Skills to Kill

by Brian Drake

  They watched Logos in his oversized suit, five o’clock shadow and slicked-back hair as he sweet-talked a skinny redhead at the bar. He leaned into her personal space and showed off his white teeth. The redhead didn’t seem to mind. She sat unmoving, smiling back and nodding as he spoke. But her wandering eyes revealed the truth.

  Logos had been talking to people and handing out invitations all evening. He did the same with the redhead, and she placed it on the bar. When her late-arriving boyfriend, who was taller than Logos, showed up, the Greek didn’t skip a beat. He grinned and shook hands with the man and handed him an invite, too. The redhead had no purse, so she gave her invitation to her boyfriend, and he slipped both into a back pocket.

  “There’s our mark,” Nina said.

  “They don’t really want to go anyway.”

  Presently the boyfriend visited the restroom at the end of a narrow hallway. Dane, feigning drunkenness, collided with the man, apologizing profusely. The boyfriend continued on his way while Dane pocketed the two invitations.

  The night of the party, Dane and Nina mingled with the guests and kept their eyes open for Logos.

  “We haven’t even seen him yet,” Nina said. “This hasn’t been your brightest moment so far.”

  “Patience, darling.”

  Dane placed his empty glass on a tray held shoulder high by a passing waitress. The ballroom they occupied, with almost a hundred other people, had a domed roof and dangling chandeliers, diamond-studded chandeliers. More money hung from the ceiling than Dane had acquired—through honest means or the proverbial “whatever means available”—in the past twelve months. The wood floors were spit-shined. A dining area sat on one side with starched white tablecloths on every table and food choices aplenty from a buffet against a wall. The live band played continuously, showcasing a set of popular tunes, keeping the center dance floor full.

  “There he is,” Dane said.

  He took her hand, and they stepped onto the dance floor. As they danced, they swept closer and closer to the Greek and the two women he was sitting with at a private table.

  “Turn around,” Nina said. Dane rotated so he could see where she indicated. He led them away from Logos and deeper into the mix of people on the dance floor.

  “I figured,” Dane said. A blonde man stood near a corner, holding a glass. Sean McFadden. Again.

  “No wonder he didn’t stay in Paris,” Dane said.

  “Now what?”

  “Trust the plan.”

  Dane steered them back toward Logos, but then the tune ended and the band announced a ten-minute break.

  Dane didn’t blink when Sean McFadden hauled an empty chair over from a neighboring table and sat next to him.

  “We meet again, Steve.”

  Nina’s hand moved to her purse. Dane shook his head, but she kept her hand near the clasp.

  “She doesn’t listen to you, Steve.”

  Dane said, “Does anybody, really?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Frolicking with anarchists. We’re tired of The Man pushing us around.”

  “So you say you want a revolution?”

  “Yeah, you know, we all want to change the world.”

  Under the table, Nina jabbed him in the shin with the narrow point of one of her pumps. Dane stifled a grunt.

  “Logos shouldn’t concern you,” the assassin said. “He’s low on the totem pole. He knows nothing, luv.”

  “So why are you here?” Nina said.

  McFadden grinned at her. “You’re feisty. I like her, Steve. Why do you stay with him, dearie?”

  “He has a big—”

  “Nina, stop.”

  “I was going to say bank account.”

  McFadden laughed. “You know why I’m here, Steve. Logos may be small time, but he talks too much.”

  “I want him alive, you want him dead—”

  Nina said, “Let’s flip a coin.”

  “What if I lose, dearie?”

  “Forget that. What if you win?”

  “Are we going to yak all night or have a gunfight or something?” Dane said.

  “We’re only having a conversation.”

  Nina said, “Steve promised me more gunfights, so we need to have a gunfight like right now.”

  “Well I’d hate for Steve to break a promise to his lady. I’ll give you ten minutes before I make a move.”

  Dane said, “Leave with us, Sean.”

  “We’ve had this talk, luv,” the assassin said. “My answer hasn’t changed. Ten minutes.”

