Breaking Bad: 14 Tales of Lawless Love

by Koko Brown

  “Yes.” He went to the briefcase, opened it and inspected the contents. “I will contact you when I have it.”

  “Alexi speaks highly of your talents. He’s given me assurances that you will deliver. Especially, since Alexi has a vested interest in the outcome. ”

  Didus closed the briefcase and strolled to Tavas and knelt. “Threats in the course of business are grounds for nullification. Have your friends handle this matter.” He rose and headed for the door.

  “Wait!” Tavas climbed out of the Jacuzzi. “I apologize. Please I need this done immediately. I am told you are the best.”

  “You were instructed to remain in the water.”

  “Okay, I am going back in.” He climbed back in the Jacuzzi. “I need this done. It is very important.”

  “It will cost you more.”

  “We agreed upon a price. What is this?”

  “When I am threatened, my response is unpleasant. You will pay for that mistake—one way or another.”

  “How much?”

  “The price has doubled. The remaining balance is due on delivery.” Then he lifted the briefcase and exited.

  TWO

  Exeter Justas or “Ex” as he was known in his tiny circle glanced at the darkening sky. Rain was imminent. He didn’t mind having a watery cover in the commission of a crime. With a slight declination of the head, he focused on his surroundings as he hurried along.

  Ex’s strides were synchronized with the rise and fall of his broad chest. The Contractor possessed a killer gait—smooth and panther like. Blending in without being noticed required stealth. Any cumbersome movements, flashy clothes or things of that nature attracted attention. A job can get messy when witnesses give police an accurate description of a suspect. That’s bad for a person who doesn’t want to be noticed—very bad indeed.

  To stay limber, Ex practiced capoeira—he had quick hands, as well. Pick-pocketing is a skill he acquired as a matter of survival on the street. However, he graduated from the small-time stuff—a killer for hire is handsomely paid.

  The shiny door of a particular building is where Ex focused. Powerful strides decreased to a leisurely stroll as employees emerged from the polished doors. In the stampede, a pharmaceutical executive with thin strands of hair combed over a bulbous scalp exited amidst the herd. The joviality upon his face, pink skin and wrinkled blue suit belied his happiness to escape work. He’d seen similar expressions on many with low-salary or stressful jobs—except that particular executive received obscene compensation to boss people around all day. Ex supposed price gouging in the pharmaceutical business had its stressors, but he didn’t detect that in the guy’s countenance.

  Exeter’s gaze followed the executive’s blue jacket as he chatted with a colleague. “Two thousand ninety-nine,” Exeter mumbled. The eccentric trait bordered on OCD, which he traced to his adolescent years. He acknowledged the unconscious utterances were residual scars of trauma. Unless he ceased, he feared confessing a host of sins in his sleep that could land him in prison. He clenched his teeth, performed a perfunctory scan of the perimeter and noticed the crowd headed toward the metro. His pace quickened, yet he maintained a safe distance from the target.

  “Mom…yes it is good news. On Monday he said come back and he’ll personally supervise the shipment order…yes…he’s also giving me a few bottles to take as well….I know….me too. No Mom the people are nice….okay…now that’s propaganda...the Ukraine hasn’t been part of the USSR since 1991. Jeez-Louise—anyway I don’t care. I’ll go to hell and back for Dad!”

  Exeter squinted. The woman talking on the cellular phone had an American accent. A subtle glance over his shoulder caught her silhouette. She quickly gained on him, leaving behind a pleasing scent when she rushed by. The creamy cocoa skin and short pixie cut on an exotic woman isn’t something he saw every day in the Ukraine. An aura of warmth and a sensuality exuding from the attractive woman hijacked his attention. When that happens, Ex found it difficult to shake. He increased speed to get nearer, catching peeks at the heart shaped lips, colored to enhance their lusciousness which tickled his dick. Hell yes—he’d fuck her.

  She sensed him staring, cocked her head to the side, did the up—down inspection with her eyes and he swore she blushed before moving ahead.

