Rorschach quickly jotted down the key points of Gus's call with the Salamancas from the note in his hand.
He could not hear the voice on the other end, but from what Gus said, it was clear he was trying to reconcile with the Salamanca family.
To that end, he had even invited their mutual supplier—a major Mexican drug lord—to come to Chicago as a witness.
Obviously, Gus had also taken serious losses from the Salamancas' retaliation lately.
The meeting was set for ten p.m. the next night, in an abandoned park out on the outskirts.
Three parties, all traffickers… for Rorschach, it was a golden opportunity.
If several rival drug crews died in the same place, the cops would only think their negotiations had gone sideways and turned into a three‑way shootout. No one would ever think to look at him.
It would be hard, but if he could use it to take Gus off the board, the extra risk was worth it.
Decision made, he called the Irish brothers, gave them the plate number Mike had slipped him, and told them to get to New York and start digging.
Connor and Murphy were reckless hotheads, but they hated evil even more than he did. Leaving the trail to them let him focus on Chicago.
Once he cleaned up the mess here, he would head straight to New York to pull Carl out.
He reminded them to watch for a tail. With those two, if they were ready and paying attention, they would not be easy marks.
Then he made several more calls, setting up contingencies.
Last, he rang the chief to ask for three days off—and got told to stay home and wait for him that night.
Rorschach frowned, puzzled, but agreed.
Once everything was in motion, he looked into the rearview mirror at the reflection of the villa's second floor—Gus's study.
In the safe in that room lay stacks of files on his own crimes.
If he killed Gus in the evening, there was every chance someone would slide those files onto the DA's desk by morning.
That was what had kept him from moving on Gus all these years.
This time, though, he was done holding back.
If it came to it, he would run for the rest of his life.
————————
South Side, on a deserted street.
A tattooed man with shifty eyes leaned against a van parked at the curb.
He kept his head down, but his gaze never stopped sweeping the area as he waited for his big‑spending client.
After a while, two pairs of black leather shoes, each capped with a silver skull, appeared in his field of view.
He looked up to find two towering, heavily built, bald brothers standing there, both easily over six‑and‑a‑half feet, thick in the shoulders and unmistakably Mexican.
"Hey, my Mexican brothers, right on time," the tattooed man said, forcing a grin.
He had meant to chat a bit more, but their cold, dead‑flat expressions made him swallow hard. Instead, he just yanked the van's side door open.
The back was stacked floor to ceiling with guns and ammo of every kind.
"Everything you wanted is here. M14 sniper rifles, great performance, effective range over eight hundred meters. Only downside's the recoil."
"And here's the SG 551. Brazilian Air Force special ops carry this. Cost me a fortune to get 'em."
"Oh, and I picked up some hollow‑points for you. They call 'em the Black Plague in the Middle East. Nickel‑plated copper‑zinc alloy jacket, black Lapua‑style expanding tip. As soon as it hits pressure it opens right up, like a sausage splitting. Hah."
He kept talking, piling on the sales pitch.
The brothers never spoke. They just calmly packed the guns and ammo into their bags.
Then both sets of eyes came back to him, colder than before.
"O‑okay. Here's your body armor."
The tattooed man dug out two white vests from the van and said proudly, "Hot‑pressed non‑woven Kevlar fibers. Getting hit feels like a nun giving you a handjob—pure comfort."
He lifted his own shirt to show off the same vest underneath.
"See? Safety and comfort. I wear one every day."
Bang bang bang—!
Before he finished, one of the Mexicans put several rounds straight into his chest.
The impact drove him back and knocked him to the ground.
Luckily for him, the vest did its job. The rounds did not punch through.
Fighting down his anger, he looked up at the brothers. It was clear they had only wanted to test the armor.
Satisfied he was still breathing, they stuffed the vests into their bag, then tossed a bundle of cash and a photo at his feet.
"Where?" one of them asked in flat English, tapping the picture.
The dealer tucked the money away carefully, then looked down at the photo.
A man in a police uniform. He recognized him at once.
"Rorschach… Butcher?!"
————————————
Night, at home.
Rorschach lay soaking in the bathtub, mind blank, staring at the ceiling.
On the stool beside the tub sat a bottle of vodka, his phone, two packs of cigarettes, and an ashtray overflowing with butts.
He exhaled a long plume of smoke.
Fog from the water and haze from the cigarettes mixed together, draping the bathroom in a pale, shimmering veil.
He stubbed out the cigarette and reached for his phone, about to call the chief and ask why he still was not there.
His hand froze midway. His eyes snapped toward the door, suddenly sharp.
In the hallway leading from the living room to the bathroom, a bald Mexican hitman had already slipped inside.
He hugged the wall, assault rifle at the ready, easing his way toward the bathroom.
When he reached the door, he slowly set his hand on the knob.
Then he shoved it open hard.
Before he stepped through, the muzzle was already sweeping the room, spraying rounds in a wild arc.
But there was nothing there—no silhouette in the steam and smoke, no one in the tub.
A second later, a shadow dropped from above the doorframe and both heels crashed down onto his skull.
The killer stumbled back, trying to bring the rifle around, but Rorschach had already burst from cover. An iron grip clamped down on the man's wrist, wrenching the barrel aside as his other fist smashed into the bridge of the man's nose.
Simple, ugly street brawling.
The nerves in the eyes and nose are linked—hit the nose hard enough and both eyes slam shut for a heartbeat.
Rorschach used that instant to grab for the man's belt and yank free a concealed Glock.
He had just raised it to fire when every instinct he had screamed danger.
He whipped the pistol up alongside his head like a shield.
Boom—!
The deafening crack of a shot, and the Glock in his hand jerked and came apart under the impact.
Gun‑Fu—rapid response.
Two hundred meters away, on the roofline of a three‑story building,
the silent Mexican twin who never swore finally broke character on North American soil.
"What… the f*ck?!"
(End of Chapter)
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