The Assassin's Prayer (7 page)

“Why
so far away?” Kain asked. “Why not do the drop down here in the city? The way
you have it set up now, you’ll have to transport the guns over the road.”

Silas
answered. “Location. It’s cow country, for god’s sake. Nobody will ever suspect
we’re offloading an arms shipment there. And the marina is empty this time of
year, so there’s less possibility of unwelcome eyes observing the proceedings.”

“And
with you running interference on the ground,” Frank added, “things should go
smooth as silk.”

“What
time is it going down?” Kain asked.

“We
expect the yacht—it’s called
Sea Shark
, by the way—to be there around
midnight,” Silas said. “You’ll want to get there early to secure the grounds
and take out any uninvited guests.”

“Gee,
thanks for telling me how to do my job,” Kain drawled sarcastically. “I’ll be
there by ten. Are we done here?”

Frank
nodded. “Yeah, that’s it. I’ll have one of the guest rooms made up for you.”

Kain
stood up. “Don’t bother. I’m not staying.”

Silas
stood as well, saying, “You’re actually going to drive back home
tonight
?
You just got here.”

“All
I came for was my money and my next job. I got both, so there’s no reason for
me to stay.”

“You
spend too much time alone, Kain. It’s not healthy. Stay here among friends for
a while.”

Kain
wanted to ram his fist down Silas’ throat and rip his tongue out by the root. “You
are
not
one of my friends, Silas. Get that through your thick skull.”

“Only
because you won’t let me be.”

“And
whose fault is that?”

Frank
slapped his desk to get their attention. “All right,” he said, “that’s enough
bickering for one night, kids. Kain, if you don’t want friendship, that’s perfectly
okay with me. The only bond that needs to be between us is my cash and your
guns. Love, loyalty, friendship ... all as overrated as ribbed condoms. So have
a safe trip home. I take it you don’t want Silas to escort you out?” There was
a bemused smirk on Frank’s face.

“I
think I can find my own way out.” Kain turned and walked out of the room. He
heard Frank say something, probably
adios
or
sayonara
or something
equally stupid, but he didn’t respond. He just pulled open the double oak
doors, exited past Pierre and Andy without acknowledging them, and strode
briskly down the hall until he reached the front door.

As
he stepped out into the darkness of early night, Jean-Luc was no longer manning
the front door, so Kain found himself alone at last. Only then did he let the
tension bleed from his muscles, the fires of his anger to abate. Silas was zealous
in his quest to repair their broken friendship but seemed blind to the fact
that his attempts only served to enrage Kain. Whenever Silas tried to mend the
wounds between them, all Kain could picture was Karen’s legs wrapped around his
best friend’s waist. Forgive the betrayal? Absolve the sin? No way. It was
never going to happen. Silas might feel the need for redemption, but all Kain
felt was a deep, burning rage.

At
least, that’s what he tried to tell himself. But as Kain descended the steps to
his Jeep, he knew he was lying to himself. Sometimes, hidden just beneath the
rage, he felt a sense of loss, an empty ache for a friendship that had been drowned
in a sea of traitorous lust. The feelings never lasted long—just a flickering
second or two and then they were gone—but try as he might, Kain could not deny
their existence.

The
emotional tug-of-war scraped his nerves raw as he fished his keys from his
pocket. As he climbed into his Jeep and drove away, there was a hollow ache
inside him that he refused to explore. The pain made for a long drive home.

CHAPTER 7

The
next night, Kain arrived at the St. James Marina at precisely 2200 hours. The
mercenary team showed up 60 minutes later.

Approximately
200 yards northeast of the marina proper, in a large field of waist-high wild
grass, squatted a crumbling heap of blackened rubble and scorched stone that
had once been a luxurious riverfront mansion before it burned to the ground
thirty years ago. From the shadows of these old ruins, Kain watched the
mercenaries through night-vision binoculars that stripped the world of color,
leaving behind only varying shades of gray, black, and green.

The
four men arrived in a dark blue van with blacked-out windows. Kain pegged them
as mercs by their tactical clothing, disciplined precision of movement, and TDI
Vector submachine guns threaded with suppressors.

Kain
wondered why Rene Perelli had contracted outside talent for this job. Peter
Perelli had been a powerful up-and-comer in the organized crime ranks and Kain
was not egotistical enough to believe that his execution of the crime boss had
crushed the entire organization. He had inflicted some damage, made them suffer
some losses, but there still should have been enough goons left to rally to
Rene Perelli’s cause and carry out this attempted hijack of the Giadello arms
shipment.

