Messenger of Death (27 page)

There were also
provisions that allowed for the confiscation of the property of
criminals and criminal organizations, for the gathering of
information from civil organizations and agencies, and for
conducting covert searches, as well as the use of telephone
wiretaps and listening devices.

Monica knew
that in any other circumstance, she would have voted against such a
law. She also knew, for sure, that a few other members of the task
force shared her concerns about the law and its implications.

Still, the bill
was adopted—unanimously.

Chapter 7

I

Claude spent
almost a week in painstaking reconnaissance, trying to plot his
attack.

The muffler
shop was located in a business–industrial area of town, off a
street that was almost desolate, with few pedestrians and hardly
any traffic. He quickly realized that parking a car there without
it being noticed is not an option. The one possible place for it to
blend in was a parking lot between the muffler shop and a furniture
factory next door. But it was always full and likely under the
surveillance of Iron Ghosts. A neighborhood grocery store down the
road would not provide much cover or distraction either, because
its visitors were very occasional, as well—workers from the area or
residents from a row of single-family houses that ran along one
side of the street, further south. The opposite side of the street
had no buildings, only a small park.

Hans suggested
using the park—a small Japanese motorcycle, he told Claude, could
be easily hidden behind one of the benches. From there, it would
take him less than half a minute to get to Claude, pick him up, and
escape. Claude agreed that the suggestion was a good idea and they
began to finalize plans for the hit.

A few days
later, Claude received the secret combination of numbers on his
pager. The message was from Marcel and the display on the screen
meant one thing: Ready. Claude called Hans, who arrived on a stolen
bike ten minutes later. He was not as nervous as he had been in
previous hits. Practice and Claude’s exemplary behavior had slowly
made him more confident in his skills and in the existence of Lady
Luck.

They traveled
to the park’s rear entrance as planned, via a twisting side road.
Nobody was there, as the time was only 10 o’clock in the morning.
Blue-collar workers would not be arriving until later, during their
lunch breaks to eat, drink, and chat. Hans turned the engine off
and rolled the bike inside the park. Holding the handlebars as if
they were a stubborn goat’s horns, he pushed the bike toward the
nearest bench, which was littered with remnants of food and paper
bags.

For the end of
September, the weather was still warm but the trees, tired of
making new blooms and fresh leaves all summer, had begun to fade.
Their dry, gray branches were shedding an amazing number of tired
lifeless leaves, dropping them to the ground, one upon another, to
create a rustling, red–yellow carpet with all the beautiful colors
of death. Some of the tree branches were almost bare, which enabled
Claude to peer between them to observe the muffler shop, from which
Stanley must eventually appear.

“I still don’t
know exactly who we’re after,” Hans reminded Claude.

“As I said,
it’s a muffler shop owner,” Claude said. “Five grand in two
hours—not bad, eh? That’s all you’ve got to worry about.” If Hans
had known who they were actually after, he might have refused to
take part in such a dangerous hit.

Now, sitting
behind the thinning veil of yellow foliage, Claude was beginning to
realize that the success of the task was almost entirely in the
capricious hands of fate. If Stanley exited the building
unaccompanied by his bodyguards; and if there were no pedestrians
on the street, in the line of fire at that one, specific moment;
and if there was sufficient time to approach him without being
noticed so Claude could reach a distance short enough for an
accurate shot; and if Stanley was not armed . . .

So many
if’s.

Of course,
Claude could allow Stanley to get into his car and then shoot him
at the first stop sign or traffic light. The option of killing
Stanley inside the muffler shop was definitely out of the question
as Marcel had told him that the Iron Ghosts inside would be armed.
Considering everything, the best decision would probably be to
cancel the ambush altogether and tell Marcel the reasons. That,
however, would require another team to find out exactly when
Stanley was visiting his muffler shop again. And, who knew if, and
when, such a chance might come along?

On the other
hand, the success of this hit would make Claude one of the most
respected of the Devil’s Knights. The road to the gang’s higher
circle was over Stanley’s dead body.

