Beast Hunt (7)
The Predator, who had been racking his brains furiously while gauging my mood, finally spat out his answer: money. Not the fixed tribute, but voluntary contributions and offerings as bait to lure the target out.
I hadn't expected much anyway. These guys were all cut from the same cloth. Still, it would work. It was an easy play for someone like me, the head of an organization, but the White Guard was an expensive outfit to maintain. Just look at the sniveling idiot in front of me. Despite leading so many crimes, his spiderweb tattoo only had three layers. That meant less than three years in prison. At least they'd protected this one thoroughly. In this world, legal protection was the leader's prerogative. Nothing fostered a sense of belonging and loyalty faster than proving the organization's power surpassed the law.
But wielding that power cost money. Whether bribes or lawyer fees. Bribes were just fixed overhead, but if you still ended up in court after greasing palms, you were looking at least a few hundred thousand dollars down the drain. Lawyers for serious crimes charged over $3,000 an hour easy. A full partner at a firm? $10,000 an hour was chump change. Anything less, and they couldn't keep you out of jail or slash your sentence to meaningless levels. And that was separate from operational costs.
So the tribute Jay had been collecting from these clowns meant little beyond upkeep and oaths of loyalty. That was the first reason he'd snap up any offering, no matter the amount. Nobody turned down free money, no matter how rich.
"So, how much are you planning to offer?"
My question got an instant reply from the Predator. "Four hundred thousand dollars!"
I let out a sigh. Tapping the fool's cheek, I lowered my voice. "Talk a realistic number, yeah?"
Unless Jay had a two-digit IQ, he'd smell suspicion on that sum. Sure, there was $400,000 in the office safe, but the ledgers showed over half earmarked for a drug wholesaler. Plus, these greedy bastards would expect more.
I set the amount for the cowering turtle. "Ten thousand dollars. That's plenty. Say you want to contribute even a little to building the White Nation."
"Isn't that... too small?"
"For your level, it's overkill."
Yeah. Overkill. But they'd buy it. Because they want to believe.
Jay was a true believer, and for believers, conviction was everything. The fact that his ideals had deeply swayed his grunts was a trophy for Hitler Junior—a "reality" he desperately wanted to embrace. How proud it must make him feel. How rewarding. That was the second reason he'd accept any amount gladly.
"Fine, that's settled...."
To summon Jay's proxy, we had to wait till dawn. Calling in the pre-dawn hours would raise red flags. Until then, we needed to keep this trash heap of a leader alive. At least functional enough for a phone call.
"Hey, Predator."
"Yes, sir!"
The Predator's shaved head was hideously covered in black tattoos. I prodded one in the center with the pistol barrel.
"Do you really believe you're of pure Aryan blood?"
The tattoo I'd jabbed was an Iron Cross wrapped in ribbons, with the pathetic slogan "For the glory of the White Nation and the Aryan race!" inside.
As the muzzle touched his skull, the Predator stopped breathing properly.
"No answer?"
I raised my arm to smash the pistol grip down. He squeezed his eyes shut and yelled, "I believe! Hnngh, I believe!" His shout broke midway from lack of air.
"You believe?"
"Yes!"
"On what basis?"
"I'm wh-white! A white man!"
Ignorance spewing out. Did he think every white guy was Aryan?
"So, ever gotten a DNA test?"
"...No, sir!"
"Why not? They were all the rage among your internet buddies, right?"
"That's..."
Thwack! I hated the hesitation, so I brought it down. The Iron Cross tore, and blood and grease smeared the grip. Even holding back, the learning curve was glacial. I used the silencer to shove his forehead up, forcing his head higher.
"Speak. What about it?"
The pale pig gathered his eyes upward toward the barrel on his forehead and whimpered his answer. "DNA tests... they're, uh, a Jewish capitalist conspiracy. They rig them to destroy white identity, a vile plot by those filthy Jews to undermine our... our essence..."
A garbled incantation of a response, but I got the gist. Xism. The DNA fad among white supremacists had revealed two-thirds weren't "pure white." I'd wondered back when I read about it in a book how the idiots reacted. Humans really do believe what they want to believe. Pure Aryans? Easier to find in India than America or Europe. Strict caste lines by blood and village there.
Come to think of it, the 'Witch' was from India.
