Last Hit (Hitman) (9 page)

NIKOLAI

I’m glad that she has
declined my invitation to come to the apartment. As I glance around, I realize that I will need to work quickly to furnish this place so that it looks presentable. I wonder if I could ask Daisy to help me. This particular apartment was ideally situated because it was a corner unit on the second floor. It is high enough that someone cannot crawl through the window but not so high I can't jump down without injury. The corner affords me a larger view, it is close to the stairs, and I could possibly rappel to the opposite apartment building. I have not tested it, concerned that someone might spot me, but I have crossed wider spaces with nothing more than my belt and a steel wire.

I peer into the apartment across from me, one flight up from Daisy's. Inside two male students live together. Their residence is sloppy and filled with beer cans and pizza boxes. When they are not in classes, they play video games. I study their interior. Tonight I will order things and have them delivered. A sofa. A table. I will want to see the bed in person. Only the best bed for Daisy. I shake my head. I’ve spent so much time alone in the past years that I have become delusional. As if Daisy will ever be in my bed.

A text sounds from my business phone. Not Daisy. The number I have given her is for my personal line. I have only three numbers in it. Aleksandr, Daniel, and now Daisy.

Call me.

The text is from Jules Laurence, a paper forger and computer hacker I've used in the past. Contact from him is disturbing. I call as directed.

"Allo," I say when the connection is made.

"Nikolai," he pants in my ear. "I'm so sorry."

He is blubbering now. The apology is all the explanation I need. He has sold me out.

"They threatened my Sarah. I had to tell them. I had to."

I say nothing. My silence will draw him out. I know this about him, but I thought that he had more honor. My lip curls in disgust. There is no honor, only self-reliance.

"It's the
Bratva
. They are scared of you and want to eliminate you before you get to them. They know that you're just waiting to hunt them down after Alexsandr."

"Alexsandr was months ago," I say mildly. "If I was to do anything to them, wouldn't it have been done by now?"

"The waiting was killing them. Plus, they know you. They know you wouldn’t accept Alexsandr’s death without retribution. That you’ve done nothing so far only incites greater fear."

Good,
I think. Those
mudak
s should be shaking with fear.

"I have no allegiance," I tell Jules. "I accomplish the tasks set before me and move on."

Jules gasps his disbelief in my ear and apologizes again. "I'm sorry. I had to tell."

"Why are you calling?" I sigh. There is nothing to be done. I must eliminate the threat and return.

"I just thought that maybe if I told you, then…" His voice trails off.

"You thought I would not hurt you? That you need not fear me?" I can almost see him nod through the phone. "Then fear not. As you say, death is restful. It is living that is fraught with terror."

A quick inhalation is the only response to my words. Then, more sobs. "Please. Sarah is pregnant. I had to do this."

"I will show you my mercy, Jules." I hear him catch his breath. Enough of this ridiculous posturing. I command, "Tell me."

"They will be coming via the West Coast in hopes to confuse you. I'll send you the boarding gate numbers. I'm tracking it." A swallowed sob follows and then Jules continues. "Anything you need?"

"I think you have been overly helpful."

"Then you'll take care of it, and we'll be even?" His voice is hopeful but I can offer him no assurances.

"I don’t know," I reply honestly and hang up.

I glance at my watch. If the
Bratva
assassins are coming from Russia to the West Coast, I have less than forty eight hours to apprehend them. I will have to drive to fly directly to Los Angeles. Quickly I pull up the commercial flight schedule. I do not want to mess with private planes and their need to file flight plans and traveler manifests with the authorities. Using one of my identities, it is safer for me to fly coach, just one more anonymous businessman. My evening with Daisy will have to be put off. Fuming, I reach for my secure line to tell Sergei exactly what I think of his interference. I will do this task asked of me in my own way and time. But I force myself to draw back. Sergei will know soon enough what I think of his actions.

Instead I must contact Daisy and ask her for a different date. She will either take my delay as disinterest or worse, inconstancy. A dull ache behind my eyes begins to throb. Pressing a finger on either side of the bridge of my nose, I press down until the pain recedes. I will put this disturbance of my plans with Daisy in Sergei’s payment column. So much he has to pay for. If only he knew.

