Equipment

by Hesse Caplinger

  8:55 Joe Morello was on drums, bouncy and tribal. The men moved through the apartment; beyond its windows. A black Mercedes slowed along Nebraska. S-class sedan. Crept past the apartment building; past the parked up dually; past the service station; out of view. Well, well. New player?—thought Hussar—and nestled into the buttstock; cozied into the reticle with a smile—looking perhaps to raise the stakes? 3800 block of Nebraska, a late model S-class was a chess pawn on a checkerboard: a piece out of context. A dealer pissing his territories; a drug tourist out of his depth—were certainly possible—county parishioner lost to both a sense of magnitude and direction, was possible too. The fullness of time will tell.

  9:00. Purported call time. He expected five as a party of two parts, but so far had received four and a random variable. Second floor, south, on Nebraska, the men still shuffled about. Hussar tracked them through the rooms, followed them through the windows, beyond the walls, marked their motions, their distribution; emplacements. He had been to the unit, had been through it in his preparations, and he overlaid its features on the men as they milled loosely about it—its rooms and volumes, wall partitions, cover, and the blind fortification of the front room: a presentation in sashless full brick; an unfenestrated blind spot for which Hussar had only the Raufoss and an animal intuition. 9:01 the party of four took up stations front and rear of the apartment house, fell to marks like a cast awaiting stage lights. Hussar donned the muffs, adjusted them for fit, and in them found a new volume for his interior music—filled in the heavy shade. And he deliberated over the best round to begin.

  Snap, dap, duba, duba, doh. Dum-dap, snap, daba, duba doh.

  AP, he decided. Might get off two clean deliveries before they scatter. Magazine of black-snouted cartridges; fit it, drove it home with a pat; drew the bolt back like a sling, chambered the cartridge; bore down on the stock with his shoulder to prevent slap, and carefully squared his feet. And he waited. And he watched the men wait.

  Hussar had opted against subsonic loads to maximize kinetic transfer. The suppressor wouldn’t cure flight-snap, that would remain, but over so short a distance; instantaneous; they’d be there before their own noise. The suppressor would defeat muzzle flash—set deep in the unlighted room. And as for the hard enclosure, it should reduce the overpressure—reduce the dazzle—fend off the awe-strike of the untempered Barrett.

  9:15 was still. What is that tune?—he wondered. “Far More Blues”?

  9:30 Flight jacket figure moving in the kitchen. Pacing past the small window. Out of view. Into view. Head cast down. Out of view. Into view. No, this is 5/4. “Far More Blues” is 4/4, right? Yes, 4/4.

  Whap-snap, duba, daba, doh.

  9:40 Party of the second part? Sniffed some bad air, did he? Flight jacket figure, out of view, into view, cupping his ear, out of view.

  Snap-dap, whap-snap.

  9:45 Drum version. It’s the drum version of “Far More Blues.” “Far More Drums”! It’s “Far More Drums”! Yes. Yes.

  Motion. Motion. Coveralls to the back. In the kitchen. Flight jacket, past the center room window. Heavy sweater? Heavy sweater, front. Too long. Baldy, past the center window. This is too long. In the toilet? Yes. The toilet.

  Dum-dap, snap, duba, duba, doh.

  Missing pieces? Just too long. This is too long. Stood up, gentlemen. 9:45 and

  31 . . . 32 . . . No. We’re gonna wrap this up. I’m calling it. Time. I’m calling time.

  Dum-dap-snap, dap-snap, duba, duba, doh.

  “Catch,” muttered Hussar into the buttstock. A deep thoom seemed to emanate from between the muffs. The rifle punched his shoulder. Dust leaped from the floor. A hole opened in the kitchen window glass. And where the figure in coveralls had stood there was now only haze on the air.

  Hussar inched left and swept the sight picture twenty feet east along the wall. Center room window: the baited trap. This is where he’d see if he’d called correctly. Still. Still. Figure entered the frame. Rifle punch. Leap of the bipod. Lift of dust. Hole in the window glass and a pillow of atomized and over-penetrated plaster.

  Toilet. Two quick shots into the toilet, over the bowl; into the tub: thoom, thoom. Castoff brass now ringing like chimes.

