Parallax

by Jon F. Merz

"I'm thinking about making it into a bumper sticker. What was the deal with the balding guy?"

  "Serial rapist," said Stahl. "I'm working on my charitable side lately."

  "Honorable."

  "I try."

  "But you're not being honorable on this new job, are you?"

  "Depends on how you look at it," said Stahl. "From my perspective, it's very honorable."

  "How do you figure that?"

  "My son lives if I complete the mission."

  "They're holding him hostage?"

  "He's dying."

  "Jesus."

  "Leukemia. He needs an organ transplant. If I complete the assignment, my employer pays me enough money to get the operation done and my son lives. Otherwise," Stahl shrugged, "well, there's not much of an otherwise, is there?"

  "Guess not." Was he lying? Frank didn't think so. He's one cool cucumber, though.

  "So, what's the mission?"

  Stahl shook his head. "Sorry, I don't know you well enough yet."

  "Oh come on, we're sitting here having a drink. We're chatting away like old buddies-"

  "We're trying to decide if we're going to kill each other."

  "Well, yeah, that too."

  Stahl smiled. "You're honest. That's good."

  "Not much point in lying, is there? We're both professionals. We'd see through it. It's counter-productive."

  Stahl started to nod but then stopped. Something changed on his face. He was looking beyond the table.

  "Frank?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Have you upset anyone lately?"

  "A whole bunch of people, why?"

  Stahl started moving. "Because I think they've come to collect."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Stahl slid out of his chair, already disgusted with himself. Talking to the American - initiating contact - had been one of the dumbest things he'd done in a very long time.

  And as the three men came through the front door of the ice cream parlor, Stahl knew there was a chance he might have compromised the entire operation. Alois might very well die because of his stupidity.

  But then there was no time left to argue with himself.

  The first man wore a heavy wool long overcoat, his eyes already locking on to their table. Stahl knew he'd either have a shotgun or a mini-submachine gun. The man started to reach under, trying to bring the gun into play as fast as possible.

  He had a shot gun - a Mossberg by the look of it. With one hand, he pumped the action and the telltale ker-chunk sounded even above the din of the parlor.

  Stahl jerked his own pistol out.

  He'd have to go for head shots. Double-taps, if possible. Stahl had to assume these guys were wearing body armor. Anyone with more than two brain cells always did. And Stahl's Beretta wouldn't do a damned thing to them.

  The shotgun came up fast.

  Stahl fired.

  Once.

  Twice,

  The rounds smacked the man in the head, center between the eyes, almost overlapping.

  It was a good grouping and the first shooter sprawled back, falling into more men coming through the door.

  "Two more!" shouted Stahl.

  *** *** ***

  Shit.

  Frank had initially thought that Stahl might be going for him right away when he'd said that thing about the shooters coming for him. But he realized soon enough that the German wasn't lying.

  So even as Stahl slid to his right, Frank turned and corkscrewed up from his chair, tearing the Beretta out of his holster. Even as he got his legs under him again, he heard the sharp b-bang of Stahl's piece firing.

  Fast.

  He saw the first shooter go down.

  The men behind him tripped in the coat of the first man.

  Bad mistake.

  Frank brought his own gun up on the second guy.

  And fired.

  One in the throat and as he started to drop, Frank kept the gun on him until his forehead came into view and then fired again, hearing the round smack into the skull bone and beyond.

  Another one down.

  The third one dived for cover by the doorframe.

  Frank saw the mini-gun coming up as the shooter dived.

  "Get down!"

  *** *** ***

  Bullets splanged off the walls around them, shattering terra cotta tile and bright red and blue plastic decorations. Bits of crockery showered Stahl as he ducked down. He kept the pistol aimed toward the door and squeezed off two more rounds.

  "I can't get a clear shot!"

  Another rain of nine-millimeter bullets tore into the ice cream parlor. Stahl could hear the anguished cries of several patrons who must have taken some of the flying rounds. He couldn't be bothered with it; it was their own stupid fault that they hadn't ducked as soon as the first shots rang out.

  He looked over at Frank.

  The American seemed strangely at ease. Sure, Stahl could see the tension in his face, but that tension did not extend to any other part of his body. The American kept his arms relaxed, his pistol floating slightly in front of him as he kept his head down.

  Was he smiling?

  Stahl almost grinned himself. Of all the things to happen to him right now, he needed this the least. Or did he need it the most?

  True, the tension of recent days might be dispersed after an encounter like this. And while Stahl would never have wished for such a thing, maybe - just maybe, this wasn't entirely bad.

  Provided, of course, he was able to get away without being hampered by the police.

  *** *** ***

  Frank ducked again as more bullets echoed off the walls. Whoever this guy was, he wasn't giving them much room to breathe.

  He's gotta reload some time, thought Frank. And when he doesÉ

  But who was he?

  Frank didn't recognize him as any of Patrisi's local hoods. That didn't necessarily mean anything, of course. They could easily have been from an outfit outside of town. New York, Philadelphia, hell, even Springfield could have put a few shooters into Boston in under an hour.

