BLOODY HORIZON

°°° The Beginning °°°

Kneeling in a pool of blood, Marco shivered like a child who’d been in the rain for an hour. The man had deep cuts on his arms and chest. The bleeding had ceased, but the air made it sting.

His kitchen’s tiled floor was mostly covered in blood. The entire place was a mess. Bullet shells scattered all over the place. The human hand sizzling on the electric grill made him sick to his stomach. He’d have thrown up a long time ago, but he wasn’t going to risk pissing him off.

The only other breathing person in the house was the man who had caused the damage. He had single-handedly killed seven men without a single firearm, all of whom were well armed with multiple weapons, and not even a bullet wound was on him; he was not even grazed.

He took off his black leather jacket and dropped it on the kitchen island. Walking to the sink, the man washed the blood off his face, kicking the severed arm off the grill. He dried his hands and opened the fridge.

"Can I?" the man asked, taking out a bottle of red wine. "It's been a while since I last had anything like this," he said, caressing the bottle’s surface.

"Umm, yeah, I guess," Marco stammered. "How does someone invade your home, kill virtually everyone in it, and still ask for permission to have a drink?" he thought to himself, confused.

"Want some?" The man’s deep voice cut through the silence once again.

"What sort of monster is this?" Marco cried inwardly. "Who takes so many lives and drinks over their bodies?" "What kind of a —" he was jolted back to reality by the man clearing his throat, still holding a glass in his hands. "Oh… no… "I’m good," Marco tried to force a smile, which came out wrong in all ways possible.

The man nodded slowly and filled his glass. He walked to the dining space, dragged a seat, and sat on it.

Marco was still on his knees. A loaded pistol was in front of him, but he couldn’t bring himself to pick it up. The invader had put so much fear in him that he saw it as unwise to pick up the gun.

"Wha… "What do you want, man?" Marco finally found his voice. "My car keys are in the tray in the living room, and I’ve got some money in my room." He paused to think of any other valuables he could trade for his life. "Coke!" he exclaimed. "Is it the cocaine they sent you to get?" If it is, it isn’t here yet, I swear, but I have a personal stash up in my room... You can take anything you want, homie, just please... "Please don’t kill me," he cried profusely. His eyes were all swollen and red. It was safe to say that he had never been this pitiful since he officially became a member of the cartel.

The man watched with a hint of shock on his face. He hadn’t expected this one to break so easily. He had seen these things happen before. Men in Marco’s position would usually take their knowledge to their graves. Ratting out meant they’d be hunted down by the cartel, and if they survived, it meant a promotion. But Marco was interestingly different.

"Anything I want, huh?" The man chuckled. He stood up and walked to the sink, putting back on a black glove that looked metallic. He took a deep breath and turned to Marco. "Diana, where is she?"

"Diana?" Marco asked, looking sincerely confused.

The man rolled his eyes and then gave a description. "Red head, quite chubby." "Blue eyes?" the man asked, gesturing with his hands over his face. Seeing that the description wasn’t helping, he groaned in retirement. "When was the last shipment?" he asked, running his fingers through his high, tapered, faded haircut, frustrated.

"I told you man... The cocaine ain’t coming till next week... the shipment was…"

"I’m not talking about cocaine, you fool," the man growled, staring angrily at Marco. "The girls. "When was the last shipment made?"

"The girls?" Marco froze, trying to get a grip on himself. He felt his heart jump into his throat at the tone of anger in the invader’s words. "The girls… yes… no… I mean, I’m... "I'm not in charge of that," he struggled to calm himself, his eyes constantly darting from the man’s gloved fists to his eyes. He had witnessed one man take out seven gunmen without any weapon other than the gloves around his fist.

The man shot him a look, and he continued.

"I only run the drugs; that’s it." Russell is the one you are looking for. He is the heart of the slut network. West Africa, Japan, China, Canada, etc.—he is in charge of that. "I only do the drugs, man. I swear, man." Marco spewed information like his life depended on it, and it did.

"Where will I find this Russell?"

"Detroit... he is now based in Detroit," Marco quickly replied, even before the question was completed.

