by Declan Finn
Kevin nodded slowly. “I have. I thought it might have had something to do with this. If he was that skilled, then he should’ve had a fighting chance, though I can’t see a single defensive wound.”
Kyle stepped around the corpse, keeping one eye trained on the area. “Black belt or no, he never had a chance. He was broken a single piece at a time, Anderson. From what I can gather, he was allowed to stay on his feet even after the attacker could have easily dispatched him.”
He returned to stand near the corpse’s left arm. “All his fingers were left for the end, and right before them, the ankle he was being kept standing on.”
Kyle moved again, taking a breath before speaking. “The fingers were broken by bending them backward. That is why the end of the joint is pushing through the skin of his hands. His wrists and elbows were shattered with a variant on some form of joint lock…probably Aikido or a similar style. The dislocations, however, were made by pure physical impact. My guess would be a fist.”
Kevin forced a weak smile. “We won’t go into his genitals.”
Kyle turned to look at him. “Excuse me?”
Kevin reached down, and pulled up on the man’s underwear. There was no bulge, only a flat plane as it stretched against the pelvic bone. “I think they’re somewhere next to his colon.”
The assassin said nothing, looking up toward what was left of the man’s skull. His nose was shattered, the cheekbones crushed in. His teeth were gone, and the epidermal layer of skin with it. A moment later, he noticed the fingernail indentations in the remaining skin—four fingernails, together, drawing downward. “A bear claw.”
Kevin nodded. “I heard once that you could ‘almost’ take someone’s face off with that technique, Kyle, but I’ve never seen it done. Obviously, his killer is a right-handed man—the face was torn off from left to right, and the bear claw requires a backhanded motion.”
“Three different styles. Krav Maga?”
Kevin nodded. Krav Maga was considered to be the martial science of the Israeli Defense Force. He knew Hebrew, enough to know it meant “close combat”, but when he had asked Kyle what the term meant, Kyle had said that a rough translation might be to say, “use whatever works.” Krav Maga’s technique literally took everything that had been considered useful from any of the major martial art styles, taught those techniques to its students, and then also taught them how it was possible to turn any object nearby into a weapon.
Kyle frowned. This was a concern. There were only two groups in San Francisco who could have been capable of using these techniques, or of teaching them. “Either one of your Exiled associates did this, Mr. Anderson, or one of my Guild associates is still alive.”
“Or someone trained by either. I haven’t seen damage done to someone like this in years. What do you think cause of death was?”
Elsen stared flatly at him. “You mean if the pain didn’t kill him?” He held a moment, breathing slowly to focus himself. “I would say based on your reaction that you’ve seen something similar before?”
“Not precisely. But I was in U.S. Special Forces before my spy days. The Navy SEALs, to be precise. We’d dealt with some really horrible garbage, and you and I have yet to see anything quite as bad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything in San Francisco that quite matches up to this…”
Kyle nodded. “Neither have I. Not for years, and not when they destroyed the Assassins’ Guildhall. They needed explosives. This is something else.” He glanced slowly over the body once again.
Kevin spoke a moment later. “The sick bastard beat this guy to death with his bare hands, even though it looks like he used a sledge hammer. Do you know anyone in your Guild who could have done this?”
Kyle answered simply. “Yes. Any of them could have. They, however, Mister Anderson, are dead, and their bodies vaporized."
He was uncertain of what to make of this discovery. Before the destruction of the Guild, he could never have imagined one of his associates instructing anyone in the use of these methods for the completion of an assassination.
This was a different world, though, and in five years a much different time. Without the Code, without the Guild to enforce it, how many of his associates, if they were alive, would have felt they had to hold back from doing anything they chose?
Kyle spoke a moment later. “I’ll consider asking the triplets to look in on this.”
Kevin shook his head, sighing. “Kyle, just ask Lotus to fiddle around with it when she’s got nothing better to do. We’re not in any kind of rush. Whoever did this was probably just some street killer someone hired t—” He stopped before Kyle could cut him off. “What? Are you worried that this idiot might be as good as you are? That he could be corrupting the honorable name of your Guild?” Kevin chuckled softly. “That, or you’re afraid he’s going to cut in to your profit margin this quarter…?”
Kyle’s eyes flashed at the implied offense, his weight shifting to a much less relaxed stance. Kevin noted the movement, and rather than reacting, looked up at the Assassin and smiled. Kyle did nothing for a moment, simply breathing. That Kevin could think he would care more about the bottom line for the month than for the Code…under other circumstances it would have provoked a very serious response, and he knew Kevin knew that. The smile made that obvious.
Kevin Anderson was either brave or he was crazy. Kyle preferred to believe he was crazy.
“Again, I suggest merely asking Lotus to look in on it, Kyle? Who knows, maybe this idiot was having a bad night out, and maybe this guy insulted him? That, or he might be one of mine. Either way, this is a one-time happening, Kyle. No matter about that, though. Remember something important about the triplets. Lotus’s the programmer, Mickie’s the mercenary, and Mac…we both know he doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut…”
Kyle thought a moment, running the idea through his mind. What Kevin suggested might be possible. The triplets who owned the Ground Zero bar were information brokers, and three kids who Kyle had all but adopted after the Last Day had orphaned them. He was no nicer to them than he was to anyone else in the hellhole they called San Francisco, but he spent a great deal of time at their bar... a bar that, without him, they never would have been able to establish.