  The real question, he decided was how the hell they'd locked onto him so damned fast?

  As far as he knew, the Explorer was untraceable. It was registered under a different name and place. He had the ID to prove it.

  Barring someone ID'ing him on the street, they must have been watching him.

  But again - how?

  His place - Moe's old joint - was also not known to anyone but him.

  It didn't make sense.

  More bullets caromed off the walls.

  Frank looked over at Stahl. The German was eyeing him with a strange look.

  "What?"

  But the German only shook his head and poked his pistol back out to fire another round off.

  We can't stay here, thought Frank. This guy's not dumb. He'll call for reinforcements.

  But how would they get out of here?

  *** *** ***

  Stahl frowned.

  They were in a stalemate.

  He didn't want to hang around any longer. Already in the distance, sirens were cutting through traffic trying to get to the shot-up ice cream parlor.

  He looked over at the American again. "We have to move."

  Frank nodded. "How?"

  Stahl looked around. He saw the thin wire backed chairs they'd been sitting in sprawled across the floor. There had to be a back exit to the place. They had to get out - or at least Stahl did - before the police cut them off.

  "Cover me!"

  The American came up and began firing slow steady shots toward the doorframe. Stahl reached for the closest chair and hefted it toward the door.

  "Now!"

  They moved.

  *** *** ***

  Frank kept the gun trained on the doorway, moving with his back toward Stahl as they almost ran toward the back of the parlor. As they moved, Frank ticked off another couple of shots.

  "Almost out."

  "Ten more feet."

  Frank fired
off two more rounds and heard the trigger strike an empty chamber. He saw the mini-gun toting shooter start to creep back into the parlor with the gun up.

  He hadn't seen them move?

  "I'm out!"

  He felt Stahl press a pistol into his hands. Frank brought it up and began firing back toward the doorway. The shooter jerked sideways as one of the rounds caught him in the shoulder.

  Where was the door?

  And then he heard Stahl slam through the crash bar and a blast of cold air hit them as they tumbled into the alleyway.

  The sirens were louder out here.

  Much louder.

  "They're close," said Stahl.

  Frank nodded. "We have to split up. They'll be looking for us together."

  Stahl looked at him. "Can either one of us afford to let the other live?"

  "Well, you've got my empty pistol there," said Frank. "That's not going to do you much good."

  "You're out as well," said Stahl. "I only had two rounds left."

  Frank smiled. "Take yours back then."

  Stahl slid it into his holster. "I hadn't wanted our conversation to end so quickly like that."

  "I've still got plenty of questions myself," said Frank. "But no time right now."

  "Coffee again?"

  "Tomorrow," said Frank. "There's a place in Brookline. Sam's outside of Coolidge Corner. Can you find it?"

  "Of course."

  "Three o'clock."

  Stahl nodded and turned to go. "Tomorrow then."

  Frank watched him disappear around the corner.

  *** *** ***

  Stahl knew the next few steps would be the most dangerous. He could already hear the sirens slowing. How he walked back on to the street would either prompt the police to come after him or let him stroll past.

  He needn't have worried. As he came into view, he could see swarms of police rushing into the ice cream parlor. They were too concerned with buttoning up the parlor to worry about a well-dressed man out for a walk.

  Lucky.

  He'd been lucky.

  The American must have drawn the shooters to them. But how? Stahl didn't think he looked the type to be fooled by a surveillance team. He would have been taking precautions.

  But something had happened.

  What if the shooters weren't for the American? What if they were for Stahl?

  Impossible.

  He frowned.

  His precautions had been too elaborate. And the only people who knew what he was doing, what he was truly doing, were the old man and beyond him, Karen. And why would either of them have sent a kill team onto him?

  It didn't make any sense.

  Kill Stahl and the whole plan would have fallen apart.

  It must have been the American.

  Stahl put the idea that he'd drawn the team out of his mind and concentrated on keeping his walk nonchalant. He wasn't worried about witnesses to the crime. Most people have never heard the real sound of gunfire. When they do for the first time actually realize real bullets are zinging around them, their consciousness almost shuts down.

  Details get forgotten in the ensuing panic and adrenaline rush.

  Which was good for Stahl.

  And the American Frank.

  Stahl hoped they'd just be another few details that no one's mind would have been able to hold onto in the midst of the firefight.

  They'd disappear.

  Back to the shadows.

  At least until coffee tomorrow.

  Stahl wouldn't have risked it, but he needed to know more about the American. He needed to know if the American was on to what Stahl was doing or if he was a threat at all.

  Because if he was a threatÉ

  Well, Stahl would take care of that when the situation called for it.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Stahl made it back to his hotel three hours later. It had taken him that long - jumping from taxi after taxi and then subway after subway - to ensure no one had him under surveillance. Such extreme and exhausting measures irked him; losing three hours was the price he'd paid for initiating contact with the American.

  But Stahl felt it might just be worth it, if only to gain further insight into the strange mental link that had formed between them. At the same time, he wasn't overly concerned about the American trying to disrupt his plans.

