Why? Why!? WHY?!!
BAM – BAM – BAM.
Bernard slammed his fists several times against the steering wheel of his Mercedes. He had just received a phone call and wasn't happy about what he'd heard. In his rage, he had hung up and thrown his phone onto the back seat.
Bernard placed his hands gently on the wheel. He could feel the rough leather under his fingers, but more than that, he could hear the sound of his heartbeat.
It was fast—too fast.
'I'm too old for this crap,' he muttered, trying to calm himself.
He took a deep breath. Bernard could feel the anger boiling inside him, ready to explode. In his younger days, he would have let it out without worrying about the consequences, but not anymore.
He hadn't completely left that world behind, but he wasn't going back either.
He took another breath.
HONK.
He exhaled slowly.
HONK HONK.
Bernard opened his eyes and glanced in the rearview mirror. He had stopped in the middle of an empty alley to avoid bothering anyone, but a car had pulled up behind him.
It was a yellow, convertible, brand-new Lamborghini with a young man behind the wheel. He wore a half-unbuttoned white shirt and had an arrogant smile on his face, as if he owned the world. On the passenger seat sat a blonde, striking a suggestive pose as she touched up her lipstick during the wait.
HONK HONK HONK.
The young man kept honking.
"Move your damn car, old man!"
Bernard stepped out of his car, but he took his time, carefully removing his suit jacket so it wouldn't get dirty. He also took the opportunity to slip on a pair of black leather gloves. Judging by the state of them—half-torn—this wasn't the first time he'd used them.
He closed the car door gently without slamming it, then approached the Lamborghini. There were only two cars in the narrow alley, but a few spectators were watching. A group of about ten African American men were sitting on the steps of a laundromat.
Each of them wore blue bandanas, and some had tank tops that revealed a "C" tattooed on their forearms.
'Crips members. Their gang has been losing ground across the city in recent months,' Bernard thought, recalling information he had gathered. At times like this, his brain analyzed everything happening around him down to the smallest detail.
"Are you listening to me, old geezer?"
Bernard had reached the young man. He absentmindedly opened the Lamborghini's door before grabbing him by the throat.
"Let go of me, you crazy old man! Do you even know who my father is? He's the mayor of this city!"
The young man struggled with all his might but couldn't break free from Bernard's grip.
Bernard just smiled.
"You look exactly like my son. And today, my son has deeply disappointed me and filled me with rage."
He punched the man in the face, once.
"AAAARGH!"
Then came the second, the third, and the fourth.
Bernard had stopped counting by then. He just kept hitting the man's head to blow off steam. The young man's face was now nothing more than a bloody, unrecognizable mess.
Bernard only stopped because several people had intervened.
'Four, all carrying knives, one's left-handed, their leader seems to be the guy up front, someone in the back is calling for backup.'
Even in moments like this, Bernard wasn't angry. His thoughts were cold and calculated, like a machine. He was a knife sharpened by the experiences of his youth, someone people often told, "It's a shame you want to quit."
But he had been too much of a coward to leave that life behind.
He loosened his grip, and the young man collapsed to the ground. He was already unconscious and wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.
Bernard turned to the newcomers.
"Who invited you?"
"You shouldn't have beaten him up, old man. Now his dad's gonna throw another tantrum and start bothering us again. Maybe if you lose a few fingers, you'll get out of this, but I'm not so sure."
The man pulled a hunting knife from under his tank top.
"For now, we'll rough you up a bit so the boss doesn't come down too hard on us. We'll start with the visa—"
BANG BANG.
Two gunshots interrupted him. The first bullet had pierced his leg, and the second hit his shoulder.
Blood sprayed several meters, but none of the shots hit a vital point.
The smell of gunpowder and the leader's scream of pain didn't stop the remaining three from moving.
Bernard could only admire their loyalty while condemning their stupidity.
Unfortunately for them, his Glock had enough bullets for each of them.
BANG BANG BANG.
Each of them took a bullet to the leg.
BANG BANG BANG.
Bernard added a bullet to each of their dominant hands.
The men sitting in front of the laundromat had stood up. They didn't approach, but several were making phone calls for backup.
"You're insane! You don't know who we are! Damn, this hurts so much."
The gang leader writhed in pain on the ground, face down, unable to even see his attacker.
"You're a dead man! Your family and your wife are dead too!"
Bernard calmly stepped closer, then crouched beside him.
"You hear me, old man? And if you have a daughter, we'll use her to make a nice profit!"
Bernard placed the barrel of his gun between the man's eyes and emptied the magazine.
Blood splattered his crisp white shirt.
"I gave you a chance, but you didn't value it."
No one was allowed to talk about his wife.