  Front room. Low left corner—he’ll be low by now—herd him back. Punch. Thrown casing. Perforation in the brick. Mag change—drop the can, drive the can, draw the bolt.

  Dum-dap . . . dum-snap . . . dum . . . dum . . . doh.

  5.

  Hussar swiftly drew up the corners of a thin drop he’d laid out to collect brass. He dismantled the rifle and rolled it into a cloth wrap on a sling. He stowed his gear, shoved the bookcase into the corner, and hurled the milk crate into another room. He left by the back stair, and as he swung around the side of the building the bald man in the topcoat stumbled out of the apartment house on Nebraska. He emerged from the door in a gypsum plume and a sort of running fall, skimmed the front stair and stormed away in the white truck as quickly as it could be roused and forced into gear.

  Hussar blinked irritably at the sight and moved quickly. He had only a few minutes now. He moved up the bricked alley to the apartment, and through a back gate. Above a brief sag of wooden step, Hussar collected two five gallon buckets he’d placed previously. They were lidded and heavy and he hurried with them up the back stair, which bowed and wrenched at the weight. At the highest landing he put out a small window, reached through to release the deadbolt, and entered the southern flat through the narrow door.

  Hussar left the buckets in the center room, looked in on the bath with its shattered sink and punctured tub, shook his head, and searched the figures that remained. He searched the torso in coveralls and turned out an apple core and folding knife—the heavy corded sweater in the center room and the figure in the flight jacket slumped low on the wall in the front room, and drew nothing but small arms and spare rounds. He noted the six perforations through the brick of the southern front wall, and the exit wounds of the five tungsten penetrators in the plaster opposite. Hussar opened the buckets of nitromethane. He removed a thermite grenade from his kit, removed the pin; installed it in the mouth of the flight jacket figure—lever into the cheek. He collected bits of teeth and jaw bone from near the other two—“Imagine your look of surprise,” he said—cast them into one bucket with their affects, and with the other, doused the three figures liberally. He inventoried his things, wet a piece of lathe in the bucket, put a lighter to it, toss it on a runoff puddle, and when he saw it aggressively light, he left immediately down the back stair.

  6.

  The cargo van was up the block in the alley, nosed into a garage stall with daylight holes and a twist of overhead door that could be drawn like a shade but not closed. Beside it a Monte Carlo lay flat on its oil pan, the carcass gleaned open by predations. Marek Hussar had entered at the rear, stowed his things, and climbed through to the cab. He’d made his way along backs streets, migrated with slow diligence stop sign to stop sign, light to light. He’d pulled in at a contractor supply warehouse. Rounded to the docks, changed his clothes in the van and left them and his other painter’s tools and trappings in the dumpsters.

  He’d looped out 55 to Highway 270, and back in along 40. In the rental lot, he’d transferred the Barrett and his gear back to the trunk of the M5. He’d turned in the van, and stood waiting in a corporate incarnation of two-room hut. A high-station carpeted shed, were it not for the spoilage of computers by rain, he wagered, would instead have been standard issue rain hats and recommendations for a comfortable shoe. He’d stood at the counter in the pretence of patience. A duo in dark suits—a blond in his cuticles; and a brunette on a call, a silk round her neck like a sailor’s sash, and the deep, close eyes of a disadvantageous breeding—were staff. He’d out-waited the call and reluctant keystrokes for the formalizing measure of slip—and when he had it, cast it in a refuse bin past the door.

  In the car �
��Yama” had come over with the ignition, played in the speakers with cool piano and soft bourbon horns, and he took it in clean restorative draughts. He was tired and filled with three days of evening, and it had given the day a queer inverted turn—made it flat-lit and false: the night in photonegative. He picked up 170 from Ladue, eased into the bend of ramp, merged, fished for his sunglasses, and when he’d checked his mirror a black sedan had crowned the ramp from Ladue; a Mercedes he thought, and Hussar dove immediately cross a lane and down the Forest Park Parkway off ramp to hand; a long eastbound sweeper that folded back beneath the highway, and presently, would cast a stamp of clarification. He passed an opening of Clayton parkland. To his left office towers rose. And in the mirror he searched for the sedan. The ramp was empty when it dropped from view. Then it appeared. On the final beat of the final plausible measure, it emerged beneath the retreating brow of overpass. It hung back, slipped along a staggered distance behind, and Hussar thought, had made a revealing effort to delay its drop down the ramp. It was a Mercedes to be sure, the features of its pointy, smug, insinuating glower were clear. The sills, hunch of roof, cut of nose, and scale, said it was an S-class. But at this standoff, the question of type remained.

