Bruce Tarnowski

[Doctor_Diddler]

Table of Contents

• Table of contents
• Chapter I: A brief history (of pain)
• Chapter II: The city, and never sleeping.

[Doctor_Diddler]

Chapter I: A brief history (of pain)

He kept running over the details in his mind. Something was wrong but it was difficult to tell what at that particular moment. The payment itself was normal; he sat at Vino's in lower Algonquin. It was the middle of November and a soft snow had begun to fall; no doubt the result of another winter vortex or some sort. He ordered a cube steak with some green beans and macaroni-n-cheese. He was about halfway finished when a man sat down across from him. Normal build, polo shirt and some blue jeans. The understanding between them was quite clear and in fact, few words need be spoken. He gave Bruce a short team to finish his meal and gave him the relevant information; Construction site. Upper Alderney. 6 PM. 2nd floor. Black suit with a blue shirt and always a light blue pocket square.

Bruce paid for his meal, and made his way to a routine contact to purchase a firearm. It was a nice, soviet surplus Mosin-Nagant with some minor improvements to make it a little less Russian and a little more usable. He gained access to a window-washing platform and made a nice and comfy home on a desolate metal half-cage suspended 4 stories above ground level. It was practically easy money once he'd learned how to use a spotter. No more wild drive-bys shooting blindly out a window and hoping to hit something valuable. It was good money and being situated far enough away gave him plenty of time to bug out when the time came.

It was 5 o'clock when the first sign of no good appeared; armed men most certainly not here for a contracting gig began to take up sentry positions. They all knew their routes it seemed, but luckily none were on the lookout for a rickety platform several blocks away above them. It was a quarter past 6 when a black windsor rolled up. It was beginning to grow dark as the entourage exited their vehicles. This was some kind of HVT, but Bruce didn't recognize the crew coming out. Peculiar, but that made things easier; little to no blowback from the families for offing some new gang on the block.

All was readied. The platform was powered on and his rifle was in position. None of the sentries were terribly interested in looking his direction for the moment. The target would be roughly 730 meters away. His sights were set, and he readied himself as best he could. The man in black positioned himself in the middle of the room, perfect for a clean shot. There was, however, a catch; he was turned perpendicular to Bruce, and would make a hard target even harder to hit. It looked like he was meeting up with some local toughs, and they gathered around him in a semi-circle to the front of him. It was an odd little formation, and they made no hindrance to his line of fire. His palms began to sweat. The target was pacing around the unfinished room, devoid of real walls but filled with people. Covering the entrances were his entourage, who stoodby with an air of confidence in their posture. Some sort of negotiation was taking place.

Finally, however, his opportunity presented itself; the man in the suit he was tasked with ending made his profile more available. In that moment, Bruce pulled the trigger.

Miss.

The bullet slammed into the concrete floor to his right, missing by maybe half a meter. Time almost crept to halt for Bruce, who instinctively pulled the bolt up and back, ejecting a shell before reversing action to chamber a new one. He fired another round maybe a full second later, too soon for anybody to know what was happening.

He threw the lever of the lift the other way as fast as he could. It was a direct hit, probably center mass. He didn't have much time to investigate his bullet trajectory, but he saw a telltale sign of the reaper in the aftermath; after he fired, his target collapsed directly downward like a puddle. Must've been a spinal hit. If he wasn't dead, he was probably never using two or more of his limbs again.

When the lift reached the bottom, he broke into a full sprint down the alley way and to his car. It was a beat up old ruiner with a broken right taillight He flung the rifle into the passenger seat and hammered the pedal. There was some initial weaving into traffic but he managed to set course for his apartment up in Berchem, making sure he wasn't followed.

It was 4 A.M. when he got the call. One of his buddies, and some additional hired muscle for the Pavanos. The city was in an uproar. Koreans lost an underboss at a secret meeting with some two-bit street gang. The Koreans were turning over every rock, and they were out for blood. They were shaking up every bookie, dealer, druggie, you name it. He figured the two of them could help them look, for a price.

Bruce hung up, immediately. The money from the job was in there, so he had enough for a one-way to Los Santos, San Andreas. Next flight was an hour. He packed a single change of clothes and bolted out the door. If they didn't know now, they'd know soon. He had to go.

He didn't so much as take a deep breath until the plane was in the air. Their reach in Los Santos was weak, and as far as he knew any deep ties between east and west coast were few and far between. He'd have to lay low for awhile, but he couldn't stay in Liberty City anymore. The fear kept him from sleeping, so he ran over the details repeatedly in his head. What the hell was an underboss doing meeting a bunch of street thugs? Why a construction site and not somewhere on their turf? It didn't make sense. The flight was 5 hours, but he only got minimal sleep. Maybe this could be good. A new beginning.