Watching the
entrance into the muffler shop, Claude felt sweat gathering in his
palms and under his armpits. Staying cool when one’s death might be
a few minutes away was not that easy even for the toughest guys.
Having a steady arm and fast, precise reactions at such moments was
the ability of a select few. He was sure of being one of them.

“Anything
wrong?” Hans asked, giving Claude a sharp look.

“Not at all,”
Claude responded in his usual confident tone. “It’s just taking a
bit longer than I had thought.”

At last, a man
about thirty years old, with hair receding from his forehead, came
out of the main entrance of the muffler shop. He was dressed in a
business suit; holding a briefcase in one hand, he adjusted large
glasses on his nose with the other, and walked briskly to the
parking lot, where he climbed into his car, and drove away. A
minute later, an old woman appeared on the sidewalk as if from
nowhere, pushing a stroller with a baby inside toward the grocery
store. Suddenly, Stanley came out of the building and headed toward
the grocery store, a few steps ahead of the woman with the baby.
Claude touched the gun that was stashed beneath his belt and stood
up.

Stanley briskly
crossed the road. Claude followed closely and moved up to hide
behind the woman. He sped up, shortening the distance between
himself and Stanley, and then pushed his mask up to cover the lower
part of his face in case the old bitch might recognize him later.
He passed her, his hand still on the hidden gun. Stanley was about
twenty yards from the grocery store when he looked back. In an
instant, he darted forward and disappeared behind the corner of the
building.

Roll the dice,
Claude said to himself, rushing into a deadly game with Lady Luck.
Whatever comes . . .

His gun ready,
he turned the corner.

The hand of
Providence, though, did not throw the dice in his favour.

He saw
Stanley—standing still, his outstretched arms steady, holding a
gun. Stanley fired. Claude pulled the trigger, too, but he was on
the run and well aware that the accuracy of his shot, even at
point-blank range, would never match that of his stationary
adversary. The mingled sounds of gunshots reverberated along the
narrow street, and Claude saw a flash of fire coming out of
Stanley’s barrel. At the same moment a crushing blow hit his chest
below the left shoulder. It seemed to him that a huge, red-hot
boulder had been thrown by a powerful force, knocking him down and
incapacitating his body and mind.

Claude
collapsed onto the pavement, face down, hands stretched forward. He
was suddenly disoriented, his body in the tight grips of pain. By
sheer effort, he managed to raise his head and look forward, hoping
to find his gun and take another shot at his target before passing
out. But his gun was three feet away—it had fallen from his hand
when the bullet slammed into his body—and Stanley was nowhere in
sight. Claude let his head drop—the right side of his face hitting
the coarse surface of the sidewalk. Somewhere in the distance, he
heard the growling sound of a motorcycle engine approaching. His
first thought was that Stanley had come back to finish him off. But
when the bike stopped nearby, he saw that it was Hans, not Stanley.
Hans jumped off, the engine still running, picked up the gun, tore
away Claude’s mask, hopped back on the bike, and raced away.

Claude closed
his eyes, and in his mind, he saw a long, red band flying into
eternity. Good, clever Hans, he thought. Now there will be no
evidence against me. I will be a victim, not a hit man.

Pity, I never
got trained by Techie’s guys.

That was his
last thought before his mind plunged into darkness.

Claude regained
consciousness with the frightening feeling that he was on the verge
of passing away. Through his weakness and numbness, he saw Leila’s
face, with tears and hope in her eyes, looking at him from above.
He rolled his eyes toward her and blinked while his body remained
still, too weak for any physical effort. The loveliest words of all
surfaced in his mind: He was alive. For the first time in his life,
he thought about God. He was grateful to the Creator. He was
alive.

He looked
beyond Leila’s face and saw clean, white curtains covering large
windows. Strange display screens showed green pulsating waves and
had ever-changing numbers running across them, the meanings of
which he had no idea. Undoubtedly, he was in a hospital room. He
smiled at Leila, and she smiled back. A tear from her cheek dropped
onto his face.