Then
again, most organized crime gunners know how to carry out a hard strike about
as well as a vegetarian knows the best way to cook veal, so maybe that was why
Rene Perelli had opted for pros. And there was no doubt that the four-man team
that exited the van decked out in black from boots to caps were professionals. They
moved with the lethal grace inherent to men who are at home on the killing
fields. Their movements were quick but stealthy as they melted into the
shadows, merged with the darkness, and took up positions in a pine grove near
the water’s edge. Studying the angles, Kain saw that the team leader knew his
business and had chosen their concealment well. The entire merc pack would be
completely invisible to the
Sea Shark
when it motored into the marina.

The
Saint James Marina was little more than a cement launching ramp for small boats
and several wooden docks that stretched from the shore out into the deeper
waters to allow the occasional yacht to moor. As long as he had lived in the
area, Kain had never seen the place manned. There was a dilapidated trailer
that served as a main office, but it looked like its better days had been somewhere
around the heyday of afros, bell bottoms, and disco balls. No lights glowed in
the windows. As far as Kain could tell, he and the mercenaries had the place to
themselves.

Satisfied
that there was no immediate threat, Kain lowered the binoculars. He could smell
the river, a ripe reek of decay, dead fish, and corruption. Back in the ‘80s,
the factory three miles upriver had dumped pollution into the water on a
regular basis, turning it an ugly orange-brown color and cursing it with a
sulfuric stench. The authorities had eventually intervened but the damage was
done. Even after all these years and multiple cleanup efforts, the stink still
hung in the air and clung to the inside of your mouth like dry rot.

Kain
glanced up at the sky. The darkness was dense. Thick clouds suffocated the
stars and marginalized the moon’s effectiveness. The mercs had to be loving this
weather. It was a perfect night for a hijacking.

Kain
reached for his weapon of choice for tonight’s mission: an Israeli-made Galil
Sniping Rifle. It featured a folding stock, making it one of the most compact
sniping systems on the market, more of an accurized assault rifle than a true
sniping rifle. But this was not a surgical strike where millimeters mattered. With
the Galil, Kain could put five shots into a two inch circle at 200 yards, more
than accurate enough for this job. After all, the hijackers’ heads were a lot
bigger than two inches.

Kain
flipped down the integrated bipod and adjusted the legs, stabilizing the Galil.
A 6x40mm scope was mounted on the receiver. He looked through it, feeling the
rubber eyepiece press against his skin. The scope was a light-gathering model,
capable of utilizing all latent light, including moonlight and starlight, and
magnifying it to such a degree that the shooter could see the target even in
the dark.

Kain
swung the rifle onto each of the four mercenaries, marking their positions. When
the time came to open fire, he would have only seconds to take down quadruple targets.
Knowing where they were and how far apart they were spaced would be crucial to
his success. He tracked left to right, then right to left, then repeated the
sequence several more times, getting a feel for how far he would have to swing
the Galil before acquiring sight picture on his multiple targets. He didn’t
have to worry about anyone hearing the gunshots; the Galil sported a sound suppressor
that doubled as a muzzle brake and flash suppressor. Whatever killing went down
here tonight would go down quietly.

Through
the scope, the mercenaries looked restless. They repeatedly checked their
chronometers, then scanned the river. They appeared ready to go, ready for
action. Just sitting around was probably playing hell with their nerves. One
merc fired up a cigarette, match flaring brightly. It was the first sign of
poor discipline anyone on the team had exhibited.

From
the way the others kept glancing at him, Kain pegged the smoker as the leader. A
few meters to his left was a black man with a rubbery-looking scar on his upper
lip. The other two were your standard issue white boys, completely nondescript.

Take
the leader first, Kain decided. It was just a basic combat axiom—destroy the head
honcho and the followers often fall into confusion and confusion leads to
vulnerability. Kain hoped the sight of their commander falling would freeze the
others long enough for him to drop them as well. He had mentally crunched the
numbers. It was going to be close. He had to be quick and smooth on the trigger.
The margin for error was hair-thin.

Lights
appeared off to Kain’s left where the river first curled into view. A few
moments later the rumble of engines reached his ears as the yacht eased toward
the marina docks. Kain didn’t bother confirming that it was the
Sea Shark
;
just the way the mercenaries tensed up and shifted into action stances told him
it was show time.

