Red rain 2.0 (36 page)

I shower, pull on black jeans, a skin-tight black spandex gym shirt with long sleeves. Lace tight my Chuck Taylors, the white rubber sole edges blackened with a Sharpie. Check the GPS; the Merc's moving through Brooklyn. Check a little later, it's at the Palace. I'm skipping dinner.

I spread out gear, have a solid smile at my tools. Got the highest high tech, got some real antiques. At one end of the bed I place an MP5K with two 30-round clips taped together, two spares taped together too. Plus two frags, two

275

white phosphorous grenades. If this turns into a goatfuck, big flash and bang-bang won't mean a thing.

At the other end of the bed I arrange what I hope to use— a garrote, high-tensile steel piano wire about thirty inches long attached to nonslip Zytel handles at either end; a black leather lead-loaded sap, the kind that's been around forever; a GI field surgery scalpel in a nylon sheath; a roll of mil-spec OD duct tape; a mil-spec Taser; a folding calfskin case that holds lockpicks, wire cutters, silver conductive tape, black plastic electrician's tape.

Finally, a piece that's the biggest grin—a hushpuppy, otherwise known as a High Standard semi-auto pistol with an integral silencer. First used by the OSS during World War II, still the quietest firearm there is, got its nickname because operatives liked to use it to kill guard dogs without anybody hearing a thing. Only a .22. Enough for a dog, but not a man. Unless you put the barrel about an inch or two from his ear or eye and snick off three or four rounds fast as you can. That's a guaranteed kill. I load one ten-round clip with Aguila subsonic sixty-grain lead solids, slide it home. No spare. If the job isn't done with ten, then it's a goatfuck and time for full-auto MP and grenade action.

I slip into a ballistic nylon ALICE harness, clip everything that can be hung exactly where ergonomics and planned order of use demand. All set. I sit in the room's one overstuffed chair, GPS on the little side table next to it, and breathe myself chill and clear.

Four to six hours. That's the lifespan now.

Around midnight I rise from the chair, put on my wind-breaker, bag everything that isn't harnessed, carefully wipe down the room to get rid of any fingerprints, carefully scan to be sure I've left no trace of myself, and leave the hotel. I drive out to the Rockaways. I back my car in between two disabled ones at a closed, darkened gas station not six blocks from Vassily's. I check the GPS. Vassily's Merc is still in front of the Palace.

276

I wait. I breathe. I remember the wiggy Zen dude on an Alpha team. "Become one with the arrow." The arrow. It knows nothing of place or time. It justs moves, straight and true.

On the GPS, I see the Merc start to move. For a bad minute or two it seems to be heading into Manhattan. It stops. It moves again, this time toward Rockaway. Vassily must have dropped somebody off. ETA to his house is thirty-five minutes. I take half a tab of military-issue Dexedrine. No rush with that small a dose, but soon enough I feel my reflexes honed, sharp as the scalpel I'm carrying.

Fuck the black hood. Fuck camo grease. I take a tube of lipstick I'd bought in the city, deep bloodred, and draw one lightning bolt on my forehead, three bolts on each cheek.

At 3:47
a.m.
the GPS signals the Merc is in Vassily's driveway. I wait thirty minutes, leave the car and start the stalk to his house, keeping to backyards as much as I can, moving in silent dashes from cover to cover. Soon I'm in that corner behind Vassily's. I stay in the big tree's video shadow, crawl the last few meters. Night vision. Same fuck's in the same chair, video screens casting a blue-green glow on his sleeping face. Insert the lockpicks in the first of two on the back door, delicately free one. Pick and free the second. Sweaty minute with tweezers, wire cutters and conductive tape bypassing the alarm system before I can quietly open that door.

I'm in.

And almost in sudden collision with a muscle boy heading toward the video room. So close I can smell his sour, alcohol-drenched breath.

Pure reaction. Zero thought. Like it isn't even me doing it. Like I'm outside myself, watching, but seeing only a blur because it's happening so fast. Muscles moving totally on autopilot, no conscious signals from the brain, no orders coming down to swing one Zytel handle of the garrote under his chin and around his neck, catch it, pull my hands across each other with all my strength. The piano wire, yanked taut,

277

almost takes off his head, stopping only at the spine. He's dead weight, about to thud to the floor. I catch him, ease him down. Freeze in a crouch.

