The Assassin's Prayer (9 page)

It
was a disturbing thought, one that made for a long drive back.

******

Frank
was no longer lounging poolside when Kain returned. Andy, nauseatingly
fresh-faced and eager-to-please, escorted Kain to the office where Frank was
shooting a game of billiards with Silas. Kain heard the sharp crack of balls
smacking into one another as he walked in, followed by a muffled thump as one
dropped into a pocket. Other balls caromed off the cushions. Looked like Frank
had just broken a fresh rack.

The
crime boss studied the lay of the table for a few moments, then glanced over at
Kain. “Is it done?”

“Yeah,
it’s done.”

Frank
chalked up his cue stick. “Did you get the information?”

Kain
leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Best I can tell, Robbins rented
a little rat hole in Albany for him and his team. Some place called Arbor
Apartments. I pulled the address off his GPS. I’m betting the rest of Robbins’
team is there, sitting on your guns.”

Frank
lined up a shot and smoothly stroked the cue stick, driving the cue ball across
the green felt. The target ball slid down the cushion and plunked into the
corner pocket. Frank reached for the chalk again. “Take some of the boys,” he
said, “and go get my guns. And be sure to make an example out of Robbins’ men
so that Rene Perelli will know she can’t mess with me and get away with it. She
needs to realize that every move she makes against me will have serious
consequences. Understand?”

“Yeah,”
Kain said, “I understand. But you’re forgetting something.”

“Such
as?”

“Compensation.
You’ve barked a lot of orders since last night and I’ve complied, but now seems
like a good time to remind you that I’m not one of your boys. I’m a freelance contractor
and I expect ten grand per kill. Now, most mercenary teams consist of five men.
Sometimes less, sometimes more, but five is the average. Since I already took
out Robbins and the sniper, I expect—”

“You
killed the sniper?” Frank interrupted.

“Forty-five
caliber lobotomy. Which means we should expect there to be at least three more
mercs at the apartment.”

Frank
smiled. “I thought this might come up.” He leaned his cue stick against the
table, went to his desk, and took a thick envelope from the drawer. He walked back
over and tossed it on the pool table. It landed next to the eight-ball. “There’s
fifty grand there; ten for Robbins, ten for the sniper, and thirty for the rest
of ‘em.”

Kain
walked over and picked up the envelope. It was heavy, stuffed with hundred dollar
bills. He counted out ten thousand and laid it down on the table before
pocketing the rest. “I don’t want any money for Robbins,” he said as something
dark twisted through him. “That one’s on the house.” He saw Frank looking at
him quizzically, but didn’t explain any further. Didn’t know if he could even
if he wanted to.

He
turned and left the room.

CHAPTER 9

What
a dump,
was Kain’s first thought as
Andy found a parking spot across the street from Arbor Apartments. The
four-story building had definitely seen better days. At least half the windows
had been shattered. Kain wondered what had shattered them, rocks or bullets. In
this part of town, could have been either.

Kain
felt the cargo van settle as Andy shifted into park and killed the engine. In
the passenger seat, Silas turned and looked at Kain, who was sitting directly
behind Andy. “So what’s the plan?”

“Just
sit tight for a few,” Kain said. “I want to get a feel for the place before we
go in.” He knew it was possible that the merc team had gotten nervous and
jack-rabbited for parts unknown when Robbins failed to return. They were pros, and
pros possessed that sixth sense that warns them a deal has gone south and it’s
time to vacate the vicinity.

As
Kain studied the street, Pierre and Jean-Luc fidgeted in the seats next to him
like ADHD-afflicted toddlers. The two brothers hated sitting still, especially
when there was a job to be done. Kain knew he would have to keep a close eye on
Pierre. The man’s eyes were bright with bloodlust and Kain had no intention of
letting him go on a rampage. If the psychotic SOB wanted to go kill-crazy, he
could do it on his own time.

It
was 8:30 at night, but not even the darkness could hide the reeking desolation
and desperation of Arbor Apartments. Under harsh streetlights, the grass grew
high enough to hide a Buick and weeds rioted in the crumbling foundation. This
was not a neighborhood; this was a wasteland of fast food wrappers, old
newspapers, and empty beer bottles, a diorama of dereliction strewn with the
detritus of lives gone sour. Whores, crack-heads, gangbangers … these were the
human waste that called this sewer of suffering home. As if to reinforce the
point, a pack of youths—a motley crew of blacks, Hispanics, and white boys, not
one of them over sixteen—perched on the fissured concrete steps leading up to
the entrance of the building, a boom box blaring rap music at ear-bleed
decibels. The bass-heavy beats slapped at the van with sonic backhands.

Kain
turned away from the window and looked at his team, a term he used loosely. Between
Andy the rookie and Pierre the psycho, Kain felt like a damn babysitter. Maybe
he should have packed formula and diaper rash ointment instead of bullets and
extra mags.

