Kill for Me

by Tom Wood

  This wasn’t so much a kitchen as a torture chamber. The private-security crew wore suits so they looked clean, but part of their job description was getting messy. They weren’t just mobile security but mobile cleaners.

  No chair bolted to the floor or chain hanging from the ceiling, he noted. Such things would be impossible to explain away if the unit was ever raided. He had to respect how thorough this crew were in their professionalism.

  They would sit him on one of the stools, which were all aluminum. Sturdy, light and easy to clean. The stools stood in a line next to a long, rectangular island. Like the rest of the work surfaces, it was all stainless steel. Victor tore off a strip of duct tape from one of the rolls and secured the fileting knife, by the blade, to the underside of the work surface’s overhang. It was impossible to see unless sitting down or squatting. The knife was there as a last resort. There was no guarantee of a silent kill, and the inevitable mess would disrupt any chance of continued stealth.

  So far he had no sign that there were any more than the four he had already encountered. Of those four, the two who had been in the backseat had both taken hits, but they were still alive. Unless they had gone to the hospital, they remained a problem. Pain and injury would diminish the threat they posed, but they were also going to be more of a problem than they might have been, because now they would want payback. Also, there was no chance they were laboring under the misconception that he was no threat. They knew he was trouble and so would be on their guard.

  He had underestimated them, but they had underestimated him in return by leaving him alone, tied up only with duct tape. One-all, but with plenty of time left on the clock.

  He looked at the pressure washer and the grating on the floor; then he examined the floor tiles and wall tiles in that corner of the kitchen. Some were newer than others, evident by the lighter grout between them. He pictured cracked and shattered tiles, broken by bullets used to execute prisoners no longer able to tell their captors anything useful. In one cupboard he found spare tiles, grout and tools. They had thought of everything.

  He spent a moment close to the swinging doors, listening. Aside from the distant television, he heard nothing. That didn’t mean there was no one on the other side, but it did imply there was a good chance no one was going to enter the kitchen in the immediate future. Which gave Victor time to unscrew the tops from two bottles of cleaning products: bleach and isopropyl alcohol.

  He removed his socks, and poured a little bleach onto one of them. A tablespoon’s worth was all he needed, which he spread out near the hem. He poured plenty of alcohol on to the hem of the other.

  Now he was ready.

  • Chapter 38 •

  Waiting had never been a problem for Victor. Waiting was easy. He had had lots of practice. Long before he had waited for targets, he had waited to be fed. Waited for the shouting to stop. Waited for the chance to run. He had found those quiet moments calming in time. He could let his consciousness slide to the wayside, leaving his mind empty of thoughts, of distraction, of memory. A silent mind was a calm mind. A calm mind was aware. Awareness was always the first and best defense. A threat that could be seen or heard could be avoided instead of fought. A valuable skill now—a lifesaver more than once—but a saver of sanity in the past.

  He waited an hour for Eadrich to return, and he didn’t come alone. This time the two guys from the backseat came too. One had bandages wrapped like a bandanna around his head, which held gauze in place at his temple where Victor had pistol-whipped him. The second’s jaw was similarly wrapped. The whole right side of his face was swollen, indicating a broken jawbone. The bandages weren’t quite neat enough and the jaw wraps were wrong for professional medical attention, so this was makeshift first aid. Eadrich hadn’t allowed them to get checked out by a doctor while there was work to be done.

  Neither tried to hide their anger from Victor, nor their anticipation for vengeance.

  Only Eadrich seemed dispassionate, having nothing personal against Victor, who also saw there was no fear either, and no change in his expression or manner to indicate he felt any differently from how he had been during their previous conversation.

  “Time to talk,” Eadrich said.

  The guy with the broken jaw squatted down next to Victor and used a folding knife to cut through the duct tape around Victor’s ankles, which he had reapplied. If the guy could smell the bleach, he didn’t react. If he found anything amiss with the duct tape, he didn’t show it.

  Once Victor’s feet were free, Eadrich helped him stand. He didn’t release Victor’s hands. Whatever his level of confidence, he wasn’t that confident.

  “What is this place?” Victor asked as he was led into the kitchen.

  “A place for quiet contemplation,” Eadrich answered.

  He positioned a stool and sat down. One of the two bandaged guys pulled out a stool for Victor and shoved him on to it with such force he almost toppled it and himself to the floor.

  “Easy,” Eadrich said.

  The guy shrugged in apology and made sure Victor was secure on the stool, while the other bandaged guy stood by, glowering the whole time. Victor played along, acting as though it was all he could do to maintain his balance with his hands bound.

  Eadrich said, “Why don’t you two leave us alone?”

  It was an order phrased as a question, so the two guys left the kitchen. Neither hurried, and both glared at Victor as they went. They didn’t want to miss out.

  “My men you hurt want to hurt you,” Eadrich explained. “They want to skip the polite discourse and go straight to work on you. They’re not what I would call talented, but they are enthusiastic. They don’t think about consequences. They forget why they’re beating in the first place. I tell them to beat someone and they won’t stop until that person is an unrecognizable pile of mush on the floor. So I have to use them sparingly. I wouldn’t be able to leave them unsupervised, especially with you. That’s why it’ll be just me asking the questions. At least while you’re giving me answers.”