I wonder whether I should text or call. What would Daniel do? He would text, I decide.

Daisy, I find that an emergency in my business requires my absence for two days. I apologize for this but I cannot delay. Would you consider coffee on another date? Three days I will be back.

A considerable amount of time passes without a response. Impatient, I try to focus on the details in front of me. I cannot allow the
Bratva
to come here.

Pulling a bag from the closet, I quickly pack a change of clothing along with my laptop. The suit I will wear is nondescript, as are the shoes. I pull a latex face mask over my own. It is suffocating, but the padded cheekbones and the rounded forehead change my appearance dramatically. The high collar of the businessman's shirt easily covers the bottom of the mask as well as the dagger at my neck, the one that Daisy noticed earlier. I am Mr. John Anderson now.

I loop a specially designed belt through my slightly baggy pants. The metal trim at the top and bottom can be removed to form a garroting wire. I cannot bring anything more dangerous on the plane besides myself. I have killed with my bare hands and will do so again if necessary, but tools make survival easier. But then I am going to Los Angeles. I have a storage locker there with a few necessities.

Thirty minutes later, I am walking purposefully through the airport. I am going to a very important business meeting, I say to myself. People mill about me but take no notice. I am simply one of many travelers. At the security checkpoint, I remove my shoes and my belt without being asked. Never bring attention to yourself.

My carry-on and laptop are scanned and then released. I hold my breath as the belt reverses and the agents look more closely at my belongings. But the wire looks like nothing more than gold trim. It's a gaudy piece for a sedate businessman like me, but they approve it anyway. The agent nods at me and wishes me a good flight.

"Thank you," I reply.

"Traveling for business or pleasure," he asks as I pass through the body scanner with my hands raised.

"Business."

"What'd'ya do?"

I cannot tell if this is part of the security check or casual curiosity. "Sales of plastics."

He nods but I can tell he's lost interest. The security line two over is examining a bosomy woman. A female agent is rubbing her hands along the passenger's breasts and then her waist. The agent in front of me licks his lips and adjusts himself. I walk by him, and he doesn't even acknowledge me. Weak. I grab my belt, shoes, and bag, and I am out of the security checkpoint before the agent has finished his leering.

The plane is in the process of boarding when I arrive at the gate. I pull out my phone and pretend to check my messages like all the other passengers. Daisy has still not responded. I rub my finger across the screen imagining it is her hand. Perhaps her cheek or her lovely breast, the one that she pressed against me as she leaned against me as we rode the motorcycle together.

I clutch the phone as I think of Jules’ sobs over Sarah. Would I not do everything to protect someone I cared about? Retribution is what I have planned for Sergei because of Alexsandr’s death. If they threatened Daisy, wouldn't I sell out everyone I knew to save her?

I would. Even though I'd known Daisy but a minute, she was too good not to live. I'd betray everyone in my vile life to ensure that she would live. The people in my world had short life spans. Each moment we breathed was a gift, and it was one that we did not deserve.

When I killed, I targeted those who were the dregs and vermin of the world. Someday someone would take me out, and no one would mourn. But if Daisy was killed? Some light in the world would have been snuffed out. I want a piece of that light for myself, even if just for a short time. I know I do not deserve it—nor will I be able to keep it.

Every interaction with her is a lie, but for once in my godforsaken life, I want something fresh, clean, beautiful. Yes, I’d give up a lot of things to taste that, just once, and if it takes a battalion of lies, deceit, and manipulation to achieve that, I’ll do it. I will hate myself, but the truth would disgust her. Someone like Daisy would never, ever spend time with someone like me. Even standing next to her is a gift to be treasured. To be allowed touch her hand is a miracle.

Even if she does not agree to see me again, I will go to her and beg for another chance. On my knees, if necessary. The business phone vibrates in my breast pocket. Knowing I would look strange if I took out another phone, I ignore it. There would be time enough when I boarded to slip it out and read Jules’ information.