Kain
drew a bead on the merc leader. Through the scope, he saw the man drop his
cigarette, crush it under his boot heel, then exhale his last drag in a cloud of
smoke. Kain aligned his crosshairs, applied 2.5 pounds of pressure to the
fine-tuned trigger, and sent his first 7.62mm bullet right through that gray
haze. The merc leader staggered backward, his entire oral cavity—teeth, tongue,
and soft palate—blown out the exit wound in the back of his neck.

Kain
barely registered the kill. He was already swinging the Galil onto his second
target, the black merc.

Trigger
pull. Recoil. Impact.

The
scar on the man’s lip vanished, erased by a bullet. Then half his head vanished
as well. 

Moving
with the fluid precision of a well-oiled war machine, Kain tracked right,
seeking target acquisition on the third merc. The man’s startled face filled the
scope and Kain blew it off. Four seconds elapsed, three men down.

The
last merc tried to take evasive action, but he was just a split second too
late. As he spun to his right, seeking cover behind the nearest tree, Kain drilled
a bullet through his ribs and into his heart. The guy pitched sideways, dead
before he hit the dirt.

Kain
took a deep breath and exhaled, releasing the tension and adrenalin that had
built up during the six seconds it took him to terminate the merc team. His
breath plumed like dragon-smoke in the cool night air as his taut nerves
returned to a more relaxed state. He stowed the Galil back into its case, then
extracted himself from the area. His work here was done.

He
was home in time to catch the second half of Leno.

CHAPTER 8

Later
that night, Kain awoke to the sound of his cell phone ringing. He glanced at
the alarm clock, red numbers glowing in the dark. 2:30 a.m. Safe to assume it
was not the Christian Children’s Fund calling to ask him to sponsor a starving
kid.

He
answered on the fourth ring.

Before
he could say so much as hello, Frank Giadello was bellowing in his ear as if
someone had twisted his ball sack into a Gordian knot. “They hit us! Ambushed
the van, whacked my guys, and took my guns!”

Kain
reached over and turned on the light. His bedroom window was cracked open a
couple of inches. He could hear the deep, throaty croak of bullfrogs in the
marsh across the road.

“Kain?
Are you there?”

“Yeah,
I’m here.”

“Did
you hear me?”

“Yeah,
I heard.”

“Well,
say something, for god’s sake.”

“Something.”
Being rudely awakened in the middle of the night brought out the best in him.

“What
I don’t need right now,” Frank growled, “is a smartass.”

“Sorry,”
Kain said, but he didn’t even try to sound sorry.

“Yeah,
I’m sorry too,” Frank said, and he didn’t sound like he meant it either. “Sorry
to tell you that I expect you down here by dawn. Got it?”

“Yeah,
I got it.”

******

Kain
didn’t make it by dawn—he caught a couple hours of shuteye instead of jumping
right in his Jeep—but he did arrive at the Giadello estate by midmorning. Jean-Luc
met him out front then escorted him around back to the Olympic size in-ground
pool. A portable massage table had been erected on the patio and Frank was
being rubbed down by two stark naked blondes—Missy and Michelle, if Kain
recalled correctly—who giggled like schoolgirls as they slopped massage oil all
over their cosmetically-enhanced breasts and let it dribble off their pert
nipples onto Frank’s neck, shoulder, back, and legs. Missy stood in front of
Frank and leaned over him to rub in the oil, her clean-shaven crotch kissing-close
to his face. Jean-Luc went over to a small table which had been laid out with a
continental breakfast, grabbed a bagel, and departed the vicinity.

Kain
ambled over and poured himself a glass of orange juice from an ice-chilled
carafe. Sunrays needled deceptively hot against his skin; the calendar might
have said October, but the onset of Indian summer made it feel more like June.
Moist and muggy were the meteorological catchwords of the day.

Kain
sat down at the breakfast table and cranked open the umbrella to give himself
some shade. Didn’t do much to combat the heat, but it was better than nothing. He
sipped on his juice and watched Missy and Michelle give Frank the kind of
massage that did not miss a single nook or cranny. They had enough empty space
between their ears to float a zeppelin, but there was no denying they had
gorgeous bodies and experienced fingers.

