The Assassin's Prayer (6 page)

“You
think I haven’t come to terms with Karen’s death?” Kain bristled, his voice colder
than he had intended, his words laced with thorns.

“I
think you’re in love with a ghost,” Larissa replied ever so softly as she tread
on sacred ground. “I think you need to let her go.”

Something
dark and dangerous tore loose inside Kain like a mad dog snapping its leash.
Even Sirius sensed it, abruptly lifting his head and firing off a low, throaty
warning growl at Kain. “I think I need to say goodbye,” he said, sliding from
the booth, desperate to be somewhere else, anywhere but here.

She
reached out her hand toward him, lightly touching his arm. “Travis, don’t …
please … I’m sorry.”

He
shrugged off her hand. “Yeah,” he rasped. “I’m sorry too.” He tossed some money
onto the table. “Lunch is on me. It was good to see you, Larissa. Take care of
yourself.” He turned and walked away. Some inner voice urged him to turn
around, to go back and not let things end this way, but it was shouted down by
the anger surging in his veins.

“Travis!”
Larissa called out. “Please…”

He
could hear the pain in her voice.

He
kept walking.

******

By
the time Kain got back to his house twenty minutes later, his anger had ebbed,
but only slightly. His nerves were on edge, unable to believe Larissa had said
those things to him. After five years she just waltzes back into his life and
starts making accusations? What gave her the right? Who the hell did she think
she was?

He
went inside to find Silas gone and plastic sheeting tacked up over the opening
in the wall where his glass doors had been prior to their impromptu removal by autofire.
Kain fished a beer out of the fridge and twisted off the cap as Mr. X emerged
from the bathroom, a large burlap sack slung over his shoulder. Throw on a red
suit and he would look like Santa Claus with a bag full of bones instead of
toys. His watery eyes peered at Kain. “Silas left.”

“Good.”
Kain tossed the beer cap in the trash can.

“Wants
you to meet him down in the city tomorrow morning. Said he got tired of waiting
for you.”

Kain
nodded and took a drink. The cold beer felt great going down and went a long
way toward soothing his simmering anger. Another six-pack or two and he might
even start to regret not getting Larissa’s number so he could call her up and
apologize.

He
watched as Mr. X hefted the sack, redistributing the weight more evenly across
his shoulder. “I cleaned out your tub. Made sure none of the flesh had clogged
your drain. Plugged the bullet holes in the wall and floor.” Mr. X calmly
rattled off the items as if they were a grocery list. “If you want new
wallpaper or linoleum, that’s your problem. The glass doors have to be ordered,
so that’s also out of my hands. The plastic will have to suffice for now. Anything
else you think needs doing?”

Kain
shook his head.

“Should
I assume Mr. Giadello will be taking care of the bill?”

“You
can assume that
I’m
not.”

Mr.
X nodded. “Then I’ll be leaving now.” And just like that the strange little man
vanished out the front door.

Kain
finished his beer, then went into his bedroom. A quick power-nap and then he
would drive down to the city to meet with Frank and collect his fee for the
Perelli hit. Silas had said tomorrow morning, but Kain didn’t care. With any
luck, by the time tomorrow morning rolled around, he would be back home with a
little more coin in his coffers.

He
placed the .45 on the bed-stand within easy reach. He then loaded the new
SPAS-12 and leaned it against the wall, also within easy reach. For one
flickering moment, like a jump frame in a movie reel, he remembered how good it
had felt to be with Larissa. For a brief, stolen period of time he had been
just an ordinary guy, not some cold-blooded killer who needed to have an
arsenal within arm’s reach just to catch a few minutes of shuteye. But the
moment was gone as quickly as it came and reality rushed back in. He was who he
was. You could damn destiny if you wanted, but denying it was pointless.

Fully
clothed, boots and all, he laid down and closed his eyes against the afternoon
sunlight spearing through the partially-shut blinds. He was asleep within
minutes. In his final moment of consciousness, he wondered what he would dream
about.