  And McFadden stood up and turned.

  “Hey,” Dane said.

  McFadden looked over his shoulder.

  “I want my gun back.”

  The assassin laughed and walked away.

  “How interesting,” Nina said. “Are you trying to turn him from the dark side?”

  “Let’s not waste our ten minutes talking,” Dane said.

  Nick Logos sat at a table with two blonde women in red dresses. At second glance, Dane saw they were twins. He went over and planted a hand on one of the Greek’s bony shoulders, said, “Come with me,” and jammed the muzzle of the .45 in his back. He used the larger of his two pistols, the Detonics Scoremaster.

  Logos turned to grin at Dane, dropping his eyes to the gun. To his guests, “Excuse me, ladies, won’t be long.”

  Nina stayed back a few feet as Logos and Dane withdrew from the table. Dane slipped the hand holding the .45 in a pocket.

  Logos buttoned his coat and followed Dane’s forward gesture. They left the ballroom and proceeded down a tiled hallway.

  “Who are you?”

  “The Duchess has sent somebody to kill you,” Dane said.

  “You?”

  “We’re here to rescue you.”

  “You want me to talk?”

  “Yup. Figure you got motivation.”

  “I don’t know if I believe you.”

  Dane steered Logos through the double doors of the four-car garage and grabbed the keys to a Mercedes. Dane dropped behind the wheel; Logos took the passenger seat; Nina kept the Greek covered from the back with her M&P.

  A button on the garage opener clipped to the visor rolled up the door.

  Dane backed out.

  A string of full-auto gunfire hammered the trunk and shattered the back window. Logos screamed and tried to squeeze into the floor space in front of his seat. Nina flattened on the back seat, covering her neck with her free hand as pieces of glass fell on her. Dane floored the pedal, spinning the rear wheels, the screech of rubber on the ground like a crying banshee; a thick cloud of white smoke enveloped the car.

  Dane swung the car around, shoved into drive, stomped the accelerator and rocketed down the long driveway. Nina fired out the back window, the M&P’s light pops hardly audible over the engine. She shouted, “He’s on a motorcycle!”

  The headlights shined on the road ahead, and Dane took the turn too soon, plowing through a hedgerow and knocking over a mailbox. Logos screamed.

  Dane straightened out, and the powerful engine carried them forward. Nina fired again and again.

  The surge of horsepower wasn’t enough. The motorcycle’s single spotlight grew in the rearview. “Hang on!”

  Gunfire from the motorcycle peppered the car. Dane slammed the brakes. The tires screamed and the binders strained to haul the car to a stop, but it had the effect Dane wanted. McFadden swerved to avoid the car, flashing by Dane’s side and applying his own brakes. Dane spun the car the other way and took off again.

  “As disasters go,” Nina shouted, “so far this is perfect!”

  “I do it all for you, baby!”

  McFadden closed in again. Nina fired three rounds, emptying the S&W. She hiked up her dress to get to the spare magazine attached to her thigh via garter and slapped the mag into the gun. She rose just in time to see the looming spotlight at full power. McFadden fired a burst that detonated the left rear tire. The car jolted. The bare steel wheel shrieked
against the asphalt. Dane fought for control as the Mercedes began to slide and lurched off the road. The front wheels clawed into a ditch and the car flipped over, tumbling end over end. Airbags violently inflated. The repeated impacts jostled the occupants and sent Nina careening into the roof as the car came to a rest on the passenger side. One of Nina’s heels struck Dane in the back of the head.

  As Dane’s head throbbed, he struggled to clear his vision, his body straining against the safety belt, the side airbag cushioning his body against the driver’s door. He was conscious of Nina’s silence and Logos kicking at the windshield. Logos cracked the glass and then broke it away from the frame. Cool air rushed inside. Logos let out another yell as he scrambled out on hands and knees. The motorcycle’s engine grew in volume. Dane unbuckled and fell hard against the passenger-side airbag, the gear stick and center console scraping his back.