Frank
turned his head and pretended to see Kain for the first time, though Kain had
little doubt the crime boss had known he was sitting there all along. Frank
Giadello didn’t miss much. “Kain,” Frank said. “Good to see you again.” He
jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the girls. “Want one? They’ll do
anything.” He gave Kain a wink. “And I do mean anything. I’ve done things to
these two that would make Christian Grey blush and they haven’t batted an eye.”

“I’ll
pass,” Kain said. “But thanks for the mental image.”

“Your
loss.” Frank sat up, swung his legs off the table, and looked at the girls. “Excuse
us, ladies, but Mr. Kain and I have some private business to discuss, so I need
you to disappear for awhile.”

Missy
and Michelle’s ripe, ruby lips turned down in sultry pouts that were obviously
faked but they obeyed like good little pets, leaving Frank and Kain alone on
the patio. Frank donned a white terrycloth robe, then sat down at the table
across from Kain. He picked up a croissant and bit into it. “So,” he said to
Kain between chews, “about our little disaster last night. Somebody ambushed
the van, slaughtered my guys, and made off with the guns.”

“Think
Rene Perelli hired two
merc teams?”

“Conjecture
at this point, but it seems to be the likely answer,” Frank said. “Probably the
team you took out was just a decoy. I bet Perelli never intended to hit the
yacht. I bet her plan all along was to hit the van.”

“Looks
like she’s got brains to go with her beauty.”

“Yeah,
well, I want those brains blown out the back of her pretty little head,” Frank
growled. “This is a war I don’t need right now.”

“If
you’re asking me to put her down, you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“I
haven’t asked you anything yet.”

Silas
chose that moment to make his entrance, coming out onto the patio through the
sliding glass doors that led into the main house. His rubber-soled shoes made
faint squeaking noises as he walked across the wooden deck.

Frank
asked, “What is it, Silas?”

“Someone
here to see you. Says he’s here on Rene Perelli’s behalf and he’ll only talk to
you.” 

Frank
popped the last piece of croissant into his mouth and chewed it slowly,
thoughtfully, as if the act of mastication would give him the wisdom to know
what to do with this unexpected turn of events. “All right,” he said at last,
“bring him in and let’s hear what he has to say.”

“You
got it.” Silas turned and walked away. He never once looked at Kain.

Frank
poured himself a glass of orange juice while looking across the table at Kain.
“You’re going to hate him forever, aren’t you?” It wasn’t really a question.

“He
deserves it.”

“Yeah,
I suppose he does.” Frank abruptly changed subjects. “Are you armed?”

“Of
course.”

“Good.
Whoever this guy is, he’s not leaving here alive.”

“Thought
you wanted Rene Perelli.”

“Her
messenger will do for now.”

Silas
returned with the stranger in tow and Kain gave him the once-over. Crew-cut
hair atop a rugged, angular face with dark, hawk-like eyes and a nose that had
been broken more than once. The man’s lips were thin and curved with cruel
arrogance. He had linebacker shoulders over a narrow waist and his arms were
crisscrossed with scars, mostly old, but some fairly recent. This guy had gone
a few rounds with the Reaper. Probably one of the mercs behind last night’s
arms shipment ambush, if Kain had to guess.

Frank
gave no indication of what he thought of the man. He simply gestured toward the
carafe of orange juice. “Care for a drink?”

The
stranger glanced at Kain, sizing him up with a piercing gaze, then looked back
at Frank. “I’ll pass. This isn’t a social visit. I have a message from Rene
Perelli.”

“And
you are?”

“Jack
Robbins.”

“I’ve
heard of you,” Kain said. “You’re a merc. Supposedly one of the best. And one
of the most expensive.”

Robbins
smiled, but there was no humor in it. More like a death’s head rictus. “You get
what you pay for.”

Frank
tapped his finger against the side of his glass. “Did Rene Perelli pay you
enough to have your guts carved out with a spoon? Because that’s what’s about
to happen to you.”

Robbins’
smile stayed pasted in place. “No, it’s not.”

“You
sure about that?”

“Actually,
yeah, I am.”

“And
what makes you so sure?”

“There’s
a sniper in the lighthouse,” Robbins said. “Right now he’s watching us through
the crosshairs. Anything happens to me, he puts a bullet in you.”

Frank
glanced at the lighthouse in the distance, just visible over the top of his
privacy wall. “That’s three-quarters of a mile away.”

“My
guy can shoot the nuts off a gnat from a mile out. Your nuts are presumably
much larger and therefore easier to hit.”

