Snippet #2502209

"Florida, or at least the Terran equivalent of where Jews go to retire." Bachmann joked, "I don't know. The Yakuza will be taken care of. I called up some friends already." The hitman told the vigilante, "I'm assuming you're a man under that cape and cowl. My pistol shoots faster than you move." He threatened.

"But, I don't want to waste my bullets. If you're right about the Yakuza coming tonight, I need to get packed and ready to go."

Not that packing up right now would matter, Jackson was already entering the fourth floor from the stairwell. His moment was coming. Adrianna died because a gangster couldn't no for an answer, and Bachmann couldn't say no to some cash for a quick murder or two. Jackson may have been a boss in a drug dealing, drug smuggling criminal syndicate, but he believed in honor among thieves.

He used to at the veary least.

The further down the hall they got towards Bachmann's apartment, the further Jackson was from his morals. The old Jackson was in a grave in Sao Paulo beside his sister. This Jackson could only see in a straight line through Bachmann to Sharashka to Sharashka's bosses in Moscow.

"This is it." Shiro said, stopping at Bachmann's apartment. "He's all alone." Shiro added, "I'll pick the lock." Jackson said, "Sometimes you need to go low-tech and old school." He said, "Kicking the door down works just as well." Luis informed the man.