Bernard stood up. The other gang members were terrified, but he didn't care. Jo would laugh and pat him on the shoulder, telling him he should become the man he used to be, that it was still in his blood.
But Bernard didn't want that.
He glanced at the Lamborghini and noticed that the blonde was still there. She was curled up in the passenger seat, trembling with fear, trying to make herself as small as possible, hoping to be forgotten.
'I would have liked to have had a daughter,' he thought as he returned to his car.
The phone on the back seat was ringing.
Bernard answered it, slipping his jacket back on to cover the bloodstains on his shirt.
"Everything alright, Bernard?"
"Jo, I killed someone."
The person on the other end stayed silent for a few long seconds.
"Who was it?"
"A Crips soldier, but I also shot three of his buddies and disfigured the mayor's son."
He heard his friend laugh on the other end of the line.
"Sorry, Bernard, I know I shouldn't laugh, but really! You're planning to announce your comeback by killing low-tier criminals? You've set higher standards than this."
"I'm not coming back."
Jo struggled to regain his composure, still chuckling.
"I know, I know, I was just joking. As for your son, we'll talk about that tonight after the funeral, over a beer."
"Thanks, Jo. See you later."
"No problem, Bernard. That's what friends are for. Stay safe on the road."
Bernard hung up. He delicately removed his gloves before slipping them into the inner pocket of his suit.
He restarted the Mercedes and left the scene. He had 15 minutes left on the road to reflect on his actions.
He didn't feel guilty or remorseful. In fact, he didn't feel much of anything at all. His anger had subsided, and he didn't even have that sense of justice he used to feel when he was younger.
He just felt tired.
'It's in your blood.'
That's what they had told him in his youth.
But he had lost too much blood since then.
"Should I leave?"
He asked himself, glancing at his reflection in the rearview mirror.
He could hide away in the mountains or even leave the country.
He had the money and the contacts to change his identity and disappear.
But no one stayed out of Promesse's sights for long.
Bernard had hunted down many like that before, so he knew exactly how they ended.
Usually, with a bullet between the eyes—but sometimes, much worse.
Maybe he should try to escape with his son to save him. But he'd only decide after talking to Jo.
For now, he had arrived at his destination.
A valet opened the door, and Bernard stepped out of his Mercedes.
He could feel the wind rushing into his suit jacket.
He handed his keys to the man in the red hat who had come to greet him.
His son was only a few steps away, but he didn't particularly want to see him.
His eyes shifted to the only other newcomer.
Very short, with twinkling eyes and a slight smile on his lips.
'George Washington.'
Everyone inside the Promesse Hotel knew him. As the receptionist for the New York branch, Bernard couldn't fail to recognize him.
'This man is dangerous.'
Every dossier he'd read about him said as much. Yet, every time Bernard saw his small stature and benign face, he had a hard time believing he was in front of one of the country's most notorious killers.
'I'm one too.'
Bernard approached them at a calm pace.
"Mr. Reddick, I must say, you look even older in person than in the pictures in my album."
'He still knows who I am after all these years.'
"Who are you?"
"Why do you always ask the same questions? Smile a little, old man, life is beautiful!"
"Who are you?" he repeated.
"I told you, it doesn't matter!"
'This man is even more dangerous than he appears.'
"Who are you?" he asked for the third time.
"George Washington. Satisfied?"
"That's called politeness."
"I call it an outdated social code that no one cares about."
'He's insane.'
"Codes are codes, and rules are rules. Everyone has to follow them."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever makes you happy, old man."
'Or at least he hides his cruelty behind a facade of madness.'
Bernard turned toward his son.
'And he hides his intelligence beneath layers of naivety.'
George regained his sincere smile and extended his hand.
"I'm a fan."
'But I'm no longer that man.'
They shook hands.
"Bernard Reddick. I've heard of you. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Washington, I'd like to speak with my son."
The man murmured something before walking away, laughing, but Bernard still heard him.
"You smell a lot like blood and death, Mr. Reddick, for someone who's retired."
George had left without looking back, heading toward the cemetery gates. Behind him, Bernard's face hardened. He could feel a cold anger rising within him, unchecked.
"Father…"
His son had started to speak, but Bernard unconsciously interrupted him:
"That man is dangerous. Stay away from him at all costs."
His anger faded as he saw his son's face.
But his son, on the other hand, still seemed angry, clenching his fists tightly.
"I'm not a child anymore."
Bernard turned to look him in the eyes, with the same murderous intent he'd shown earlier to the mayor's son and the thug. He wanted to instill fear, and it seemed to work—his son was struggling to remain standing.
"You're still a child, Alex, and people from his world swallow kids like you whole. We'll talk about the mess you've gotten yourself into once we get home."
His voice was deep and authoritative.
"The mess?"
"Everything has a price, my son."
