The night wind, heavy and cold as a shroud, carried the sharp scent of sea salt, mixing with the thick, hanging smoke of a cigarette. In his hand the cold beer can sweated; the condensation dripped onto his fingers. Waves rolled in slowly in the distance, their sound a long, calming breath—before this night was ruined. Nearby, the cigarette cherry glowed a dull red. The smoke danced under the moonlight, as if waiting.
Chit! Chit! Chiiiit!
The roar of engines and the sharp squeal of tires shattered the silence. Headlights swept the darkness like stage spotlights. Brisky's muscles tensed, but his face remained a blank mask. A low, cold thrum settled in his chest, a rhythm that wasn't quite his own. His gaze snapped toward the sound of the two black sedans. His eyes narrowed, sizing up the approaching silhouettes.
Car doors opened, and a man in a fedora stepped out, followed by others. His suit was sharp, the uniform of a Federal agent. His steps were heavy, his leather shoes echoing on the sand. Clap! Clap! Clap! His sarcastic applause sliced the air.
"Brisky, Brisky, you slippery rat," Eric's voice was deep, laced with mockery. "Thought you could hide forever, huh?"
Brisky's ear twitched at the familiar tone. His eyes quickly scanned the perimeter—the shadows in the dark. He stood up slowly, flicking his cigarette butt onto the sand. 'Corrupt bastard,' he muttered to himself.
His face pulled into a bright, fake smile. "Eric. Still playing dress-up as a lawman? The law that's already broken?" Brisky said with a sneer, his eyes sharply observing Eric and his men down to the smallest detail.
Eric shook his head, his lips curling into a grin. He pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket, opening it with a dramatic flourish. "Let's review your sins, Brisky," he said, his voice like a whetted knife. "Drug trafficking. Murder. Extortion. Insider trading. Crypto fraud. And the latest…" Eric paused, his eyes narrowing, "Hacking! Just hand over the USB."
Brisky's smile tightened, his eyes staying cold as steel. He glanced around Eric—two men on his left and right, their hands hovering near their waists, ready to draw. Four others behind them, their shadows swaying under the moonlight. Seven, he calculated quickly.
Eric turned to his men, giving a sharp signal with his chin. Then he looked at Brisky intently. "Surrender now," he commanded, his voice hard. Behind him, his men drew their pistols; the barrels gleamed under the moonlight, all pointed at Brisky.
Brisky raised his hands slowly, his smile never fading. "Alright, Eric, you win this round, old friend," he said, his tone casual.
Two of Eric's men approached, handcuffs glistening coldly in their hands. One reached out to grab Brisky's arm. That's when Brisky moved—fast, like a striking snake. "Oh, by the way, how is Melissa?" he said, his voice sweet as poison. "She was so adorable in bed."
Eric's face flushed, the veins in his neck straining. "You piece of trash!" Eric's hand twitched, reaching not for his gun, but for Brisky. He took one heavy, deliberate step. "You crossed the line," he spat, his voice dangerously low. Then, in a flash, he lunged forward, his hand gripping Brisky's throat like an iron trap. "Shut your filthy mouth, you bastard! Don't you ever mention my daughter again!"
Brisky smiled mockingly, even though his throat felt squeezed by iron. His eyes remained sharp, watching the panic of Eric's men behind him. "And you know, Eric? Melissa's little gasps were truly erotic," he whispered, his voice like a plunging knife.
***
Eric roared, his rage exploding. Thud! Thud! Thud! His fist slammed into Brisky's cheek, blood spurting from the corner of his lip, staining the sand. Eric's men shouted; two of the four who had drawn weapons holstered them again, trying to pull their boss back. "Boss, stop! We need him alive!"
The opportunity came like a flash of lightning. Brisky, gasping for breath, kicked Eric hard in the groin. Eric groaned, his body folding over. This was the opening Brisky was waiting for. He ducked, took a step back, and grabbed the wrist of the nearest henchman. The man's cold skin felt thick under Brisky's grip. A sharp twist. Krek! The sound of bone snapping sliced the air. The low thrum in Brisky's chest pulsed violently, drowning the dull ache in his shoulder. His hand darted to the pistol holster on the man's waist, snatching the weapon in a blink.
Bang! Bang! Two deafening shots exploded. The bullets zipped past Eric, slamming into the two men behind him who were still pointing their guns. Their bodies crumpled to the sand, blood soaking the ground. The waves continued to roll in the distance, seemingly uncaring. Time seemed to slow.
Brisky gave them no chance. He shoved the man whose arm he had broken forward. Bang! He shot the man in the back of the head. Blood spattered toward Brisky. Warm, thick stains landed on his cheek and shoulder. He smelled the sharp, metallic tang filling the air, and found it oddly calming. The corpse tumbled, slamming into one of Eric's other men.
Three left. Two still standing. In a panic, they reached for their pistols.
Brisky quickly grabbed the hand of Eric's man who had been attempting to cuff him, smashing his head into the opponent's nose. Crack! The sound of a breaking nose. The sensation of colliding bone and flesh in his palm felt numb.
