Il Verro - Contract Kill 1 - Henry Stone

Briiinnngg, briiinnngg...
Briiinnngg, briiinnngg...

The ringing of an antique rotary phone woke Furio Silvio from a deep and undreaming sleep. He stares unblinkingly at the ceiling of a cheap apartment in the worst part of the most loathsome city he had ever been in, Brockton Bay. Just a week and a half here, and his cover had been blown by some child with a hard-on for revenge, causing him to lean harder on his American benefactors. The Family here, the Cavalcantes, were pitiful compared to the quarrelsome bevy of mafiosos and godfathers that he had to navigate to get work in Italy. Here, he answered to perhaps two men of middling power and little influence, but there was a freedom in that. No politics to think about when he took a job, no worrying about whether he would have to kill his previous employer on his next mission.

Briiinnngg, briiinnngg...
Briiinnngg, briiinnngg...

	But there wasn’t freedom here for Furio Silvio. Just sitting, sequestered away in the dampest and dirtiest corner the Cavalcantes could find, receiving daily phone calls to keep up with his Tinkering. Of course, he could not make much with the paltry materials provided to him. Twelve days, he had been here, and all he had to show for it was a can of pepper spray which fired something like napalm, and some modified tear gas which could melt flesh. Fun, but hackneyed. There was no real artistry to it. Effective all the same.

Briiinnngg, briiinnngg...
Briiinnngg, brii-

	-Furio picked up the phone, halting its incessant trill.

	“Hello, Mr. Silvio. This is Mr. Passerini with Brockton Animal Control. We’ve got a problem with some pigs making a mess of things. A special one has been getting into our storage recently. His name is Stone. Deal with them, and try not to make too much noise. You’ll find them on West 32nd Street, in a warehouse by the docks. Don’t worry about making a mess, they should already be cleaning one up. Be quick about this. You know where to go when you’re done.”

Click
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Putting on the mask again was euphoric. The buckling of a few straps, the pushing back of hair, a steadying breath. It was a ritual which put Furio in a different mindset. He was not the man who had sat in a room, eating cheap American fast-food for over a week, destroying his mind with cable television and cheaply cut cocaine. He was Il Verro, The Boar, and the Family had sent him to kill some pigs. Ironic, really. His motorcycle, another cheap “gift” from the Family, had taken him to the location fast enough. A PRT cordon was already set up around the warehouse, and what he could see from afar led him to believe that it had been a massacre. Supposedly, one of these agents would be a parahuman. Someone who had crossed the Cavalcantes.

	Il Verro had circled around the building, sticking to shadows in the dusk. After an investigation of the perimeter, he decided on an entrance. Getting to the top of a nearby building was easy enough, using its fire escapes to climb up, and from there he was able to bring himself to the roof of the warehouse.

	A single door on the roof led inside. Il Verro took a deep breath, allowing the aerosolized adrenaline in his boar-faced mask to enter his lungs, feeling the rush course through his body. Better than the purest Colombian coke. He opened the door slowly, creeping through the shadows of the dimly lit warehouse.

	Over the phone, the consigliere had mentioned a mess. That failed to truly capture what was within the warehouse. Corpses strewn about, faces of horror and pain attached to bodies that twisted this way and that. Pools of blood. PRT troopers lazed about, seemingly confident that the building was secure. Il Verro counted six in the building, three outside. Any one could be the cape. He slowly approached a lone trooper, hidden by a large cargo container from the rest of the group.

	La Mannaia found itself in Il Verro’s grip. A heavy cleaver, its handle burning like a stove over fire. Il Verro grit his teeth and swung for the trooper’s neck, the weapon digging about halfway in before getting stuck, sizzling and popping like hot oil. He quickly yanked it out, holstering it and reaching for the body before it could make a sound.

	One.

	Sneaking around, Il Verro had two options. One group of troopers stood around a body in red and green, ABB colors. Of the three, one wore a heavy canister on his back, hose and nozzle extending out almost like a flamethrower. Containment Foam, something new to him. Better not to get hit. The other two patrolled the large warehouse, and might find the body. He took out his polaroid camera and took a picture of one of the men walking around, and then of the three troopers by the body.

	One photograph showed a dead trooper, his face bashed in, helmet removed. The other showed Il Verro’s body, limp on the ground, surrounded by five men. He knew which option to pick.

	He rushed suddenly at the lone patrolling trooper just as he rounded a corner, punching at his throat while unsheathing his cleaver, laying three heavy chops into his side even as he tackled him to the ground. It was a simple matter of fist to face, from there. The man gurgled softly. Il Verro pressed his boot to the man’s neck until the noises stopped.

	Two.

