Elsewhere...

Inside an dilapidated warehouse in New York city’s east side are two men hovering near a body drenched in fresh blood.

One, a tall sturdy blonde with a weathered face puffs idly on a cigarette. He’s smartly dressed in polished oxfords and a pressed linen suit.

There’s a notch of skin missing on the ridge of his left ear from a stray bullet and three faded scars on his face: one over his lips, another running from cheek and jawline, and the third over his left eye, the pupil cloudy and sightless.

His name is Ransom and at forty seven he’s comfortable with violence and familiar with pain the way only a career mercenary can be.

In front of him, crouched over the prone body is a twenty-something hitman-for-hire who, despite hailing from Czechoslovakia, insists on going by the name Oswald.

Perhaps it’s cultural differences that explain the fine light brown hair he wears hanging loosely shoulder-length like a woman. Ransom can’t say for sure, never having been to Europe.

Apart from that, Oswald towers well over six feet, lithe and muscular like a dancer. He sports a deep blue turtle neck, knee high khaki shorts, and white socks up to his calves with brown loafers

in need of a polish. He’s soaked, as if someone’s poured a gallon of paint on his chest and thighs. His hands are sticky with crimson.

“Why’d you stop?” Asks Ransom, at length. Oswald tilts his head, eyebrow raising. He takes a fistful of hair from the man splayed out motionless between them, shaking the man’s head half-heartedly.

The head bobs at the motion, face mottled and swollen beyond recognition.

“He’s not even awake anymore. There’s no point going on,” Oswald replies unenthusiastically, voice silky.

“Sure he’s still alive?” Ransom asks pointedly. Oswald wipes the edge of the straight razor held in his left hand before pressing the flat end of it under the man’s mouth. After a beat, the steel fogs up

“Mm-hmm. Yep.”

“Okay. We’ll finish up tomorrow,” Ransom decides, taking a seat on a nearby crate. He casts a sidelong glance at the other poor bastard they‘d tied to one of the concrete pillars before torturing his associate.

With less than ten feet separating them, they all smell the acrid ammonia stench of urine emanating from him. Ransom catches the man’s horrified eye and winks.

“You’re next, Danny.”

Danny shudders, stifled sobs escaping the gag shoved between his lips. His partner had been stubborn. Danny will be in a more helpful mood. Beside him, Oswald groans.

“You got a problem with that?” Ransom asks, evenly.

“I do,” the hitman replies, arms crossing and voice bristling. “This is boring. What’s the point of torturing them if we’re just going to kill them, anyway?”

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“That's the job.” Ransom explains, exhaling another plume of smoke. Oswald groans. The gritty flavor of Danny’s cigarettes are making Ransom long for his Havanas back home.

Ordinary people were satisfied with such meager things. Life must be charmingly uncomplicated for them. He turns to consider the full moon spying on them through the dust-blurred windows.

Suddenly, a thought occurs.

“Don’t come in tomorrow. I’ve got another job for you.” So saying, Ransom plucks at a slim gold chain around his neck, drawing the oval locket that rests against his breast.

It clicks open to reveal the picture of a little boy, no older than ten. His hair is neatly brushed, dark eyes wide and doleful. The portrait reminds Oswald of a brittle porcelain doll.

The opposite side holds a curl of hair. “Cute, huh?” Ransom prompts around the smoke between his lips.

When there’s no response, he sighs and turns the picture back towards himself, gazing at it fondly.

“He ran away a few weeks ago. Sad, isn’t it?””

Oswald shrugs, scuffing his shoe on the concrete to wipe away the blood seeping into the leather. "Not really," he sniffs, disinterested. Ransom pockets the necklace, gesturing with the lit cigarette.

"Find him and your debt is paid."

Oswald's head shoots up suddenly, hair bouncing.

His surprise lasts only a moment. In the moonlight, Ransom sees his eyes narrowing quickly; enthusiasm cooling with suspicion.

"All of it?" It’s a hefty sum, they both know.

"To the penny."

"My, my, how very generous," Oswald intones flatly. The offer sounds too good to be true. There’s a catch.

"Bring him back unharmed. If I find even a scratch on him, your debt remains as is," Ransom clarifies, taking a final drag before dropping the remaining tobacco into the cooling pool of blood below.

The embers die with a satisfying hiss.

Oswald watches as the man's hand slips into his blazer's inner pocket, withdrawing a slim wallet before fisbeeing it in his direction. Oswald barely catches it, instantly irritated by the stupid theatrics.

"There's enough money there to keep you in San Francisco until you find him," Ransom says.

Oswald opens the billfold to find an unfamiliar face staring back beside a fistful of Lincolns.

"That's what he looks like now," Ransom explains. Oswald resists the urge to slap the man with his own wallet. Instead he asks, "What was the point of showing me his kid picture, then?"

Danny’s muffled whimpering punctures the thoughtful silence.

Ransom stands and walks across the blood puddle separating them, tracking red prints over the dusty floor. He finally stops within arms reach of Oswald, smiling wide. It doesn't reach his eyes.

The moonlight reflecting off his linen suit makes him look unnervingly ghostly. His pale hair glows, eyes almost transparent.

"Because. He may be bigger now, but I still want you to treat him with kid gloves. He's so easy to break, see? But I’m the only one who knows how to do it and put him back together again.”

Oswald doesn’t hide the disgust crossing his face. Ransom continues.

“If you bring him back with even a single bruise I'll return the favor tenfold and you get nothing.” Ransom claps him good-naturedly on the shoulders with enough force to make Danny startle in the corner.

“Get it?"

Oswald straightens. He's not intimidated. He should be, but he isn’t.

"What a totally normal and reasonable request,” he answers blandly. “So, what, am I supposed to politely ask him to follow me or just leave a trail of breadcrumbs? Candy, maybe?"

Oswald shakes off Ransom's cold hand and steps away to pace. It's late and he's tired. More than tired. Exhausted to the bone from being the Magnolia Syndicate's rabid dog a mere two months.

Torture sessions aren't his modus operandi but that's all they want him for. Getting paired up on assignment with an actual lunatic is just salt in the wound.

And lately.

Lately all the sights and sounds are dredging up memories of his time in Bavaria. The whole damnable reason he’s currently an ocean away from home, entangled with American madmen and shadowy organizations galore.

The nightmares have been wrecking havoc on his sleep. So. If one impractical kidnapping is all that stands between more of this and freedom...

Oswald releases a weary sigh, finally pocketing the wallet with an air of surrender.

"What's his name?"

Ransom smiles. This time it almost reaches his eyes.