Nothing,
as it turned out. Thank God for small mercies.

CHAPTER 6

He
awoke an hour later. A glance at his alarm clock told him it was 4:33 p.m. Perfect.
By the time he reached NYC, the rush hour traffic would be thinning out, the
madhouse of cars and trucks that clogged every road, street, and avenue finally
clearing up. Every time Kain suffered through the crush of traffic on the
city’s highways, he was convinced he was trapped on one of Dante’s circles of
Hell. He wondered what allure the city held for the honking, cursing,
finger-giving fools in the vehicles clustered around him so tightly that the
term “sardines in a can” seemed spacious by comparison. That anyone would
voluntarily choose to live in such a traffic-jammed hellhole boggled his mind.

Not
that Frank Giadello actually lived in the city. Like so many of the wealthy and
powerful before him, he owned a luxurious ten-acre beachside estate on Long
Island, in the hamlet of Montauk. The acreage was ringed with a ten-foot brick
wall to ensure privacy. There were only three ways to get a glimpse inside
Frank Giadello’s estate: by invitation, by air, or by climbing to the top of
the Montauk Point Lighthouse three-quarters of a mile away and using
high-powered binoculars. The only means of access was a large steel gate
controlled from within a bulletproof shack manned twenty-four seven by an armed
sentry. Not your typical run of the mill security guards either that would fill
their pants if someone so much as farted in their direction. No, Frank Giadello
only employed serious hardasses.

One
of those hardasses, a cold-eyed sentry with a face that looked chiseled from
granite, gave Kain a steely once-over when he pulled up to the gate, then let
him through. Kain navigated his Jeep up the drive, paying no attention to the
lawn so manicured it made PGA golf courses look like rough-mown hay fields by
comparison or the immaculately-clipped shrubs illuminated by soft, landscaped
lighting. He had seen it all before. He wasn’t impressed then and he wasn’t
impressed now. Because right now all he wanted to do was get his money and go
home.

The
end of the driveway expanded into a large circle of pavement which served as a
parking lot of sorts. In the center of this circle grew a rose garden, the
flowers now gone, plucked by the frozen fingers of fall. Only bare, thorny branches
remained, winding their serpentine way around a thick marble pillar erected in
the midst of the roses. Atop this pillar perched a stone gargoyle and Kain
imagined the creature’s lifeless eyes were glaring at him as he drove the Jeep
around the circle and parked in front of the main entrance.

A
wide stairway led up to the porch, which stretched across the entire front of
the mansion, its roof supported by six marble columns that lent the place a
Southern air. Kain took the steps two at a time and at the front door was
greeted by a guard he actually knew, a towering mass of rock hard muscle named
Jean-Luc. He was dressed in black jeans and a windbreaker that did nothing to
conceal his thick chest and bulging biceps. Kain had seen him in action and
knew there was nobody better in a brawl. Blows that would knock most men
senseless just bounced off Jean-Luc’s six-foot-four frame like tennis balls
thrown at a steel wall. Kain gave him a nod. “How’s it going, Jean-Luc?”

Jean-Luc
had immigrated to New York from Quebec and his accent was still thick. “Business
as usual,” he replied. “You here to see the boss?”

“Yeah.”

“He
expecting you?”

“He
better be. He owes me money.”

“Right.
The Perelli job. Heard that went down smooth.”

“It
went down. Don’t know about smooth.” Kain’s voice betrayed nothing, but in his
mind he could hear the heartbroken sobs of a little girl.

“Hold
on a second.” Jean-Luc turned to the intercom next to the front door and
pressed a button. There was an electronic buzz, followed by Frank Giadello’s
voice. “What is it, Jean-Luc?”

“Kain’s
here to see you, boss.”

“Send
him in.” Frank’s usually strong, authoritative voice sounded tinny and
distorted through the small speaker.

Jean-Luc
motioned for Kain to go in. As Kain stepped past him, Jean-Luc said, “Maybe
I’ll see you later. Been a while since we did a job together, eh?”