  The Parkway rose into Clayton, ran like a fortification in concrete pour and lane markers; bent left around the business district, and passed beneath flyovers, footpaths, and high paved embankments; a sleek gray canyon, which eventually opened out into Jersey barrier and guardrail. And all the while the Mercedes closed on him by discrete, imperceptible degrees. Hussar moved slightly above the posted limit, and he let him come; watched and wanted him to come; wanted him near; wanted a closer look. They made the light at Pershing and Hussar coasted up to the crossing at Big Bend. Traffic shot down either side through the intersection. The lane beside queued for the light, and the Mercedes drew in slowly and stopped a full car length back. Scripted security move, thought Hussar; someone a bit handy then—not just an analyst with a checked piece and a field pass.

  The chin bore the aggressive AMG valence. It meant little in itself, but suggested problematic flavors. S55 or S600, thought Hussar; but judging from this view was like guessing conviction from a grimace. Windows were blacked and he could make out little beside eight Caucasoid knuckles wrapping the wheel. Hussar tuned off the stereo, defeated the traction control and cued the performance throttle mapping with a pair of switches. He cycled the gear pattern for tolerances and rhythm. And now he searched for the yellow against cross-traffic, and watched the Mercedes edge in.

  At the light the exhaust bellowed: quickly rapt to a wail at the top of the gear. The rear stepped out on power: launched with a squat through the intersection. Change up: two: Hussar rolled on throttle until the clutch hooked up: flat now. Change up: three: a column of cars drifted ahead: left lane—he bounced out to pass before they spread. The university rushed by to the right: a small truck flashed an indicator to the left, and began to cut out. Hussar lifted slightly; squared right for room. In the mirror the Mercedes’ nose was invisible—up the trunk. If he let up they’d touch. Turbo dump-valves chirped and whistled from the Mercedes. Gnashing teeth. Rounded the truck: flat now. Fourth: roll on power: flat now. Flat: flat: he was pulling a gap—getting some air in. Ahead, light for a side street was changing: yellow: a pair of cars lined for their turn: red: he tucked left: flat past a nose: fifth. Mercedes checked-up: went wide offline: missed the car: cleared the curbing. A space now: five car lengths. Skinker rushed up brushing three figures on the gauges. Rev-match the shifts: down four: brake: down three: brake, brake: too hot. Mercedes was on top of him again. Five cars slowed for the light: closed the lanes. Dove for the turn lane; ripped left around the cars and straight: rolled on power through the crossing. Turning traffic honked and jolted. When the rear settled, flat down the long divided straight: change up: four. Narrow. Five. He was gapping the Mercedes again: the weight and softer springs upset it over junctions. Traffic on the right: again. Rise at the light: lift: touch of brake: change down: four. He’d given the gap back now: Mercedes mouthing at the pipes. Full compression over the rise: went light off the back. Mercedes squirreled and hopped half a lane: dropped back off the pedals. Settle: settle: back on power: five. Fast now: very fast. Pavement getting choppy: Mercedes struggling to close over the rougher ground. Traffic on the right: on the right: left: left: right. Union ahead. Lift: touch of brake: four: touch of brake: high manhole cover: center up: lift: manhole cover, two: manhole cover, three. Maintenance throttle, bending right, touch of brake, straighten left: touch: touch. Light at Union: brand new yellow. Mercedes coming up: on the right, nosing alongside. Big compression now—clapped off the bump stops. Deeper on the right: Mercedes folded full-down over the wheels—and up: lept off the rise—over it. Chassis light: wait for the front to load: the rear: settle the corners. Mercedes landed hard in the mirrors: bounded right: scrubbed the curb. Six, eight, ten car lengths now. Long open straight. Flat: change up: five. Flat: flat: flat: needles sweeping right: hurdling along tar joints: clopclopclopclop. Pair of cars shouldering up at the horizon: slow: into a right-hand bend: slow. Closing. Closing. Boxed up both lanes: flash the lights. Jersey wall on the paint line, inside—half-lane shoulder and Armco, out. Closing fast. Flash the lights. Lift to coast.