The line of passengers moves quickly. Because I have only my bag, I go directly to my seat. I have booked tickets in two other names. Those people will not appear. I do not like to sit next to strangers.

"Would you like me to place that in an overhead for you, sir?" A flight attendant holds out her hand.

"No, thank you. I'll place it under the seat in front of me." I push the bag under and stretch my legs around it.

She smiles vacantly at me, having mentally moved on to the next passenger. As soon as she leaves, I pull out my phone and look at the message.
LAX Singapore Air SQ21.

The weather is good on Jeju Island.
I respond. It is my peace offering. Get somewhere safe and far away from me.

Sarah has always wanted to visit.
The relief in the text message was palpable.

You should go for at least three months.
I will not text him again.

Thank you.

I force myself to sleep on the flight. It might be the only rest I get in the next forty-eight hours.

Arrival comes swiftly, but it is early morning, and the rental car lines are minimal. I am in my Taurus and on the freeway to my storage locker in Brentwood within fifteen minutes. The outskirts of the flashy suburb are filled with cracker-box houses that look like little cartons set in a row. The people inside are probably more content than those in the larger houses. People with bigger houses and more money are never satisfied.

At the storage unit, I open a case that holds a few of my implements. The .40 caliber Glock 23 handgun I purchased from a drug dealer a year ago lies nestled inside. I like this gun because it belonged to a police officer, who traded it to the dealer for something. Maybe blow. Maybe girls. After I am done with the two men from the
Bratva
, I may leave the gun. The police officer can then be confronted. It will be my good deed, a balancing of the scales—although removing the two is not a bad deed. No one would say that, not even the man who employed them.

Sitting on a trunk, I carefully dismantle the Glock. The shaft is clean, and despite the lack of use, it still looks good. I dry fire it as if I am cleaning out the thirteen-round magazine. As I count out the bullets, I smile. A buyer who was not in law enforcement would be limited to a ten-round magazine.

Everything is in perfect working order. The suppressor is stuck down my sock, and the gun is tucked into a shoulder holster concealed by my jacket. The rest of the tactical weapons are left in the case, which I slide onto the passenger seat of the Taurus. Twenty minutes later, I am on my way back to the airport.

The Taurus is traded for a Lincoln Town Car, and my suit is now a hundred-dollar warehouse purchase, ill-fitting and wrinkled. I hold up a sign waiting for Ben Nelson. To the rest of the people here, I am merely one poor driver waiting to pick up his passenger.

The heat is stifling, and the press of bodies near the baggage and transportation claim makes me edgy and tense. I suppress the urge to pull out my gun and shoot until I have space around me.

I spot Bogdan, a high-ranking member of the security force in the
Bratva
, and an unknown man saunter down to the baggage claim check. Bogdan is an unimaginative killer but very loyal. You must give him specific instructions because he does not know how to improvise. I wonder what Sergei told Bogdan.
Go find Nikolai in Minneapolis. Kill him and find the mark. Return.

As they stop at the baggage claim, I contemplate what they have brought on their commercial flight. What would they be so dumb to have packed? I'll search it later. I glance at my watch and then take a phone call. I pretend that I am at the wrong terminal and move out quickly. In the town car, I follow the two. They are headed to Portofino, just as I suspected. They will want to be on the beach, not because they like the ocean, but because they want to ogle the women in bikinis. I wonder why Sergei has not sent Vasily. Do I not warrant Alexsandr’s successor? At least Vasily would be a true challenge. Bogdan and his friend would be a task for an apprentice, not someone who has been hunting since he could hold a stick in his hand.

I leave the town car in a parking garage and pick up my case. Inside the basement of the hotel, I pull off my suit and stuff it down the incinerator. A row of uniforms are hanging in the laundry facility. I choose a bellman's uniform with its convenient white gloves and pull it over my thin pants and a tank. The laundry room contains carts and master keys. I tuck the Glock in the back of my pants and place the case of other weapons at the bottom of a luggage cart and head upstairs.