Class Fives: Origins (40 page)

But then there had been that delivery truck, when he’d unnecessarily crushed the rear ramp out of pure spite.

He realized he was capable of that sort of thing as well. Being petty. Being human. And how would he know, going forward, if what he was being asked to do would simply be someone else’s pettiness being acted out by proxy, using him?

He couldn’t allow such a thing to happen, he told himself. He couldn’t allow himself to one day wake up and realize he had been used as someone else’s tool to accomplish something he himself would have been ashamed of.

He thought back to the children, weeping and screaming, their little lives about to be snuffed out, and realized he had indeed done the right thing that time. And with the toppling crane.

But those had been his choices, his instincts. He’d known they were right.

But what if he’d been wrong? What if he’d wound up hurting someone, killing someone, not even meaning to? What then?

If I’m going to do this, he told himself, I’ll need to know why.

He leaned his head gently back against the padded rest and crossed his arms before himself, trying to get as comfortable as possible.

He had a lot to think about, and was just beginning to realize that what he could do was a lot more complicated than he’d ever imagined.

“So,” John said, turning the small radio over in his hand, “This is the power, this is the frequency, push to talk, with or without the earpiece.”

“Range?” White asked.

“Unlimited in satellite mode.”

“Good,” White said. “And the weapon?”

John put the radio on the seat beside himself and lifted the gun from his lap.

“Glock, nine millimeter, semi-automatic. Sixteen rounds in the clip, one in the barrel.”

“Good,” White acknowledged. “And the mission objective?”

“We watch Lupus to see if he leads us to Montgomery.”

“And if the parameters change?”

“We pick him up.”

“Correct.”

John settled back into the seat, letting the gun nestle in his lap.

Outside, the sun was sinking beyond the horizon and they were approaching the small town of Providence. Peter Lupus had a rented house there. And presumably he was currently in residence.

“Can I ask you something?” John inquired quietly.

“Ask,” White responded.

“You ever actually kill people?”

White nodded.

“When necessary.”

John regarded him evenly a long moment.

“How do you do that?”

“Usually a firearm,” White said, almost casually. “Some strangulations. One time I used a pencil. That was tricky.”

“No,” John interrupted, “I mean how do you get yourself to do it? Actually kill somebody?”

White seemed to consider this a long moment before responding.

“It is difficult at first,” he replied quietly. “We have a natural instinct for survival, not only for ourselves but for everybody else as well. That is difficult to overcome. But after a few times, it becomes easier.”

John stared at him, suddenly unsure of what he was doing here. He couldn’t kill anyone. Even smacking that stupid robber over the head with his own gun had made him wince inside himself in a horrible way. To actually kill another human being. He doubted that was something he could ever do, no matter what was going on at the time. Not if he could just jump away and whatever it was wouldn’t even have happened yet.

White reached to flip on the headlights and slow the car as it began to pass a few small buildings. They were entering Providence.

“How much further?” John asked.

“A few blocks,” White replied.

The car cruised through the small municipality, a scattered collection of low buildings, the most substantial of which lined the highway as a sort of unofficial downtown of shops and stores. Midway through, they turned left to where the streets lined with slowly aging houses lay just out of sight of passersby.

After a few twists and turns the car made a final jog around a corner toward a cul de sac and White reached to flip off the headlights, plunging them into the final gloom of a dying day.

White glided the car to the curb and to a stop.

John perked up, glancing around.

“Okay, what now?”

“Reconnaissance,” White said. “I have to make a pass, verify that he’s actually there.”

“And if he’s not?”

“We wait until he returns,” White said, flatly.

“Okay, what about me?”

White’s attention was now fully fixed on a small white house at the edge of the large circle that ended the street.

“Stay in the vehicle. Put the radio on channel sixteen. If I need you to jump I’ll say just that, ‘jump’. Go back as far as you can and stop me from going in there.
Tell me something went wrong. And we’ll know he is in there, I won’t have to check. Think you can do that?”

“Right,” John responded.

White nodded sharply, quietly pushed open the door and slid from the car, easing it shut behind him.

He turned and moved off into the deep, rich shadows, quickly blending in.

John sat in the car, watching the older man disappear, feeling a tension crawling up his skin. He felt the weight of the pistol, and it was strangely reassuring.

The bald man stood over the bed, sipping from the tall glass of iced tea he’d just made himself and staring down at the girl. She was naked now, her terrified eyes fixed on him, her whimpers muffled by the gag. Her hands and feet had turned a deep red, the blood flow restricted by the ropes she had unknowingly tightened during her earlier struggles.

He noticed the tiny ridges scattered across her skin, the so-called goose bumps, and he felt a warm rush of pleasure. It wasn’t cold enough for the air temperature to cause those. That was pure fear. Excellent.

He reached out a hand toward her slowly and felt another jolt of pleasure when she saw the move, emitted a sharp yelp and slammed her eyes closed, her body going rigid.

He felt a rush of delight and froze, holding his hand over her body, savoring her distress. To elicit this strong a response and to not even have done anything yet was beyond what he could have expected. The very first time he began to feed the tip of the needle into her skin, she would explode, he thought. She’d be screaming herself raw into the gag just as he got warmed up.

He slowly straightened and took another sip of the cool, bittersweet liquid.

This was the last time he would ever be able to do this, he thought, but it would be one of the best. And that was fitting. Like going out on top. That’s how it should be.

He turned to set the glass down on the small end table beside the head of the bed, and just happened to be glancing out the open door, down the hallway toward the small, plain den at the back of the building, when he saw the flicker of light.

Instantly he knew it was a shadow, moving past the side door, caught for a moment in the glare of the bright floodlight deliberatly positioned and aimed to throw a harsh square of light through the room. At night he could see that box of light from practically everywhere in the small structure. Anyone who tried to slip around the side of the building would break that beam, and might as well simply shout their presence.

