Chapter 11: Welcome to Miami
Fifteen-year-old Jonathan slipped from the deep shadow between two rusty cargo containers. The night air was not the icy, thin air of Russia; It was a wall of thick, sticky moisture that clung to his skin instantly. He had just spent the last few weeks as a stowaway in the dark hold of a cargo ship, a trip financed by the funds "released" from the office of the Orphanage Director.
He quietly jumped the six feet from the metal walkway to the concrete pier of the Port of Miami. It was 4:30 AM, the moment just before dawn began to dilute the darkness.
The air smelled of life. Salt, diesel, rotten fish and the sickly sweetness of the nearby mangroves. It was a sensory attack, loud and vibrating compared to the antiseptic sterility and enforced silence of his former prison. The constant cold of the Orphanage, a cold that kept their muscles perpetually tense and ready to react, was replaced by this oppressive heat.
And strangely, as he walked past a sleeping harbor guard, Jonathan felt his shoulders relax for the first time in his life. Liked. It seemed comfortable to him.
It moved like a ghost, pouring out of the guarded docks as the first pale orange glow began to split the sky from the ocean. He followed the glow to the east, walking for an hour as the city came alive around him.
When the sun finally peeked over the horizon, it lit up South Beach in a burst of pastel and neon colors. It was a sensory assault of a different kind. Buildings painted a flamingo pink and an electric blue that hurt the eyes. The sound of Latin music coming out of convertible cars that passed too fast. Sweaty runners in minimal clothing, tourists who already looked drunk, and the roar of the ocean.
Jonathan stopped at a corner, a skinny fifteen-year-old boy in worn-out Russian clothes, watching it all. And instinctively, his face adopted the mask.
The innocent and charismatic smile appeared, an expression of youthful amazement and warmth that was his most effective camouflage. He approached a newsboy who was opening his newsstand.
"Excuse me, sir," Jonathan said. His English, taught at the Orphanage, was impeccable and without an accent. "Where can I find the main street?"
The man, an older Cuban with a weathered face, was surprised by the boy's polite smile. He pointed with his thumb. "Ocean Drive. That's where all the madness is. Take care, kid."
"Thank you, sir." Jonathan nodded and walked on, his smile fixed in place, the perfect innocent tourist.
But as he walked, the whisper began. His instinct, now free in this new hunting ground, buzzed, analyzing the dense population.
A yellow cab sped by, the driver yelling at him in Spanish to get off the curb. Sewing, instinct whispered. Hyoid bone, fragile. Exposed by the scream. A blow of the edge of the hand would crush him against the column. Unnecessary..
A woman on roller skates brushed past him from behind, fast and sweaty. Sewing: Achilles tendon. Tense and exposed. A cut would cause it to fall into oncoming traffic. Unnecessary..
He stopped in front of a window, a food stall that had just opened. The smell was overwhelming: strong coffee and fried guava cakes. The scent hit him with surprising force. His stomach, empty during the last 48 hours of the boat ride, roared painfully. It was a biological need that had to be met.
He put his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Empty. The rubles he had "released" from the Director were useless paper here. I had nothing.
The charismatic smile remained, but his eyes became cold and calculating. He needed capital. The hunt had begun again.
…..
The smell of fried food and coffee faded, replaced by that of overflowing trash cans and stagnant air. Jonathan stepped away from the bright art deco facades of Ocean Drive and into a side alley, a shade cut between a boutique hotel and a shuttered souvenir shop.
His mission had changed. Hunger was a primary motivator. He needed capital.
His charismatic smile remained in place, but his eyes were now scanning for a different purpose. He was no longer a tourist; he was a hunter. His "Flipped Training" had taught him to hold back, but his instinct, honed at the Orphanage, was impeccable for one thing: finding the most efficient way to get what he wanted.
Robbing a tourist... he thought, while his instinct calculated the probabilities. No. Too noisy. They will scream. The police here seem fast. Inefficient.
I needed a target that couldn't go to the police. An illegal player. A trafficker. I needed to find the real predators of this city.
He went deeper into the alley, the bright Miami sun becoming a distant slit above his head. The sound of the waves was replaced by the dripping water of a faulty air conditioner.
Huddled against a stained brick wall, among a pile of soggy cardboard boxes, was a man. He was skinny, his skin tanned by the sun and dirt. It smelled of cheap alcohol and desperation.
When Jonathan passed, the man was startled. He looked up, his eyes clouded with a hangover. Out of habit, he stretched out a trembling hand.