  He’d broken a rule by allowing her to have an up close look at him—everything except his shaded eyes. But he didn’t care—another first as he ogled her curvaceous figure beneath the modest dress. Her fashionable shawl swung with the force of a newly deployed parachute when she tossed the material across her shoulder. His gaze descended to the high heel boots fastened with miniature silver clasps. Her calves bulged during her motion and she fired up his libido in a land of frost.

  He queried her back story; attempting to piece the history together with only a cover. She didn’t wear a ring—she couldn’t be older than thirty—and by her confident gait, she was a person in charge—one of those boss babes. His interest piqued, however he shot down the pleasurable distraction. More than likely their paths would never cross again; and he didn’t like that possibility.

  Stop daydreaming. You are a nightmare’s companion—a jaded self-destructive fucker!

  That pep talk should have set him right, except he had a fleeting thought—would she enjoy dirty sex with a foreigner?

  He shoved his hands in his pockets to loosen the stiffness. Sometimes, the injury throbbed at the threat of rain. The Therapist at the boys’ home suggested he suffered from phantom pains. What did he know—the pervert?

  He snarled at the memory of the lascivious scum. A flashback caused rigidity.

  “For a youth your age you are rather strapping,” the Therapist commented during a mandatory counseling session. “I have been told you spend a lot of time in the exercise room and that you do not socialize with the others. Does working out alleviate anxiety Exeter?”

  “Yes, it helps.”

  “I am sorry about your family.”

  They were seated opposite one another, distanced by half a leg, yet Ex experienced an uncomfortable sensation grip his stomach. “Why are you sorry? You did not know them.”

  “You are angry. In time that will pass; it is part of the grieving process.” The Therapist rose. “It is lonely without family.” He closed the gap to hover above Ex and then widened his stance. “You are no longer a child. There are ways in which comfort eases loss.”

  Ex had peered upward, mouth twisted in anger at the growing bulge in the Therapist’s trouser. “Is this session over?” he had asked, seeking distance before he exploded.

  The Therapist’s hand traveled out of his pocket to his crotch. He began to rub himself. “We have thirty minutes more.” His smug countenance brought redness to Ex’s cheeks. “We can comfort one another and you will find the connection of bodies is pleasure which eradicates sorrow.” He appeared in pain, and in a frenzied state fumbled with his belt.

  Ex leapt to his feet. He recalled the beating he blindly inflicted on the pedophile until he bled. The piteous whimpers—then the threat that he’d have him sent to prison—stopped Ex’s fists and he knew then, his volatile temper was bad.

  He fled.

  “Where will you go?” Yayo had asked when he called the boy from a café to inform him he would not return.

  “Anywhere is better than there!” he replied.

  “Can I go too?”

  “No.”

  “But, we are friends.”

  “We shared a room and I was forced to endure your chatter.”

  “That is not true. You are my friend!”

  “Stop behaving like a child.”

  “I am a child.”

  “You are a baby. I will check on you periodically if that lessens your sniveling. Now I must go.” After the phone call, Ex grumbled. He had grown fond of Yayo. There were many similarities to his brother, like incessant talking and infectious joy. But, Yayo’s naiveté made him easy prey for someone like the Therapist. Although, Yayo was not required
to undergo grief counseling, he worried about him and the other children. Ex made a decision—there was only one way to protect them from the Therapist’s advances—he must do the unthinkable and kill him.

  Ex broke into the Therapist’s home and waited for his return. When the Therapist finally arrived, it was past midnight. He tossed mail on a stand and then went directly for a shower. When he pulled back the curtain and reached for a towel, he came to face-to-face with an angry baby-face killer. Before he could shout, his head collided with the edge of porcelain, cracked loudly and Ex witnessed him bleed out.

  A car horn broke Ex’s reverie. He noticed the gap had grown wider between him and his target. He hastened. “Shit,” he grumbled. Exeter’s sensual lips contorted; angered to have allowed unpleasant memories to break his concentration. Now, he lost count and started over. “One—two—three—four—”

  “…the CEO said the medication hasn’t been approved in the U.S., but we can get around that…I know he’s not able to travel…he only proposed that alternative…”

  Her voice lowered as she dodged people like a pro race car driver navigating an obstacle course. She reached the corner unaware of a shadow. Ex’s eyes narrowed when a conversation ensued between the woman and his mark.