“And if we tell Lotus that this is just a small favor… a ’hobby’…”
Kyle finished it. “…Then she wouldn’t feel the need to include Kaye Wellering.”
Kevin nodded. “The head of the Hackers’ Union is already a deadly bitch. I don’t want to think of what she would do, the offers she could make, to a man who can do this.”
“What would Kaye Wellering need someone like us for?”
The spy arched a brow. “Who. Scares. Her?”
“I do.” Kyle paused a moment. “You think she would attempt to hire this man as a contingency plan, should I ever be contracted to kill her?”
Kevin nodded. “Exactly. This guy may not stop you, but she would see him as a way to slow you down enough to let her take you out, if it ever came down to you and her. As far as the triplets go, if they don’t tell her, she probably won’t find out about it, at least not until after you’ve dealt with him." He smiled weakly. "Kaye is brilliant, but her talents lie elsewhere, Kyle. She doesn’t have the forensic knowledge or the martial skill to know what we know. She would need to hire one of us as a consultant—a former Assassin, or an Inconvenient.”
“I believe you mean Exiled?”
“You use your term, I use mine. Simply put, if she took an interest in this and she called you in as a consultant, would you want her to know our thoughts on the matter?”
“No…if it is a former Assassin, or someone involved in some fashion with us, it needs to be handled internally, by me, without involving any outsiders.”
A firm nod. “Indeed. A matter of honor.”
“And what of you? You wouldn’t simply be offered a consultant’s position. Kaye once offered you a chance to work for her. She would certainly try again.”
K
evin smiled. “I’ll have to try explaining it to her again.”
“That you are still holding to the principles of a country whose current leaders consider you dead, and left you here in this place? Duty, honor, country, Mister Anderson?” Kyle snorted derisively.
The smile remained on Kevin’s face regardless. Kyle had made comments like this before, challenging him, debating with him the concept of loyalty to the government that had sent him to San Francisco. It wasn’t as if Kyle objected to Kevin’s principles. God knew that if anyone would understand duty and honor, it would be Kyle. Tonight, however, Kevin had a simple way to end the conversation.
“Well, Kyle, when you stop your loyalty to an organization that no longer exists, and upholding principles which prevent you from taking certain assignments, I will be happy to forget all three.”
Kyle nodded. “I’ll look into it.”
“Ditto.” Kevin sighed, and then looked back to the body. “Before you go, one more thing.” He crouched back down, opening the corpse’s mouth. “How many fillings did this man have?”
“Three fillings and a crown. Why?”
Why am I not surprised that he knows that? “Because most of the teeth weren’t knocked out of his mouth. The roots would be torn and ragged, Kyle. These are cut. And there’s only a little blood here, not the amount you’d find if they were taken out of a breathing man. They were removed after death with tools. Unless you know anything about any Scavengers with a tooth fetish, or a way to make money off of healthy teeth, the killer took them with him.”
Chapter 3: Strange Relations
…the Children are not the subject of this particular report. I have sent out several memos on my fear of their eventual expansion. However, my opinion for the record should be noted once more: should the Children ever get out of San Francisco, should they ever become a global organization, kill them all without a second’s thought.
Kevin Anderson
Kevin awoke the next morning with a sigh. He didn’t like to sleep in this city, mainly because of what (or who) might try to kill him in his sleep. Thankfully, he had more booby traps in his apartment than he could remember, including several homemade motion-sensor triggers. That didn’t even count the hallway.
He rolled out of bed and glanced over the wall, examining his weapons collection. Ever since he had arrived in San Francisco, he had had people try to kill him, and he had developed a nice little collection of guns, knives, tactical batons…the list went on.
But after collecting rifles, automatic pistols, semiautomatics, revolvers, two swords, and making various spears, bows, and arrows, it had gotten ridiculous. His homemade weapons were the problem. They were beginning to pile up...
I have so got to get another hobby. Then again, if I strapped on the bow and arrows in broad daylight, would I attract any attention? Probably not too much, but I wouldn’t be able to blend in either… ah well, gotta go to work.
After an hour of exercise and ablutions, he started to feel human. He dressed himself in a pair of pants and a shirt, and then drifted to the window. They were right on time, today...
“Yo, children of the night, get over here.”
The Children of Thanatos stopped and looked up at the crazy man. It was just an Angel-Servant. Thankfully, it was the crazy one… not the scary one.
Kevin had booby-trapped the fire escape, and so he hurled a rope ladder over the edge so one of the Children could scramble up. He recognized this one from one of the usual rounds. This one was a man shorter than Kevin, but well built, with dusky blonde hair and dark obsidian eyes. He was one of the Faithful.
One of the deranged is more like it, Kevin thought. “Did you hear about the murder last night?”
He blinked. “No, Angel-Servant.”
“Yes, well, we had a well-known businessman killed last night. Do you think you might have heard anything about that?”
“No, Angel-Servant.”
“Do you have a clue?”