“All
right, listen up,” he said. “The target is apartment 4D. We go in hard but use
suppressors to minimize the noise. Andy, once we’re inside, you stay in the
hall and cover our backs.”

Andy
looked disappointed. “Come on, Kain, I want to—”

“I
don’t care what you want,” Kain snapped. “Just shut up and do what you’re told.
Got it?” 

“Yeah.”
Andy pouted sullenly. “I got it.”

Kain
reached for the door handle. “Let’s go.”

Outside
the vehicle, the rap music was nearly overpowering. Kain yearned to put a
bullet through the boom box and end the ear-raping misery. But he refrained
from drawing his gun as he led his team across the street, watched with hostile
eyes by the gang. As he started up the steps, the youths closed ranks, standing
shoulder to shoulder all the way across, forming a solid wall of human,
hoodie-wearing flesh.

Kain
knew whichever one of them spoke first would be the leader. He was guessing it
was the tallest guy in the middle of the human wall. Black, with a shaved head,
mirrored shades, and gold chains around his neck that looked fake even to
Kain’s inexpert eye. What didn’t look fake was the black matte butt of the
Smith & Wesson .357 jutting out of the front of his baggy jeans. Stupid
place to carry a pistol, unless you wanted to accidentally blow your balls off.

“Who
da fuck you be?” Tall Guy asked. He didn’t look a day older than fifteen, but
the tone of his voice was surprisingly mature, despite his gutter vocabulary. “And
what da ‘ell you be lookin’ at?”

“Doesn’t
matter who I am.” Kain raised his voice to be heard over the music. “And what
I’m looking at is the guy keeping me from going where I want to go. So how do
you want to play this? Should we whip out our dicks, see whose is bigger? Or
maybe you’d prefer we go to guns right here in the street.” He paused for a
moment, then continued. “Or maybe we can be civilized about this and you can
just tell me what I need to do to get inside.”

Kain
couldn’t see Tall Guy’s eyes behind the reflective shades, but he sensed he was
being sized up. Tall Guy apparently took his measure and then a gold-capped
grin suddenly sprouted on the gangster’s face. “You’s got balls, white boy.
Gots ta give ya cred fo’ dat. Question is, do ya gots two g’s?”

“Maybe,”
Kain said. “What’s it buy me?”

The
smile broadened. Tall Guy was clearly enjoying the game, looking to all the
world like a cat playing with a mouse, completely unaware that he was really a
mouse pestering a very dangerous cat. “For two g’s, I won’t turn this music
down.”

“That
music sucks, so why wouldn’t I want you to turn it down?”

“’Cause
if I turn it down, the boys you come to kill in apartment 4D will know you be here
to smoke ‘em.”

Silas
spoke up. “So they paid you to keep an eye out for us. If you turn down the
music, it’s the signal that we’re here.”

“Bingo,
boy-o.”

“Pretty
slick,” Kain said. “How much they pay you?”

“One
thousand.”

“And
if I give you two?”

“Two
g’s on top of one g would be cause for great celebration, and everyone know dat
celebrations require lotsa loud tunes.”

“Your
crew helps load the cargo we came for and you’ve got a deal.”

“Screw
dat noise. Just ‘cause I’m a niggah don’t mean I’m yo’ slave.”

“Slaves
worked for free. I’m offering you two grand.”

“Good
point.” Tall Guy pondered it for a second, then said, “Okay, pass me da bread
and we gots a deal.”

Kain
nodded. “Silas, pay the man.” He could have paid the guy himself, but he was
pretty sure if he pulled out an envelope stuffed with $40,000, the gangbangers
would no longer be satisfied with a paltry $2,000.

Sure
enough, when Silas pulled a roll of cash out of his pocket, Tall Guy asked,
“How much you’s got dere?”

Silas
was smart enough to know there was no point in lying. “Five grand.”

Tall
Guy held out his hand. His shiny smile never wavered. “Give it to me.”

Silas
looked at Kain, who gave him a slight nod. Now was not the time to quibble over
a sudden price hike. Besides, it was Silas’ money and Kain didn’t care if the prick
died a penniless pauper.

As
Tall Guy pocketed the payoff, Kain asked, “We’re good?” It was phrased in the
form of a question, but he put a hard edge on his tone to make it clear that it
was really a statement.

Tall
Guy signaled his street soldiers to step aside and then waved Kain and his team
up the stairs with a flourish. “Good to go, my brutha. Enjoy your killing game.
We’ll be right here, crankin’ up da soundtrack to da apocalypse.”

“You’re
a regular Samaritan,” Kain said as he led his team up the rundown stairs to the
front entrance of the apartment building. The music blasted unabated at their
backs.

The
heavy wood door bore the scars of the ghetto, graffiti scrawled across nearly
every inch of space. Nothing unusual, just the typical vulgarities and insults.
“F.U.” and “Eat My Dick” seemed pretty popular, and apparently some girl dubbed
“Betty Big Boobs” was available for a good time if you called 555-796-BLOW.