  Victor waited.

  Eadrich said, “Would you like a smoke?”

  Victor didn’t fight the sodium thiopental. “Very much so.”

  Eadrich seemed pleased. He positioned himself so he could make use of the island work surface to roll a cigarette. “Good. There are few pleasures as pure as unfiltered tobacco.”

  Victor watched him roll. Despite fat fingers and an obvious lack of dexterity, Eadrich knew what he was doing. Enough repetition, enough practice, and anyone could get better at any task.

  “I know that look,” Eadrich said. “You’re an ex-smoker. You want one, but you know you shouldn’t. How long has it been?”

  Victor didn’t have to think, but he spent a moment as if in silent calculation.

  “That long?”

  “Too long.”

  “Then is the answer to my original question still yes?”

  Victor nodded.

  Eadrich smiled. As pleased to have corrupted as he was to have a smoking companion. “The others don’t smoke. Young guys today are too concerned with their health to know what’s good for them.”

  He set the roll-up down on the stainless steel surface and began a second. He was inches from the knife. Far too close for Victor to have any chance of grabbing it unnoticed. While Eadrich rolled, Victor worked the duct tape loose that bound his wrists behind his back.

  Eadrich was a little slower with the second roll-up, a little more careful. The result was a smoother-rolled cigarette, more even and aesthetic, which he presented to Victor, standing it upright on the worktop to show off the precision.

  Victor nodded, as though he were impressed.

  Eadrich looked pleased with himself, as though he didn’t get many compliments. “You can have it when I’m happy you’re telling me the truth.”

  “Okay,” Victor said.

 
Eadrich lit his cigarette and inhaled, holding in the smoke for a moment before blowing it into Victor’s face. “You know, I was an officer in the army, once upon a time. I used to hunt guys like me, but that was then. In any war, you need to think ahead. You need to think about the endgame. Which side is going to win? Who is going to be left standing when it’s over? I looked into my future and then decided to join the winning side.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “You surprise me. Most people don’t understand it. They only see the betrayal. The disloyalty.”

  “The first loyalty should always be to oneself.”

  “To survive.”

  “Exactly.”

  Eadrich nodded. “I like you, which makes this difficult.” He opened his jacket to make sure Victor could see the holstered pistol.

  “Then don’t do it.”

  “I switched sides, remember?”

  Eadrich looked at him with a certain amount of regret in his eyes, a certain amount of sadness. Victor didn’t know a lot about either, but he recognized them just as he recognized the finality too. Whatever Eadrich’s reluctance, he would do what he had to do to get home to his wife.

  “Your information checks out,” he said. “Not a blemish. Not a single thing to make me suspicious. Which makes me suspicious about who you really are.”

  Victor was honest. “I’m a guy in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  He shook his head. “Not just a guy in the wrong place. A guy in the worst place.”

  Victor was silent.

  “You’re not as scared as you were in the car. I mean, you’re not as scared as you pretended to be.”

  “Would you prefer me to pretend now?”

  “I wouldn’t believe it,” he said. “Just as I don’t believe . . . this.” He gestured. “Whatever this is. This act of yours.”

  “Act?”

  He held out both hands, palms down, fingers spread. With his chin he gestured to the right hand. “This is anyone else in your predicament.” The right hand shook and trembled. Then he gestured to the left hand. “This is you.” The left hand didn’t move.

  “Maybe I’m resigned to my fate.”

  “You believe in fate?”

  Victor shook his head. “We make our own fate.”

  Eadrich gave him a careful look. “And what fate will you make for yourself?”

  “The fate you allow me.”

  “Then consider me the master of your destiny.”

  He exhaled smoke through his nostrils and rested his cigarette on the corner of the work surface before taking the second and holding it out for Victor, who took it in his lips. Eadrich lit it and Victor inhaled. It tasted like happiness.

  He coughed several times.

  Eadrich smiled and took the cigarette away. “Really has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  “My throat . . . is very dry.”

  “Of course. That’s not unexpected. I expect you’d like a glass of water?”

  Victor nodded, forcing out another cough. “Thank you.”

  Eadrich set Victor’s cigarette down next to his own and stood up from his stool. At the kitchen sink he turned on a faucet, retrieved a plastic beaker from one of the cupboards.

  As he did so, Victor slipped out of his bonds and removed his socks.

  While Eadrich filled up the beaker with water, Victor crept up behind him, holding his breath while squeezing and rubbing the hems of the two socks together so the bleach mixed with the isopropyl alcohol.

  “Once you’ve had this,” Eadrich said with his back to Victor, “we will begin in earnest.”

  Before he could turn around, Victor slapped the socks over Eadrich’s mouth and nose.