  A short chatter of automatic fire broke through the sounds of the competing engines. Dane looked back at Nina’s unmoving body; she lay in a heap against the back passenger door, the airbag there partially concealing her body. He lurched out, clawing through the dirt, stopping at the front bumper. He dug for the .45 and clicked off the safety. McFadden was still on his bike, on the shoulder of the road, watching Dane. Dane raised the gun. McFadden gunned his motor and rode off. Dane fired. The assassin did not fall. Dane fired again and again until the action locked open over the empty clip. McFadden faded into the night.

  Dane used the hood for support and stood up, his head spinning. He moved along the side of the car, reached the back window, and used the Detonics like a hammer to smash the glass. His arm felt like rubber and seemed to only flop around, but he kept swinging. He had to get Nina out. He had to—

  Nuevo Laredo, Mexico

  “You can read it a thousand times, General, and it will say the same thing.”

  Todd McConn said no more and let the hum of the ceiling fan fill the silence. He folded his hands in his lap and watched General Juan Parra return the typed sheets to a folder. He offered McConn a cigar from the desktop humidor, and they lit up. The Te-Amo cigar had a rich, earthy taste that lingered after one exhaled. McConn regarded the cigar thoughtfully. The clouds of smoke whipped through the room from the force of the fan. He did not want to keep his eyes on Parra while the general considered his next statement. It was a hot day in Nuevo Laredo, and the den windows remained shut. McConn sat in a leather chair; the back of his shirt, damp, clung to his skin.

  “Have you heard from Major Dane?”

  McConn hadn’t expected that.

  “He hasn’t returned my calls,” McConn said. “I’m not sure where he is.”

  “He wouldn’t ignore you?”

  “He might,” McConn said. “But I told him about you. He won’t ignore you.”

  McConn and Dane went back to the days of the 30-30 Battalion. McConn had, at first, been just another operator in Dane’s mercenary outfit; eventually they became close friends. Now that the 30-30 days were over, McConn still took odd jobs: security, surveillance, rescue and recovery. Sometimes he worked alone, sometimes with helpers. This time he had come alone in response to Parra’s call and offered to send for Dane, too. General Parra did not reject the idea.

  Parra leaned back in his own leather chair. The springs did not squeak.

  “You and the major and your squad helped me once when I really needed it,” Parra said. “I am ashamed to say I need you again.”

  “There’s no shame, General.”

  They occupied the oak-paneled den of Parra’s private residence—the secret house, he called it. Once a leader in the Mexican Army, General Juan Parra now spent his days as a virtual outlaw fighting the drug cartels his government either refused to fight or fought only half-heartedly. He carried on the battle with his own elite force. If the cartels could hide their soldiers in the mountains and smaller towns, so could he. The men and women on his force were all former regular Army troops. All branded criminals by the government and marked for death by the cartels. But none had deserted him.

  Todd McConn looked up from the stogie. Parra blew smoke at the ceiling where it, too, failed in its assault on the fan. Certainly the man was older than the last time McConn had taken his orders, and maybe a little heavier, but he still carried himself with a young soldier’s pride and, when in the field, wore his old uniform and ribbons. Today he was casually dressed in a white polo and tan trousers, no beard or mustache, dark hair combed straight back, the cleft on his chin the standout feature. Despite the warm day, he looked cool and comfortable.

  McConn was decked out in black T-shirt, jeans, and black cowboy boots. His usual outfit.

  “You are right, this report doesn’t look good,” Parra said. “The enemy grows in numbers every day and is very well equipped. Their recent strikes have driven us out of the mountains and back into the civilian population—it’s like they know every move we make before we make it. When Major Dane gets here, I hope he can provide a suggestion. We’re scattered all over just trying to survive, while our country is choked from within.”

  “He’ll call,” McConn said. He wished his fellow Americans back home felt as much pride for their country as General Parra did for his. Maybe most did, he decided, but they were too busy working and raising families and didn’t have all the free time that the leeches, welfare brats, unemployed protestors, and self-appointed societal do-gooders seemed to have, with which they did nothing but tear down the country. Men like Juan Parra were becoming an endangered species.

