Dying for Revenge (3 page)

I’d have to beat her to the draw, shoot her first, then try to pop him before he pulled his gun.

That would be impossible to do, get a clean shot, not without hitting an innocent bystander.

The sidewalks were crowded, busy, people rushing by them and by me. On the streets were red buses, more cars, more black cabs with colorful adverts on the side; all of that added noise to the moment. Nowhere for me to duck or run; same for them.

Nobody in the narcissistic world noticed that we were moments from a shoot-out.

Nobody but maybe
them,
the ones who sat inside secret rooms and worked for Big Brother.

Rain started to fall. A mild drizzle on a street swarming with people, people moving through traffic, people on cell phones, people listening to iPods, people moving like the world was in their way.

I motioned upward, not because of the weather but to indicate that they were in plain view. The strawberry blonde looked up, saw all the CCTV cameras. She did that as if this were her first time in London, as if she had no idea that CCTV cameras were all over, as if she didn’t know that Central London was a big prison with no bars, that it was possible for Scotland Yard to track every citizen’s move once they entered Central London, that anyone could be tracked from point to point with no interruption. Terrorists had learned that years ago.

The man shrugged as if he didn’t really care about CCTV, then he smiled a bit.

Two policemen zoomed by on BMW motorcycles. Then I saw more police were here.

Across the street two of London’s bobbies were on Shaftesbury, both of the cops walking this way, those distinctive helmets on their heads, helmets that made them easy to spot from a distance. Not many bobbies carried guns in London. Those two were strapped. This would be interesting.

The man looked back and saw the police cross the street, come toward our side of the road, walk up on him and the strawberry blonde. My red-haired friend mouthed two words to me. “Next time.”

My aggravated and exhausted expression said fuck next time, let’s do this now.

Then the red-haired man did something that surprised me.

He hailed a black cab. I had expected him to have an exit plan. But he hailed a cab.

He stepped to the curb and hailed a cab without taking his eyes off me. He let his partner get inside the cab first. The strawberry blonde kept her eyes on me, did that like she was trained to always watch her target, her eyes looking deep into mine again, that stare once again connecting us. We shared the stare of death. I caught a better look at her frame. Nice curves leading to a decent backside. Not too thin, but not too heavy. Like her height, her weight wouldn’t change overnight. Eyes on me, the red-haired man took his time getting inside after her, pausing to make sure I wasn’t about to rush them, my drawn gun blazing.

Both assassins sat in the let-down rear-facing seats.

As sweat and drizzle drained down my neck and back, my attention remained unmoved.

They kept their eyes on mine until their black cab vanished, mixed with a sea of black cabs.

Umbrellas went up all over, pedestrians not missing a beat, light drizzle changing to rain as red double-decker buses spit out carbon monoxide, as the din of cars and motorcycles hummed in my ears.

With a sprint I crossed the street, vanished in the web of streets spreading out into the West End.

Once again Death had been close.

Once again I had outmaneuvered the inevitable.

Two

dark eyes of london

A strong jog
took me toward the red-light district, back to the stench of Berwick Street.

When I was sure it was clear, took out my phone, made a call to one of the meanest people I knew, one of my handlers. The guy who’d brought me into the business. The man who had groomed me. Hadn’t talked to him in a few weeks, not since the incident in the Cayman Islands.

After that attempt on my life I’d needed someone to supply me with weapons.

He answered on the first ring.

I caught my breath and said, “Konstantin.”

“Son of a motherfucking bitch.” He sounded like Al Pacino. At least he did to me. “Was beginning to think you were dead and you didn’t invite me to the funeral. Feelings were hurt.”

I cut to the chase. “Where are you?”

“I am near Krasnapolsky.”

That meant he was working in Suriname, camped out near the famous hotel in the center of town.

I said, “I’m in London.”

“What are you doing in London?”

“I’m being trailed.”

“Like in the Cayman Islands.”

“This time there are two hit men. At least.”

“You should’ve put Detroit in the ground when you had the chance.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“Never leave an enemy aboveground. Give me the details.”

I told him about being followed, described the strawberry blonde, told him she looked like Jaime Pressly with nice legs that were attached to a pair of expensive shoes, those legs moving north into a round backside, said the red-haired man was younger, six feet or so, square chin, Pitt meets Hartnett. My descriptions didn’t add up to much. There were hundreds of Presslys and Pitt/Hartnetts out there. I told him about the showdown that almost turned Shaftesbury Avenue into the O.K. Corral.

He asked, “How long ago?”

“Ten minutes.”

“My guess is they’re still around. It’s a contract. They’re looking for you.”

I looked at the gun in my hand. “I’m looking for them too.”

“You’re like a son to me, the son I would have loved to have, but I have to tell you this.”

“Okay.”

“That thing you did in Detroit, you fucked up.”

“Yeah. I fucked up.”

Konstantin said, “If you had used a handler it could’ve been resolved in a professional manner.”

“I know.”

“You never said who gave you that job.”

“I know.”

Konstantin took a breath, the inhale of a frustrated parent, before he asked, “Need a safe house? I have a reliable contact near Shepherd’s Bush Empire. Take a taxi over there.”

“I have business to take care of here.”

“What kind?”

“It’s not a job.”

“Let me arrange the safe house.”

“Have it on standby.”

“How long you there?”

“I’m leaving the U.K. in the morning.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Get me some work if you can.”

“Short on cash?”

“Not short. Just have a few obligations, bills like the rest of the squares.”

“Where you headed? In case something pops up in the direction you’re going.”

“Heading where they need to change the president.”

“God bless America.”

“North America.”

“I stand corrected. You’re heading home.”

