The Hitman: Dirty Rotters (16 page)

He opened the door as we approached.
Palo got in, I followed. The driver shut the door behind us. I
noticed that Palo did not slide all the way over. We were inches
from touching. For a split second it was awkward. Then she looked
at me, just a casual look that lasted a breath, then she turned
forward. I felt my heartbeat quicken.

“
You look different than
what I had expected. On the telephone you sound more like a
madman.” Palo said. “I admit that I was afraid to meet you. But I
am glad that I have.”

I reacted to the problem I knew I was
going to have. “Can I give you another number where you can reach
me at? My phone was recently stolen.”

Palo seemed to understand. She
retrieved a narrow pink purse up from the floor at her feet and
produced an ink pen and short piece of paper. I gave her my cell
number. I told her to not use the previous number again. I told her
that type of crime happens daily in America. She said she
understood. But she didn’t. Because the real hitman would have the
other number and if he were to call her now…

“
Thank you,” Palo
said.

“
Call anytime.”

We didn’t speak again. The ride back
was quiet.

I had a lot going on upstairs and used
the fifteen minutes of silence to sort through the mess. Palo had
hired a man to kill her father and shut down his kidnaping
operation. Anna was as good as dead if the plan failed. We all
were, really. It all depended on me and what I could do. I had to
be smart. I had to make the right decisions. Which had always been
a problem.

The Phantom came to a stop outside the
recycling building and my door opened. The driver held it opened.
Palo made no move. She wasn’t getting out. I looked at her for a
second, nodded, she said nothing, and I got out. I didn’t look at
the driver. I turned towards the back of the car and began walking.
The El Camino was parked less than ten feet away. I heard the
driver shut the Phantom’s door, then his own. When I reached the
door to my own car, I turned and the white Phantom was gone. Driven
away in silence.

I reached for the door handle with
Palo on my mind, when I heard a car slow and stop behind me. I
turned to see a black Rolls-Royce in my comfort zone. The tinted
back window slowly dropped. Andrik’s giant head was there. His eyes
were hard and cold. I forced myself to keep his gaze. It was like
staring into the eyes of a dog that wanted to bite you.

“
What have you been doing?”
he grunted. A giant hand tossed some square crackers into his
mouth. “Get in.”

My stomach sank. I caught my breath
and watched his window slide back up. I stuck my right hand inside
my coat pocket and felt my gun. I kept my hand on it and walked
around the car to the back door. I took a deep breath, tried to
calm myself, and fought off the urge to shoot him right then and be
done with him.

I opened the door and got
in.

Chapter 12

Andrik had a gun.

It was a small pistol with a
pearl-white handle and two side-by-side barrels that were maybe
three inches long. Pocket size. But it wasn’t in his pocket. It was
on the seat next to his giant leg, facing me.

I felt the car drive away.

I felt the warm metal in my right
hand.

I felt tempted.

Pamela.

Palo.

Andrik set down his box of crackers
beside him, wiped his hands on a white hand towel which was folded
neatly across his right leg, and turned to his left with an audible
groan to find my eyes.

“
Like games,
Hitman?”

“
Depends.”

“
Yes. It does.” He shifted
his body. “I like games only when I win.”

“
Hard to disagree.” Hard to
look him in the eyes too. They were cold and cunning. I watched him
pick up his pistol and stare at it intensively, as if he were
admiring it for the first time.

“
The games I play, I always
win.”

I didn’t have a response.

“
And somebody always
loses.”

I nodded.

“
Some people don’t like to
lose. Some people cry like poor sport. Like child.” He wiped the
gun gently with his towel.

I looked on. I kept quiet.

“
Some people have very much
to lose.”

More wiping of his gun. Circular
motions, very slowly.

“
Some people want more
chances to win back what they lost.”

“
Understandable.”

“
Yes. It is.”

Where was he going? Where
were we going?

“
Do you think that it is
fair? To give more chances?”

I wasn’t sure what the right answer
was. He was testing me, I knew. The tone in his voice gave me the
chills. I told myself not to press the green button.

“
No.” I lied.

“
No?”

“
No. I don’t respect
beggars. And losing is for the weak.”

Andrik laughed. “What do you do,
Hitman, when it is you that has lost?”

“
I don’t lose.”

His grin was devilish. I gave the
right answers. He didn’t lose either.

I let his laugh die away and then
said, “Where are we going?”

“
To take away chances.” The
look in his eyes turned sinister. “To let others lose.”

He opened his black blazer and slid
the gun into the inside breast pocket. He ate more crackers, not
like he was hungry but more like out of habit, like others would
chew gum maybe, and we sat in silence for a few more minutes before
Andrik said, “What were you doing with Palo?”

“
Having lunch.”

He gave me a look like he wasn’t
certain about how he felt about it. Then the look vanished,
dismissed to the matter of a higher priority. He was all business
then. Dark and terrible business.

“
And the girls? Where are
they? The warehouse is empty still.”

“
Who?”

“
The list.” He sounded
agitated. I had forgotten. I stayed calm though, if only on the
outside.

“
I’m taking care of
it.”

“
How many do you
have?”

“
All but a few, locked away
safely.” I said without missing a beat.

“
They need to be prepared
so do not waste more time. Get them by morning.” He wasn’t pleased.
“Where is Anna?”

I had no idea. I didn’t care. I didn’t
know what the right answer was. I simply shrugged. I had nothing to
tell him.