“That’s
because I prefer to work alone. Nothing personal.”

Jean-Luc
gave him a grin. “Don’t worry, no offense taken.”

Kain
headed down the hall toward Frank’s office. Despite his declaration that he
liked to work solo, he had to admit that Jean-Luc was one of the few people he
could stand. They weren’t exactly friends but Kain found the Canadian’s
constant cheerfulness and sense of humor refreshing. But he also knew how to be
serious when the time came; that the only kind of cutting up that should be
done in the midst of combat was the kind that involved a sharp blade and an
enemy’s throat.

To
Kain’s left, portraits of various Giadello family members adorned the walls,
hung in perfectly symmetrical rows. Frank referred to it as the Wall of History
and the last portrait on the wall was his. Kain had been regaled with the tale of
Frank Giadello’s rise to power so often that he sometimes felt as if he knew it
better than his own life story.

Frank
had inherited the shadowy empire from his father, Vinnie Giadello. Vinnie had sown
the seeds that Frank would later reap, laying the groundwork, building
contacts, establishing suppliers, all the things necessary for a successful
illicit business venture. But while Vinnie’s efforts had garnered moderate
success and wealth, it was not until Frank took the reins that the name
Giadello became a force to be reckoned with in the NYC organized crime food
chain.

Frank
had embraced the role of crime lord with near-religious zeal, his utter
ruthlessness quickly rising to myth-like proportions as he climbed to the top
through sheer balls and brutal amounts of bloodshed. He had carved his niche by
out-gunning his competitors and showing his enemies no mercy. Silas now had
command of the day-to-day operations but he was just a puppet. Nobody,
including Silas himself, thought he was in charge. Frank was still the master,
a puppeteer pulling the strings behind the scenes, making Silas and the rest of
his criminal clan dance to his own cutthroat tune.

The
hall ended at a set of solid oak double doors that led into Frank’s office. Two
more bodyguards bracketed either side of the entrance. Kain nodded at each of
them as he approached. “Pierre,” he greeted. “Andy.” Pierre was the brother of
Jean-Luc and though the two bickered like cats and dogs, the animosity was a
façade; in reality, the two were inseparable. Of the two brothers, Jean-Luc was
the better gunman, but Pierre was the more dangerous, possessing a cruel,
sadistic streak.

Andy
Torlini was a newcomer, some wet behind the ears street punk that Frank had
plucked out of the gutter. Kain had no idea what Frank saw in the kid; it was
obvious that Andy was too soft for this line of work. There was more to being a
gunslinger than just packing a gun. Andy was too eager to please, too eager to
make his mark. Out on a strike, eagerness often led to mistakes, the kind of mistakes
that got people killed. Kain had seen it happen all too often and hoped he
wasn’t along when Andy went out on his first job. He would rather lick a public
toilet seat that hadn’t been cleaned in three weeks than babysit a rookie.

Pierre
returned Kain’s nod, then pushed the doors open and stepped aside. “The boss is
waiting for you.”

Kain
stepped past the two guards and into the inner sanctum of Frank Giadello. A
large bulletproof bay window offered a view of a pair of cherry trees, the
branches stark and skeletal in the moonlight that was just beginning to seep
through the clouds that cloaked the sky. Off in the distance the lighthouse
beacon could be seen sweeping the sky with metronomic regularity. Behind a huge
oak desk in front of the window sat Frank. Two plush leather chairs sat in
front of the desk. Much to Kain’s disgust, one of them was occupied by Silas.

Frank
gestured toward the remaining chair. “Have a seat, Kain.” He then motioned
toward the fully-stocked wet bar in the corner of the office. “Care for a
drink?”

“No,
thanks,” Kain said, pointedly moving the chair away from Silas before sitting
down.

Frank
wore a black-on-gray Italian suit that hung on him with the precise lines that
only an expert tailor can provide. He leaned forward and folded his hands on
the glass-topped desk. His hands were flawless, professionally-manicured, and truth
be told, looked rather feminine. But looks can be deceiving. Kain knew that
Frank’s hands, so soft and fragile in appearance, in reality were strong as
iron and brutally unforgiving.