I didn’t have a home. I didn’t have a country. I’d been told I was born in North America, but I was a man without a country. Sometimes I felt more European than American, other times more Canadian than European. I didn’t know who I was, where I had come from, only that I existed, my life one big lie. I wanted better for the kid. I wanted the kid to be safe and get what I never had, the truth.

I told Konstantin, “Find out what you can.”

“Strawberry blond. About five-five.”

“Nice curves and pretty face.”

“And a six-foot redhead, military haircut.”

“I know it’s not much.”

He asked, “You hear them speak?”

“Just saw their guns.”

“No idea what nationality.”

“No fucking idea. But I don’t think they were locals.”

“Why not?”

“The woman. She wasn’t aware of the CCTV cameras.”

“Maybe she didn’t care.”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll make some calls. Hit up some other handlers. We outsource jobs to each other off and on. And nowadays a lot of people in the wetwork business are getting business right off the Internet, finding jobs on Craigslist, so I’ll have somebody search that avenue.”

“Craigslist. I heard. Advert for hits on the Internet. Those jobs were mostly in Mexico.”

“You never know. Anyway, you being off grid so long had me sending work to other handlers. You know how it goes. If you get a reputation for talking you’re out of the biz, so most of those sons of bitches won’t tell shit. But I’ll see who has loose lips. If they have you on a kill list, will hit you back.”

I nodded, took a breath, tried to regroup. “How’s your health?”

“I am fine.”

“I mean . . . got sidetracked with my bullshit . . . the chemo?”

“I’m still doing chemo.”

Again I paused. “And you are in Suriname working?”

“Have to keep working. Costs a lot to stay alive in America.”

He paused, sounded hopeful. The cancer in his body not making him sound weak.

Konstantin said, “I have to put people in the dirt so I can stay unburied. Costs me a hundred dollars a day to live. A barrel of oil a day to remain amongst the living. Close to three large a month to stay on top of soil. That means I pay thirty-six thousand a year to stay alive.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Food, mortgage, electric bill, and my wife’s hair, nails, and car note not included.”

He chuckled, so I chuckled along with him.

He said, “I’m still on top of soil, that’s all that matters.”

“Sorry to dump my shit on you right now.”

“Like I said, I’m on top of soil. And you try to stay the same way.”

We disconnected.

My heartbeat refused to slow down.

My paranoia refused to let me breathe.

I had nightmares about the man who had killed me. Still got that horrifying sensation I owned as Death claimed me and I suffocated. A man I hadn’t been able to kill and get my own revenge, that moment of my life never getting the closure it needed for me to relax, for me to rest, for me to not feel hunted. That had left me uneasy, feeling incompetent, more vulnerable than I’d ever admit to anyone breathing.

I was a man who did wetwork; admitting that I had cracks in my armor didn’t work in this business. I had to remain as professional and removed as the rest of the people in my trade.

I was a gun for hire trying not to get killed. A man trying to stay on top of the ground.

Because of the kid.

Still, I searched the landscape, that foreboding sensation refusing to wane and let me go.

The kid; had to make sure the kid was okay. On my iPhone, I clicked on an icon for software I had installed, entered the I.P. address, and looked in on a house in Powder Springs for a moment. Catherine was in the kitchen. The kid was sitting at a table, book in hand. Fourteen cameras were hooked up. I saw every move they made in the shared spaces. No cameras were in bedrooms or bathrooms. Saw what was outside the house. In the kitchen. Watched footage of them moving from room to room. It was like having my own CCTV. Big Brother was watching.

Everything was fine. No one had reverse-engineered my life back to them.

Not yet.

I spied the streets of London again, in search of a strawberry blonde and a redheaded killer.

 

Killed them.

I should have killed them like I had killed the assassin she had sent after me in the Cayman Islands. But that message had not been strong enough to end this. No matter how many morticians I kept in business, Detroit would send more hired assassins, would send killers until she succeeded.

Eventually she would.

She lived to finance my death.

I spied Berwick Street, let droves of people go by before I blended into the morose crowd, stopping at a vendor and buying a dark, oversized hoodie, stuffing my black jacket in my dark bag, buying a dark cap and darker scarf, putting them on, changing as much of my wardrobe as I could change in less than three minutes. The midnight colors I wore made me a moving shadow amongst moving shadows.

If I were smart I would be on the way to a safe house.

I would be on the way out of the U.K.

Right now I had another mission. I’d resurfaced and come back to London for another reason.

This reason more emotional than logical.

I’d come back to the U.K. because of the kid. This mission was as personal as it was urgent.

I rushed through the center of the whores’ district, hurried by vendors selling fruit and clothing as upstairs international women sold their bodies, moved by strip clubs that were advertising American-style pole dancing, big guys who looked like they were Russian mafia guarding the doors.

One of the Russians posted outside a den of sin caught my eye and said, “Hello, my friend.”

Making eye contact, hand inside my bag, I replied, “
Zdorovo,
my friend.”

He smiled.
“Hochesh poglyadet na golyh devok?”

“Spasibo ne nado.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to look at naked women.”

A dark-skinned African boy was kicking a worn soccer ball. He’d grown almost a foot taller since the last time I saw him. He paused when he saw me, looked at me as if he knew me, remembered who I was, what I had done in the name of anger, and his mouth opened like he wanted to sound an alarm.

I put my finger to my lips before the fear in his eyes made its way to his mouth.

That hushed him.

He had seen me once, a year ago, when I had come here in search of my own revenge. I had come here to put the woman who had corrupted me in the ground. But that hadn’t happened.

With a kind smile I asked, “Are you Nusaybah’s son?”

He nodded at me, soccer ball underneath one arm, his free hand creating a fist, my smile not trusted.

I asked, “Where is Nusaybah?”

He pointed upstairs to a dirty window. His mother’s red light was off. I understood that signal. She had a customer. While her son played in the streets she was busy getting pounded for the pound.