Fiend Milo - ANGEL OF DEATH

Thriller
1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-3-947612-17-8
Verlag: mainbook Verlag
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 380 Seiten

Reihe: Milo

'Milo - Angel of Death' takes readers along the fast-paced, enthralling story side by side with great characters. A book like a great Hollywood thriller - action-packed, brutal, sexy and yet profound. A German business consultant saves the life of a mysterious woman called Milo in San Francisco. She's an ex-member of the Yakuza. He's falling for her with the first kiss. To escape the demons of his father that haunt him he abandons his former life. Obsessed with Milo he follows her and endures her hard training methods. They become involved with members of the Yakuza, accepting a mission that leads them to Tokyo, where they stumble into an operation that threatens to open Pandora's box and unleash chaos onto the world ... 'Milo - Angel of Death' is based on a true story. With this book I'm not just writing down our experiences of the past few years but also hope to find the lost 'brother' who means everything to me.' - M.E. Fiend

'Milo - Angel of Death' is based on true events the author writes under his pen name M.E. Fiend. With this trilogy he not only processes his memories of the past few years but also desperately tries to find the 'brother' who means everything to him.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Fiend, M. E.

Leseproben

2 – San Francisco, Tuesday, February 7th, 2012

I stand in the furthest corner of the living room, frozen. My back pressed against the wall. Spruces are flying by outside the window. No roots. No stability. Fear. Blood. Andreas is kneeling on the floor, holding our mother in his arms. She screams in pain, pressing her hands against her stomach. She’s bleeding. Father crouches over her. In his right hand he holds the dagger. He bares his teeth, looking down on mother with disgust. I shiver, trying to withstand Mum’s screaming. Father’s stare transfixes me. Panic surges through every fibre of my body. Finally I break out of my rigidity. I start to run…

My skull is pounding like hell. I feel absolutely whacked. Even more than usual. A tear runs across my cheek.

I wake up.

Again the dosage was too low.

Again this goddamned nightmare.

I’m lying next to the toilet. In my puke. It smells horrible. My daily nightmare starts once more.

I tear my clothes from my body, climbing into the shower, turning the faucet all the way up to cold. I writhe in pain. My stomach is digesting itself. I throw up into the drain. Only bile. Nausea. Vertigo. Then a ravenous appetite. I haven’t eaten anything except the two disgusting croissants yesterday. I put my head on the rusty acrylic tray and enjoy the icy water and I start crying.

Maybe my time hasn’t come yet.

Maybe I am not allowed to leave.

Maybe there is yet something I am supposed to do in my lousy life, something I have to do.

I laboriously push myself upright.

The same ritual every awful morning. Shaving. Perfect parting of the hair. Grey upon grey upon grey. Eyes burning. I get the suit from my suitcase and a white shirt. Like always. The tie with its grey, white and red stripes matches perfectly. While tying it I think about Patrick’s words. He was right, the job isn’t that bad. There are worse things.

Who the fuck am I kidding? It’s a failed attempt to lift my mood. But father is proud of me …

Why do I twist reality? He doesn’t give a shit about me. My mother is proud of me. Yes. She is. Surely …

I drink another Johnny Walker from my special stash, moving my screwed up body down to the entrance hall, where I force-swallow the prehistoric Danish. Patrick is not here yet. He is probably still busy with Verena. The Korean regards me again. The same clothes as yesterday. Maybe he’s still trying to figure out what I am doing in this dump.

Five dust-dry croissants and a jug of coffee later I walk my trolley case outside to some fresh air to wait for Patrick. The nicely exhaust tainted air is like a balm for my frayed nerves. The noise of the traffic teases my sensitive hearing. God, I feel absolutely horrible. Desperately I rub my eyes.

Grey upon grey upon grey.

‘Bitch.’

I lower my hands. Startled I look into the open window of a rusty red Dodge. Ten, twenty, hundred years old. No idea. Behind the wheel is a Latino woman with a peroxide-white mane, wearing a dark brown leather jacket and a black t-shirt. About thirty years old.

Exceptional, dominant appearance. The straight, bleached hair confuses. It doesn’t fit with her suntanned skin. Narrow eyes. Yet only when she furiously furrows her thin black brows. Black brows? Then that’s also her natural hair colour. How do you get black hair that blonde? I hesitate. Does she wear makeup at all? Looks like it. Not that I am an expert. Though it’s strange for me seeing a woman’s actual skin and not layers of makeup.

