The Hitman: Dirty Rotters

by Sean McKenzie

  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.

  His man went to work. Both hands on the turning wheel. It made a squeaking sound as if it needed oil. Andrik was to my right and just a step behind me. I looked away to the left, to the cop standing and the two gunmen beside him. The screaming came almost immediately. I had never heard anything so terrible.

  Andrik’s chuckle was sickening.

  More grinding of the wheel lowering the weight.

  More screaming.

  More chuckling.

  Andrik had a handful of crackers and began eating.

  My blood was boiling.

  I knew the prayer the cop had said would have to be answered through me. I had to act. I had to do something and fast.

  A lot of things went through my head then.

  Nothing like what went through the cop’s.

  Andrik yelled at the cop, “Now you feel your head crush into your brain!” He smiled dangerously. “You see, Hitman! This is what happens to those who oppose us!”

  The standing cop went wild. His mumbled voice belled hard and he thrashed about trying in vain to snap the handcuffs before one of Andrik’s men slammed a two-by-four into his gut. He doubled over, struggling for air.

  “Wait!” I said to Andrik.

  Everyone paused. A lot of confused looks shot at me. Andrik was beside himself. His look asked a thousand questions. None of them made me look reliable.

  My look was hard. My smile was one he would respect. I said, “Get his head out of there.”

  “What?”

  “Start with his feet first.” I said. “Then his hands and then his elbows.”

  Andrik looked uncertain. Maybe he just hadn’t thought of it.

  “Let me handle this. This is what I’m good at. This is my job. I hate cops.”

  Andrik looked into my eyes. A lesser man would have folded and ran for his life. I stood there and absorbed the malice and the cunning. I held fast. Andrik smiled. His fat head nodded. I saw no neck.

  “Make them suffer,” he whispered in delight. His fat hand came up and he waved off his man at the wheel. “Get him out.”

  His man went back to work, reversing the wheel, raising the weight. No one spoke. We all listened to the wood squeaking and the cop crying.

  I had my hand around my gun and a shaking finger on the trigger. I could turn and shoot Andrik first without taking my hand out of my pocket. Then as many gunmen as I could before they opened fire. If I stayed in the center of the circle, their crossfire could take a few out as well. I knew I couldn’t be quick enough to get them all. I wasn’t even a great shot to begin with. It was a fool’s plan at best. It was the best plan I could think of.

  It was going to take a miracle.

  “I like you more and more, Hitman.” Andrik patted my shoulder. He noticed my right hand in my coat pocket. His eyes flickered with suspicion. “You go to him and do the job. I stay back and watch.”

  A phone rang. Andrik reached within his black suit pocket and pulled out a phone and spoke in Russian briefly. He was being told to do something. I recognized the facial expressions of a worker taking orders from his boss. The Bear had called.

  Andrik nodded, then ended the call. He put the phone back into his pocket. He looked upset. Something had changed. I could see him thinking quickly, reasoning, putting things together.

  He looked at me and said, “You finish this. I go to more important matters.”

  I nodded.

  “Get the girls tonight. No more delays.”

  Andrik called out a few names and four of his gunmen broke the circle and followed him out the door.

  That left me with some room for error.

  I smiled and walked over to the cop standing with a sack on his head. He was a tough guy. He would be scared out of his mind. Scared enough to do anything I told him. I was relying on that.

  I grabbed the sack and lifted it up off his head. A confused look mirrored back at me.

  The cop was Frank.

  Chapter 13