  Imagine the factors and variables that must have somehow aligned just right to effect the psychic bond he and the American shared! Stahl had read science fiction in his youth and always marveled at the bizarre inventions writers could concoct.

  Was his own life becoming one of those very same books?

  The link must have somehow occurred when he'd killed the rapist in Munich. At the same time, the American had shot the man in the town north of Boston - Revere. Somehow, as their fingers had tightened around the trigger - as their pads had exerted the pressure resulting in the sudden release of the hammer - in that exact split second, they must have somehow synched up. The link had been born there. Forged in the mental acuity each professional had as they carried out their objective.

  Stahl smiled. Fascinating. And to think that something like this had probably never happened previously. Despite the thousands of people shot to death every day - surely it had to be in the thousands? - no one had ever done it at exactly the same instant in time and space the way Stahl and the American had.

  Strange.

  He'd never much thought of himself as a pioneer of anything. Sure, he'd been an expert in demolitions and killing up close. But he hadn't pioneered that. Honestly, he wasn't sure if he wanted to start being one now, either. Not with the fate of his son in the balance.

  But he still found himself mesmerized by the thought that he and another person could be so linked. Things, he decided, had definitely gotten interesting.

  Back at the hotel, he made a sweep of the lounge as he walked in. No one ducked behind a newspaper or turned their heads as Stahl glanced their way. More importantly, Stahl felt no sudden twang of apprehension in his stomach when he walked in. He'd found himself relying on his instinct now more than he had before.

  On the elevator, he pressed the button for the floor above his and waited for the car to rumble up. The doors slid back with a gentle chime revealing the red carpeting in the hallway. Stahl exited the car and walked to the fire exit. Fortunately the doors weren't alarmed. He shoved against the push bar and stepped into the cold stairwell. Cement steps led both up and down.

  Stahl descended.

  At his floor, he paused, cracked the door and peered out.

  The hallway was empty.

  He started through the door and then stopped.

  His stomach hurt.

  He frowned. Up here? Would they try something up here? But who? Maybe he had truly drawn those shooters earlier. But how? Maybe they were even supposed to look like they were after the American. Maybe that was how they'd softened Stahl up. Get him thinking they were after the American; catch Stahl when he'd relaxed.

  And kill him.

  He glanced around. The hall was empty. Stahl pulled out his pistol and chambered a round as quietly as he could.

  Keeping himself close to the wall, he slid down the hall toward his door. He pressed an ear against the wood and tried to listen. At the same time, he was careful not to cast a shadow underneath the doorjamb. He didn't need a bullet splintering the door and embedding itself in his skull.

  He heard nothing.

  Stahl glanced around again. He couldn't stay out here and wait them out. If someone was inside his room, he'd have to go in. There'd be guests coming up here soon - at any minute - and he didn't need a lot of guests freaking out when they saw his gun.

  He removed his card key and steadied himself.

  He kept the pistol in his right hand and held the car key in his left. He crouched low and took a deep breath, flushing his blood with oxygen to combat the sudden shutdown that his nervous system would experience the moment the adrenaline kicked in.

  He nodd
ed to himself - and shoved the card key into the lock.

  The red light above the door went green.

  Stahl cranked the door handle down and shoved the door open.

  His pistol came up.

  Stahl moved inside.

  Eyes scanned the room.

  Nothing.

  He whirled and headed for the bathroom, the barrel of his pistol nosing ahead of him like an eager bloodhound.

  Still nothing.

  He frowned again. The room seemed clear.

  But his stomach still hurt.

  The thought hit him like a rush of hell. A bomb?

  No.

  He dropped and checked the likely areas a bomber would stash a package of plastic explosive. He found nothing. He pulled the desk chair back and stood on it to examine the light bulbs. A skilled demolitionist could make an explosive charge look exactly like a light bulb with the filament acting as a detonator. Hit the light switch and the only light you'd get would be of the divine nature.

  But the light bulbs checked out, too.

  Stahl slumped onto his bed and laid the pistol next to him. What was going on? Why did he feel so restless and so antsy about his surroundings?

  It didn't make any sense.

  And yet.

  He sighed.

  Maybe he'd been out of the cold for too long. Maybe he'd lost some of his edge. He could admit that to himself. It was possible, after all. Possible to lose something that he'd once had. You couldn't remain razor sharp forever. Maybe Stahl's time had simply passed.

  The self-doubt came flooding back into him again.

  I shouldn't be here. I should be with Alois in Germany. I should have told the old man to go to hell.

  He shook his head. No.

  If he had, there would have been no guarantees he'd even be alive right now. The old man didn't exactly like being turned down on the job proposals. Hell, he was enough of a bastard to kill Alois even after he'd killed Stahl.

  His jaw ached and he realized he'd clenched it unmercifully. He let his mouth hang slack and massaged it at points back by his ear. The dull ache that had begun to accumulate dissipated and he felt somewhat better.

  He leaned back and felt his head hit the pillow. He could feel the sides of the cushion curve around his head, cradling it the way he liked it. A good pillow was worth its weight in gold to Stahl. He'd slept on enough bad ones to appreciate it when he found one he really liked.