He had learned that early on, though he regretted not learning it even sooner.
He saw the veins on his son's face bulge in frustration.
"That's the third time today I've heard that damn phrase."
"So, everyone knows already."
Bernard sighed inwardly, feeling drained and weary.
"Knows about what?! I haven't done anything illegal."
"Oh, really?" he replied, his voice disillusioned and full of exhaustion.
"And how did you buy that shiny new Lamborghini, my son?"
"I wanted to show you I could succeed," Alex answered, clenching his fists and lowering his gaze.
'And I don't want to see you die,' Bernard thought.
"There's no point in discussing it now. We'll talk about it once we're home."
"But—"
"We'll talk about it once we're home!"
He let out some of his frustration, his voice carrying farther than he intended.
He turned toward George and bowed slightly.
"Please forgive my conduct, gentlemen."
Another man had arrived while he was talking to Alex. It was his best friend, the man who would help pull his son out of the mess he had gotten into.
Bernard could only hope he'd be able to help.
"I know I shouldn't be so cheerful on such a sad occasion, but I'm still happy to see you," Jo said, his smile seeming sincere.
Bernard met him with open arms.
"Hahaha, you've only been gone three days, but you miss me?"
"You old rascal, who do you think would miss you?"
They embraced.
"You're the old one, you don't even have hair anymore!"
"Those five white hairs of yours don't count, you little rascal."
Jo grabbed Bernard's head, laughing, and rubbed the top of his scalp. Bernard didn't like people touching his hair, and Jo knew it very well.
Their playful banter lasted only a moment, but it eased Bernard's anxiety. He then turned to Alex, his signature smile on his face.
"How's it going, kid?"
"I'm doing great, and you, Uncle Jo?"
Jo placed a firm hand on Alex's shoulder.
"Excellent! You'll have to take me for a spin in that Lambo of yours one of these days."
"Anytime, Uncle Jo!"
Alex had regained his smile. It was one of the things Bernard admired most about his old friend—he always knew how to lift people's spirits.
"We'll see about that tomorrow or next week, kid!"
Jo's smile vanished as if by magic.
"But today is a day of mourning."
Bernard sighed.
John had never been a friend or an enemy to Bernard. In their world, he was more of a legend than a man. He killed all his targets without a word, ignoring their pleas, always finding their weakness and vanishing without a trace.
He was the prodigy everyone within the hotel revered, a living god among killers, who had always been unanimously respected.
'The people who killed him have no idea what's coming.'
Bernard felt a gust of wind hit his face.
'A storm's coming, but I'll be home by the time it hits,' he thought, noticing someone approaching from the corner of his eye.
Bernard didn't know the man, but he quickly introduced himself.
"Good day, gentlemen, my condolences. I will be the undertaker for this ceremony."
Bernard shook his hand out of politeness. Despite the man's silly grin, Bernard had no doubt about his competence. After all, they had chosen him to bury John.
Bernard would have liked to ask him about his job, but he had other questions swirling in his mind.
He turned to Jo, speaking in a low voice, not wanting his son to overhear.
"Did you find out anything more?"
He dreaded Jo's answer, but he needed to know.
"All investigations have suddenly stopped."
Bernard frowned. That should have been good news, but something felt off.
"Everyone's staying silent."
"Can't you use this to track down the person who gave my son the money?"
Jo shook his head.
"It's too risky, Bernard. Any move by my informants would be noticed by someone on the high table. Something's happening behind the scenes, and I won't risk the lives of my wife and daughters to uncover the truth.
Sorry, my friend, but we have to stay patient."
Bernard knew his old friend was right, but he hated being passive. His son's life might already be hanging by a thread, and he didn't even know it.
Bernard felt powerless, and he despised that feeling.
"Can you help us escape?"
His voice was barely a whisper, but his words seemed to shake Jo.
"You're not serious, are you?"
Bernard's determined face said otherwise.
Jo seemed to take several seconds to recover from his shock.
"I can't help you."
"Why not?"
"What am I supposed to say to Melissa and my two angels if I don't come home?"
Bernard's words got caught in his throat.
"I'm sorry, my friend."
Jo gave him a few pats on the back.
"Don't be so pessimistic. We'll talk about this over a drink tonight. For now, let's lay one of our own to rest."
Other guests were starting to arrive.
The first was a chubby man who had arrived by helicopter, flanked by two bodyguards.
'I don't know him.'
He must have been an important figure within Promesse for Bernard not to recognize him. Jo had sent him a dossier that morning with information on all the funeral attendees.
If the person standing a few steps away from him wasn't in the files, then someone with power had ensured their absence.
A young woman arrived next, accompanied by a motorcade.
She was Asian and strikingly beautiful, but that wasn't what caught Bernard's attention.
