Resurrecting Midnight by Eric Jerome Dickey

Jamaicans. South Africans. Middle Easterners.
    Money had the scent of blood, and the sharks were in the waters.
    Morality would never outweigh money. Money made the moral immoral.
    Many immoral fucks had died trying to get their hands on the package.
    Tonight would leave the undertaker busy.
    More flashes inside his head. Again, dead memories battled to be resurrected.
    No time for the past.
    Medianoche tore the pictures into dozens of pieces, then headed for the door.
    It was time to go to war.
    Medianoche stepped into the hallway with his weapon holstered, tucked away.
    Standing outside the door facing his condo was a man in his fifties. Stocky and muscular with carnivorous eyes. Hair black with irregular white patches, like a Tasmanian devil.
    Dark Italian suit. Dark shirt and red tie. Dark trench coat.
    He had a gun in each of his gloved hands. Guns fitted with suppressors.
    An assassin.
    He recognized the killer’s face.
    He saw La Bestia de Guerra.

Capítulo 6
    el tercer hombre
    La Bestia de Guerra. The Beast of War.
    Medianoche’s gun was holstered. He stared at the gunman, saw a killer known to hunt and do barbaric things to his prey, a hired gun who worked alone, or sometimes with other devils.
    The killer returned Medianoche’s deadly glare.
    The Beast was a man many feared, had a face like Marciano and a punch just as devastating. A man who’d shoot you before he damaged his callused knuckles.
    A man who would rather cut off your limbs and behead you than waste a bullet.
    Medianoche asked, “You plan on shooting me?”
    “Been thinking about it.”
    “I’ve been thinking the same.”
    The Beast looked Medianoche up and down, his frown intense, then pulled his coat back, slipped a gun inside a holster, then slipped his second gun into the opposite holster.
    Medianoche said, “Hopkins have the money in place?”
    “Deposit has been transferred to the offshore.”
    Medianoche asked, “Where is Hopkins? He here yet?”
    “Stateside. He was after the other part of the package. He should have it by now.”
    “He’s outsmarted all the con-men bankers.” Medianoche grunted. “Rich fuck.”
    “Much richer when he puts the two packages together.”
    “What does that get him?”
    “Gets him what Madoff and Stanford got, minus the jail time.”
    Another door opened. Another man stepped out. Dark Italian suit, dark shirt, dark trench coat, and fedora. Holding a silenced weapon. Dressed the same as the other man.
    Only his tie was pure, virginal, as white as the cocaine Oliver North has overseen.
    The man wearing the white tie addressed The Beast, then Medianoche.
    Medianoche said, “Señor Rodríguez. Nice suit.”
    “Sir, thank you, sir.”
    Medianoche said, “You did that assignment down in Pinamar.”
    “Sir, yes, sir. Made it back an hour ago, sir.”
    “How is that area?”
    “Sir, beautiful, sir. Like being on the beach in Cannes or in Malibu, sir.”
    “How did you dispose of the target?”
    “Sir, tracked him to Ku nightclub. When he went to the bathroom to take a piss, went in behind him and broke his motherfucking neck, sir. Left the target sitting dead on the shitter, sir.”
    The Beast asked, “Get your dick wet?”
    “Sir, yes, sir.”
    “Good. Keeps the edge off.”
    The final door opened. Electronic tango music spilled into the petite hallway. Tanghetto playing “Inmigrante.” Three Argentine men hurried out of the apartment. Men dressed in jeans and sweaters, men who held their winter coats and umbrellas in their hands. Men who had perfect faces like the underwear models on the billboards plastered all over Buenos Aires.
    The first of the men said, “ Buenas noches .”
    The second said, “ Buenas noches .”
    The last, “ Buenas noches .”
    The Beast didn’t reply. Neither did Medianoche. Neither did Rodríguez.
    The Spanish men lowered their eyes as they stumbled into a hallway filled with assassins. One extended a nervous finger and pushed the call button for the elevator.