  McConn said, “If Steve doesn’t touch base, I’ll make moves of my own. I have plenty of contacts, too.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “But you want Steve here.”

  “Yes,” Parra said.

  When Dane opened his eyes, slowly, because the glare from the white walls was too bright, he frowned at the man standing beside the hospital bed.

  “I’m in hell.”

  “Almost,” the other man said.

  “What are you doing here, Len?”

  “I asked you the same thing in Italy,” Lukavina said. “I’m keeping your backside out of a Greek prison, though right now I can’t imagine why.”

  “Nina?”

  “Down the hall. She’s fine. Concussion, cuts, various abrasions. The airbags saved you both.”

  “I don’t remember anything after the car crashed.”

  “A witness called the cops. They found you passed out on the ground with an empty gun, which you appeared to have been using to bust the back window.”

  “Who called?”

  “A witness. Anonymous.”

  “There was nobody else on the road but me and—”

  “Who?”

  “McFadden.”

  “Really? Did he shoot Logos? The bullets dug out of him weren’t from your gun.”

  Dane nodded and gave the CIA man the rundown, adding, “We were trying to get away to question Logos.”

  “Ask him in the next life, if you still care by then.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Your name tripped some alarms. I was in the area on another matter, never mind what, and figured I’d better intercept before Interpol. You’re a guest of the US government.”

  “Oh, joy.”

  “Come on, Steve. You’d come if it was me.”

  “As a matter of fact—”

  “You have, I know.”

  “When can we get out of here?”

  “Another couple days.”

  “Too long.” Dane tried to rise and swing his legs off the bed, but dizziness and nausea said otherwise; Lukavina helped him stretch out again, pulled up the covers.

  “Nice try, Steve. Just take it slow. Nobody’s going to bother you. I’ll check in again tomorrow. I’m going to ask the doctor to move Nina in here, okay? You two can compare scars and see who has the bigger ones.”

  “She’ll be on my neck for bringing her here. We were supposed to go to Mexico.”

  “Lots of action down the
re these days,” Lukavina said, and departed.

  Dane stared at the blank television hanging from the ceiling and enjoyed breathing. It felt good to breathe. He lay back and did more of it.

  Two days turned into ten with more examinations and a little physical therapy to get the final kinks out. As soon as Dane and Nina were cleared to leave, they said good-bye to Lukavina and booked a flight to Mexico. Dane had left his phone at the hotel when they’d left for the Logos party, and on the plane he listened to McConn’s voice messages. His brother in arms had left four messages total.

  The fourth message was bad news.

  13

  Not Ordinary Citizens

  Nuevo Laredo, Mexico

  As the jet approached the runway, Dane looked out the window at the US. The Quetzalcoatl International Airport sat near the US–Mexican border, in fact in Nuevo Laredo, sister city of Laredo, Texas. Dane was looking into Texas, but not seeing Texas. Instead he saw the land he’d left behind.

  Nina squeezed his right hand. He turned to look at her.

  “Where’d you go?”

  “I’m right here,” he said.

  The wheels touched ground and the plane jolted. The roar of the air brakes filled the cabin.

  They found Todd McConn in the baggage claim area holding up a sign that read Major Pane, and Dane laughed. An old joke. The members of Dane’s 30-30 Battalion had bestowed the nickname on him for no other reason than that was what soldiers did. It helped that Dane had been a major in the Marines.

  “Steve,” McConn said, lowering the sign and shaking hands with his old friend. “Nice to see you again, too, Nina.”

  She smiled at him.

  They collected their bags. Nobody spoke. Dane did not want to talk. He specifically did not want to verbally acknowledge General Parra’s murder. He pressed his lips together and made his mouth a flat line.

  The trio left the terminal, and Dane bought a newspaper from a sidewalk vendor. He grimaced at the heat. He felt squeezed by it, as if in a pressure cooker—and that, after only a few seconds. Welcome to Nuevo Laredo. He tucked the paper under his right arm.