Instantly he was moving silently, tiptoeing across the small bedroom to where his jacket was draped over the back of the plain, wooden chair, reaching for the dangling shoulder holster.

He knew not to turn off the small bedroom light. That might be noticed by whoever was cautiously circling the building.

He eased the large automatic pistol from its holster and quickly dug in the pocket of the jacket, extracting the silencer.

Then he stepped into the bedroom doorway and took a relaxed but ready stance, rapidly screwing the silencer onto the barrel of the weapon.

He raised it, thumbed off the safety and gently cocked the hammer, finally gripping it with both hands.

Then he began to move, tiptoeing smoothly down the short hallway and stopping in the very lip where it joined the den. He watched the shadow slide away as whoever it was moved toward the rear corner of the house.

He flicked his eyes to the large window that dominated the back wall, allowing those inside to look out over the nicely maintained back lawn, enclosed by the high walls.

Good, he thought. There was only the single way into and out of the backyard. Whoever it was had trapped himself.

He saw the shadowy figure appear at the edge of the window, moving slowly, eyes scanning. He knew he would be hidden from the intruder's view by the shadows that shrouded the hallway. He could wait to see if this was simply a nosey neighbor or –

It happened within a single second.

The dark shadowy figure moving slowly by the back window suddenly froze, changed shape as it jerked upright. An instant later the bald man realized the bedroom light was still on, perhaps casting him into a sharp silhouette that the person outside must have seen.

They seemed to both freeze, two indistinct beings staring through glass and shadow and the night directly at one another. Then the shadowy figure began to move, snapping to the side.

The bald man squeezed the trigger.

The muted spitting sound of the weapon was overlaid by the sharp, high ping of the glass as the bullet penetrated it, and the figure dropped out of sight below the wide window.

He moved swiftly, keeping the gun pointed at the window, even as he turned and strode to the large glass door set to the side of the building. He flipped the lock and pushed it open, swinging the barrel of the weapon to go before him into the night.

He stepped down to the concrete walkway that ran the length of the building and eased toward the back corner, where he paused before stepping suddenly out, the gun swinging to where the figure had fallen.

The man lay there, sprawled on his back, arms bent awkwardly, the pistol laying almost limply in the open, dead palm.

It took a moment to make him out fully, the plain, dark suit blending into the darkness of the grass at night, but he made out the head easily by the shock of gray hair that almost seemed to sparkle at the edge of the floodlight. He could see the black circle in the center of the forehead where the bullet had penetrated.

The bald man glanced back down the narrow walkway between the building and the fence that led to the street at the front of the house, alert for any movement, but assured himself no one was there.

He stepped quickly around the corner of the building and eased down to a knee beside the corpse. He reached cautiously out to place a finger on the body’s throat. There was no pulse. Good.

He let his eyes make a wide, slow sweep of the enclosed backyard. No one else here, he told himself.

His eyes flicked up to the wall. It was tall enough to hide whatever happened here from any prying eyes, one of the main reasons he had selected the place.

So, a single intruder, he reasoned. Unless there was some kind of backup out front.

He quickly reentered the house and moved down the short hall to the other bedroom, opening the door enough to slip inside but not spill too much light through the unshaded windows that overlooked the street beyond.

He eased toward the windows, staying back just far enough to be sure the motion would not be seen from outside, and slowly began to sweep the entire quiet, peaceful vista. He noted every car parked along it, dismissing those that he was familiar with. He let his trained eye pause over every corner, every junction, every tree that might provide a hiding place for someone far too interested in his dwelling.

He stood there for a long time, waiting, his mind already developing and storing scenarios for how he could get out of the building, slip away into the dark.

At last he felt his skin begin to quiet, the tingling alertness having sensed no immediate threat.

Then he felt the wave of disappointment. His last fling had been stolen from him, he realized. He would have had enough time to make it truly memorable, something worthy of experiencing. But now he would have to move. He would have to give up his simple pleasure, abandon this place and return to his employer. And that would be it, he realized. No more opportunities, no more sunsets, no more anything.

Ah well, he thought wistfully. Such is life.

He eased back from the windows and slipped out of the room, returning to where the girl was now staring up at him with wide, terrified eyes, her chest billowing, deep and rapid, in utter panic.

He stared down at her, feeling a pang at what he would be missing. This one would have been special. She would have been the one.

He hesitated, then raised his arm to check his watch. Did he still have time? Even a little?

What the Hell, he told himself. In for a penny, in for a pound.

He leaned to place the weapon on the small end table, and plucked up the long sharpened knitting needle he had already placed there.

Just a little bit, he thought. Just a few minutes. He deserved that much, he told himself.

The Lieutenant slammed on the heavy brake pedal, causing the tracks to lock with a high squeal. Beside him, the other man shot out an arm to steady the large nylon container that sat on the floor of the vehicle between his legs.

The figure in the black uniform had stepped from between the blackened tree trunks, already holding the launcher for the rocket-propelled grenade ready to fire. From fifty yards away the Lieutenant knew he couldn’t miss.

“Guess this must be the place,” he said quietly, reaching to take the lumbering tractor-driven vehicle out of gear. He turned to glance down at the floorboard between the other man’s legs.

“How’s the thing? he said.

The other man leaned forward to pat the bulging container and nod.

By the time he turned back, the Lieutenant saw three other men approaching the sides of the conveyance, all of them pointing automatic rifles at it.

He smiled charmingly at the one easing his way forward, automatic weapon raised, feet stepping gingerly through the sloshing, sodden ground.

“Good morning,” the Lieutenant said brightly. “I’ve got a delivery for a Constantine Gvorshin? Any of you guys know where I can find him?”