A
few years ago Kain had watched those hands literally beat a man to a pulp. The victim
had been identified as a traitor within the organization and Frank had used
those manicured hands to relentlessly smash the man’s body, again and again and
again, the meaty thuds echoing off the walls of the shed-cum-torture chamber.
The blows had rained down like the wrath of God until the flesh split and bones
broke and the traitor’s face had been reduced to a mess of quivering jelly, horrible
moans creaking from the cavity of mangled meat and shattered teeth that had
been the man’s mouth. Only when the man no longer resembled a man—a slab of
beef in a slaughterhouse looked more humanoid—had Frank wrapped his seemingly
soft, weak hands around the traitor’s neck and crushed the life out of him. Kain
distinctly remembered the wet crackle of cartilage as the man’s throat
collapsed.

Frank
buckled right down to business. “Kain, I have to tell you, nice work on the
Perelli job. You earned this.” He flipped a plain white envelope across the
desk as if dealing a card. It slid across the glass surface and into Kain’s
waiting hand. “It’s all there.”

Kain
slipped the cash into his pocket. “Heard you had another job for me.”

“You
heard correctly,” Frank said. “Tomorrow night I have a yacht bringing in a load
of guns. My sources tell me the Perelli family is going to try to hijack the
load when it reaches the marina. Naturally I’ll have men on the yacht itself,
but I want you at the marina, on the ground, running interference if anything
goes down.”

Kain
wasn’t sure he had heard right. “Did you say the Perelli family?”

Frank
nodded. “You know how it is … you stomp on one motherfucker, another one pops
up to take his place. They’re like damn weeds.”

“So
who’s running the show now?”

“The
wife,” Frank replied. “Rene Perelli.”

“And
she’s making a play already? Have they even buried Perelli yet?”

“Just
put him in the ground this morning.”

Kain
shook his head, recalling how Rene had cowered on the couch while he executed
her husband. “It doesn’t make sense. The Rene Perelli I saw does not have what
it takes to pull a retaliation together this fast.”

Silas
joined the conversation. “Maybe you misjudged her. Or maybe watching her
husband get snuffed helped her grow some balls.”

Kain
sent him a withering,
shut-the-hell-up
look.

“She
wasn’t even supposed to be home that night,” Frank said. “That’s why we didn’t
include her or the kid in the stats package. Had I known, I probably would have
had you take her out too.”

“And
you know I wouldn’t have been able to do that,” said Kain.

Frank
sighed. “Yeah, I know. You and your precious code.”

The
code.

Kain’s
code.

The
Assassin’s Prayer.

God,
let not my bullet or blade shed the blood of innocents.

Karen
had written that for him on the night he revealed to her that he was a Company
assassin. He had been afraid that she would leave him, but she had simply
looked at him for a moment, then taken out a piece of plain white paper and
wrote THE ASSASSIN’S PRAYER at the top. She had then penned the words of the
prayer just beneath the title in her flowing, feminine script. She had
presented it to him with uncharacteristic solemnity, then touched her lips to
his in the gentlest of kisses and told him that it didn’t matter, that she
loved him no matter what he did for a living.

Kain
felt the sting of tears in his eyes, but blinked them away. They’d be selling
popsicles in Hell before he’d cry in front Frank or Silas. “You wouldn’t
understand,” he said.

“You’re
right, I don’t understand,” said Frank. “Man, woman, child ... anyone who gets
in your way is fair game to be put down.” He shrugged. “But it’s no big deal.
Let’s see how this thing shakes out tomorrow night. If I decide I want Rene Perelli
buried alongside her husband, I’ll have one of my boys do it or hire another
freelancer like you.”

“Speaking
of tomorrow night,” Kain said, “which marina are you using to offload the
guns?”

“The
one just down the road from your house,” Frank answered.

“The
Saint James Marina?”

“That’s
the one. You could walk to this job.”