I'm back in myself, thinking.

Not a sound from the video room. Some minutes pass. Nothing. Then a muffled snore.

I rise, move, slip into the room, slowly slide the long barrel of the High Standard to within an inch of his ear.
Snick, snick, snick.
He just slumps a little lower in the chair.

Freeze again. Listen hard. Some minutes pass. I hear nothing. I crouch and take off my shoes. I slow-scan the house, room by room, hushpuppy at low ready position. Nobody else on the ground floor.

I go upstairs, wary of creaky steps. Three rooms, doors of two wide open. Check those first. Nobody. The door of the third's cracked a few inches. I touch the edge with the tips of my left fingers, push gently, easing it open.

Lightning blinds me, a bolt of pain rocks me, I hear the snap as powerful hands break my arm. The training—crush your natural instinct to pull away. Move fast and hard forward, throwing whoever's hurting you off-balance. Hesitate for a second, you're hurt worse, then dead.

I charge into the agony, slamming the door with my shoulder, the useless arm folding as my body collides with another, front to front. I jam the barrel of the hushpuppy into his crotch.
Snick, snick, snick.
The hands on my arm unclench, the body lurches back, an unearthly scream fills the room.

I switch on the anglehead flashlight attached to my harness. Vassily's down, both hands clutching his crotch, biting his lower lip so hard blood starts to flow. Still somehow managing a growly animal moan.

I'm wavering, the arm sending jolt after jolt to my brain. I manage to fumble a morphine styrette out of a pouch on my harness, jab the needle hard through my clothes into the bicep of the broken arm. Somehow I find the other half tab of Dex in the pouch, pop it in my mouth, swallow. Gotta dull

278

that pain, but can't get morphine-woozy. Not yet. I holster the pistol, pull out the lead-loaded sap. I kick Vassily as hard as I can in the ribs. There's an involuntary roll away from the blow, though both his hands stay locked to his crotch, and as he rolls I see my target. I bring the sap down viciously just at the base of his skull. He goes as limp as a dead fish. He'll be out cold for a half hour at least.

Damage assessment. I quarter the space with my flashlight, see a bathroom past the far side of the bed. I go there, switch on the light. Place the roll of duct tape and the scalpel on the white Formica countertop by the sink. With two fingers of my right hand, I start at my shoulder and very gingerly probe down my left arm. About three inches below the elbow I hit a hot spot—lightning flash in my eyes, followed by a wave of nausea. I go into the pain, pressing harder. The top forearm bone is fractured, but there's no lump, no jagged end pressing out, trying to break through the skin. I slit my windbreaker and the tight shirt with the scalpel. There's a bad bruise growing around the hot spot, but the forearm's only slightly off true. Christ, it could have been so much worse, I think.

I look around for a possible splint. Nothing. I scan again. Nothing but a fucking toilet brush. Improvise, Luther.

I do. I put the head of the brush under my foot and snap off the plastic handle. It's maybe twelve inches long, flat enough, maybe an inch or two wide. It'll work. I start un-peeling duct tape from the roll until I've got a few inches free. I stick that bit just under my elbow, let the roll dangle while I place the white plastic handle along the top of my forearm so it covers the hot spot and runs straight down almost to my wrist. Fighting the pain, I raise my arm from the shoulder, elbow bent, and find I can just hold the handle in place by jamming the forearm into my wide-open mouth. It's awkward as hell, it hurts like hell, but I start wrapping the duct tape around the arm. After two turns the tape holds the handle in place, so I lower the arm and wrap neat and

279

tight all the way to the wrist. I cut the tape roll loose with the scalpel, smooth down the last few inches.

Then I go check Vassily. He's in the fetal position, hands still in place. I tear off his pajama pants. Three little exit wounds low on his buttocks. Not much blood. Looks like the lead solids went through clean without hitting any major vessels. I roll him on his back, pull away his hands. Two little holes hard to see through the pubic hair, one more hole through the middle of his dick and testicle sack.

