INSIDIOUS ASSASSINS

by Jack Ketchum

  Brenda Brzezinski bent over to sit and eased herself down beside her daughter with much effort. After she caught her breath, she looked at Madeline. “He don’t hurt me ‘lessen I deserves it. But he promised he ain’t gonna hit me no more. That’s more better, ain’t it, Madeline? We ain’t gotta worry ‘bout gettin’ beat up no more.”

  At that moment, Simon Hoffer stepped into the apartment, dropped his green Hefty bag full of dirty clothes, and walked over to Madeline. His oily blonde hair had receded while he was in jail, and the few teeth he hadn’t lost to meth had something green built up at the gum line. As he leaned toward her, her hands shot up to ward him off.

  “Heyyy ... Madeline! What’s that all about? I told your mom I was sorry ‘bout hittin’ her and that I ain’t gonna hit her no more. That means you too. I learnt my lesson in jail. I ain’t never gonna hit nobody no more. I promise.”

  “You hurt me ... down there ...”

  Simon glanced to Madeline’s crotch, a gaze he held a bit too long. “Goddamn it! I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”

  Madeline recoiled as the chill of fear touched her spine.

  “Okay ... so I hurt you. So what’s the big fuckin’ deal? I didn’t mean it, ya hear? I was crazy high on PCP. That shit fucks me up! I done swore off druggin’ an’ drinkin’. Ain’t never gonna hurt you ever again.”

  Simon paused and lowered his voice to let the tension fade.

  “So whadda ya say, Madeline? How ‘bout we be friends again?” Simon thrust his hand toward her. Madeline screamed and bolted from the couch into her room.

  When Brenda heard the door slam, she pulled Simon down to the space Madeline just left and kissed him on the lips. She smelled of BO and her pasty skin held a fine coating of sweat. Simon kept his lips pressed tight, the kiss short.

  “She don’t seem none too happy I’m here,” he said, breaking the embrace.

  “Aw, she’ll be okay, baby. She’s just gotta get use to the idea o’ you bein’ here again, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, ‘suppose so,” Simon said. He looked to Madeline’s closed door. “So, how old is she now?”

  “Madeline? Eleven ... I think. Ain’t really sure.”

  “Eleven.” Hoffer smiled. “Them’s some nice little titties she growed while I was gone.”

  Hanna felt a bit out of place, lounging in her new, oversized, brown-leather reading chair. Her quarters at Base Chapman in Afghanistan had no such luxuries. She watched something called Big Brother on her new flat-screen TV; a show where the men were all heavily tattooed and buff or milquetoast and nerdy, and the women were all California blondes, long-haired and large-breasted, who bent over for the camera at every turn. It seemed that Wednesday was not a good night for TV.

  The sun set twenty minutes earlier and she had nothing to do but wait. Cole said to expect a UPS delivery, but didn’t tell her what time to expect it; so she kept herself busy cleaning, something she was unaccustomed to doing, having never been burdened with it in Afghanistan. She had no rugs in her quarters, or drapes, or dishes ... or anything else domestic, except for the sheets from the base laundry. Now she had her own sheets—new and never used in any fashion.

  She considered leaving a note on the door and going for a run, but Cole told her to receive the package personally. She understood why, so she waited. When the knock finally came, she had dozed off. A second knock and she was at the door. The fish-eye view through the peephole distorted the visitor like a funhouse mirror. A guy wearing a brown baseball cap waited patiently, so she opened the door.

  The square-jawed, barrel-chested UPS man wore brown shorts to match the hat, and an oversized shirt that concealed the service weapon Hanna knew he carried.

  He smiled. Hanna smiled back.

  “Ms. Braver. Package for you.”

  “Thanks. You need to see some ID?”

  The man chuckled and brushed it off as if she was joking. “You’ve been away too long, Ms. Braver. Cole said your operational parameters are inside.” He smiled again, wished her a good night, and was down the stairway in a heartbeat. Hanna closed the door and picked up a steak knife from the kitchen on her way back to the big leather chair. She heard the truck pull away as she lowered the volume on Big Brother, and set the UPS shipping box on the matching ottoman before slitting the tape with care.