"Hey, kid...," he began in a raspy voice. Do you have a dollar...? Something...?"
His eyes, accustomed to the harsh indifference of passers-by, met Jonathan's.
And the vagabond's world stopped.
He didn't see a fifteen-year-old boy. He didn't see the friendly smile.
Man, living on the edge of society, operated on a primal survival instinct that normal people had long since forgotten. And that instinct, at that moment, shouted at him.
He didn't see a child. He saw an abyss. He saw an absolute calmness, an unnatural stillness that did not belong to anything alive. He saw the world's alpha predator staring at him, not in anger, but with the utter indifference of a butcher looking at a piece of meat. He saw what Jonathan was, a creature that didn't hide its murderous nature because it didn't even recognize it as abnormal.
The terror was instant and absolute. The tramp's plea died in his throat with a muffled groan. His eyes widened. The heat spread through his crotch as his bladder loosened uncontrollably. His brain, unable to process the sheer terror of the smiling boy, simply flipped the emergency switch. His eyes rolled and he slumped to the side, fainting in his own puddle.
Jonathan didn't even break the pace.
His instinct had already analyzed the man seconds before. Sewing: Severe malnutrition. Liver disease. Threat: Nil.. The man's sudden collapse was irrelevant. It was not a goal. I had no money. It was not an obstacle.
Without looking back, Jonathan continued down the alley, his eyes already scanning the rooftops, looking for a vantage point. His mind was fixed on a bigger problem: finding someone to rob.
…..
Jonathan walked out of the alley, returning to the bright sunlight. The innocent smile faded, replaced by an empty mask of neutrality. His movements changed. He stopped being a lost teenager; he became a ghost.
He delved into the commercial districts beyond the tourist strip, an area known to local police as a hub for trafficking and money laundering. He needed a point of observation. He saw its route: a dumpster, a porch roof, a rusty vent, and eventually the ledge of a five-story apartment building. He did not climb; flowed. Their movements were silent, economical, and utterly inhumane. In less than a minute, he was crouched on the roof, an invisible gargoyle watching his new hunting ground.
From there, I could see. His mind, trained in the Orphanage, filtered the noise of the city and looked for patterns. It took him twenty minutes to find it.
It was a two-story salsa nightclub called "The Purple Lotus." It was too flashy, painted in neon colors that hurt the eye even in daylight. It was clearly a façade.
Jonathan watched. And his ability to "see seams" was activated. The world became a tactical plane.
His instinct, honed for murder, adapted effortlessly. He no longer calculated only how to kill; he calculated how to infiltrate. It was the same skill, applied to a new problem: theft.
He saw the building not as a structure, but as a system of weaknesses.
Perimeter: Seven armed guards.
Seam: Two on the front door. Clumsy. Busy looking at their phones and the women passing by. Distracted..
Seam: One in the back alley. Smoking. He is restless. Turn your head towards the street every twelve seconds. Create a 30-degree blind spot to your right, next to the dumpster. Vulnerable..
Seam: Four on the inside, visible through the tinted windows.
His gaze went up to the second floor. The manager's office. The window was closed, but the air conditioning was buzzing loudly.
Sewing: The safe. The AC unit in that room is working too hard. The vibration in the plaster wall is heavier there, dampened by a mass of steel. The wall is hollow, except for a 1x1 meter cube.
Seam: The alarm. He followed the electrical conduit with his eyes. Low-quality wiring. Spliced carelessly from the main fuse box in the basement. Easy to bridge..
In his mind, the mission was formed. Their goal was not violence. The violence was noisy. Their goal was efficiency. This was not a massacre; it was a fundraiser.
His murderous instinct whispered to him: Kill the alley guard, kill the accountant, take the money.
Jonathan silenced him. This was his "Flipped Training" in the real world. It was his rebellion.
Plan: Enter through the basement. Bypass the alarm. Climb to the second floor using the alley guard's blind spot. Neutralize (not kill) only the counter. Open the safe. Going out through the roof..
Estimated time: Three minutes.
Jonathan smiled, this time for real. Miami was, in fact, very comfortable.
…..
That night, the neon façade of "The Purple Lotus" painted the back alley with purple and pink sparkles. Jonathan moved from the darkness of the opposite roof.
He descended down a drainpipe, his feet barely touching the metal. He landed in the damp alley, as silent as the fog.
