Hired to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  Nathan kept his expression neutral. “Don’t worry. Your brother will be okay, but he’ll be eating with a straw for the next eight weeks or so.”

  “Come on, Bobby,” Flops said. “He ain’t worth it.”

  “He’s gotta pay for what he just done to Tommy.”

  “And how will you pay for what you just done to the woman?” asked Nathan.

  “Why do you care? She ain’t shit to you.”

  “She’s a human being, not a punching bag.”

  “You ain’t arresting me.”

  “Then you’ll have to fight. I strongly suggest you drop the cleaver first.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll beat you senseless with this frying pan and make myself an omelet.”

  Flops took another step back. “This dude’s gone, man. Look at his eyes. Ain’t nobody home.”

  “This psycho ain’t arresting me!”

  Nathan winked at the little girl again and offered her a warm smile, then made one more effort at diplomacy. “There’s no need for further violence. When the cops arrive to take you into custody, you can walk out of here—looking like you do right now—or you can be wheeled out on a gurney looking like you’ve been run over by a motor grader. I’m okay either way.”

  “Come on, man. Let’s go!” Flops said.

  “I ain’t runnin’ from this freak.”

  “Then make your move. I’m done talking.”

  Flops sounded desperate. “Don’t do it, man . . . You seen how easily he whupped on Tommy.”

  Nathan saw Flintstone’s grip tighten. Okay, have it your way. I gave you a chance . . .

  The overhead fluorescents flashed off the blade when the cleaver arced through the air. Like a swordsman, Nathan brought the frying pan up and parried the man’s arm. Before Flintstone could take another swipe, Nathan swung the pan and hammered the guy’s knuckles hard enough to pulverize bones.

  The aluminum produced a musical bong sound. Freed from the man’s grip, the cleaver skipped across the floor.

  “You son of a bitch!” Flintstone lowered his head and charged.

  Nathan shifted laterally toward the guy’s busted-hand side.

  Like a clumsy oaf, Flintstone grabbed air with both arms. Had this been a bullfight, the crowd would’ve shouted, “Olé!”

  Nathan swung the pan and smacked it on the back of Flintstone’s head.

  Flintstone kept going, tripping over his brother.

  The tweaker bolted, his feet coming out of his flip-flops. Nathan could’ve hurled the skillet at the fleeing man’s head but decided he no longer posed a threat.

  He allowed Flintstone to get up. “Are you ready to place your hands behind your back now?”

  The bludgeoned man felt the back of his head and snarled at seeing blood.

  It’s been said the definition of insanity is attempting the same failed behavior over and over and expecting a different result. Well, Flintstone roared like a madman and charged again.

  Nathan feinted to the left, pretending to repeat the same maneuver.

  It worked.

  The man shifted his momentum to his broken-hand side. At the last second, Nathan thrust himself to the right and swung the frying pan.

  Lionel Richie’s ex-wife would be proud.

  A third tone rang out as aluminum cracked cranium again.

  Amazingly, the man didn’t go down.

  The guy looked up with his eyes, as though he could somehow see the damaged portion of his scalp. A single word escaped his mouth: “Ouch.”

  Nathan waited; he’d seen this before. It seemed a good time to Mirandize Mr. Flintstone. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford—” He didn’t finish.

  Flintstone’s eyes leveled out, then became unfocused. When his jaw went slack, Nathan stepped forward, grabbed the guy’s shirt, and kept him from hitting his head when he collapsed. Man, this guy weighs a ton.

  Flops was gone from sight, but a quick glance toward the front of the store revealed the cashier with a hand over her mouth, the other hand holding her phone at her side. At least she hadn’t videoed the fight. The last thing he needed was a viral YouTube post.

  So much for grocery shopping.

  Time to go.

  He called out to the cashier, “Please call 911 and request an ambulance.” When the cashier didn’t move, he added, “Now would be a good time.” That got through, and she pecked at her phone.

  The Hispanic woman’s expression hadn’t changed.

  She’s tough, all right. “Do you speak English?” he asked.