  Inside was a smaller, plain white cardboard box with no markings. She cut the tape sealing it and found an envelope, which she set aside. Under the envelope, seated in a customized Styrofoam base, was a Ruger SR-22 with a threaded barrel, two fully loaded ten-round magazines with subsonic .22-caliber rounds, and a pair of rubberized grips—large and small. A five-inch sound suppressor was tucked into the corner of the box, and a CMR-201 laser sight attached under the muzzle.

  Hanna smiled. Cole had filled her order to the letter, right down to the laser sighting system. She extracted the Ruger and racked the slide, handing it as if it were an extension of her arm. The Ruger was light. Fully loaded it was less than twenty ounces. The laser and suppressor added a bit more weight, but nothing to concern her. Broken down, the system was easily concealed.

  She tested the laser to ensure it functioned and then turned to the envelope and sliced it open. Inside was a handwritten note.

  Excellent choice of tools, but somehow, it didn’t surprise me.

  311 South Amity Street, Apt 200, Baltimore, MD.

  You have one week.

  Hanna put a lighter to the paper and let it burn away the writing before flushing the charred remnants down the toilet. She had just one week to locate and assassinate Hoffer. Cole provided the exact weapon she wanted; that was her only condition. If she was going to do this, she wanted a weapons system suited for the job. But there was more to killing than just pulling a trigger. There was planning involved, timing to consider—she checked her wallet and fingered the company credit card.

  Simon climbed the stairs after work, tracking dirt and mud as he went. He’d been at this court-mandated job for a week and he was sick of it—the foreman telling him where to go, when to smoke, when to piss, what work needed doing, sending him here, sending him there. Construction was a dirty way to make a living, not to mention the ass he had to kiss. Simon preferred that someone support him.

  The door to No. 200 was unlocked and he snorted with satisfaction when the doorknob twisted in his hand. He told Brenda that he’d better not ever find she had locked the door or he’d make her wish she hadn’t. He walked in to find her occupying most of the small kitchen nook as she prepared his dinner. She wore her stained yellow waitress uniform as she was due in for the midshift at the diner. Madeline sat rigid on the sofa, unmoving, not reacting to Simon’s presence, and pretending to read as hard as she could, wishing she could fly.

  “Hey baby,” Brenda called. “How was your day?”

  “How do you fuckin’ think it was?” Simon snarled. “It sucked! I ain’t goin’ back to that shithole no more.”

  “Honey, if you don’t go back, they’ll violate your parole an’ stick you back in that jail.”

  That, to Simon, was tantamount to Brenda telling him what to do, giving him orders, and running his life—just like that foreman. He charged across the small living room and grabbed Brenda’s upper arm hard enough that she cried out in pain. “You gonna tell ‘em, bitch? Huh? You gonna tell ‘em I ain’t goin’ to work?”

  “Nooooo ... Noooo ... not me, baby. I ain’t tellin’ nobody. I swear!”

  The fury in Simon’s eyes was enough to divert any normal person’s gaze. Brenda kept talking. That was what worked. That was what calmed him.

  “I was just remindin’ you, sweetie,” she whimpered. “That’s all, baby. You know I love you. Don’t want you leavin’ us again, that’s all.” She chose her words carefully so as not to imply she wanted him back behind bars, where she and Madeline would be safe from his special brand of crazy.

  “Look baby ... I done made you your favorite soup. It’ll be ready in a minute. I tasted it for you. It’s j
ust how you like it.”

  “I don’t want no fuckin soup! Gimme some money. I’m goin’ to the bar.”

  “I have the rent money, baby, but it’s for the rent. Why don’t ya stay home with us tonight, just till I goes to work. I gotta be in at 11:30. Madeline’s goin’ across the hall with her little black friend, Rona. We can spend a little time together before I goes in.”

  Simon’s laugh cut like an insult. “I’d rather shovel a ditch full of shit! Where’s the money?”

  “But baby ...”

  The slap of Simon’s hand across Brenda’s rotund face rolled down the stairway like a clap of thunder. Madeline screamed and ran into her room. Simon laughed again as her door slammed closed. “Like that will stop me if I want to get in! You little whore!” He turned to Brenda and his face went dark. “I ain’t tellin’ you again, bitch.”