“No, Angel-Servant.”
Ask a stupid question… “Did you see anything last night while you were out?”
The man paused a moment, hesitant. “No, Angel-Servant.”
Kevin leaned in on him. “What did you see?”
“An old woman, Angel-Servant. She may have been a scavenger. We considered sending her on to the pearly gates, but you disapprove of such things while we are in your area of influence.”
He sighed. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. It never was. As far as he knew, the murderer could’ve been that little old lady the Children had spotted—Kevin could’ve done it without a problem, such things were basic makeup skills in his craft.
“Ah well, I couldn’t very well expect to solve everything right off the bat, now could I? Anyway, get off my rooftop and go on about your business. Unless you can tell me about a Scavenger who likes teeth, I—”
“His name is Terry, Angel-Servant,” the Child replied. “He is a Scavenger, yes, but a most capable and ruthless one.”
Kevin raised a brow. For the Children to appreciate a human being, he had to be one mean and nasty son of a bitch. “All right, find him for me, but do not approach him. If I find out that he’s been delivered to St. Jack, you know you will die right afterward.”
The Child smiled, about to thank him, when Kevin said, “And Kyle Elsen will be the one to kill you.”
The smile faded. The Children feared and respected Kyle, the Angel-Servant of San Francisco, as far as they were concerned. For one of the Children to be killed by Kyle, that would mean they had displeased the Angel-Servant, and therefore their St. Jack wouldn’t let them through the Pearly Gates. Ever…
Kevin nodded. “If I’m not here when you get his location, just leave a message in my mailbox.”
“Where will you be Angel-Servant?”
“Out. I have to go see about the more dangerous Exiles.”
*
Kevin’s next stop was to The Pyramid Building, which sat in the “good” part of town, near the piers, and the Embarcadero—a strip of stores that was once almost an outdoor mall. The people along the piers were wealthy, and they owned their own shops. Beyond that was the Bay, and Alcatraz, the home of the Hackers’ Union. A group known as the Burners had inconvenienced the area recently, but they seemed to be everyone’s problem. The best part of the whole situation was that it wasn’t even nighttime when the Burners came out to play.
The Pyramid Building looked just like its name—a pyramid. It was considered by many to be the jewel of the city, the peak of San Francisco 20th century construction. The long, slender body of the building went nearly straight up, with a gentle slope to all sides. Before the top of the building came to a point, it flared out to a broader, squatter, inverted pyramid, and atop that was another, this one coming fully to a point. It was a lone skyscraper in the middle of the Embarcadero, and the only buildings taller than it were Coit Tower, which lay on one end of the city, and the Lombard Street residential area on the other—the latter inhabited only by the ‘best families’ in the city. The Pyramid building was almost totally proofed against snipers, which had probably been the intention of the current occupants of the top floor, the Mercenaries.
The offices of the Mercenaries Guild were well carpeted… almost plush. Of course they were, Kevin thought. Anyone who could hire them would be filthy rich, so why not allow for the biases of their customers?
Kevin smiled at the illusion. The fancy chairs in the waiting room were stuffed to the gills, certainly, but the cloth covering them was made of Kevlar. When he smiled and knocked on the counter of the front desk, he would have sworn he heard a faint clang of metal.
“Hello,” he said to the secretary, his face as pleasant as he could manage. “My name is Kevin Anderson.”
Kevin braced for impact. Instead, the bouncing beaming busty blonde buzzed him in almost immediately. As he strode past her, he noted that one of her hands was under her desk, gripping the handle of a Tec-9 submachine gun, and the other hand wand
ering down her cleavage, close to the bra holster that nestled some sort of weapon between her breasts—he couldn’t help but ponder if it was a knife or a handgun.
Then again, with a chest like that, she could hide a full-sized Uzi in there and no one would notice.
He was directed to the end of the hall. He made a left turn, and suddenly the illusion ended, the carpeted floor becoming a stark, concrete hallway. He suspected the floor in the lobby was made of the same, simply covered by the carpeting.
He raised a brow. This could be interesting.
He walked up to the door and knocked. His knuckles fell just under the sign that said, “Major Antonio Rohaz, CEO.”
A sharp, clipped voice snapped out. “Come in!”
Kevin entered and blinked at his surroundings. The room looked much different than the area outside of it. There was a plain, sparse carpet on the floor of the office, and two simple chairs in front of the desk. The desk was perfectly centered in the back of the room, made of steel. The walls held several awards, medals and plaques, all professional. He passed by two tall bookcases nailed into the floor, the wall, and the ceiling, and behind the desk were another two, only he could see they were not nailed down. An attacker couldn’t pull down a bookcase for cover, but the man who owned the office could.
That person stood up before Kevin even entered the room. He was as tall as Kevin, but thin and wiry. His nose was sharp and pointed enough to be used as a glass cutter, with his high, pinched cheekbones giving his face a look sterner than his office. He had sharp green eyes and pitch-black hair threaded through with gray. The man was older than Kevin and Kyle put together, but certainly a well put-together fifty, or perhaps sixty. He had a dancer’s posture, straight and elegant, although the suit and tie he wore certainly didn’t match his bearing.