  The sodium hypochlorite contained in the bleach mixed with the alcohol to produce a range of dangerous compounds, including hydrochloric acid and chloroform. Eadrich couldn’t help but breathe in the vapor. The first effect was coughing and retching, but the sound was muffled, before the toxic chemicals entered his bloodstream, causing nausea and dizziness. Within a couple of seconds Eadrich’s knees buckled. His arms flailed, wild, desperate, but without strength, without accuracy. The chloroform was in his brain, attacking his nervous system, interrupting synapses.

  Victor eased him to the floor. Eadrich was still conscious, but he was disorientated. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. His face had a sickly pallor and his eyes were red and streaming tears.

  Further exposure to the chloroform would have knocked him out, but Victor needed only to disable Eadrich so he could kill him without making a sound. Victor retrieved the filleting knife from under the counter top.

  “Remember when you told me there are three types of men?” he said to Eadrich, disoriented and immobile, but conscious, aware. “I’m the third kind.”

  In his weakened state, Eadrich was unable to resist or fight back as Victor placed a palm over his mouth and drove the point of the knife into his chest. His watery eyes widened and he emitted a muffled gasp that became a wheezing exhale as the blade reached his heart. He would be dead in seconds, but Victor had to release him and the knife.

  He had to release both because the swinging doors began to open.

  • Chapter 39 •

  Victor was already close to the doors, so he used that to his advantage, dashing toward them as they began opening and going to one side, so they concealed him as they reached the apex of their swing. One of the two guys with bandages stepped into the room. The one with the gauze at his temple.

  He hesitated for a second because Eadrich and Victor were not sitting on stools, as he expected. An instant later, he saw Eadrich dying on the floor.

  From behind, Victor snapped the socks soaked with chloroform over the guy’s mouth and nose. Most people wouldn’t be able to resist a panicked inhale, but this guy, forewarned by Eadrich on the floor, managed it. He didn’t inhale. He didn’t exhale. He held his breath. A temporary solution only, but still a solution. It gave him time to fight back.

  He threw elbows backward, hard and well placed. Victor’s ribs were on fire from the first impact, building with every subsequent blow until his whole torso was a raging inferno. He didn’t let go. He fought through the pain. Pain was a message, and temporary. Death was eternal.

  In seconds the guy was slowing. He had spent his oxygen reserves on the elbow strikes. He made it to half a minute before he sucked in air. He coughed. He retched. He weakened.

  Victor kept the socks in place, tight over the mouth and nose, while the guy sank to his knees. Another few seconds and he would lose consciousness.

  The fizzing crackle of electricity gave Victor an instant’s warning, but he couldn’t react before the sudden shock of the stun gun did its job. He spasmed. His teeth smacked together. Awful and inescapable pain wracked his body. His hands snapped closed into fists, releasing the guy from the chemical fumes, but the socks stayed clenched in Victor’s fist.

  He didn’t know if he fell away first or the guy did, but they both went down to the floor tiles—Victor, fetal and trembling, the guy on his hands and knees, dazed from the fumes, ribbons of mucus hanging from his nostrils and gaping mouth, neither man able to move.

  In the car, the pain of millions of volts had been ended by punches knocking Victor unconscious. Now he didn’t have that release. The aftermath of the stun gun left him paralyzed and deathly cold, trapped in infinite shivers, the source of his immobility, his agony, inside him, out of reach. He could do nothing but shake and tremble, his eyes watering and his limbs beyond control.

  He was aware, though. He could see. He could hear. He watched the man on his hands and knees coughing and retching, spitting and wheezing, fighting his own battle against the poison in his bloodstream, and winning.

  The passing of time was hard for Victor to track, but at the point he could get his fingers to extend with enormous
effort, the guy was able to wipe the snot and spit from his face. When Victor could rotate his head and begin to straighten his back, the guy was pushing himself back onto his haunches and trying to stand.

  Eadrich’s gun.

  Victor craned his neck to see where it lay, still holstered beneath Eadrich’s jacket. Not far. Within arm’s reach almost, but Victor’s arms didn’t work. He tried to roll closer, but no part of his body responded to the command. Instead, he dragged himself. He pushed his fingertips against the tiles and pulled. He inched closer.

  The guy used a work surface for support and got to his feet. He had to use a hand braced on the worktop to stay upright, but he was upright. His bearings were coming back fast. His liver was working hard to take the poison out of his blood, and not enough had reached his brain to have an extended effect. Another minute, and he would be left with a headache and nothing else.

  Victor reached the gun, exhausted from the short crawl, wanting nothing more than to lie still and rest, maybe sleep. He was so tired. He worked the holster open.

  His fingertips touched the cool metal. He pressed and pulled it into his fist. Shaking fingers closed around the grip. His index finger wouldn’t bend to fit through the trigger guard. He had to use his left hand to manipulate the finger.

  He took a breath to summon strength and rolled onto his back. It pained him to do so, but now he saw the guy again. Victor dragged the gun into line. He couldn’t aim. He just had to point. Center mass. Any hit, one hit, would be enough.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  There was a bullet in the chamber. The safety was off. He realized he didn’t have the strength to squeeze the trigger back far enough. Six pounds of pressure was beyond his weakened index finger.