The man shot him a look, scanning his eyes as though he could read minds. Satisfied with the reaction he got, he turned around and picked up his jacket.

"I’m sorry for the damages," he apologized, removing a silver miniature tiger sculpture from his pocket and placing it on the kitchen island. "This should cover the cost," he said with a smile and walked to the front door. Reaching it, he stopped and turned around. "Marco, be smart." Go off-grid for a while. Maybe take a vacation. "I would not want to have to hurt you or them," he said, flicking a shard of glass at a framed picture of a blonde lady with two beautiful girls.

Marco’s eyes darted to the picture. The shard in his wife’s head sent the message. He nodded slowly and turned to the man, who smiled back with a pleased expression on his face. He then walked out, leaving Marco to his thoughts.

Marco sat in the blood on the floor and suddenly began to cry. He was lost. He didn’t know who that man was. After a while, he got a hold of himself and ran to the living room and opened up his laptop. The pain from his injuries was trivial as compared to what was at stake.

Clacking sounds were all that filled the spacious house. That and his racing heart

African American male mercenary; black high taper fade haircut; blue eyes

He typed furiously, hit the enter button, and the laptop began to glitch. He had accessed a site on the dark web, a site rumored to have been created by the government, where mercenaries of the highest proficiency met with clients. It was on this site that most assassinations were born.

The screen went off for a couple seconds and then came back on. It had been affected by the brief battle, and its visuals weren’t so good, forcing him to squint. The broken screen made it hard to see everything, but none of the suggestions the site gave matched the man who’d just invaded his home. Whoever that man was, he wasn’t a man to be taken lightly. He matched the proficiency that suited the site’s requirement for membership, even surpassing it, and yet his name and profile weren’t on it. There was every possibility that that man was from a much more powerful organization.

Marco ruffled his hair, pacing around, trying to figure out what to do next.

"If you call and he finds out, he’ll definitely hunt you down like a dog and probably kill your wife and kids." "If you don’t call this in, Russell will cut off your legs and make you watch as he carves your kids," he said, biting his lip. He then walked to the counter and grabbed the silver tiger. "You messed up big time by giving him that information." "Russell will make your life a living hell after killing that bastard. It’s better you tell him than he finds out."

He squeezed hard on the tiger as he walked to the window, taking a quick peek through the drapes. After confirming there was no one there, he took out his phone and dialed a number.

"Yeah, get this line secured. "I need to speak with Russell now," he announced immediately after the call was picked up on the other end.

An Hour Later

A black Hennessy Venom GT came to a stop outside a diner. The man with the black leather jacket, blue eyes, and high taper fade haircut stepped out and slammed the door shut. He walked into the diner and looked around. Spotting the man he came in for, he walked forward.

"Mr. Blake," he greeted the man in a black suit, whose attention was on the laptop before him.

"Ah… I’m sorry. "Please sit," Blake gestured for the man to sit, closing the laptop.

"Would you be placing your order now?" a waitress asked as she walked to their table.

"Just water for me," The suited man, Blake, gave a smile.

"Two burgers to go, and a bottle of Coca-Cola... actually make it three burgers." Blake’s guest smiled briefly.

"Be back in a few," she smiled and walked away.

"Alright… "What do you have for me, Mr. Blake?"

"Please, Sean, call me Blake," Blake said politely. The man, Sean, nodded and signaled Blake to begin the update.

"It is really all a web." "I have yet to fully uncover it, but for it to be so well hidden, the "White Incident" must be a big deal to all involved parties," Blake began and turned the laptop to Sean. "According to this, the White incident occurred approximately fourteen to fifteen years ago, around the same time your "person of interest" vanished," he stopped speaking, interlocking his fingers, and waited for Sean to digest the information he had just received.

{Edited In}

##Author's Note##

This is the first draft of the book, hence typographical errors as well as a few others literary errors may be found.

Do note that nothing from this book should be duplicated anywhere and in any form without prior permission from the author.

The events and characters in this book a purely fictional. Any similarities between the characters and real people are purely coincidental. The world featured in this book is as well a fictional earth with a good number of similarities, but in the end, it remains fictional.

Thank you for your understanding and cooperation. Enjoy.

##End of Note##