Angular face. Mainly due to her slim jawbones ending in a pointy chin. Her mouth is broad with full lips. The corners of her mouth point downwards. Why is she so furious? And with whom? And that very low voice … Did she shout that insult? Yes. There is no one else around.

… I turn around. There’s nobody there who would fit that description. Obviously it is aimed at me. … What the hell does she mean by that?

I narrow my eyes, awaiting her further reaction. Her look is clear: I disgust her. My answer is a raised, emotionless middle finger.

Fortunately at that moment Patrick emerges from the hotel entrance with his trolley case.

‘There you are.’ Verena strolls through the door right behind him.

.

He gives me a surprised look. ‘What the hell happened to you? Did you die?’

I wipe my face. My rough night clearly shows. ‘No. Everything’s okay. I’m fine.’ I have to change the subject. ‘You’ve been too busy for breakfast, hm?’

He grins.

Okay, that forgives anything.

Verena’s goodbye is curt. She waves at me while making her way across the street.

‘Where is she heading?’

‘To work.’

Patrick saves his information. ‘And? Are you going to see her again later today?’

He shrugs. ‘Depends. How about you? Any news?’ He’s referring to Jessica from last night.

Bleurgh. I shake my head. ‘Nope. Nothing.’

I turn around, glancing at the Latino lady in the Dodge. Making eye contact with her feels strange. She snorts. Is she laughing at me?

Patrick regards me with sympathy. He can shove his pity right where the sun doesn’t shine. It was my own decision to spend the night alone.

‘Never mind. Tonight we’ll try our luck elsewhere. Verena recommended a hot location.’

I roll my eyes. . Goodness. Our language mutates into camp expressions. Doesn’t he realise that?

Today he wears a grey suit with a grey shirt and a grey tie. Grey upon grey upon grey. He even dug out a tiepin from somewhere. My colleague really has an eye for detail. The tiepin melts into a dark grey colour, merging with the tie. I shake my head, wiping my eyes.

Finally there’s an empty taxi. Patrick whistles. The taxi even stops.

After we’ve stowed our trolley bags in the trunk and ourselves on the backseat Patrick’s stupid question comes out of the blue. ‘Are you going to start today?’

I inhale deeply. . ‘Yes. Sure. We didn’t finish yesterday.’

I stare out of the window in frustration. What would happen if I just ended my miserable life right now by throwing myself under the tourist bus that’s right behind us?

Patrick is in a very good mood, grinning from ear to ear. It’s fascinating what a bit of sex can do to a man. I am not jealous. Of course not. Real friends do not begrudge each other their pleasure.

He’s looking very relaxed. ‘Take your time.’

‘Funny. I’m dying of laughter.’

‘Oh, come on. I’m paying for the brothel tonight.’ My brow furrows. I know he’s not serious. We both have never seen a brothel from the inside. But somehow he likes to play with that thought.

I think about last night. ‘Speaking of paying. I paid for all your stuff yesterday at the bar.’

He grins, bites his lip. ‘It must have slipped my mind to pay.’

‘You’ve been eager to get away, haven’t you? Today, my friend, everything’s on you.’ He punches my arm. I hope for his sake that qualifies as a yes.

Inside the grey concrete block with the grey entrance doors and the grey people getting into the grey elevator with us, I suddenly feel the urge to scream. I am trapped. Trapped inside a gigantic grey cage. Am I crazy? Or am I the only normal person in this chaos?

I am sparing everyone the details of this day. It moves along exactly like the day before. After we’ve set up our laptops in the darkroom the group comes back into the room. We shake hands – here and there. Who cares? The only one being greeted with a sincere handshake and an honest ‘Good Morning’ by me is my Miss Engelberth. I ignore Patrick’s grin.

Despite all the best efforts from all the dear attendees of the workshop my mask of politeness never slips. Of course I’d like to punch each of them right in the face, who wouldn’t in my position?

After four more hours of being yelled at and gloating I am fed up. Today no one will take away my life sustaining lunch.

‘Lunch break?’

My oaf agrees reluctantly. .

‘Okay, one hour. We continue at two p.m.’

It’s my turn and I get into action.

‘Miss Engelberth, would you like to have lunch with me?’

‘Very much, Mr. Wirtmann. Where would you like to...