“You will live,
darling,” she said and shook, sobbing. “The surgeon said that. No
vital organs were damaged.” Claude, in spite of his weakness, was
overwhelmed with emotions. No one in his whole life had had any
compassion for his suffering. No one had cared about his
well-being. But this girl, his dear, dear girl, did. With some
effort, he took her hand and squeezed it lightly.

“I will
live—for sure.” His voice was hoarse, hardly audible. She kissed
him and stepped back. Stash appeared in her place.

“Hey, buddy,”
he said in a theatrically cheerful tone. “Hold onto it. We’ve
arranged security, around the clock. The police won’t guard you,
since you weren’t the one they could lay charges against. No
witness was there to tell the story.”

An
authoritative voice of a nurse interfered.

“Please don’t
talk to him,” she demanded. “He’s too weak. Let him sleep.”

The next day,
he was still very weak and in much pain, but he felt stronger. He
even exchanged a few frivolous words with a middle-aged nurse, to
show off his bravery. He didn’t know what else to do. Claude was
uncomfortable in the hospital—its atmosphere was so unusual to him.
Everyone was being so kind. For as far back as he could remember,
any stranger had been a potential enemy with malicious intentions.
How was he supposed to react to nurses, doctors, and others who
genuinely cared for his life? Why didn’t he have to threaten
beating the hell out of them?

At noon, he
fell asleep, but an hour later he was awakened by an angry quarrel.
Stash was arguing with someone, his voice irritated and
aggressive.

“What the hell
do you want from him?” Stash was growling. “He’s sleeping. Give him
some time to recuperate.”

“Don’t block my
way,” the cold, bossy voice responded. In no time, Claude realized
the police had come to question him. In the next moment, the
curtain slid abruptly to the wall and a man in civilian clothes
appeared, a man with nasty but calm eyes in a round puffy face.

“I am Serge
Gorte.” The man showed his identification card as he introduced
himself. Claude didn’t look at it. He knew too well that this was
the man who Marcel had mentioned more than once. Serge unbuttoned
his brown jacket, which seemed larger than he needed for a good
fit, and took a photograph from the inside pocket.

“I wonder if
you could recognize one of your clients,” Serge said, placing the
photograph in front of Claude’s eyes and watching intently what
kind of effect it might produce. Claude didn’t blink. It was a
picture of Norman, whose wife he had killed. Claude had almost
forgotten about that job.

“Never saw
him.” Claude was on the verge of fainting, but his mind was clear.
The bastard knows that I killed Norman’s little bitch, Claude was
pondering with surprising speed. How? Better to think about it
later, when everything’s quiet. One thing is clear: The police have
no solid evidence yet; otherwise, they’d have already arrested me.
This pig Serge must have another card up his sleeve, I’m pretty
sure.

Serge nodded in
consent, but Claude knew what Serge wanted to convey. “I know the
truth,” the gesture meant.

“Maybe you know
this one?” Serge asked, producing another photograph. He showed
Claude the smiling face of Stanley. “Old buddy, eh?”

Now Claude
understood the game. The investigator was interested in Stanley
more than in him. He was after the leaders of the gangs, those who
instigated and ran the gang’s business and the biker’s war. After
Claude’s recovery, he would likely be taken to a police station
where Serge would offer him a deal: Testify against Stanley and you
won’t get the maximum sentence of life in prison for killing
Norman’s wife. Stanley would then be charged later with attempted
murder, possession of firearms, and whatever else they had on him
by that time, without a doubt enough to isolate him for ten years
or more. For a biker, though, to cooperate with the police was
worse than suicide. Under no circumstance would he help the police
against anyone, even the gang’s—or his—worst enemy. Even if death
was unavoidable, no biker would call the police for help. Breaking
that biker rule could be worse for Claude than losing his life.

“We found an
empty cartridge beside you on the pavement,” the detective
continued. “There was another cartridge, of course, fifty feet
away. From the bullet that hit you.”

“Fuck off,”
Claude growled.