Then he raised his pistol. Bang! The bullet struck the henchman's head. His empty body dropped beside Eric, who was still whimpering in pain while clutching his groin.
Two more.
Bang! Bang! Brisky shot the man whose nose he had broken.
One final target.
He took a deep breath, then walked toward Eric, who was still convulsing in pain. Bang! The bullet struck Eric's last henchman, the one pinned beneath the first corpse.
It was over. Brisky closed his eyes for a moment.
"When the law becomes an instrument of crime, then crime shall become the law," his voice was barely a whisper.
The beach fell silent again. The moonlight now looked sickly over the carnage. Only the crashing waves and Eric's faint groans could be heard. Time felt normal again. Brisky touched his cheek, wiping away the drying blood.
***
Brisky crouched down, then took a cigarette from the pocket of the sprawling Eric's jacket, lighting it with Eric's lighter.
The smoke curled slowly. He exhaled it directly into Eric's face.
Eric coughed, his whimpers halting for a moment.
"Alright, Eric," Brisky said, discarding the freshly lit butt near Eric's head. "The party's over. Now…"
Eric interrupted, his voice hoarse, thick with fury, even as his body trembled with pain.
"You goddamn sinner!"
"Hahaha…" Brisky's laughter broke out. "You're a hypocrite, just like those old men!"
He stared intently at Eric, then continued in a calmer tone.
"Listen, I was just messing with you. I just needed you distracted. I never touched your daughter."
Brisky tapped Eric's cheek with his fingers. The gesture appeared friendly, yet was filled with contempt.
"No matter how rotten I am, I'm not a pervert."
Eric was stunned. He tried to retort—
"You put too much faith in the church and those old men," Brisky cut him off. "They're the ones who sent your daughter—to seduce me!" Brisky snapped, his tone laced with genuine annoyance.
Eric's eyes bulged in disbelief.
"YOU'RE A LIAR!"
Brisky sighed, as if bored by Eric's foolishness.
"Oh, Eric, you know what I hacked from that rat's nest? That USB, remember? It's full of their filth."
He leaned down, his face now inches from Eric's. His voice dropped low, full of mockery.
"Even your wife, your daughter... they've been brainwashed. Doing filthy things for the 'God' they worship. Tragic, isn't it?"
"DON'T… DON'T TALK NONSENSE!" Eric growled, his voice cracking between pain and rage.
Brisky just smiled, cold and cruel.
"Fanaticism is a disease, Eric," Brisky countered. His tone was like a knife twisting in a wound.
"You think you're holy, but you're just a dog running to the embrace of dogma. This world is rotten, full of wolves pretending to pray. And you? You're just a slave willing to die for a lie."
He stood up, spitting onto the ground beside Eric.
"Get up, Eric. Or at least try to think for once before you die."
Eric groaned, his body shaking. Brisky's words echoed like rusty daggers, poisoning his mind.
***
Vroom! Vroom! VROOOM!
The roar of motorcycles shattered the silence, cutting through the tension that enveloped Brisky and the sprawling Eric. Brisky's eyes narrowed, catching the silhouette of dozens of bikes rumbling in the distance. "Ken," he muttered low. "One bastard finished, another one comes. A cursed life."
Crit! Criiit! One by one, the bikes halted, beach dust flying into the air. A massive, tattooed man stepped off his Harley. Ken took off his sunglasses, roaring with laughter—his voice echoing over the still-revving motorcycle exhausts. "Marko was right! Eric definitely found the bastard Brisky!" His tone was filled with anger and satisfaction. "You thought you could run after killing our chairman?"
Eric groaned, his head bowed. His mind was still wrestling with Brisky's words, ignoring the commotion around him. Brisky, conversely, just sneered, his eyes cold.
With a swift motion, Brisky grabbed the Glock 19 lying in the sand, a remnant of Eric's men. He checked the magazine, chambered a round, then held the pistol in both hands. His posture looked calm, but his brain was racing. "Go on, show me how stupid you are," he mumbled, his grin widening.
BLAM! TCHING! KRATT!
Instantly, a rough burst of gunfire erupted from the Glock. The metallic explosion clashed with the deafening roar of the bike exhausts. Hot lead zipped out. Some only kicked up dust, the rest found flesh. Screams of pain shattered the air as the hot lead tore through heads, chests, and arms. Blood sprayed, turning the white grains of sand into thick, red sludge.
"Bastard!" Ken cursed, ducking the volley of bullets, his face red with rage. He revved his bike's throttle, vroom! "Don't be afraid of that bottle-cap gun! Attack him!" his voice was heavy, hoarse.
In unison, Ken's men who were still standing leaped off their motorcycles, like shadows ready to pounce, drawing machetes and sashimi knives. Their footsteps hammered the beach, creating a rhythmic stampede of chaos. Brisky stood tall, his eyes catching every move, every detail—like a predator measuring its prey. The cold thrum in his chest was now a steady, driving drumbeat.
The cold sea wind now carried a new scent: a mixture of burnt gasoline, sharp gunpowder, and the coppery tang of fresh blood.
The night was not over.