Shank

by Robert J. Krog

  “Biehn,” he said. “B…i…e…h…n.”

  “Roger Biehn,” she said, closing her eyes.

  “Yes, Roger Biehn.”

  Her hand squeezed his harder, ever so slightly. Opening her eyes, she pulled him close and kissed his lips. “Thank you, Roger, for confiding that to me. I won’t reveal your real name without your permission.”

  I love you.

  “I’d better go in, Roger.”

  “You’re going to call me by my proper name a lot for a while, aren’t you?” he asked, amused and relieved.

  “Is that a problem, Roger?”

  “No, except that it feels formal, and my mother always said my name more when I was in trouble.”

  “I’m trying it out, and I’m not your mother, Roger.” She smiled, and it was beautiful. It was always beautiful.

  “Goodnight, Emma.” I love you.

  “Goodnight, Roger.”

  He leaned in and kissed her. They lingered, lips together. Finally, they parted, then she handed him her carry out bag from the restaurant, and he held it for her while she unlocked her door. Stepping in and turning on the light, she turned around and lit him up with that smile one last time for the evening. He handed her the bag, and she shut the door.

  Exhaling, he turned and jogged back to his car. Had he been holding his breath?

  “She’s wonderful. I love her.” It felt good to say it out loud. He opened the car door and settled into his seat. Kilkenny was there beside him.

  “Did you have a good time?” the pooka asked. He was shaped like a dog, a great, shaggy, white dog.

  “Yes, I did. You?”

  “I watched T.V. with Mrs. Jorgenson. She’s a charming old lady but has deplorable taste in television.”

  “I hope you were nice to her.”

  “How could I be otherwise? We talked about her days growing up. It was different then.”

  “And what shape did you take for her?”

  “She’ll remember me as a visiting friend.”

  “How nice.”

  “That it was.”

  He drove the car out of the apartment complex and onto Macon Road, taking a left. The memory of Emma’s body and lips pressed against his remained, along with her smile, and her gentle, unpretentious acceptance of his confidence, which pleased him most of all.

  Chapter 7

  Drastic Measures for the Good of the Company

  On Tuesday morning, after a sleepless night spent contemplating the worst that could happen if George died, Luke was a frazzled mess. He sat at the kitchen table, looking at his bowl of bran flakes and strawberries, Amy’s solution to his recent weight gain. He hated fruit, except in smoothies, so even that was unenjoyable.

  “A man in his 40s can’t expect to eat like he’s in his 20s anymore. He has to be sensible. You’re far too valuable as a vice president, a husband, and a father to ignore your health. You have to think of others and eat your bran flakes like a good boy,” she’d told him sweetly a year ago. It had been bran flakes four out of seven breakfasts a week minimum ever since. The other three breakfasts a week were equally reminiscent of cardboard. He’d taken to eating a single recommended serving of whatever she offered and stopping by a cafe or breakfast bistro on the way into work each morning for something palatable to eat and enjoy.

  “Didn’t sleep well?” she asked. Gage, 14 and sullen, sat between them with his nose in a thin book, The Great Divorce, required reading at the private, religious school they sent him to, at enormous cost in tuition and time. You’d think they’d give him bigger books to read, considering what I pay for him to go there. He was sure the boy was being brainwashed by religious fanatics. His doting mother encouraged it, even though she never set foot in a church unless she had to for the sake of appearances. Elite institutions impressed the hell out of her. It was a Catholic school—or was it Episcopal? Luke couldn’t remember. St. Something Academy, was it? There was some other name attached to it as well, as it was part of a national network of schools. Whatever, it kept the boy occupied—if only it wasn’t so damned expensive.

  Luke stared across his cereal at his son, wondering when the boy had last looked up from a book and actually seen his father. Did he care, would he care, if his father lost his entire career because his uncle had been careless with his health? He sighed. No, the boy would merely be upset because he could no longer attend his fancy, private school and be a prep with his preppy friends. Did people still say “preppy?”

  “Didn’t sleep well?” Amy asked again.

  “I slept fine,” he lied. “I was just thinking about my high school.”

  “La Grange High? What about it?”

  It was not La Grange High. He’d attended Central, the other high school in the county, but she’d never paid as much attention to his past as she did to his current paycheck to recall that.

  “I managed to become a vice president of a company I helped build without having to pay any tuition at all,” he said. It sounded hollow in his ears, but she didn’t know the difference. He’d had zero ideas. All I’ve done for 20 years is what George has told me to do. We’re sunk if he dies. Oh, George, you better have gone to the doctor. Augusta must have taken him to the doctor.

  Amy beamed at him. “You sure did, honey, and your son can have the best because of how hard you worked. We’re so proud of you. I tell my friends that all the time.” She reached over and touched his hand, grasping it briefly. He looked across the table at her. She maintained a hell of a figure and was fierce and determined in bed when she was “proud” of him. He was rewarded well, as far as sex went, for providing for the family. She winked at him. Sometimes, he’d rather just have a good night’s sleep, but Amy got what she wanted. He couldn’t afford to lose her. How would he replace her?