  Ex inched closer. Cars sped by, glistening with sprinkles expelled from the sky. He put on his hood, stared at the executive’s thin strands wilting to his scalp and chuckled. Ex heard the husky tone of the woman’s voice and took a sideways glance to further admire her bee stung lips. In the midst of an assignment he considered forfeiting money for a passionate kiss. The decadent musings were dismissed with a blink to attend to his business.

  Across the street, a brown man in an orange cap raised his cell. That was Yayo, and the signal meant they had three minutes to act.

  “I cannot thank you enough for your assistance,” the woman stated. The droplets turned to a stream of elongated spit and she used the shawl to cover her tightly curled hair. “Ah, heck I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

  Traffic halted and everyone sprinted forward. The stretch of road had several fatalities each year. Exeter suspected a rapid signal change might be the culprit along with other distractions. In this case, he was certain the traffic light had been retimed by his accomplice.

  Thirty-eight.

  Liquid permeated the cloth hood. Exeter’s thick auburn hair tingled at the root. Aquatic sickles streamed down his eyeglasses and the droplets splattered atop bricks that replaced those scorched during war. Ukraine—beautiful and harsh is what he called home.

  Exeter roughly brushed against the woman to insert himself in the center of the pair.

  Pedestrian’s opened umbrellas. Water tumbled over the sides, striking shoes of the well-dressed. Sound ceased as he observed people. …the scene bore semblance to a silent movie.

  A man briskly pushed a child in a carriage to the other side. People squished by in soggy shoes. An old man grumbled at nature’s fickleness as he rushed to the safety of the sidewalk.

  The person in the cap reached the outside of the Executive, who was totally unaware he had been flanked by killers. Simultaneous bumps, natural gestures of apology, such as the patting of a neck or a chest, actually concealed the killers’ intentions. They punctured the Executive’s heart and carotid with their quick actions and when the target felt the pain—the duo had continued on their way.

  Ex heard the loud grunt behind him, and did not look back. Instead he caught up to the American and seized her arm. “This is a deadly roadway. The light changes quickly.” He warned while moving her along. They had less than three seconds before the signal gave the cars the right of way.

  “Get your hands off—”

  Boom!

  Metal crunched together. Tires screeched and a hub cap careened by her foot. She screamed, spinning around to witness the Executive go airborne before crashing atop the hood of a vehicle. Pandemonium ensued and Ex released her arm. She was safely out of harm’s way.

  “Oh my god!” she shrieked. Other onlookers reacted similarly except Ex. He observed the scene with satisfaction that everything occurred according to plan.

  Copious amounts of blood spilled from the victim, cascading down the crumpled cars’ hood. Rain tried to dilute the plasma, but what flows from a body is also the miracle of nature. The whimpers surrounding him, failed to ignite sympathy for the dead.

  “Call an ambulance…oh shit…oh shit…oh shit,” the distraught American cried.

  Water slid off his designer retractable sunglasses and his chin during a visual confirmation. The colorful fluids streaming from the motionless body painted the rainwater red—Aleksander Vijnov was indeed dead.

  Ex noticed the American’s hands cupped her mouth, and tears streamed from her lovely eyes. Stunned onlookers had solemn faces; she sobbed and it became a soul-wrenching wail. “Oh no—no—no—this can’t be happening...please…don’t die.”

  Why does she cry like that? He wondered before turning with indifference away from the horrific scene. He distanced from the accident, feeling her woe. The pain had a familiarity which lanced his heart.

  “One—two—three—four—five.”

  He marched to the car with her wallet secured in his pocket.

  THREE

  Lynne slammed the door. She didn’t mean to, but her limbs went haywire, cutting off her brain’s command to chill. She observed her great Ukrainian hope get squashed like road kill—it was horrible. The poor man didn’t stand a chance.

  Life was precious. In a blink of an eye, people are gone. She’d flown to Kiev, praying that somebody would help save her Dad. The crappy insurance company refused to pay for any experimental treatment. The sons of bitches wanted to play god. They were callous and didn’t care there were treatments that could slow the progression of the disease or even cure him. Their profit margin minds thought of people as risks and liabilities. Businesses want to save money—she understood that, but there’s something inherently unethical, when it is at the expense of the infirmed.