  “A little.”

  He’d stick with her native language. “The police are coming. Do you have any ID to show them?”

  “No.”

  “Do you live with him?”

  She slowly nodded.

  “Is there someplace you can go? Anyone you can stay with?”

  She shook her head. Despite a lifeless expression, she had kind eyes.

  He wasn’t sure if he could trust this woman, but he felt responsible for her predicament. Predicament? He’d just knocked her boyfriend into unconsciousness, not to mention fracturing four of the guy’s fingers. If Flintstone needed both hands to work, he’d be filing for disability.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rosa.”

  “I’m Nathan. Is she your daughter?”

  “My niece.”

  He wanted to ask where the girl’s mother was, but the answer might not be a happy one.

  “Listen, Rosa, I’m sorry about all of this, but when I saw him hit you, I couldn’t let it go.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Can I trust you?”

  She looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “In order for me to help you, I have to trust you. And you’ll have to trust me. Do you think we can do that?”

  She didn’t say anything, but from her expression, he knew her answer was yes, probably figuring she didn’t have anything to lose. On the other hand, she had to be worried he could be a creep and just wanted her—or her niece—for sex. Now there’s a nice cheery thought, Nate. If she’d been smuggled across the border by coyotes, she might already be a victim of sexual assault, something all too common in the human-smuggling business.

  One thing was certain: these two had no chance against a bully like Flintstone. He did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. It sickened Nathan thinking about it. How many women, or men for that matter, were stuck in hopeless situations, with no place to go, no one to help them, and no one who cared? Putting himself in her shoes, he knew she also had to worry about being detained and possibly reported to ICE. Nathan thought it unlikely she’d be deported, but with no place to go but a homeless shelter, she’d probably end up back with Flintstone.

  “I’ll pay for a motel room. You’ll be safe there.”

  She said thank you and followed him to the elevator.

  “Does your niece speak Spanish?” He already knew she spoke English.

  “Only a little. I’ve been teaching her.”

  “How did you get here?” Realizing how that sounded, he added, “To the store, I mean.”

  “Bobby’s car.”

  “He’s parked on the street?” Nathan hadn’t seen any other vehicles near the elevator down below. If Bobby had driven into the garage, his car should’ve been near the elevator.

  She nodded.

  “How far is it to your house?”

  “About two miles. It’s an apartment.”

  “Who else lives there? Any of his brothers?”

  She said the one with the black tank top lived there. He worked nights at a strip club and brought women into the house. She also said Tank Top traded drugs for sex with the women. Cocaine and painkillers.

  Great, thought Nathan. A fine example for the young girl. He asked how long she’d been with the Flintstones.

  “Four months.
I moved down here from Gonzales when I lost my job.”

  “You mean the Gonzales along the 101 Freeway in the Salinas Valley?”

  “Yes.”

  Nathan pressed the elevator button and didn’t try to conceal his face from the camera. Too late anyway, it had captured him on the way in. To avoid a paper trail he didn’t want, he might have to call in a favor to sidestep being questioned by the police. Another favor, he corrected himself. Sooner or later, he’d run out of them.

  “Why San Diego?”

  “My sister lived here. She got deported last month.”

  Nathan waited.

  “She was a dancer at the same strip club and got caught selling drugs.”

  “Was your niece born here?”

  Rosa nodded.

  Well, there it was. A US citizen, the child became a “cut the line” ticket to America, but Rosa’s sister had blown it on the lure of easy money. Apparently, exotic dancing for peanut-eating drunks was a fair trade to stay in the land of milk and honey. He instantly regretted the impulsive thought. Stop being judgmental, McBride. You don’t know her sister’s story. The true victim in this ugly mess was Rosa’s niece.

  The elevator jolted and began to hum. Since there weren’t any cameras in here, Nathan pulled his wallet and offered Rosa all the twenties and fifties he had. “Here, take this until you figure things out.” He usually carried around two grand at any given time, but he hadn’t replenished lately. There might be $1,500 in his hand. A lot of money, but he could afford it.