  He nodded and went back to the contemplation of his bran flakes and strawberries. Time for breakfast duty. To put it off, he reached for his medicine bottles.

  “Honey,” she said in a syrupy sweet voice, “don’t forget, you already took your medicine this morning.”

  He frowned and nodded, pulling his hand away. I bet she’s been talking to Augusta.

  He ate his milk and cardboard meal, and on the way in, he stopped at a coffee shop drive-thru and bought a huge cheese danish and an extra-large black coffee. While it cooled in his cup holder, he told his phone to dial Augusta for him. She picked up right away.

  “Good morning, Luke,” she greeted him brightly. “Still worried about big brother?”

  “Of course,” he said, controlling the urge to snap at her. “How is he?”

  “Asleep, when I left. The fever never went over 100.1. Penny, like I told you.”

  “What about that cough?”

  “He had a little now and then, I think, but nothing to worry about.”

  Something in her voice made him take note. She’s more worried than she’s letting on. She’s towing his line like a good little soldier. Well, I’m not going to let his pride and carelessness ruin everyone else’s lives.

  “Just a little, huh? Maybe—”

  “Hold on. Construction ahead, and I think there’s a wreck, too. Looks bad.”

  “If you’re worried, take him to see the doctor, Augusta. We can’t play around with his health. He’s the only CEO we have, and no one can replace him. For the good of everyone, he has to take better care of himself.”

  “Sorry, what? Damn!”

  There was the sound of screeching brakes.

  “Augusta, watch the road.”

  “What do you think I’m doing? Gotta go.” The call went dead.

  He swore and pounded his steering wheel. “Dumb broad! Make him get checked out!” he yelled at the phone once he was semi-coherent again. The rest of the drive in was stressful, and he was glad to reach the mostly empty office. He insisted on going in early. It was his escape. He ate the giant danish and drank his still-hot coffee at his desk, looking over the life insurance information again. No matter how he read it, there was no way
the company would get a payout large enough to sustain itself if George died of an illness. He sat in his office chair, fidgeting and fretting. Up front, the TV in the lobby was blaring the latest news report. War in Asia somewhere raged on and on. The familiar litany of death tolls and battles flowed smoothly out of the speakers. Why did Margaret, the receptionist, the only other person who came in so early, have to have it on?

  He ran scenarios through his mind for the rest of the morning. George dies, but we still get paid for the downtown high rise. Doesn’t matter, we won’t get another project without him. He’s the heart and brains of the company. We hire on other architects and a new CEO, or an architect as CEO. That’ll take half the year or more. We’ll run out of money and have to borrow. There’s no guarantee anyone will hire us; the competition is too fierce. It’ll take another six months to a year to land another major client after the new CEO arrives, if we’re lucky, but when have I ever been lucky? We’ll be swimming in debt by then. We’ll go under. If we’re lucky, someone buys us, but they’ll trim the fat. Trim the fat. I’ll be laid off. I won’t merit a large enough severance package to last, and who’ll hire me in this economy? Amy will divorce me. I’ll end up on the street. Gage will never miss me.

  He was sweating, even in the air-conditioned office. If he dies in an accident, it would be better. We might make it, but probably not. But maybe he won’t die.

  He recalled George’s face the morning before, flushed and pained as he coughed so harshly. Fever, cough, and congestion were all symptoms of the virus. George’s heart condition made him especially vulnerable. He has that virus from the news, and he’s going to die. My luck won’t go any other way. I’ve had it too easy for too long, and he’s always been here to bail me out when there’s trouble. Poor George. What am I supposed to do?

  The screen of his tablet was open to the page on death benefits for the company if the CEO died. The payout for death by assassination was so much larger.

  He’s going to die, anyway. The thought came to him unbidden. He swore it was unbidden. He couldn’t have thought of it himself. He wouldn’t have. The logic was inescapable, though, once it came. If George was going to die anyway, and they’d be ruined by his manner of death… What was the name of that assassins’ guild, that mercenary group? LifeEnders! That was it.

  He started to tap LEI into his tablet, and then stopped himself. No, that wouldn’t do. What if the technology guy they overpaid for his so-called expertise snooped into company officers’ business? He quickly deleted the letters he’d typed in. He’d use Amy’s phone later that evening. It wasn’t a company phone. Who would ever bother to check it?

  Am I really thinking this?

  Poor George. What else am I to supposed to do for the company? I’ll be sure they make it painless. That’ll be a mercy. He was pretty sure the victims of the virus from the news died in a lot of pain, especially if they already had heart conditions. Oh, lord, how much will it cost? How will I hide that I had it done? I can’t use company money. I shouldn’t use my own accounts, either. Amy’s? No, that’s still too obvious. Gage’s college fund? We almost never check it. The deposits are direct debit. Not even Amy will look at it until tax time next year. I could use that and replace the money. If she asks, I’ll make up a story. It’ll all be history by then. I’ll buy her an expensive present and put it on a credit card. She’ll never know.

