you?”

The man’s face creased with a thin smirk, twisting his thick moustache slightly upwards at the ends. The man in the suit drew closer, his hands posed for frisking. With slight chuckles at their boss’s joke the other suited men shifted towards the edge of the booth in case anything funny happened. Stone laughed as well as his henchman’s hands neared the man’s coat, reaching to pull it apart. A blur of brown motion marked the end of this charade as the man in the patch and helmet tore into action, throwing everyone off their mark. He slammed down his left elbow, which was raised above his head, and drove it into the base of the frisker’s bald skull. With a grunt, he drew back and raised, his fists clenched and ready to strike, but the man in the coat was faster. His left elbow shot out again like a bullet, driving deep into the other man’s sternum, which sent him stumbling back, his spine cracking against the intricately carved post that connected the booth to the ceiling. Continuing his left circular momentum, the mystery man spun and whipped his right hand around into a powerful right jab, his hand becoming a black/brown blur as it hurtled towards the bald man’s contorted face. It struck with a dull snap and thud of metal against flesh, spraying crimson and pounding the back of the bald head through the round post. Shards mixed with the red droplets as he lurched backwards and slumped unconscious to the ground amidst the remnants of the wooden pole. The coat swirled in slow motion as the man continued to spin, coming back around just as another man leaped from the booth and charged, his hand already digging for a firearm. Another blur shot out, this one in the form a sharp right leg, which slammed upwards straight into the charging man’s gut, doubling him over and sending him stumbling. The now crimson-hued hand reached out and grasped the man’s collared suit coat, pulling it into rumpled bunches and the man twisted, almost effortlessly pulling the other man off of his feet. He somersaulted clumsily over the coated man’s turned shoulder and struck the round table with a thunderous SMMASSHHHH spraying wooden splinters, beverage glasses and contents in various wide arcs like a bizarre fireworks display. The table broke apart immediately and collapsed, covering the fallen man with the scattered debris. Shifting his weight, the man in the London Fog turned back towards his target who sat there, eyes gaping, even as his last bodyguard whipped his pistol from the holster buried deep in his jacket. Without thinking, the man’s black hand shot out again, sprinkling red from its smooth surface, and wrapped tightly around the bodyguard’s clenched fist, squeezing tight. The thug choked as the hand clenched, his knuckles pushing painfully together.

“What the hell---?” he asked, looking down at the black hand with uncertain fear. Another smirk twisted up the ends of the moustache as the man with the trench coat squeezed tightly together, satisfied with the resulting series of pops and crunches. The other man didn’t scream, surprisingly, just stared, eyes wide and unfocused as his hand and the weapon it held were crunched together into a mangled mass of shredded flesh, torn ligaments and crushed cold, hard gunmetal. A twisting creaking noise came from the crushed remains, but still the man stared uncertainly, even as his blood ran over the attacker’s clenched, metal fist. With a twist, the hand was released and it dropped suddenly like a slab of meat on the end of his arm, and he continued to stare in shock even as the man in the coat shot his other hand forward and grasped his collar. He yanked him roughly towards him, sending him stumbling slightly over the table debris and his fallen friend, but the man continued forward, his momentum carrying him. As he drew near, the metal hand roared up and out again as an arrow straight, stiff clothesline and caught the gunman just under the chin with devastating impact. His head cranked wildly, his eyes bulging and his lips pursing, and then he stumbled and collapsed to the ground, like a boneless sack of flesh, draping over his already fallen comrade. Smirking wickedly again, the man in the London Fog started towards Giovanni Stone. The well-dressed man glared out from over his block nose, his eyes wide and gaping. He stammered even as the one-eyed man approached him, his gloved fist clenching slowly.

“What? Who—?” he stammered, but the man was suddenly on him, a leather-gloved palm pressed tightly over his inquisitive mouth.

“Quiet, Stone. Do not speak, only listen,” he said in a low, gravel-like hiss. He brought his face in close, his breath hot and moist on Stone’s worried flesh. Their eyes met, mere inches apart as the man leaned in close, his metallic hand clenching and unclenching at his side.