Given
the neighborhood, Kain expected the door to be locked, but it opened easily
when he turned the handle. Inside was a sparsely-furnished lobby containing a
couple of battered chairs, a coffee table that was even more battered than the
chairs, and a few dying plants, the leaves brown, brittle, and buried in dust. To
the left was a staircase.

Kain
led the way up. The stairway was filthy and stank of rotting garbage, urine,
and stale sweat. Kain tried to hold his breath. He had to give it to Rene
Perelli—she had picked a hell of a place to hide the guns. If Robbins’ GPS
hadn’t yielded up the address, they never would have been able to locate the
hijacked shipment.

Kain
allowed himself to breathe again when they reached the fourth floor and stepped
out into the hallway. The air here wasn’t exactly fresh, but it was heaven
compared to the sickening stench of the stairway. “Everyone make sure you’re
locked and loaded,” he said. He knew they were, but he had not lived this long
by taking anything for granted. Assumption could mean you caught a bullet in
your ass. So instead of trusting his fate to assumption, he checked his gun and
waited while the others checked theirs. Only when he was satisfied that all
magazines were properly seated and all chambers stuffed with a round did he
give the order. “Let’s get this done.”

He
led the way down the hall. Apartment 4D was the first one on the right, the
number-letter combination barely readable through the grime and graffiti
covering the door. He stopped in front of it.

“Should
we knock?” Jean-Luc asked with a grin, keeping his voice low.

“Absolutely.”
Kain fired a powerful kick just below the knob. Wood splintered and the door
flew open. They stormed into a squalid room that reeked of cigarettes, booze,
and unwashed bodies.

The
three mercenaries sat on the couch watching a rabbit-eared black and white TV
with the classic exploding arrow scene from
Rambo II
playing on the
screen. At the sudden intrusion, the three men leapt up and grabbed for their
guns. They were pros and they were fast, but not fast enough. Kain killed the
first one with a .45 slug to the center of the chest. He saw a second one pitch
sideways, his heart holed by a bullet from Silas’ gun ripping through his
ribcage.

The
last merc almost made it to his Uzi lying on the coffee table in front of him, but
before he could actually pick up the weapon, Kain pumped a round through his
palm. The mercenary flopped back against the sofa, clutching his mangled hand, jaw
clenched in pain.

Kain
pointed the Colt at the sweet spot just above the merc’s upper lip. “What’s
your name?”

The
mercenary glowered at him, but answered. “Rodriguez.”

On
his peripheral, Kain saw Pierre prowling restlessly around the room, kicking
aside the takeout containers and food scraps littering the floor. Several
roaches that looked big enough to give Godzilla a run for his money crawled out
of a pizza box and scuttled out of sight beneath the TV stand.

“What
do you
cabrons
want?” Rodriguez’ voice, like his facial features, was
decidedly Hispanic. “Who the hell are you?”

Kain
shifted the Colt slightly and fired once, the sound muffled by the suppressor.

Rodriguez’
good hand flew up to cover his bullet-split ear. Blood oozed between his
fingers.

“Let’s
get one thing straight,” Kain said. “I ask the questions, not you.” He stepped
forward and rested one boot on the coffee table. He leaned his right forearm on
his raised knee, keeping the .45 aimed at the soldier of fortune whose fortune
currently seemed to have gone belly up. “Now,” Kain continued, “tell me where
the guns are.”

“How
about I tell you to go hump a dead mule instead?”

The
shot came out of nowhere, so unexpected that Kain thought he had accidentally pulled
the trigger. Rodriguez’ head snapped back as a bullet blew his brains out onto
the wall behind him. Kain spun around and saw smoke curling from the muzzle of
Pierre’s Glock. He was instantly enraged. “What the
hell
do you think
you’re doing?”

Pierre
slid the Glock into a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. “I was tired of you
having all the fun,” he said. “Besides, the guns are in the back bedroom. I
already checked.”

“You
psychotic piece of shit.” Kain walked over until he and Pierre were just inches
apart. The .45 was still in his fist, tempting him to blow the cool, calm,
collected look off Pierre’s face and do the world a favor. “You ever pull something
like that again, I’ll put two in your guts and then crack a beer while I watch
you die. You got that?”

Pierre’s
expression never changed. “Sure,” he said. “Sorry, Kain.” He didn’t look sorry
one bit.

Kain
turned away in disgust and looked at Silas and Jean-Luc. “Someone go tell those
street rats to get these guns loaded.”

“I’ll
do it.” Jean Luc exited the room.

“Speaking
of those street rats,” Silas said, “what are you planning to do about them?”

“What
do you mean?” Kain asked.

“They’re
witnesses.”

“They’re
kids.”

“They’re
gangbangers.”

“They’re
still kids,” Kain snapped. “We are not going to gun down a bunch of kids.”

“Your
call.”