Chaos Series: ExtortionA Story by WriterSki7
This is actually the first story in the Chaos Series. Hence the extra bit of writing at the bottom . . .
The city of Tokyo is easily one of the prettiest cities in the world. It was ten o’clock at the Dai-Ichi Hotel, and the moon hung low in the sky. Unlike most nights, however, the rooftop of the Dai-Ichi was deserted . . . save for two parties of men. “Where is my daughter?” The question hung thick in the air. The man who asked was Japanese; the CEO of Honda, in fact. He was accompanied by three armed guards, guns holstered and loaded on their waists. “Did you make the equipment as specified?” The returning voice was that of a Spaniard. He was dressed in military fatigues, covered in grey camouflage. He wore a jet-black sash across his left shoulder and a beret of the same make. He was alone on the roof-top, opposed by the Japanese businessmen and his personal secret service. “Where is my daughter?” The CEO replied, cold brown eyes examining the Spaniard as sweat ran down his brow. It only made the Spaniard smile, his green eyes darting from body guard to body guard coyly. He gently brushed a strand of his black hair back into place on his neatly combed head. “I can assure you-” The guards brought their guns up. “I will not ask you again,” the businessman replied. “I know who you are; Catre.” He let the name hang in the air for a while. It only made the Spaniard’s smile broaden. “You have an interesting way of seizing control,” he replied. The soldier stepped closer, making the guards tense up. Their fingers were almost dead on the trigger. “Are you familiar with Bleach?” He asked. “It’s an amazing substance, I assure you.” He looked at the guard on the businessman’s right. “It can cleanse even the dirtiest substances clean . . . of course, expose yourself to it too long and it will kill you.” He eyed the guard on the Businessman’s left. “I heard about it when I was in India. Hindu Extremists would capture victims, and sit them neck-high in Bleach. They’d handcuff them in metal chairs, and let them sit. Sure it’s a lot slower than Hydrochloric Acid . . . it really makes you suffer.” It was the social cues that gave them away. Guard One shifted uneasily on his feet. Number Two bit his lip; while Three couldn’t make direct eye contact with him. “Then there’s simple means like Anthrax. Plenty of fun. Of course, my men won’t start until they’ve done their rounds on her.” “B*****d!” The businessman remarked. “Have you no honor!” It only made Catre smile. “Do you?” He returned. “Honestly; wasting your money on detectives and bodyguards instead of simply following my instructions.” “Not just bodyguards,” the businessman replied. “There are no less than three sharpshooters watching your head right now. Technicians are working on discovering everything about you; you will pay for everything you have done to me.” Catre smiled. “So the gloves come off, do they?” He raised an eyebrow.
A cell phone rang. “Ah, pardon me,” Catre replied, pulling out a sleek, jet-black phone from one of his many pockets. The businessman let out a sigh of relief as Catre turned away. “Sir,” the voice on the other line spat out. “We have secured the area. All four scopes have been dealt with.” “How so?” Catre asked. “One was exterminated; three were liquidated.” Catre chuckled to himself at that. “Is that all, Charlie Wolf?” He asked. “No sir,” the man replied. “Green Bear has accepted the contract.” Catre smiled. “Understood,” he replied. “Requesting permission to proceed onto the next stage of the operation, Sir?” “Permission granted,” Catre sang. “Sir yes Sir,” the man on the other end replied. “Charlie Wolf out.” Catre hung up the phone . . . he studied it. It was not an expensive phone, merely a cheap Blackberry look-alike with a prepaid phone plan. Sadly, it was a liability. Catre wound his throwing arm back and threw it off the edge of the building. It sailed nicely, soaring through the air before disappearing from view. “Sorry about that,” Catre remarked. “Where were we?” The Businessman stiffened up. “You were about to tell me where my daughter was,” he spoke, borderline demanded. “Ah yes, that,” Catre replied. “Change of plans. You see, you were not the only one we asked for this equipment. Your Vice was also offered the same proposition. Lucky for him, he accepted. Construction will be completed within the hour.” He looked back at the businessman. “This means you are no longer needed.” A faint whistling in the air could be heard; short and swift as the wind itself. Instantly the three guards keeled over, reduced to a coma-like state by a trio of needles. The businessman’s eyes went wide. “You will pay for this!” He replied. “Nobody makes a fool of-” “Oh?” Catre asked. “We’ve taken care of your snipers. In fact, most of them just . . . left. Got up and walked away.” “What?” The man asked. “How?” “Because I asked nicely,” Catre said with a grin. “Amazing how racial superiority can backfire, no?” He sat down. “Your belief in Asian supremacy has created a void. The thought of being outwitted by a non-Asian is . . . hard for you to comprehend.” Catre nodded to the seat across from him. “Honestly, I enjoy explaining how this works.” The businessman sat down. “You see, we never planned for you to give us what we wanted. Honestly, it would have been a nice surprise if you did . . .” Catre paused for a moment. “But honestly, who does that these days? I mean giving into extortion? Please . . . So our real target was your Vice all along. Your daughter died a week ago, along with your wife. Soaked in Bleach, might I add. We recorded the whole thing, integrated it into a computer virus, and infected your Vice’s CPU within the hour. He didn’t tell you, meaning we had made an impact on him; a sure sign things were going to plan.” Catre took a deep breath. “We call it Undermining. Threaten the superior and the vice at the same time. Give the vice all the facts, yet withhold the data from the big dog. We then reveal how we plan to dispose of you, and shortly after he folds.” Catre’s smile broadened. “Kill the hero, and the sidekick surrenders shortly after. If he doesn’t, we just keep going down the chain until we get what we want.” Catre drew out his pistol. “This wasn’t the case here but, unfortunately, this means I still have to make an example of you.” He pulled a bottle from his coat pocket. “Cyanide is a powerful drug; used around the world for executions. Quick, relatively painless . . . Honestly, if you would . . .” He planted the bottle on the table. “I believe this is referred to as Seppuku by tradition . . . a modern version, if you will. However, I have no problem with old fashioned means-” Catre placed a combat knife next to the bottle. The businessman looked at them, thinking. “Decisions, decisions,” Catre retorted. The Spaniard got to his feet. “What you choose makes no difference to me. So long as you are dealt with.” He got up from his seat, and started towards the door. “Think about it.”
The trip to the main lobby was uneventful. Catre rode alone in the elevator, lost in his own musings. A phone rang, this one more advanced than the disposable one used earlier. Catre went to another pocket, pulling it out in record time. “Catre Dominico speaking,” he stated. “Sir, this is Chief Marshall.” The voice on the other end of the line replied. “He used the knife, Sir.” Catre couldn’t help but smile.
Power. Control. Security. The modern world revolves around these three concepts. Politics is a barter; for power, for safety, for control. We negotiate with evil every day, yet we pretend there is some evil beyond our kind. Truth is humans are not saints. We condemn people for their sins, and then commit the same sins in secrecy. We negotiate with mass murderers, and yet not thieves or criminals. We are a society built upon hypocrisy. A nation made from a web of lies. A society built from a deck of cards . . .
All we need is a pinprick in one wrong place, and it all comes crashing down . . .
© 2010 WriterSki7
Added on March 4, 2010
Last Updated on April 21, 2010
~The Theme of Love~
AboutMy name is Writer. I write because I write. To you, I am nothing more than a figment of the imagination; merely words on a screen. To others I can be more; good or bad is entirely up to you. I write b.. more..