“Ricky has a message for you, Giovanni. I am merely the messenger.”

The well-dressed man nodded stiffly, his mouth moving under the glove.

“The Dragon wants you to know, that he was never a friendly rival. As we speak right now, his boys are moving in to claim your territory, Giovanni.”

Stone’s eyes narrowed, and the man could feel his mouth forming into an angry snarl underneath the glove.

“But, Stone…you don’t have to worry about anything.” His metal hand came up closer, opening slightly. Stone glared down at it, a bead of sweat forming at his hairline and then slowly rolling over his forehead and down his cheek.

“The Dragon just wanted to fill you in…in your last minutes of life.”

Stone’s eyes shot open even as the metal hand shot forward and wrapped tightly around his neck. The man in the coat kept his gloved hand pressed tightly, forcing the choking gasps and frantic shouts to stay down. He tried to thrash, to scream, to break free, but the London Fog garbed killer was too strong and powerful. Bulging eyes, tensing limbs and tearing cloth, but Stone could not break free. The killer pressed in and pressed harder, the soft flesh of neck compressing tightly and bone rubbing together underneath his cold steel grasp. He felt a final crunch even as the gangster lurched, but then stopped moving, his neck feeling like a slab of beef in his hand. With a careful glare, the one-eyed man turned his head in one direction, looking cautiously over the crowd even as he lowered the dead man’s motionless body to the pile on the floor amidst the broken table and scattered wine glasses. The bar fight was still raging, and showed no signs of easing, and there didn’t appear to be any witnesses to the gruesome event in the back corner. He stood stiffly, smoothing his wrinkled brown jacket around his waist and down over his legs as he turned and strode towards the door, deftly avoiding the stumbling bodies and flying debris. The front door approached slowly as he walked, and a sudden jostle just to his right informed him that someone was following closely. He looked over at the Rugby player, Baxter Proudhouse, who was walking closely behind the man in the eye patch, matching him stride for stride. His broad shoulders shook as he walked as he wiped a small smear of crimson from the corner of his closed lips. The door opened and they exited, leaving the chaos temporarily behind.

“Worked like a charm, Mate,” the one-eyed man said softly to the other.

“No big deal. I started a bar fight. Weren’t the first time, doubt it’ll be the last.” Despite his statement, he was smirking slightly.

“Still, it was nicely done.” The pair walked across the uneven turf, waiting for approaching headlights. Far in the distance, two pair began to appear.

“You do realize what you have left behind?” The patch-covered man said advisedly.

“What? Pinchin’ pennies? Clippin’ coupons? Mate, I’d rather be dead n’ buried than live like that. Way I see it, least I’m livin’.”

The man in the trench coat snickered wickedly. “Spoken like a true mercenary. Welcome to the group, Proudhouse.”

“Call me Bruiser, Mate. Everyone else does.”

The headlights drew closer as the two men walked, but the man in the long coat halted briefly. The headlights were small, and close to the ground.

“That’s not our ride, is it, Bludd?” Bruiser asked the man in the eye patch.

Sebastian Bludd shook his head slowly. “Don’t believe so, Mate.”

“Are yeh armed?”

“Small handgun, nothing else. Couldn’t risk it.”

Suddenly, the night was bathed in a strobing blue/red light rolling outward from the roofs of the two approaching vehicles. A screaming siren ripped the air and the two men exchanged worried glances.

“So much fer keepin’ a low profile,” Bludd muttered and slowly and carefully released his Desert Eagle automatic from its holster. The two police cars halted a few meters away and the driver’s side door opened on one of them, a cop leaning out, his pistol arm extended.

“Don’t move!” he shouted.

Another pair of headlights blinked awake in the darkness, just a little ways away, rambling down the ragged dirt road.

Bludd looked over at Baxter and Baxter looked back. He smiled.