“
Why don’t you find out?”
Andrik growled. “Do your job.”

“
I will.” Sweating bullets
down my back. My cool and calm exterior was nothing like the
turbulent storm inside threatening to shatter all my veins and
organs.

“
Good. Now let us do
business together.” Andrik said then went back to eating his
crackers. One at a time.

I nodded. I had no idea what I had
gotten myself into.

Not until twenty minutes later when
the car stopped and parked between two shiny black Escalades and
Andrik’s driver let us out in an abandoned part of the city where
dilapidated buildings stood like a forest of dead trees.

Not until I followed Andrik into a
warehouse that looked as if it was ready to collapse.

Not until I saw into the vast empty
dark space male figures standing in a circle around two
men.

Not until I saw one of the two men was
on his hands and knees with his head stuck inside a medieval
head-crushing device.

Not until I saw the burlap sack on the
other’s head and the handcuffs keeping his hands together behind
his back.

Not until I saw the two men were in
their police uniforms. What was left of them anyway.

Andrik led me to the circle of his
men. There were eight Dirty Rotters, each held sub-machine guns and
hard looks. Russians wearing all black. A special unit, perhaps.
They looked comfortable in the environment. They looked
professional.

I was nervous enough to
vomit.

Andrik said nothing as we approached
them and two guys instinctively broke the circle and allowed us to
enter through. Andrik spoke to the two police men.

“
I am going to ask
questions and you are going to answer. If not, I crush your head
like a grape.” He spoke firm and loud.

I stared wide-eyed. The man on his
knees was heavy set, with a thick bush of black hair on his head
and his hands palm down on the floor. His head was stuck into a
large device made out of wood. It was old. It resembled a walnut
cracker that Little B had. Put the nut inside and turn the handle
on top which pressed a weight down slowly until the shell cracked.
Painfully slow and steady. Same principle applied here. Only with a
man’s head inside.

I couldn’t see the cop’s face, it was
tilted and turned away from me, and the flat weight was pressing
down onto his right ear. He wasn’t moving. I assumed that the pain
was amplified by struggling. He probably found that out the hard
way.

Andrik turned to me. He spoke as if we
were the only two in the warehouse. “These two were looking for
information in the wrong place. Asking questions they should not
have been asking. They do not give me the name of their informant.”
He turned towards the police. “I will make them suffer!”

The old me would have spit words out
like Angelo Garboni. Fear would have forced him to think that
Andrik had brought him there to confess. The old me would have
panicked and pushed the green button. He would have died. His head
would have looked like a watermelon after it fell from twelve
stories onto cement.

But the old me was gone. It was
doubtful that he would ever be able to return. Certainly not now.
This was no place for the timid and naive. I stuffed the old me
down deep and locked him safely away. He didn’t want to see what I
was going to be doing.

Andrik walked me slowly around to face
the cop on his knees. We stood a foot from him, looking down. His
gun belt was missing. The cop’s face was wet with tears and sweat.
He looked clean shaven. Thick dark eyebrows. Brown eyes, terribly
bloodshot. His bottom lip was cut, probably from the struggle with
the Russian gunmen. His lips were moving slightly. His voice was
low.

Andrik said, “Tell me the name of your
informant.”

The cop looked down away from us,
leveling off, staring blankly at the wall behind me. Code of
silence. He wasn’t going to talk. He already knew he was going to
die regardless. Cops around here were tough and smart. Andrik was
going to lose this game.

Andrik persisted. “Tell me, or I
squeeze.”

The cop didn’t even blink. His lips
mumbled inaudible words repeatedly.

“
What are you
doing?”

Andrik was baffled. He looked away
from the cop to me with a ridiculous look, as if I were just as
confused by the cop’s action. One of the gunmen stormed over and
kicked the cop in the gut. He backed away to his place as the cop
belled out a deep wail and struggled to catch his
breath.

His lips continued to move.

Andrik’s look to me
was,
Can you believe this guy?

My look didn’t change. I wasn’t
confused. He was doing exactly what I would be doing in his place.
I knew right away. I could almost make out some words. I may even
have been able to pray along with him. That would have made
Andrik’s day.

I said nothing.

Andrik bent down. Face to face.
Andrik’s head would never have fit inside the device. Not even as a
child, perhaps.

“
Who sent you?”

Nothing.

“
Okay, policeman. We do it
your way.”

Andrik stood. He stepped back,
aligning with me again. He looked angry.

“
The time for suffering
begins!” Andrik’s voice boomed.

The cop standing tried speaking. He
was tall and broad, thick in the chest and arms. I realized that
his mouth was either taped or gagged underneath the sack. He
repeated it unsuccessfully. I didn’t understand.

Andrik laughed. It reminded me of a
hyena. “You’re too late. I decide already of no second
chance.”

Andrik motioned to one of his men,
just a simple flick of his pointer finger, and the man went to
work. The Russian was short and stocky and happy to obey. He set
his gun on the bare cement and stepped towards the device. The cop
stuck in it saw his approach and began praying loudly. His fingers,
which looked bruised, scraped and bleeding, curled into tight
fists. He knew what was coming.

His screaming triggered a similar
response from the other cop. I wondered if he had any idea what was
happening to his partner. Maybe all he knew was something bad was
taking place. Something awful. Something that he would surely find
out.

“
Now!” Andrik
ordered.