“What
if I don’t believe you?” Frank snapped. Being challenged put him in a foul
mood, so right now an alligator with a cattle prod rammed up its rectum was
probably friendlier than Frank Giadello.

Robbins
held up his right hand and mimicked pulling a trigger with his index finger.

A
few seconds later the carafe of orange juice exploded from the impact of the
sniper’s bullet.

To
his credit, Frank never even flinched, even when glass shards peppered his robe
and citrus liquid spattered his face. But his eyes smoldered with anger.

Robbins
lowered his hand. “Satisfied?”

Frank
spoke to Kain while keeping his enraged eyes fixed on Robbins. “Kain, what do
you think?”

Kain
shrugged. “I think you probably want to rethink that whole carving his guts out
with a spoon idea.”

“You
also want to pay attention,” Robbins said. “Because if we’re done with all the
blowhard bullshit, all I came here to do was give you a message. Once I’ve
delivered that message and heard your answer, I’ll be on my way and the
crosshairs will be off your dick. There really is no need for all this
hostility.”

“No
need for hostility?” Frank snarled. “Are you kidding me? You killed my men,
stole my guns, walk into my home and put a bullet in my breakfast and then have
the audacity to tell me there’s no need for hostility? Who the hell do you
think you are?”

“I’m
a mercenary,” Robbins replied. “And this is just business. I was hired to take
down your van, hijack the guns, and deliver a message to you in person. So
that’s what I did and that’s what I’m doing. Nothing personal or hostile about
it. It’s just a job.”

Frank
glared across the table at Robbins, tapping the side of his glass, one finger
at a time, then sighed in exasperation and growled, “Fine, let’s hear the
message.”

“Perelli
says you can have the guns back … for three hundred thousand. Says it can’t
replace the husband you took from her, but it’s a start.”

Kain
did some quick mental math. The arms shipment had been both large quantity and
high quality, military surplus stolen from a base up near the Canadian border,
with a street value somewhere around half a million. Rene Perelli was allowing
Frank some latitude, permitting him to still turn a profit, but teaching him a
tough lesson at the same time. Kain had a hard time reconciling this cunning
crime queen with the weak, whimpering widow who had wept on the couch as he
executed her husband.

Frank
looked like he had just been sodomized and wasn’t enjoying the sensation. “Let
me get this straight—she wants me to buy back my own guns? Is she out of her damn
mind? I’ll bury her next to her dead husband before I pay her a single dime.”

“So
your answer is no?”

“Damn
straight it’s no. Tell Rene Perelli she can kiss my ass. If I want my
merchandise back, I’ll
take
it back, not buy it. Silas, get this piece
of shit out of my sight.”

“I’ll
convey your message to Ms. Perelli.”

“You
do that.”

Kain
watched with hooded eyes as Silas escorted the mercenary away, then turned to
Frank. “Thought he wasn’t leaving here alive.”

“That
was before his sniper aimed a bullet at my balls,” Frank said. “Nothing like a
little testicular harassment to make you adjust your plans.”

“So
what’s the plan now?”

“I
want you to follow him and the first chance you get, you take him out. But
before you do, I want you to find out where my guns are. Got it?”

Kain
rose to his feet. “Yeah, I got it.” Something deep down inside soured and
curdled as he realized he was about to get blood on his hands yet again.

******

The
late morning traffic on the Long Island Expressway was a total nightmare. Trying
to tail Robbins’ nondescript gray Chevy Blazer in the tangled bumper-to-bumper
mess of taillights, exhaust smoke, and angry horns was putting Kain’s skills to
the test. He lost the Blazer a few times, but always managed to regain it, and
finally the vehicular congestion began to thin out. He stayed back about a
quarter-mile, just barely keeping the Blazer in sight, letting cars pass and
fill in the gap between him and Robbins. Now all he had to do was sit back, hit
the cruise control, and wait for the mercenary to make a pit stop. There was no
sign of the mystery sniper.

Three
hours later, Kain was starting to think that Robbins must have the world’s
biggest bladder. The merc passed one rest area after another with no indication
of stopping. Kain’s own bladder was beginning to beg for relief.

Finally,
traveling I-87 between Poughkeepsie and Albany, Robbins pulled off into a rest
area. “About time,” Kain muttered, following the Blazer. He swung the Jeep into
a spot at the opposite end of the parking lot and gave Robbins a sixty-second
head start before making his way inside.