“It’s jus’ me, Officer! Proudhouse, Mate!”

The policeman halted for a moment, his gun arm wavering. “Again? C’mon, Bruiser! Can’t yeh go one Friday night w’out starting a bloody brawl?”

The headlights drew nearer and made a sharp turn, barreling into the driveway of the Downunder Brewhouse.

“Wasn’t my fault!” Baxter shouted, raising his hands in good faith.

“We’ll decide that, Mate! Now who’s yer friend?”

Bruiser started to speak but suddenly the two large, looming headlights were bathing the police car in a sharp, brilliant glow. The cop turned suddenly as the source of the lights roared on, flying dangerously close to the small police car and the man who crouched behind the opened door. He shouted abruptly and quickly, swiveling his gun around, but it was too late. The large truck pounded into him and the open door with a shrieking, rending tear, tossing flesh, bone and torn metal into a clumsily gainer, stumbling through the air. The mangled door and even more mangled police officer struck the ground with a combination of thuds, cracks and crunches and lay there together in some kind of warped, twisted embrace. Even as the officer’s partner leaped from the car on the other side, the door of the pickup swung open and a man jumped out, whose mere appearance was enough to cause the most decorated cop to rethink his profession. He wore a blacker than night facemask over his whole head, only leaving a pair of luminescent red slits to see through. Muscles bulged underneath a black flak vest and under scores of tattoos racing down each large, bulging arm. His pants were green and black camouflage, intertwined with countless brass casing machine gun belts, undoubtedly ammunition for the twin Uzi’s he was clutching in his two tightly clenched black-gloved fists. The cop faltered only for a mere moment, turning slightly to redirect his aim. Before he could even readjust, the two Israeli machine guns roared to life, sending strobing flashes through the dark night and over the wet but crunchy dirt. Yellow licks of flame and sparks danced over the steel of the police car, tearing small, shallow holes throughout the thin metal of the hood, then swerved upward and plastered the windshield with a barrage of lead, sending gummy chunks of safety glass spinning in the air. With a lunge, the officer spun to his left, but the sparks changed direction at the same time and bore down on him, and then finally tore through him, no longer sparks, but instead wet blossoms of deep red. Even as he slumped to the ground, the second police car’s door hurtled open, the officer leaping out into the night. His pistol barked loudly, sending whining ricochets piercing from the steel pickup truck. The newcomer in the black mask dropped from the truck and landed in a crouch, the bullets whistling over his head. Bludd squinted into the second car, noting that there was only one officer inside that one. Several yards away, the twin Uzi’s ran dry and responded with only a sharp clicking instead of roaring gunfire. Hearing the relieving sound, the police officer spun back towards the two men who had exited the bar, bringing his own pistol around in a menacing manor. Proudhouse looked slightly concerned, but he turned and looked at his boss, who showed no worry whatsoever. He nodded slightly to the pickup and a quick series of sharp blasts echoed from just over the roof. With an uncomfortable twist, the cop lurched to his right, slamming his shoulder against the car behind him. As he writhed again, the window behind him exploded inward with a shower of glass and spattering of red droplets. A third and very final shot echoed and his head whipped back, pounding sharply off of the top of the door behind him. It would have made for a very uncomfortable headache, had the man not been dead before he struck the hard dirt and gravel driveway amidst a shower of window glass and the sprinkling of his own blood. Almost as quickly as the night had erupted into wild, flashing chaos, it descended again into peaceful silence as Bludd strolled nonchalantly towards the pickup truck, which sat idling in the driveway. The large, rippling man in the black mask eased the passenger seat forward and climbed in back, followed closely by Baxter Proudhouse, who smiled widely, thinking about the upcoming paycheck that would put him back in his rightful place among the well-to-do. As the seat slid back into place, Bludd climbed into the seat himself, looking over at the driver, who didn’t look back. The driver had placed the sniper rifle he had used back into the back seat of the extended cab pickup truck and now glared in the rearview mirror as he punched into reverse and slowly backed up. His eyes were narrow and remorseless even though he had shot down a police officer not only minutes ago. Between those eyes, a thin, long scar ran from his forehead down over the bridge of his nose and to his right cheek. His mouth was thin like his eyes and wrinkled into a frown just over a thin black patch of facial hair, drilled into a sharp point just above the end of his chin. The beard matched the ink blackness of the hair on his head, which in turn matched the dark flack vest he wore over his deep crimson shirt and the black pants over his large legs. Bludd still only knew this man as Stiletto, a career assassin, well respected and very well paid by almost every government in the world, including the United States. But government contracts always came with some kind of catch, and there was danger involved, both from the potential targets, and from the people who hired the assassin themselves, if they decided his services were no longer required. Stiletto had heard Bludd’s sales pitch to his first member and had apparently liked what he heard…which was a good thing for Bludd, since the Russian born assassin had been hired to kill him. Bludd tried to keep an open mind about this revelation when he first heard it. Stiletto was good. Real good. If he hadn’t been enamored by Bludd’s pitch, Bludd was pretty certain he would be in a shallow, unmarked grave at this very moment. Such a thought was disturbing, but also served to keep him on his toes, which was never a bad thing. As the truck hurtled backwards, a small crown exited the pub, coming to see what the excitement was all about. The former Major smiled underneath his thick black mustache and looked back where they were heading, glancing at the large man in the black mask briefly. Body Count. An admirable name, and one he had actually coined while still in the British Special Air Service. The SAS was one of the foremost Special Operations group in the world, and it’s troopers were meticulously trained and conditioned to be the best all out warriors Great Britain could offer. And Body Count was just that. Unfortunately for the SAS, he had a bad side, and had always had the craving for money. He had merely used his SAS contacts to create his own black market arms syndicate. Of course, it was just a matter of time before SAS’s internal affairs division and Scotland Yard had caught on, and in a pitched and bloody battle, Body Count had escaped with not a scratch on him, leaving almost a dozen corpses in his wake. It was a scandal of mythical proportions and one that the former Major Bludd had reveled in, so much so that as soon as Cobra had folded that half decade ago, he had sought the man out through his criminal network and offered him a job and some security. Body Count was his first member, and the most trusted at this point, although Bludd was more than glad to have the other two around as always. They were exceptionally useful, as the smooth sailing tonight had easily demonstrated. The truck roared over the rocky surface of the ground, leaving the Downunder Brewhouse far behind, and turning in towards the more shady parts of Sydney.