  The public notice nailed to the side of Ty’s Bar on Washington Street declared the date, time, and place of the public hearing that would decide its fate. The notice didn’t say as much, but rumor had it that the liquor board was looking to close it down. The numerous complaints from the neighborhood finally had the board’s attention.

  Ty’s was less of a bar and more of a combination drug den/whorehouse—a dump, much to the liking of Simon Hoffer. With shuffleboard and pool tables and pinball machines, not to mention a steady flow of hookers and drug dealers, it was not only desirable, it was close. The Pigtown bar sat just on the far side of Baltimore’s B&O Railroad Museum; an easy five-block walk from Brenda’s apartment. Once Simon had Brenda’s rent money, he made a beeline for it.

  After slamming down his eighth beer, he bought another for himself, and one for his friend Henry from work. He still had plenty of Brenda’s money.

  “What time is it, Henry?” Simon slurred.

  “Henry lifted his head off the bar and stared at his watch for a long minute. 11:30. I think. I gotta get home. It’s late.”

  “Wanna do some meth?”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Let’s get a whore.”

  “I gotta get home. The wife ...”

  “Ya know, Henry, I think when I gets home tonight ... I’m gonna fuck that little Madeline again. You should see those nice little titties she growed for me when I was in jail. I know she growed ‘em for me for when I got out. Like a welcome home present. I think she liked when I fucked her that first time, ya know?”

  Henry said nothing, his attention riveted on the woman who just walked in the door.

  “Henry?”

  Henry just nodded toward the woman on the other side of the bar as she climbed onto a stool. Simon looked over bleary-eyed and forgot all about Madeline.

  “Jesus Christ!” Simon blurted. “Where’d that come from? Hey! Bartender! Where’d that come from?”

  Janis, a scrawny, stringy-haired brunette, walked over wiping her hands with a bar rag. “C’mon, Simon. Quit callin’ me bartender for Christ’s sake. You been comin’ here for a fuckin’ week an’ you don’t know my name by now? It’s Janis!”

  “Yeah. Sure. I know, Janet. So who’s that?” and he pointed.

  The new girl glanced up, but took no offense at his uncouth attention or his overexcitement.

  “Don’t know,” Janis said. “She only been here once. Yesterday ‘fore you came in. I think she’s new meat.”

  The blonde placed an oversized imitation-leather handbag on the bar and gave the three of them a dull look. “I can hear you fuckers, ya know. Why don’t that little blonde guy who’s pointin’ at me buy me a drink? I ain’t got no money.”

  Henry took that moment to pass out and fall off his stool. Simon and Janis peered down at him. He’d puked up some of what he’d been drinking and pissed himself to boot.

  “Fuck,” Janis said. “Now I gotta clean up that mess. Just leave him there. It ain’t like anybody’s gonna trip over ‘im. Ain’t nobody here ... ‘cept you two.”

  Simon looked at the blonde. “What ya drinkin’?”

  “Come over here an’ find out.”

  Simon grinned, picked up his beer and stumbled in her direction. Up close, drunk as he was, even Simon could see that she had troweled on too much makeup. Her hair went to her waist and her points pressed hard against her sheer white top. She sat cross-legged, wearing black knee-high boots and a short black leather skirt that barely covered her ass. Long runs traveled down both legs of black designer hose, and both knees had holes torn in them, sending Simon’s mind to delightful imaginings.

  “You a pro?” Simon asked, pulling up a stool.

  “Depends.”

  “Depends? Depends on what?”

  “You gonna buy me that drink or what?” She pulled out a cigarette, held it between her fingers, and waited. Simon finally took the hint, snatched a book of matches from a bowl, and tossed them on the bar in front of her.

  “Asshole.”

  “Well, whadda ya fuckin’ want? I got you a light, didn’t I?”

  “Get me a beer. Miller.”

  Janis was paying attention and laughing at the same time. She brought the Miller bottle over and copped two-bucks from Simon’s cash. The blonde took a short pull.

  “So ... ya never answered me,” Simon pressed. “You a pro?”

  The blonde looked him up and down. “You can’t afford me.”