	This job was turning out to be easier than expected. Il Verro turned to return to the shadows-

	-Just to come face to face with a man. The other patrolling trooper. He held himself differently from his fellows. Where they seemed trained, he simply seemed…	dangerous.

	“You must be Stone.” Il Verro said, voice slightly muffled by his mask. Steaming breath emitted from the ventilators behind the tusks of his mask.

	“You killed my friends.” The man simply replied. His voice was not overly intimidating. In fact, he sounded like any other man. Like someone you might meet in a grocery store, or at the park. It disgusted Il Verro deeply that this was to be his first cape kill in America.

	“That I did.” Il Verro’s hand reached subtly for the tear gas grenade. “What will you do about it, I wonder? Will you die as pathetically as they did?”

	The pounding of boots resounded in the warehouse. Their conversation had drawn the attention of the other three. In just a second, they would round the corner. Just one… two…

	Stone drew his pistol, firing six shots center mass. The vest absorbed most of it, thankfully. The small blessings of spending time on your outfit. Il Verro expected bruised ribs, at the least.
	At the same time, the canister of tear gas rolled onto the ground, and both of the men ducked away just as the other three troopers rounded the piles of debris keeping them out of sight. It did its work exactly as intended, and the screams of the troopers were like a symphony that Il Verro only regretted he could not personally witness, only give an audience to and imagine. Except that it was missing an instrument. Only three screams.

	Stone came running at him, unloading the rest of his pistol, one shot plinking off of Il Verro’s mask, rocking him slightly. Il Verro drew his Cavaliere in a swift, practiced motion, letting his power correct any mistakes in aiming as he fired four shots in quick succession. The Cavaliere was a heavily modified rifle, one of Il Verro’s first and most prized possessions. It could blast a hole the size of a cantaloupe through a man’s chest. It enhanced pain, making even the air on your skin feel like the fires of hell, like every inch of skin was being personally flayed by a devil.

	Stone stumbled at the shots, and one that hit his arm seemed to have broken it completely, his hand left hanging limply, blood seeping through the sleeve. Stone stumbled, but did not fall. Some sort of brute, then? Or perhaps his weapons were not having the correct effect?

	As he approached, Il Verro drew his cleaver, wincing slightly at the heat, thankful for his mask. He chopped, and it was clear that Stone had some knowledge of close combat. Some, but not nearly enough. PRT training had failed him, here. La Mannaia bit into his shoulder and did not sizzle. The heat died almost instantly. Satisfied that his conclusion was correct, Il Verro headbutted Stone, cracking the visor of his helmet, and then did so again, breaking it and the man’s nose. He felt a hand touch his stomach and pulled back-

	-Only to find himself sent flying into a concrete pillar. Pain wracked his body. Bruised ribs were certainly now broken, and he had crushed his rifle against the wall. He scrambled up, hissing in pain, and looked towards Stone.

	“Not so tough now, you sick fuck. Nice toys, bet you wish they’d have worked. Don’t worry too much, I’ll make this quick for you.” He drew a knife with his good hand and approached. Il Verro reached for his final tool.

	“You should mind your manners. A wild boar is often held by a small dog.” Stone stopped in his tracks.

	“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
	Il Verro aimed and fired his canister of pepper spray, coating Stone in a gout of viscid flame. It seemed not to stick to the man himself, but stuck to his uniform and armor all the same. Even burning, Stone approached, and just before falling, held his knife out towards the boar-masked assassin.

	Il Verro laughed, shaking his head and turning to leave before the other troopers caught wind of what had happened. He stopped laughing when the knife that had been in the Stone’s hand fired outward as if thrown, sinking directly into his shoulder, causing him to stumble.

	He supposed he had gotten clumsy, in the past week.

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Furio Silvio met the man who had called him at some upscale, old-school club named Il Millennio. It reminded him of home, of the crime families in Italy who flaunted their wealth and thought themselves untouchable. He stood out here, wearing a dress shirt over copious bandages, smoking a cigarette where everyone else had fat cigars. His hair was slicked back and greasy, and he was dead on his feet.

	Mr. Passerini was the Don’s consigliere, and so he had earned some measure of respect. Silvio took his payment, an envelope of cash and a suggestion to vacate the premises. He asked when he could meet the Don personally, to thank him for the hospitality. In reality, it was to get a measure of the man, and to see if he could kill him, if it came down to it.

	“If the Don ever asks to see you,” Passerini had said, “it will be a gift unlike anything you have ever experienced. Pray that you continue to please him.”

	For some reason, those words had struck him. He looked Passerini in the eyes and said “I will.” He seemed pleased with that answer, and bid Furio leave. For now, he would rest, recuperate, and heal his injuries. Maybe he could even make something to help, with all this cash, though he’d need to replace the weave in his vest and jacket…