  “No! I can’t.”

  “It’s an act of kindness,” he said in Spanish. “Nothing more.” He extended it toward her.

  She murmured a thank-you and tucked the money into her cloth purse.

  Despite what he’d said, she probably assumed he wanted sex. Nothing could be further from the truth, but he understood her reluctance. Before meeting Holly, Nathan had paid for sex on a regular basis. A dark time in his life, but he wasn’t that person anymore, and he didn’t beat himself up over it.

  He made eye contact with the little girl. “What’s your name?”

  She turned away and hugged Rosa’s leg tighter.

  “She’s shy, sorry. Her name’s Lida.”

  “That’s a pretty name. I’m Nathan.”

  Although it felt awkward, he shook hands with Rosa.

  “Does your boyfriend hit her?”

  Rosa’s reaction said yes.

  “Anything else?”

  She shook her head quickly.

  The elevator door slid open, revealing a quiet garage. Nothing had changed. He told her to wait while he checked the blind corners to his left and right. He doubted Flops was still around, but he needed to be sure.

  He took a knee in front of Lida. “Don’t be afraid of me. The scars on my face don’t make me a bad person.” He gave her the best smile he could muster.

  Her lips curved up, slightly, then went flat again.

  Internally, he made a decision. “I’m going to help your aunt, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  For Rosa, he translated what he’d just said into Spanish.

  Trust involved risk, for all concerned. Nathan could be opening himself up to a world of trouble. He knew nothing about this woman. She might self-destruct. Some people can’t be helped. Homeless shelters were full of people who, no matter how much aid they received, were going to end up back in the shelter. He thought it noble she’d taken on the responsibility for the care of Lida—no small task by any means.

  “Rosa, I only have one request, but it’s a big one. If you accept my help, I need your word you’ll never contact your boyfriend again. Ever. You’ll have to abandon your old life and start a new one.”

  “What about my sister?”

  “I can’t tell you what to do about her. It’s possible you may never see her again, or it could be a long time. For Lida’s sake, you’ll have to be the best mom you can. I have friends who can get you a permanent-resident green card and speed up your process for citizenship. Do you want to become a US citizen?”

  She nodded.

  “Look, you don’t have to decide anything right now. I’ll take you to your apartment and wait at the curb. Gather whatever you need and come back out. You’ll never be going back there, so make sure you get everything.”

  “We don’t have much. Just clothes and my Bible.”

  Just clothes and my Bible. Thinking about his own possessions, Nathan felt a pang of guilt. I need to give more to charity.

  “Do you need anything from his car?”

  She said no.

  “When I drop you off at your apartment, I’ll wait three minutes. If you don’t come back out, I’ll leave. I’m offering you a fresh start. A life free from fear and pain. Think about your niece, the kind of life she’ll have if you stay with that man. The police will definitely show up at your house later this morning. If you don’t want my help, now is the time to tell me. No matter what you decide, the money’s yours. No strings attached.”

  They reached his GT, and she seemed to hesitate.

  The moment of truth had arrived. Either she’ll get in or not.

  Figuring it might be awkward, he didn’t open her door. Part of him hoped she wouldn’t do it, but leaving them marooned in this parking garage wouldn’t sit well.

  It boiled down to instinct and trust. What did Rosa’s gut tell her about the man she was about to entrust her life to? Not only her life, but Lida’s as well. He gave it fifty-fifty odds she’d actually get in.

  Perhaps her fear of knowing the police were coming became the deciding factor. She opened the door, slid in, and asked Lida to sit on her lap.

  He turned the volume down to zero, then decided some music wouldn’t be a bad thing. Driving up the ramp, he tuned in a symphonic channel on satellite radio. She didn’t react to “Air on the G String” by J. S. Bach, but he sensed she liked it. He also detected no trace of alcohol on her breath, a good sign.

  Hearing the safety belt warning chime, he said, “You should probably fasten your seat belt, but don’t put it across Lida.”