  Lynne flopped on the sofa, flung her scarf to a corner and shrugged off her purse strap. On the institutional colored walls were paintings of onion shaped churches and colorful landscapes. From her vantage point, her scenic view overlooked the bluff to nowhere. If she wasn’t so damn mad, she’d cry some more. Weeks of research into a manufacturer at the forefront of a cure for leukemia, led her to Kiev. An article in The New England Journal of Medicine mentioned Unoxin’s trial study which caught her attention. They manufactured a drug which had shown extremely positive results for people with Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia or CLL disease. Her dad was diagnosed with the disorder last year. Since then he’d undergone numerous treatments and she watched him go from a healthy and active person to a thin apparition of the man she loved. She didn’t want to lose her Dad.

  She put her hand to her mouth, shaking her head solemnly at the thought of that.

  A familiar flute’s whistle announced an incoming call. She walked her fingers through a cosmetic case, condoms, a detangle brush and other grooming items before clutching the cell. She took a deep breath, determined to sound enthusiastic to avoid alarming her worry-wart Mom. At thirty, you’d think the woman would have severed the apron strings—but she hadn’t. Being an only child has its perks and downfalls. “Hello Ma, how is Dad?”

  “He’s hanging in there.”

  Lynne sighed. “That’s because he’s a fighter. Isn’t it late there?”

  “Yes, but I’m having difficulty falling asleep. I keep having a strange feeling—I can’t explain it. Anyway, I only wanted to make sure you’re alright. All this bad stuff on the news, kidnappings and sex-trafficking and terrorists I won’t stop worrying until you’re home.”

  “With the domestic terrorism, human rights violations and zombies roaming the streets, the moment I’m home I’ll start stressing.”

  Her Mom shrieked. “What the hell are you talking about? What zombies?”

  Despite her messed up situation
, Lynne chuckled. Her Mom was a trip. Did she really believe there were zombies? “Mom I was being sarcastic.”

  “Well, the way some of these people acting, I wouldn’t be surprised if there are zombies ‘because I swear the devil is real. Every time I turn on the news, people doing evil mess. Mrs. Luke told me…”

  Lynne kicked off her shoes to get comfortable. Once her Mom started with gossip, she could have washed her hair and painted her toenails. Lynne closed her eyes. Monday, she planned to return to the company and request they honor the Executive’s promise. Never before had she been desperate for something so bad —she’d screw whomever she had to in exchange for that medicine.

  Her Mom continued with the story which could be summarized if she left the embellishments out of it. In a way, Lynne was glad to hear the maternal voice. Her Mom had been super supportive and non-judgmental when she broke off her engagement to Rick. The man was trash. All the while she’d been building her business, thinking he was out setting the foundation for their future as well, he’d gotten another woman pregnant.

  Apologies and begging can’t fix that shit. He didn’t get a pass by saying the other woman didn’t mean anything to him. What? Lynne fumed. She had a problem with a guy when he acts like he can’t control his sexual urges or use precaution. And how dare that lying sack of garbage think she’d continue with wedding plans while another woman carried his baby.

  That motherfucker thinks I’m a lovesick sucker—Rick needs to act like an adult and deal with the shit he made. He can also quit hoping I’ll entertain any form of reconciliation. You did me a favor by showing your true colors. Besides, your stroke game needs work and a class on how to eat pussy might improve your skills—maybe that pregnant chick can teach you. Bye boy—bye!

  Come to think of it, today she had seen a hot man that she might have given her cookies, except she suffered from a pre-existing condition known as ‘Good Girl Syndrome.’ Ever since she could remember, she’d given selflessly, loved hard, treated people fairly, been a loyal ass fool and then right when she thought that shit paid off—she got stabbed in the back by the man she loved. Never again she swore—she’d do whatever felt good and if that made her a bad person—oh well. Being a selfish bitch beat penile docility or some broken-hearted woman. She truly wished she’d leaned on that hot guy’s shoulder, bawled away her troubles and then requested that he fuck her to a happy place.