She, along with George Washington, was one of the few people Bernard had received information about that morning.
'Mako Fujiwara, the sole heir to the Yakuza clan. Her father sent her to the U.S. to expand the New York branch. I wonder what she's doing here.'
As she approached to greet them, Bernard noticed several people discreetly moving toward the cemetery gates.
He greeted the young woman absentmindedly, turning his attention to the new arrivals.
'A man and a woman in their thirties. They arrived together, likely part of John's inner circle. I've heard he got married, so the woman must be his wife. But the man beside her—I have no idea who he is.'
There was also a third person arriving from another direction. It was an elderly man with white hair, whom Bernard didn't recognize.
He knew John was an orphan and had never been adopted, so the old man couldn't be his father.
Perhaps he was John's mentor or someone important within Promesse.
'It's also possible he's a member of the High Table.'
They made all the decisions inside Promesse, yet Bernard had only met one of them. It was nearly thirty years ago when he had been looking to change his life. A man in his sixties had approached him, offering a choice, and Bernard still regretted the decision he made 17 years ago. He never saw that man again and never would.
'Don't dwell on the past, Bernard. Focus on the future,' he urged himself, burying those dark memories deep within his mind.
Still, something about the old man brought him back to those years. A sense of familiarity, as if they had crossed paths long ago.
While Bernard was lost in thought, the old man had opened the cemetery gates. The guests began to enter, some exchanging words with the elder, who seemed to own the place. Bernard, caught in his own thoughts, was the last to walk in.
As he was about to step through the gate, a voice called out to him.
"You seem to be doing well since the last time we met."
The old man offered no further explanation, pulling a small cigar box from his jacket pocket.
Bernard didn't know much about cigars, but he recognized this box. It could only hold a handful of cigars, yet it was adorned with diamonds and gold leaf.
'Where have I seen this before?'
He found himself walking to John's grave with the other guests, but his mind wasn't on the ceremony. The undertaker had started his speech, but Bernard was focused on remembering where he had seen that cigar box.
It only came to him when he delved into his darkest years.
It had been 17 years ago, on the desk of a man in a villa in the heart of Geneva. At the time, there had been three cigars inside, but the man hadn't smoked any.
"I'm saving them for the greatest occasion."
That's what he had said all those years ago.
Bernard felt a deep chill, not from the wind, but from a theory that had just crossed his mind.
He turned to study the reactions of the other guests.
None of them were crying—not even his wife.
'So, he chose the path I was too cowardly to follow 17 years ago,' Bernard thought, feeling a twinge of pity for John.
Someone must have silenced him out of fear that his name would end up on a list.
No one would ever find out who did it, and everyone was likely relieved that the latent danger had been removed.
'Maybe that person is hiding among us.'
His son pulled out his phone and answered a call.
Bernard shot him a stern look, but he noticed the other guests seemed to have received calls as well.
He reached into his pocket for his phone, which he had silenced for the ceremony.
'What's going on?'
He had missed a call just moments ago.
As he turned toward Jo to try to figure out what was happening, his finely tuned instincts sounded the alarm.
But it was too late.
BANG.
A bullet had struck his son in the heart.
"SNIPER!"
He shouted without even knowing why. He rushed to his son, catching him before he hit the ground. Bernard tried to stop the bleeding with his hands, but a cold, detached voice inside his head brought him back to reality.
'Sniper shot, 7.62 mm bullet. Point of impact is one of the main arteries. The victim will only survive for a few more seconds, at best.'
His son was already dead.
It had only taken an instant for Bernard to lose what was most precious to him.
Just like 21 years ago when he had lost his wife.
George approached and kicked his son's corpse to check if he would react.
"This guy's definitely dead. Lucky for us we're in a cemetery; we can bury him right here without needing the funeral home."
Something seemed to break deep inside Bernard.
'Why?'
He closed his son's eyes.
'Why?!'
He stood up without a word.
'WHY?!'
His son's death was their fault. Them, with their hidden agendas and power struggles.
He had nothing left to lose, and they would all pay for it.
He pulled out his gun and aimed it at the chubby man. His bodyguards were gone, and Bernard knew, deep down, that this man was someone important—someone who might know who had killed his son or who had caused his death.
"HE DIED BECAUSE OF YOU AND YOUR SCHEMES!"
Bernard had no proof, but he didn't care anymore. The man's brow furrowed, and he began to pull a revolver from his suit, but Bernard was faster.
BANG.
A shot rang out, but it wasn't from Bernard's gun.
Someone else had been quicker. They shot him in the back at point-blank range.
Bernard wanted to turn his head to see who had shot him, but he didn't have the strength.
As blood trickled down his forehead, Bernard closed his eyes.
He had only one final question as his consciousness faded:
"Who?"