The guard in the back alley was exactly where Jonathan had predicted, leaning against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette in the glare of a faulty security light. He was staring at his phone, his attention divided.
Jonathan waited. Twelve seconds later, the guard turned his head toward the street, looking for danger where there was none, exposing his blind spot.
Jonathan moved.
The guard heard a faint whisper of air, like that of a falling leaf. Before he could turn his head, a shadow had loomed over him. A sharp, stabbing pain hit the side of his neck, right on the carotid nerve. It was not a lethal blow; it was a precise pressure stroke, a "touch" of his Reverse Training. The man's blood pressure plummeted instantly. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed, passing out before the cigarette fell from his lips. Jonathan caught it before it hit the ground and gently arranged it against the dumpster. Neutralized.
He slid toward the basement door. The lock was of poor quality. He opened it in three seconds. He went into the damp darkness, found the fuse box, and, using a piece of wire he had found on the dock, bypassed the alarm circuit. The system was still "alive," but it was no longer reporting.
He climbed the service stairs, moving like smoke. Salsa music echoed through the walls, covering any sound. He arrived at the office on the second floor.
The accountant was there, with his back to the door, his headphones on, his fingers typing furiously.
Jonathan opened the door. The accountant heard nothing. He took three steps. The accountant continued typing. A quick and precise blow to the base of the skull, just below the occipital bone. The man collapsed on his keyboard, asleep. Neutralized.
Jonathan located the hollow wall he had identified. He pushed aside an ugly picture of a sailfish and revealed the dial of a combination safe.
He closed his eyes. His fingers, capable of feeling the seams of a gun or the bones of a fish, landed on the cold metal dial.
He did not listen. He felt.
He turned the dial. Click. He felt the microscopic vibration of the first pinion snap into place. He turned in the other direction. Click. The second. Click. The third. It took him thirty seconds. He turned the handle. The heavy door opened in a well-oiled whisper.
It was full of wads of cash.
He opened his military backpack and began to fill it. The mission was complete. Efficient. Cleaning.
He was about to zip up when he heard it.
A blow. Deaf. Followed by a stifled sob.
He froze. The sound was not coming from the club, but from further inside the office hallway. From a storage door closed with a heavy padlock.
Jonathan's instinct was immediate: Ignore. Inefficient. It's not part of the mission. Unnecessary risk..
He stood still, his hand on the zipper of his backpack. He was free. He could leave.
Blow. A louder sob.
Sighed. His "Reverse Training" was to control his killer instinct, but not this part. His "lustful but upright" character was interested.
He walked to the door. He looked at the padlock. I could force it, but that would take time. He saw the hinges. They were rusty. Sewing..
He stepped back and threw a perfectly controlled side kick, not at the lock, but at the hinges. The wood around the rusted screws chipped and burst. The door opened inward.
Inside, in the darkness, were two young women, tied to chairs, their eyes full of terror.
Jonathan looked at them. Then he looked at his backpack, his financial freedom. Then he looked at them again.
Inefficient, he thought again.
He entered the room and, using the combat knife he had taken from the sleeping guard, cut his restraints.
They looked at him with terror and amazement. He put a finger to their lips. His innocent smile returned. "Shhh."
The scene is cut off. Absolute black is replaced by blinding white light.
The sound of salsa music and fear is replaced by the soft roar of ocean waves.
We are in a penthouse suite in the most expensive hotel in South Beach. The morning sun pours in through glass doors that open onto a balcony overlooking the bright blue Atlantic.
On the white marble floor, the military backpack is overturned, spilling its contents: wads of hundred-dollar bills strewn across the silk carpet.
In the center of the room is a huge king size bed, with immaculate white linens. Fifteen-year-old Jonathan is lying on it, naked. On either side of him, also naked and fast asleep, are the two women he rescued from the club.
Jonathan is awake. Look at the ocean. He raises a hand and takes a tall, frosted glass from the bedside table. He takes a sip. It's freshly squeezed orange juice.
He has stolen his fortune, established his new life of excess, and tasted his first real freedom.
The Nomad Mercenary Arc had officially begun.
- - - - - - - - - -
A/N
Hello everyone!
Sorry for not uploading a chapter yesterday, I've been very busy.
Today I will upload 2 chapters to make up for yesterday's.
Remember that you can follow me on Patreon and subscribe to read advanced chapters of this and other fanfics.
I would like to know what you think of the fic, what you would change, if it goes too fast, slow, etc. I read your comments.
Mike.
@Patreon/iLikeeMikee