  At the top of the ramp, he rolled his window down to listen for any approaching sirens. Maybe three or four minutes had passed since his initial contact with Flintstone. The fight had been over in less than a minute, and they’d spent another minute or two getting down to the garage.

  He heard the first siren when he reached Front Street.

  When he asked for directions, she told him to get on the Five south.

  He glanced at his passengers as he followed her directions. Rosa seemed so small and vulnerable. She couldn’t be more than five feet tall. He wondered what their lives would look like in twenty years. Lida’d be in her prime, maybe with kids of her own. Sometimes Nathan appreciated how random and unpredictable life could be. The chain of events leading up to his confrontation with Flintstone couldn’t have been scripted. He knew such things weren’t meant for human understanding. If he’d left his house ten seconds later—assuming nothing would’ve changed during his drive—he wouldn’t have been at the household-utensils aisle at the moment Flintstone slapped Rosa. But leaving ten seconds earlier created its own set of variables. He could’ve been delayed by a red traffic light or stopped to help a stray dog—which he always did. Suppose he’d driven one mile per hour faster or slower on the freeway. What if the elevator hadn’t been on the garage level when he’d pressed the button, and he’d had to wait for it to come down? Another near miss, in all likelihood. The variables on Rosa’s side of the equation were equally multifaceted.

  An uncomfortable silence ensued. Under different circumstances, he wouldn’t say anything to fill the void, but their situation was anything but normal. As it turned out, Rosa spoke first.

  “Thank you for helping us.”

  “You’re welcome.” It was all he could think of to say. This woman’s life was about to be inverted, in a good way. She just didn’t know it yet. A complete stranger had fought for her, shown her respect, and given h
er money. She had to be thinking it was too good to be true.

  He knew how to ease her thoughts. Using the hands-free feature, he called Angelica, his live-in housekeeper at his La Jolla home, a big place where he spent less time than in his smaller home in Clairemont.

  Angelica sounded half-asleep when she picked up.

  “I’m sorry to call so early,” he said in Spanish, “but I have an emergency.”

  “Oh no. What’s wrong?”

  He gave her a quick summary, and Angelica was more than willing to help. Although he trusted the woman sitting next to him, that trust wasn’t absolute. He wouldn’t bring her into either of his homes, but he could arrange a nice motel room. Once Rosa and Lida went into their apartment to get their belongings, he’d call Angelica again and explain the situation more thoroughly, something he didn’t feel comfortable doing in front of his guests. He’d ask his housekeeper to spend a few days with his—refugees?—no, that wasn’t the right word. Victims. They were victims of violence, battered people who needed a safe haven. Angelica wouldn’t ask for anything, but he’d offer her a healthy bonus to stay with them in the motel for a few days. If all went well, and this woman didn’t have any crippling emotional issues, she’d be on a path to a much better life with Lida.

  She guided him through a graffiti-ridden area east of downtown. Piled like small snowdrifts, trash dominated sidewalks, gutters, and fences. It sickened him. There was no excuse for this. Litter and poverty weren’t synonymous.

  He pulled to the curb in front of a run-down two-story apartment, got out, and opened her door.

  She looked confused.

  “It’s what gentlemen do.”

  She offered a thin smile.

  “Three minutes, Rosa.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Ten Days Ago

  Aside from the air vent’s whisper, the clicks from General Hahn’s spit-shined boots were the only sounds in the corridor. Fitting, he thought. Jong Doo was the most secret military complex in the world. Not even the arrogant Americans could boast of such an accomplishment. It took engineers and tunneling crews twenty-five months to hollow out this mountainside and another twenty-two to build the infrastructure—350,000 square feet of passages, chambers, laboratories, lodging, and food storage. It also housed medical bays, a fully staffed and stocked surgical suite, a water reclamation plant, atmosphere production, and a huge ammo depot. Jong Doo’s nuclear-powered reactor and reserve supplies could sustain its occupants for up to three years, longer if certain steps were taken, such as the liquidation of all nonessential personnel. This facility also doubled as the Supreme Leader’s primary bunker in the event of a nuclear attack from America.