“Nicely done, Mates,” Bludd said happily, grinning. The other men were smiling as well, except for Stiletto who rarely showed signs of any emotion whatsoever. Bludd turned and looked towards Body Count.

“Is our hideout still secure?”

Body Count nodded stiffly. “Yeh. One thing, though…as we were leaving tonight, a message came over the email line.”

Bludd squinted underneath his eye patch. “A message you say? Which line?”

“The red line.”

Bludd glared at Body Count, who fished through his pants, as if searching for something. He removed a folded slip of paper and handed it to Bludd in the front seat.

“I didn’t know we had a mission coming up,” Stiletto said in his low, gravelly whisper.

“Neither did I, mate.” Bludd unfolded the paper, glaring down at it. His eyes squinted, drawing his forehead into a deep canyon of wrinkles. He unfolded the paper and immediately his mouth twisted into a slight smirk. He chuckled softly under his breath as he looked at the paper in his hands.

“Bluddhounds…this is good news.” He scanned the paper, which contained a few words, and then a crisp, red image on the bottom of the sheet of paper. “I think our money problems may just be over. Forever.”

The top of the paper contained only a simple greeting and phone number. It was signed with three words. Words that to any other person might not make any sense. Three simple words, on their own meaningless, but strung together in this way, they were full of sinister implications.

“Greed, Ambition, and Ruthlessness”.

At the bottom of the message the toothy, menacing red grin of the Cobra symbol glared back at him.