Witch Grace. Born in colonial India, kidnapped by a British old mage for her Aryan lineage and stunning beauty to be his concubine. She'd systematically seduced the greedy bastard, who—desperate for his favorite's eternal youth—broke Round Table edicts to share his magic with her. How deep must he have fallen to call her his life's grace? While biding her time between his legs, Grace murdered the Round Table master who'd toyed with her, stole his key legacies, and vanished.
The woman every imperialist in the Round Table—from mentor to spawn—despised with utter horror. She was their greatest shame and loss. Until the mentor-spawn's betrayal shattered both records.
Could I ally with that woman too?
By 1999, when she resurfaced, she was Grand Master of the devil-worshipping cult O7A.
"Teacher... Teacher..."
The Predator called to me desperately in his cracked voice. "Blood won't stop from my ear. I'll die like this... Please, teacher, you still need me... Please, let me live. Please..."
This punk reeked of never having bled before. How did trash like him become boss? I looked at him pitifully, then extended my hand to a nearby subordinate.
"Knife."
Hearing the blade, the Predator flared his nostrils again. His wide eyes locked on the knife entering my hand. I angled it to the light and asked, "Predator. Ever seen magic?"
"Pardon?"
I ran the incantation calculus through my soul circuit. A simple, concise one even my incomplete circuit could handle effortlessly. The blade's cold metal gleam began heating to a reddish glow.
The Predator stared, breathless, at the intensifying light. The others, watching their boss get it, did the same.
Sizzle—
"Gaaahhh!"
The smell of cooking meat. I flipped the knife and cauterized the severed ear. Pressing hard then pulling away tore off a bit of flesh, like a poorly oiled pan.
"Whiskey."
A flick of my fingers, and a sub brought whiskey quick. I uncapped it and poured the half-full bottle over the side of his head. The Predator wailed again. Low proof meant no real disinfection, but it worked as clean water. The wound would scar easier dry, but was that a problem now?
I handed the empty bottle and knife back to the sub. Eyes shifted from the blade to me—fear beyond comprehension now mixed in.
Outside grew noisy, then four more pigs arrived, summoned with a delay. Some resistance this time; one had multiple bullet holes and would die soon. No waiting—my subs wrapped him tight in plastic.
Thrash! Thrash!
The packaged one writhed from oxygen deprivation. Cyanosis spread inside the plastic—lips and eyes turning blue. The dying man's gaze met the others', who shuddered violently. The filming sub silently recorded it all.
Chairs with bound men multiplied—a novel sight. We rarely buried this many at once.
The Predator, eyes glazing, shivered and asked through chills, "Are you... a Wiccan master, teacher?"
"Do I look like a hack to you?"
"..."
The "magic" he meant wasn't true magic. It was the priest of Wicca, the fastest-spreading religion in North America lately. "Fastest" still meant just a couple million adherents, but the lower the gutter, the closer to superstition. Even non-believers obsessed over curses and spells. Education levels. Especially here, with Central American and Caribbean migrants bringing Santa Muerte, Yoruba, Ifá influences. This idiot's body was tattooed with that exact kind.
That was why I'd deliberately shown magic. To nurture the seed of fear in their hearts. Direct mana on brains and nerves would be ideal, but using incantations and soul-infused flesh erosion were separate realms.
"Sniff... ugh..."
Already feverish from infection, head muddled, the Predator seemed utterly broken psychologically—no more cracks to exploit. Yet his dick stayed stubbornly erect. Disgusting.
No, no need to watch more.
Gangster with zero grit—trash so worthless it soured the job midway. But at this point, I could leave the rest to the subs and rest.
No way he'd scheme or deceive now.
"Teacher..."
"What."
"I swear. I'll do anything you say, guh, please let me live. Just spare me, and I'll pay tribute..."
"Depends on how you perform."
"Really?"
"True wizards don't lie."
As if. But in the dark, he looked like he'd seen a ray of light. Probably heard rumors that lying cost a wizard's power. How quaint, fairy tales in the gangster world.
"Cooperate with my men. I'll see results in the morning."
"Yes! Yes! Thank you!"
Thanks for what. I left the desperate fool and the rest to my subs, climbing the stairs to the office.
Dawn chill lingered in the office. I closed the still-open window and sank into the chair where I'd talked with Karen Williams. The stove's heat and oil smell suddenly made fatigue hit hard.
Still, sleeping here was out. Finish the job, then crash a day or two.
No urge to read now. Amid occasional screams, I basked in the warm light, killing time idly. Sometimes, such waste was inevitable.