  “How do you know?”

  She began to laugh. “I been in this business a long time. I can see you ain’t got no money.”

  “I got money.”

  “Okay, bigshot. How much ya got? Ya got three hundred?”

  “Three hundred? What’s it made of? Silk?”

  “That’s my goin’ rate for the night. I said you couldn’t afford me.”

  “Simon fanned through his bills. “I got a hundred-ten here.”

  “Shit ... that don’t even cover the room.”

  “Don’t need no room. I got a room.”

  The blonde hit the beer again and then smirked. “An’ I bet it’s the fuckin’ Ritz, ain’t it.”

  “It’s just a couple blocks from here. I got more money there too.”

  The blonde pondered her options. She turned to Simon and pressed her chest into him. “Here’s the deal. I’m new in town. Tryin’ to build a clientele, ya know? So I’m goin’ to make you a special offer. Tonight only. I take what you got there on the bar, and what you got in that room o’ yours, and when you’re done, there ain’t no seconds. I ain’t stayin’ all night suckin’ your dick or nothin’. Straight fuck. That’s it. You get me some decent referrals and I make you a better offer next time.”

  The pressure in Simon’s pants became unbearable. “Girl, you got a deal.”

  Simon opened the door to No. 200 with the blonde still on the stairway, trailing him by several strides.

  “You didn’t tell me I hadda hike these fuckin’ steps after that long-ass walk. I oughta charge you extra.”

  “You been bitchin’ the whole way,” he barked. “It ain’t that damn far. You look in better shape, but I guess you ain’t.”

  “Fuck you! I’m in all the shape you need.”

  Simon opened the door with the blonde on his heels and didn’t bother to ease into the room. Even if Brenda were still there for some reason, Simon would throw her out to have this blonde. What was she gonna do? She enabled him. He raped her daughter and went to prison for it, and Brenda visited him the entire time he was behind bars, worked two jobs to pay his bills, and had conjugal relations with him in prison, all the while leaving Madeline in the apartment by herself. When he got out, she brought him home. He thought her pathetic. The woman asked for the misery he brought and wanted more, and misery was the one thing he was all too happy to provide.

  The parents of Madeline’s little friend, Rona, knew the whole story, and they were appalled to find Simon living back in the same apartment with Madeline. So they brought Madeline into their home, modest as it was. They had her there as often as they could—when Brenda worked and Simon was home—to offer her peace of
mind and a semblance of protection.

  But the protection they offered was paper-thin, much like the walls of their tenement. They were old, grandparent old, because they were Rona’s grandparents. They took Rona in when her father disappeared and her mother—their daughter—found herself caught up with the wrong people. She was as bad as Brenda, so they took Rona as their own, something they didn’t expect to do at their stage of life. Their daughter made no effort to get Rona back, so now they protected two children. But they could not withstand an assault from Simon, should he want Madeline, or Rona for that matter. He had made it known to all—he didn’t care what color they were.

  Simon closed the front door and went directly to the bedroom to turn on the A/C. “Wanna beer?” he called.

  The blonde ignored him. “This place is a dump,” she said. “You sure you got the money?”

  Simon waved a wad of bills he rooted from the dresser drawer.

  “I gotta piss,” she said. “Where’s the john?”

  Simon pointed.

  “Go get naked,” she told him. “I’m gonna freshen up a little. That fuckin’ hike made me sweat terrible.”

  Madeline woke at the sound of Simon’s footfalls on the creaky old steps. He made no effort to stay quiet. Someone was with him, Madeline thought, but not her mother. She knew her mother’s labored breathing, even through the walls. Maybe one of his friends. Maybe he was looking for her. Maybe they both were. Madeline began to cry to herself, terrified. She slipped off the couch to her knees and began to pray.

  Please ...

  Simon disappeared into Brenda’s bedroom as the blonde closed the bathroom door behind her. He undressed as fast as he could, pulling at his clothes before turning off the only lamp in the room. The light from outside seeped in through the silted window on the far wall, giving the room a dim ambiance. He jumped into bed and began stroking himself to stay ready while he waited. As the minutes passed, he had to stop, the early stirrings of ejaculation arriving far too soon.