Hideo Furukawa - Belka, Why Don't You Bark?

It favored a different sort of market.

The black market.

Money poured in here , for instance. Inside these walls, into this compound.

The owner of the mansion was coming home after sunset. His two cars drew up outside the front gate. A Volvo and a BMW. The BMW had tinted windows. The man in the guardhouse glanced at the cars, then pushed a button. The gate lurched into motion.

When it had opened all the way, the two cars entered. The gate glided closed.

The cars rolled slowly up the cobblestone drive toward the roundabout and the front door. After twenty seconds one of the Volvo’s front wheels hit something. Something that stuck up from the drive. A clank. The device had been planted right out in the open, disguised so that it looked like just another cobblestone. Very bold. It had been tripped. The driver of the Volvo felt it. It felt like he had driven full speed onto a road full of potholes or… maybe he’d run up against—

That was the end of the thought. The driver was blown up, straight up into the air, still in his seat. The hood of the car, flying.

The BMW slammed to a halt.

Three men sprang from the car: one from the front passenger seat, two from the back. Kicking open the doors, they jumped out, dispersing. One wore a shapka with the earflaps raised, the others were bareheaded and had crew cuts. The first wore a fur coat; the other two had on expensive dark suits. Neither the coat nor the suit jackets were buttoned. They never were. The men had their hands thrust under their lapels. The fur coat took out a submachine gun, the suits whipped their pistols from their holsters, and they stood still, ready to fire.

Two men tumbled out of the Volvo’s unexploded back seat, alive. Bloody, screaming. They crawled away from the car.

The BMW’s driver seemed to have come to his senses, because all of a sudden he threw the car into reverse. He had to get the hell out of here, to get his boss, sitting there in the back seat, in the middle, away from this vision of hell in the mansion’s front garden.

Suddenly, all the lights in the building crashed.

As if a fuse had blown. The building, visible a second ago, was gone.

There had been a small pop inside, but it wasn’t audible out front.

The darkness unnerved the men even more.

One of the men from the BMW broke into a run, though he had no idea whom he ought to be attacking. It was just a reflex. He jumped off the drive, zigzagging as he ran, heading for the porch, searching for an assailant. His left foot felt something. He had been a wrestler and had an impressive physique—that’s how he ended up in this job, working as a bodyguard. Shit, it’s a feint, he thought, recalling the single worst blunder he had made as a wrestler. His hair stood on end. Just then, his left ankle was pulling the wire. About ten centimeters above the ground. A booby trap. The wire had tripped it. Something flew at him from one side. Searing pain.

Not just in one place. Everywhere on his body.

The submachine gun in his hand fired at random, senselessly, as his muscles contracted. He was in agony. An agonizing death.

One of the men crawling on the driveway took a bullet.

The BMW reached the gate, backward. The driver lowered his window, yelled at the guard, “Open up! Open the fuck up!” But the guard didn’t answer. He was prostrate on the floor of the guardhouse. A line drawn across his throat.

One clean horizontal line.

It looked to the driver as if the guard wasn’t there. He considered getting out and opening the gate himself, but at the sound of gunfire he instinctively hit the gas. He rammed the bumper back into the gate, then shifted gears and screeched forward.

The lamps illuminating the garden were going out now, one after another. Each time one went out, there was a crash. Somehow they were being smashed. The rest of the compound joined the mansion in its darkened invisibility. There was hardly light at all, anywhere.

A single, precise gunshot.

A second.

A third. A fourth… a seventh.

The sound of a new magazine snapping into place. Someone tossing aside the old magazine, even though it still had a few bullets left, swapping it out for another. A fresh, full cartridge. The BMW swerved wildly, searching for a way out. The gunman watched the car go, then sprang into action. He was fast, yes. But he was also a step ahead of them. He saw where things were going.

Another series of gunshots. One bullet shattered the BMW’s windshield and lodged itself in the driver’s forehead; another buried itself in the hip of the man who tumbled out of the car’s back seat as it hit a tree. Soon after, a third bullet entered his head.

Silence.

Only one man moving. A pistol in each hand. The BMW’s headlights were still burning, and their faint light revealed his face. His profile. His hair was pure white. White the way an old man’s hair is white, when it has lost its color. Two weeks ago, he had been holed up deep in the forest. Living in a hunter’s shack like a hermit. The guns in his gloved hands weren’t hunting rifles, though. They were army weapons: 9mm machine pistols.

The old man strode over to the body.

The body of the last man he killed. The body of the owner of the mansion. He worked the shirt down over the corpse’s shoulders, exposing its chest. He inspected each shoulder. The large cross tattooed on the left, the skull on the right.

The locations of the designs showed that he was indeed a Russian mafia kingpin, that he had been acknowledged as a leader by his fellows.

He was a boss. The tattoos proved that. Not in one of the new organizations, however. He belonged to the old mafia; he was a product of the Soviet system.

Having found the proof he wanted, the old man let slip a smile. A smile so subtle his face remained all but expressionless. “Nighty-night, Vor,” he murmured.

The old man wasted no time. A minute later, he was inside. Not a light in the entire building. Two buff corpses sprawled in the parlor, shot dead in the middle of a card game; on the sofa behind them, the body of a carefully made-up young woman in a flashy dress. These bodies had been there for an hour or so.

Another body in the hall.

The old man stepped into the half-hidden security room behind the parlor.

A young man was waiting inside. Alive. Terrified. Drenched in sweat. Drops fell periodically from his face, his neck. He was sitting on a chair, his posture oddly strained, straight as a rod.

“If you are hot, why not take off your sweater?” the old man said.

“I can’t move,” the young man replied.

“Sure you can, just take it off,” the old man repeated.

Desperation in his eyes, the young man nodded and stiffly, tensely, stripped the sweater off. Underneath the sweater he had on a paratrooper shirt with horizontal blue stripes.

The wall behind the young man was completely taken up by ten television monitors. Images from the security cameras were projected on their screens. Or not. Some were blank. From where he sat, the young man could operate the recorder, and he had a microphone that let him respond to communications from outside.

“You give them the all-clear, like I said?” the old man said.

“I did exactly as you told me to,” the young man said. “Everything.”

“Good job,” the old man replied. “You did well.”

“Don’t kill me!” the young man pleaded. He was perched oddly on his chair. Sort of. There was an object between his butt and the seat, like a little pillow. It was a hand grenade. The pin had been pulled. The young man’s butt was holding the safety lever down. If he shifted his body the slightest bit, if the grenade happened to slip out from under him, it would explode.

The old man turned to the monitors. He spent a few moments checking the screens, or their blankness. The young man was still sweating. The old man was right beside him, but the young man couldn’t turn to face him. There was a sound by the recorder, like duct tape coming off.