  Chapter 8

  The Mundane Routine of Assassination

  Father Darren wasn’t around to play backgammon, and Shaw was up early having had weird dreams about being a reptile again. He was at the range getting extra practice in when he felt the buzz of his phone on his belt clip. He set his pistol on the tray—pointing down range, of course—and looked at the new message. It was from Brenda, a new job. The expectation, the little thrill he used to get at each new hit, didn’t run up his spine as it used to until…well, he hadn’t exactly noticed when it had stopped, but it had gone away. Still, the tension of the hunt, the expectation, and the elation of the kill hadn’t abandoned him, had they? Hadn’t he felt a deep satisfaction on the last hit? He thought back. Had it been elation? No, it had merely been satisfaction at a job professionally done. There’d been no great hunt. The seminarians hadn’t been a challenge. The hit before that, surely there’d been a thrill with many obstacles to overcome?

  Suddenly, he abandoned that line of thought and carefully read about the job instead. There was an architect/CEO with a weak immune system who had to be killed before some illness did him in. That was a new one. He chuckled and read on. The down payment was already in the company account, ready for transfer to his. He read the rest of the information, opted not to meet with the client, since he hadn’t requested it, and accepted the job with his usual request for her to find something more challenging next time. She quickly shot back,

  He picked up his Sig left-handed and aimed carefully down range with each shot. They were all off. Of 13 shots, only two hit the target. He shook his head and switched back to his right hand with the other pistol. He fired down range quickly, putting all the bullets through a space about the size of his palm.

  “That’s some good shooting!” the man at number six shouted beside him. “But the ones just before were terrible. What’d you change?”

  “Hands,” Shaw said.

  “That can make a hell of a difference with some people.”

  “It can.”

  He finished out his range time and left with a sense of anticipation. The target had been sick for more than two days already and had a preexisting heart condition.

  While I could easily do him in a hospital, it might seem more suspicious. He needs to go soon, before the disease gets serious.

  He checked the address and security system information the client had provided and decided not to enter the house if he didn’t have to, or at least not to use the entry codes provided. That would point to someone close, and the client needed to be protected. No, he would probably use a rifle from somewhere outside. His antique .30-06 should do the job nicely through most grades of ballistic glass if he used armor piercing rounds. The only question was, how to make it look like an ex-lover or rival firm had taken the hit out on the architect, or maybe someone looking to get his job—but not the brother.

  His own brother was paying to have him killed out of concern for his legacy. That’s rich. He laughed aloud as he drove back to his apartment. If I’d offed one of my brothers, it would’ve been because they were assholes, and I wouldn’t have sugarcoated it. Maybe I will, come to think of it. When was the last time I offed someone for personal reasons?

  It had been a long time. Such activity was discouraged by LEI, for the obvious reasons that it couldn’t legally be sanctioned. If an agent or freelancer with the company wanted someone killed, it had to be done through regular channels. Even hitmen needed to hire hitmen.

  I’d get away with it, though.

  Turning back to the hit, he realized he needed a little more information from the client. Should he meet him, or request information electronically through the securely encrypted LEI servers? Server. He had no desire to meet the client.

  He sent the message as soon as he was home, requesting additional information to deflect suspicion from the client so the insurance would pay. While he waited, he queued up another World War II documentary, this one about kamikaze pilots in the Pacific. Before the documentary was over, the phone dinged with a reply.

  No one within the architecture firm would do, nor did George have any jilted lovers who fit the bill. In fact, his wife had been his first date in Memphis. They’d been college sweethearts since his first semester. However, a rival architectural firm had put an unsuccessful hit on George several years ago. Shaw spent the rest of the afternoon researching the firm. He launched into the framing after dark, using an LEI contact to hack the rival firm’s network and leave a trail of suspicious activity, with a few hints o
n social media in the form of customer complaints and frustrated company responses. Once done, he forwarded the information to his client with instructions on how to use it to his advantage. He also instructed him to get a burner phone immediately and answer from a certain phone number.

  He looked over the security information again, then over the target’s habits and the layout of the house. George slept on the right side of the bed. He might be able to do the hit there, but from the outside, the risk of collateral damage—the wife—was unacceptable. George’s desk was in the study, upstairs next to the window overlooking the back garden. That was a better spot, assuming George wasn’t so sick he just stayed in bed. The client had said the ballistic glass wasn’t very thick, according to his recollection, but the client didn’t strike Shaw as a reliable source of information on that score. He’d do his own reconnaissance, anyway. It was late, but he went out, taking a rifle, his pair of Sigs, and his ready bag, with several scopes and other useful miscellany, with him. He tossed the bag into the back seat of his Yukon, changed the license plate, and left.

  George’s house was on Shady Grove South near Baptist East Hospital. He drove by twice, with his high-resolution camera recording both times. He turned onto Chartwell Lane to see if he could get a view of the back of George’s house from there. It was no good. The cove didn’t go as far south as George’s house. After the loop in the cove, he headed down to the polo club and pulled into the parking lot. He had a membership but hadn’t used it in years.

  He remembered the hit that had been the reason for it. Good times. The bodyguards had been competent and made it a challenge. He’ll killed one and permanently disabled another. The survivor had taken a hit out on him in revenge. A slob from 187A, trying to make a name for himself, had taken the job. That had been entertaining as well. He grinned at the memory.