The city streetlights began to light up the desert night sky with colors of reds, pinks, purples and blues, putting on a show of grand splendor. Past the bright yellow-colored light bulbs, signs that glittered and flashed erratically, past the sounds of rattling coins falling from the multitude of slot machines in the casinos that the crowds passed through day and night, the laughter of happy drunks that filled the air of the ever vibrant, ever vice-filled, good ole Las Vegas. A new time in a new age, the city had become a massive metropolis in a new era, the year 2020. Up on the rooftops in the west district of Sin City, a shadowy figure came out of the corners, leaping from one rooftop to the next with ease. Landing on the roof of an old yet refurbished penthouse, he looked down through the thin sheets of glass of the skylight. Below in the eclectic dimly-lit study, he could see a group of men. One was dressed in a rich Italian suit, surrounded by an array of bodyguards dressed in black suits. The other two were wearing regular clothes. The two men faced by their boss. Standing, as if before a judge waiting for their final sentence. Franco Scarfo sat angry at his desk while taking in his thoughts about his two employee’s most recent screw up.

“I don’t give a fuck that we lost 500 grand on the transfer coming from the downtown bank, I don’t care about the pressure coming down on us from the fucking cops, what I give a damn about, boys, is how you two fucking screw-ups let 20 million dollars of my money in merchandise get boosted on the truck last night,” yelled Franco. Franco, about 42 years old, was a natural bad ass. Built strong like an ox, he was very good looking and had a strong sex appeal with the ladies. A powerful underboss to the Scarfo crime family. Ruthless and deadly. The kind of guy that no one would dare mess with. He was god. What he said was law. If he wanted to you dead. You’re dead!

“Boss it wasn’t our fault!!!,” said Pete squirming. A young punk and creep. One of Franco’s hired muscle.

“Bullshit!” exploded Franco with fiery rage, getting up pushing over his desk on the floor with smashing his crystal lamp on the floor. Franco pushed the barrel of his gun to one of the thug’s heads as he knelt, groveling on the ground. “Boss! I swear to Christ it wasn’t our fault,” screamed Pete.

“Don’t lie to me, you little piece of shit!” interrupted Franco, clenching his finger slightly, almost pulling the trigger.

”Honest! Oh God!!! Please don’t kill me!!!!,” Pete begged[LN1]. “Morey and I were driving the truck down to the warehouse when of all of a sudden some fucking mysterious black car pulls up to us, shoots out our tires. I get hit by broken glass in the face, then I lose control, the truck turns over, down we go and the next thing you know we’re both out cold and I find myself in a gutter in the alley,” wailed Pete.

“You really expect me to believe that,” Franco retorted.

“It’s true Boss, Pete’s[LN2] not lying,” whined Morey. Morey was a spineless, sack of shit coward. A lower level thug and runner with Pete Rangoon. Both of them, losers with no balls to match. A race horse with its nuts cut off could stampede resiliently better than them on any given day.

“Where were you when this happened?” yelled Franco.

Morey moaned, “I fell out of the truck into a ditch…”

Kaboom! The skylight exploded as glass shards flew to the floor. “AHH!” screamed the men, dropping to the floor. Smoke bombs fell from above. “What the fuck is going on!” Morey cried. A shadowy figure dropped through the skylight on a rope, and the men began to shoot at him. Guns blazing, they shot into the settling smoke, hitting nothing. The shadowy figure darted to a corner and pulled out a pistol and Uzi, killing most of Franco’s men, swiping his gunfire from side to side swiftly like a bat flying out of hell. Dressed in a black leather trench coat and black leather pants, his hair was dark as the night and long like a god of rock and roll. He face was hard and chiseled. Yet beautiful and hypnotic like a fallen angel with gleaming eyes, whispering into the night. With a tough as nails expression and smirking smile across his face. Masked by dark sun glasses. Blasting away, enjoying the thrill of the slaughter. The men fired back taking cover behind the couches and liquor cabinets. Vases and expensive suede couches and liquor table stocked with expensive cognac and spirits in the meeting lounge were shot to pieces with glass bottles exploding from the machine gun fire as the figure ducked and shot back. He rushed from the corner to behind the circular bar near the side of a staircase that lead into a small upper side room where the vault was located. The dark figure pulled a grenade from his inner coat, pulling the pin out with his teeth and hurled the grenade into the mix, distracting his targets to escape. A large glass window was at the end of the upper stair case, to crash through.

“Shit!!!!” Pete yelled. The grenade exploded, blowing a hole in the floor killing many of the henchmen with bodies and gore flung all over. The carpets soaked in scarlet blood and death. The figure made his way out from behind the bar, rushing up through the stairs when all of a sudden a gorgeous woman in a black biker leather suit jacket and pants ran into him. Her was black as darkness. Her eyes intoxicating. Her skin soft and pure with lips red as a rose. She was carrying stolen jewels and cash from the opened safe. The two of them fell to ground as they collided, causing the shadowy figure’s sun glasses to fall off and revealing his face. [LN3]Franco and his men confronted the two intruders in the hall and went in straight for the kill.

“My money! Kill them!” yelled Franco.

“Don’t just stand there, help me!” yelled the girl at her fellow attacker. He just smiled. [LN4]The mysterious figure and the girl fired at Franco and his men, wounding Franco in the shoulder, and in the exchange of crossfire the girl was hit.

”OOOHAAh!” she screamed in pain.

“Hold on!” the mysterious figure commanded, picking her up and jumping out of a nearby window. Franco climbed over the corpse of one of his men as he ran to the window.

“You cocksuckers! You’re dead! I’ll find you!!!” Franco screamed, firing his pistols at the rooftops as he watched the assailants flee.

Chapter 2: Damascus’ Pad

The mysterious figure jumped from rooftop to rooftop still carrying the trembling girl.

“Nice shooting back there wise ass, you could have gotten us both killed,” said the girl through gritted teeth.

“It didn’t help that you got in the way! What were you thinking, being there?” retorted the man. “I was trying to rob the safe, no thanks to you. Still … you saved my life,” the girl whispered softly, looking into his eyes, and then she kissed him quickly.

“What was that for?”

“Just to repay the favor. I like a man that has balls,” said the girl.

“You’re something, lady! You’re also hurt,” replied the man.

“It’s just a scratch, I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding, come on,” said the man.

“No hospitals please. The police have been looking for me.” The girl winced in pain.

“I know a place where you will be safe.”

“Wait, how do I know I can trust you?” asked the girl.

“I just saved your life, didn’t I?” replied the man in a low voice. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. Here, put this handkerchief on the bleeding for now and grab on tight. It’s a long way down to the ground,” said the man confidently. He lowered himself and the girl on a grappling hook to the street in the alley.

“Come on, let’s get out of here, the bacon boys will be here any minute,” said the girl.

“No problem,” replied the man coolly, knocking over a stacked bunch of cardboard boxes that had been concealing a strange motorcycle. “Hop on.”

The two sped away quickly, threading their way through the alleys.

“Nice bike.”

BOOK: The Damascus Chronicles

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