Nobody dies from that.

I want him to feel his death.

Using my shoulder and good arm, I bend one of Vassily's heavily muscled legs until the heel is touching the back of the thigh, and duct tape it in place tight and strong as I'm able. Do the same with the other leg. I tape his wrists to his ankles, his ankles together. I use a lot of tape, wrapping and wrapping until I'm sure there's no way in hell he can possibly move.

Then I lie down on his bed. I breathe. Get my pulse down, tighten and relax one muscle group after another. I don't check my watch. It's still dead black outside, not even the first faint ghost of day. I breathe, I go deep into the pain and dominate it. Get cold, get clear. The world stops turning. Or I enter another one.

No idea how much time passes before I hear the moans, then the snarls, then the curses. I sit up. "Fuck you, little brother!" I hear. I turn, see Vassily trussed on the floor, round face slightly hollowed at the cheeks, blood and drool oozing from a corner of his mouth. But his eyes. His eyes are sharp, hard, glinting like blue diamonds. I haven't been asleep, I know this for sure, but there's the quality of a dream about this.

That vanishes when I move to stand up and my left arm sends me the agony through every nerve it has. My face must go into some rictus, because Vassily laughs, then is seized by a fit of coughing. "I snap you like twig, little

280

brother," he's able to snarl when the coughing stops. "I been shot worse than this. And still Vassily lives. I will live to spit on your grave, cocksucker."

Suddenly I feel no pain, just a great weariness. Not what I expected to feel.

Now I only want this to end.

I go to the bathroom, get the scalpel. I check the room for any other gear I may have shed. No need for a wipe-down. I've been wearing surgical gloves from the moment I started picking the back door locks. That seems like such a long time ago. It seems forever since the piano wire sliced a neck, the High Standard snicked in somebody's ear.

"You hear me, little brother? I will spit on your grave." Vassily's voice seems to have risen. "Like I spit on that bitch Mikla's. You know what, Shooter? She was worst fuck I ever had. Oh, how she cried for you after you got shot. But it's me she was fucking."

I look at Vassily. A face I knew so well, a face I'd seen bright with joy, flushed with anger, utterly blank and impassive when he killed in combat. I scarcely recognize it now. I wonder who I am looking at. I walk closer to him. His hard eyes flick toward my right hand. When they come back to mine, they've changed somehow. There's something new and strange in them. I look down at my hand. I see the scalpel. I kneel beside him.

"You sure you have balls for this, little brother? You very sure? Because I don't think so," Vassily says. "I think you will start to tremble now, I think your hand won't move, I think you will run, little brother. You don't have balls for this. You who I snap like twig."

Our eyes stayed locked. Mine must be blank, for his are searching. "Honor. Trust. Friendship. Better if I let you die in Sarajevo, instead of risking my life to get you to airport and out of there. Little piece of shit."

"Vassily, my friend," I hear myself almost crooning. "Trust? Honor? You stop, I stop, we said. You gave your word, remember? You broke it."

281

I find his carotid artery with my right forefinger. He twists his neck violently. I slip around, pin his head between my knees. Search and find the spot again with one finger. I don't slash. I slip the gleaming point of the scalpel slowly, smoothly through his skin, just deep enough to nick the artery, open a small slit. A light spray of blood arches maybe a foot in the air.

I stand up fast, take a step back.

"Fuck you, you little shit," Vassily spits. Another fine, rising spray of blood, tiny drops falling onto his face.

"Watch closely, my friend. Feel it happening," I hear myself say. "With each heartbeat, your life drains away."

Another spray. Now I recognize that new thing in his eyes.

Terror.

I start to back away.

"A hundred, maybe a hundred and twenty more heartbeats, Vassily. That's your time."

"Never," he says. Another spray, arching higher now. Then the delicate drops, softly falling.

.

Out of the room now, padding down the stairs. Shoes back on. Check the video room. Pick up three cartridge cases. Check the corpse by the kitchen door. Grab the gar-rote. From above, thin and somehow watery, Vassily's voice: "Shooter! I shit on your damn soul. Shooter? Little brother?"