Joe Carnahan

They are father and son. Israel's mother was nineteen at the time. She and Sparazza had a brief affair of which Israel was the byproduct. That same year, she brought a paternity suit against him.

All bogus and bad information that set off a series of unfortunate events. Dr. Ingstrom, the Swede, is not a hired killer. He's actually the head of cardiology at Stockholm University. He's one of the best heart surgeons in the world. The actual contract went to Lazlo Soot, the man who escaped the penthouse yesterday… in disguise. He was hired by Sparazza to neutralize Israel's entourage. Dr. Ingstrom was here to perform the surgery, and as father and son, they are blood compatible.

It wasn't elective. It was undertaken to save his life. It wasn't cosmetic. It was reconstructive. Look at the date of the first procedure. Same year that Sparazza supposedly murdered Freeman Heller.

His superiors were convinced that he had gone rogue, swapped allegiances, so they gave the order to terminate his cover. All this time, we were told that it was Sparazza that killed Heller, when it was us, the FBI. And we didn't kill him. He survived. But the injuries he sustained required constant surgery, forever alterine his features. So he assumed the identity of his alter ego. The figment of Primo Sparazza became flesh and blood, and Freeman Heller was no more. Now, the brass wanted Heller's op removed from official records, so they buried it completely and they wrote Heller off. All the agents from that era, they're dead and gone, so history defaulted to fable. Until now. Heller's op predated the second World War. About 60 years of amassed intel. Do you have any idea how valuable that is?

Pasquale Acosta. Blood-money mercenary. His countrymen have dubbed him the more dubious "El Estrago" - "The Plague". American educated. Fluent in over a dozen languages. Freelanced for the CIA. Noted for his legendary torture techniques. When he was caught by the SAS in Northern Ireland, in prison he chewed off his fingertips to the bones, so he couldn't be printed or ID'd by Interpol.

Sparazza introduced Israel into the life. Gave him his first big break onstage, brought him up through the ranks. And Israel played the situation very shrewdly, slowly amassing the loyalties of Sparazza's top men, with the idea of toppling the throne.

Well, you spend your life pulling rabbits out of hats and sawing people in half, anything seems possible. Israel wanted to touch something real, something dangerous. But what he wound up doing was splitting up the family into dual factions. Sparazza on one side, Israel on the other. The infighting that followed drew the attention of every investigatory body operating under the canopy of the federal government. Presently, we have…

With Israel being the target of virtually every one. His testimony has the potential of blowing the lid off of what's left of La Cosa Nostra in this country. That alone warrants total immunity from prosecution and a vanishing act with the Witness Protection Program.

You're looking at me like, like… I just asked you the fucking square root of something.

Cinnamon roll? the cinnamon, the roll of the cinnamon. That looks like jizz... ya Eastern European jizz, that looks like some fuckhead shot his load on a 12000 dollar calf's skin jacket. The twist? Its my 12000 dollar calf's skin jacket. So ya got the semon, ok you got the human ejaculate

thats been allowed to soak in for like seven hours alright. Work its way into the fabric fuckin fibers...

...To what? Incinerate? Hugo there isn't a fuckin laundry detergent or dry cleaning product known to man that will get that clean. Some shit, suffice it to say, just don't wash out.

What do you see right now? You see exactly, and only what I choose to show you. That is illusion Ivy, that is the lie that I tell your eyes, makin' the magic happen, in the moment, in that split second... but seeing behind this motherfucker and knowing... that it's all bullshit.

But I can shape it, I can shift it, I can make it as real as this room. That's why i'm valuable here Ivy and that is why you are not.

No, I tell you something. You know what? Listen to me. Listen. The deal is off in five minutes unless they give us something.

Bullshit! It isn't! I am not... I don't know how to say it any fucking louder. I am not giving up my boys. All right. End of fucking song.

No. I don't have to do shit, which includes cooperating with these fuckers, until I get what I want! Listen to men. If we have to give them someone, give them Hugo, all right? I can take that, because he needs that regimented prison shit that they'll give him.

It's bigger than that. They want everybody. Ivy, Beanie, Hugo, the works.

This is not a fucking swap meet, all right Morrie? I'm not giving up my boys and you fucking know that. I gave you Sparazza. I'm gonna give them Sparazza and the west-coast syndicate gift-wrapped. Get it fucking done!

These flowers are wilted, I need you to call the florist.

Has anyone ever referred to you as a punk ass mother fucker?

You are a punk ass mother fucker.

Who's an hour late and at my age when you find yourself making the most of even the smallest moments, the idea that you would swindle out of an entire hour, that you would have the balls to vaporize 60 minutes of my waking life is contemptible, it's criminal.

Come on son, if you're going to patronize me, at least put your fucking back into it, you don't have any respect for the HOFF. Am I right? You think I never held a knife? That I'm unfamiliar with the taste of blood? That I took a shitty sub par show about lifeguards and turned it into the highest rated syndicated hit in television history because I got fucking lucky?

I once forcibly sodomize a Vietcong colonel with a stick grenade because he placed an ancestral curse on me while I was interrogating him and I don't even believe in ancestral curses but that's how fucking deep I roll.

If you like stories about chance and coincidence and fate, then here's one you'd never heard. Boy meets girl. Girl almost kills boy by running a red light at rush hour. Boy is T-boned at over 60 miles an hour.

I see a lot of eyeballs. You better put 'em on a fuckin' dimmer, before I put cases ON ALL YOU BITCHES!

Make a lane… Make a lane.

Own the space. Own it.

I don't believe in fate, destiny… To me life's nothing but timing.

Narrating: "If Karl with a K represented The Light of the limo industry, then its Black Hole - its darkest dungeon - came in the form of a nameless, ageless, Eastern European immigrant known simply as The Jovi. He lorded over his company Cossack with an iron fist and a white-maned metal hair band wig that looked like Dog the Bounty Hunter had been dropped into a deep fryer."