  Brake

  Change down: four: change down: three: brake: brake: change down: two. Pedal going soft: tires getting hot, greasy. Mercedes closing fast: still flat out: dives under braking: drops the chin: locks all four corners: slip angle drift. Car on the right merging out for Lindell exit: opening a gap: opening: dive in: power on: flat top of second: back stepping out: through: change up: three. Exhaust wash bathes the car left: rears in fright: clips the wall: cuts hard away: back over-center. Mercedes commits, behind: takes the gap: plays right: parts the mirror with a hip-check. Gap out to six lengths. Mercedes coming hard now: running center-dash like a guide wire. Change up: four: line left for traffic: one, two: square for the underpass: firm brake: water on the floor: off brakes: maintenance throttle: full shade: out into left sweeper: steep, descending off-camber left: squeeze on throttle: gentle: more: more: load the corner: more: opening into a straight: roll on power. Flat. Staggered traffic: lift: throttle, right: lift: throttle, left: countersteer jab. Flat: change up: five. Descending. Mercedes rounding traffic. Closing. Flat. Underpass into off-camber right: change down: four: set the nose: brake: feather in—firm—feather off: more water: light throttle: flash of shade. Falling steeply now: down and away: closing radius right: add throttle: gently: add throttle: more: more. Easing out from the heavy Mercedes. More: steady: balance: skirting the wall: haunches squat into the corner: ass pinned down under power. Opening out: flat now: change up: five. Mercedes surging down the short leveling straight. Uphill now: right-hand slip to a tight left crest. Inside line. Mercedes to the outside: set to square the apex. Rising. Keep the foot in it. Rising. Big speed. Stay in it. Starting left. Stay in it. Tightening. Set the nose: touch of brake. Tightening. Ease off. Tightening. Lifting. Sharp throttle now; cut into the apex. Mercedes cut across: inside. Pressing in. Gap to two. Light over the crest, and steeply down. Straightening. Change down: four: power on. Buildings rising over Kingshighway. Mercedes has momentum: filling the mirror. Shoot beneath Kingshighway: dim bunker of underpass. Back uphill. Traffic inside: out and back. Mercedes close. Gap to one. Closing. Dump valves whistling, snorting in his ear. Traffic filling in: slowing for Euclid. Rising: hurdling up: heavy embankment thinning to grade. Two lanes opening into four. Med center buildings crowding the light. Cars stacking up in the left turn lane. Signal going full orange. Cars filling out three outer lanes. One through lane inside. Wingover thought Hussar. Scrub some speed. Lift. Gap to zero. Touch of brake. Full mirror of black hood. Into the shoot. Onto the light.

  Lift

  Flick right: touch of power: opposite lock: e-brake: ass out: around: across the intersection: change down: two: into the oncoming lanes: power on: slipping backward: sidewa
ys: clear the corner: rear hooking up: noise turning to grip. Horns and diverging shapes. Mercedes fired through the intersection: fury of brake lights. And back downhill. Launching west: full-throated, off, and back along the parkway.

  X.

  Kim Soong unfastened her hair, brushed it with a fearsome tool from her bag, and tightly refit the cable as it had been. When she’d finished she resumed her position in the armchair: knees together, palms upon them, her narrow lap filled with carryall. Soong had arrived just after room service. She’d come up with a pair of suits draped in dry-clean plastics and a frisson of noise—to all appearances a delivery girl; lay them on the bed and folded herself neatly into the chair, where she remained.

  Hoyt Gamlin last shaved two days ago, in D.C. He’d been interrupted from the task by room service, and again by Soong, and now finished with a blade the act of civilizing pretence he’d begun before. He followed Soong in the mirror, her gaze trailing surreptitiously in toward his bare torso and then swerving off to hold on other visual anchors. He rinsed and dried on fresh towel and felt fully and finally clean. He rolled a shirt on, retrieved a vodka from the honor bar, and settled on the sofa with his coffee and orange juice—his back to the French doors which looked out from the Ritz-Carlton, Clayton, and onto the county and the feather of winter canopy. This was Soong’s anchor now, and whenever Gamlin saw that she was not contemplating her knees, or the bowels of her giant bag, this was her view.