Kill for Me

by Tom Wood

  But losers with money to burn were not.

  Victor made sure he lost. Bar patrons played cards and dominoes and dice games. Victor joined in with a group of guys in their thirties and forties, with a uniform of clipper-short hair and unshaved faces. Their clothing consisted of jeans, T-shirts, and sports jackets. Fingertips were stained with nicotine and nails were dirty with oil and grime. One had tattoos on his forearms, visible where his jacket sleeves were pushed up to the elbows. Another had gray hair. The third had fists the size of mallets. All wore heavy boots with steel toecaps. They stank of cigarette smoke—hand rolled and strong.

  He bought them drinks. He made sure they ended the games with more cash in their pockets than when they had begun. By the end of the night people were buying him drinks with his own money.

  The country’s alcohol laws required bars to close no later than one a.m., but that didn’t stop the old guy from pouring drinks. He gestured to Victor.

  “Beer,” he answered, and the old guy fetched him a bottle from a chest refrigerator.

  The old guy owned the bar, Victor deduced. He was tall and slim, with tanned skin and a buzz of stubble across his head. His clothes were bright and cheap, as were his shoes. He wore sunglasses, even indoors at night. They had gold-colored frames and sat low on his nose so he could peer over the top. His eyes were small and dark and never stopped moving.

  He set the bottle of beer on the bar for Victor, who thanked him and twisted off the cap. Victor took a small sip. It was as delicious as it was cold, but he had ordered beer only because it was easier to control the concentration of alcohol in his bloodstream that way.

  He acted ignorant when the high rollers began entering the bar and the old guy ushered them into the back. The last player to show was short and fat and waddled more than walked. He exchanged words with the old guy who ran the bar. Neither man was happy, and two words Victor read on the old guy’s lips were of particular relevance.

  “No show.

  The fat guy sighed. Have you called him?”

  “He’s not answering.”

  “Get a replacement, then. I’m feeling lucky.

  “I think I have just the guy.”

  Victor made sure he was looking the other way when the two gazes fell upon him.

  • Chapter 48 •

  Things went bad pretty fast.

  They were playing Texas Hold’em. It wasn’t Victor’s favored version of poker. He preferred five-card stud. It was an older, more classic, more intimate game of skill and perception, but the former had become more popular in recent years. Texas Hold’Em had more spectator appeal. Casinos liked it for that reason, as did broadcasters. It had become mainstream as a result.

  The back room that hosted the private game had two tables: one for poker, and another for playing pool. He imagined the latter was for use at other times, or perhaps when things around the poker table became a little too heated and players needed to cool off. Even those used to high-stakes games were not immune to rushes of frustration and anger.

  Unlike the bar, the room was cool. The walls were bare brick and there had been no sweating bodies radiating heat all evening. There were no windows, but it was located close to the bar’s kitchen and rear exit and Victor could hear the noise of nearby traffic and the merriment of passersby.

  Victor settled into his chair. He wouldn’t have chosen to sit with his back to the door, but all the other seats were taken first and asking for the other players to swap would have been counterproductive to his efforts not to draw attention to himself. He was here to gather intelligence only, but the greater threat of the cartel was ever present. He had killed four of their guys, after all.

  Everyone drank, so Victor sipped from another bottle of beer he saw opened while he played. He had a high tolerance and there was no immediate danger, but he couldn’t afford to lose even a little awareness because of alcohol. There were plenty of corpses out there who might have seen Victor coming if not for the influence of vodka or whisky. For a fleeting moment, he remembered playing his piano while he drank a bottle of Finnish vodka. The last time he had been drunk. He might never be drunk again.

  Despite the stakes, the game was played with good humor and a fun atmosphere. No one liked to lose a hand, but there were no reactions more severe than a curse or the throwing of hands into the air. Victor acted as if he was having fun too, even when he lost, which he did often. He folded when he had a bad hand and also when it was too strong. He had to win some to stay in the game, but he could read his opponents’ body language well enough to make sure he didn’t win too big.

  The table was round, but the old guy who ran the bar sat at its metaphorical head. The other players treated him with respect, even reverence, and from the friendly but no-nonsense way he ran the game, it was easy to see why. Victor liked him too. Not just because his professional sights focused on him as a valuable source of information. If anyone knew Diaz well, it was this guy.

  A couple of weeks or so and Victor would have enough to begin the next stage of preparations. What they would be, he didn’t yet know, but he needed time alone with the yellow Lamborghini. Enough time to fit a bomb that wouldn’t be found, one that could sit within the car’s fuselage until Diaz next went to see Maria.

  Even a high-stakes poker game wouldn’t go on long enough for Victor to have the time he needed. He could fit a bomb in minutes, but not one hidden so well it couldn’t be found. He would need all night for that. He would need to be alone, in private, taking the car apart, rebuilding it again. He would need tools. He needed to know where Diaz parked his vehicle overnight, so when Victor had acquired the explosives he could put them to use.

  There were so many variables, so many things that could go wrong with such a plan that Victor had to have a complete dossier’s worth of information on Diaz before he even attempted that next stage.

  Given the run-in with private security, Victor had to be extra careful not to arouse suspicion. He had to take his time, to build up a picture of Diaz’s personality, habits, movements and routines without ever coming close to Diaz himself until he absolutely had to do so.

  The short, fat man roared in triumph as he called the last card and won the hand. The loser wasn’t so happy, but Victor joined in congratulating the winner along with the others.

  The old guy leaned across the table to ask him, “Are you having a good time?”

  Victor nodded because he was having a good time. He was integrating himself well, at a slow, measured pace. Everything was going to plan.

  At least, until he heard the familiar rumble of a loud exhaust.

  • Chapter 49 •

  Diaz wasn’t tall, but he was stocky. He was strong. He had a wide back and thick wrists. His hair was short and slicked back. He wore jeans and cowboy boots. He hadn’t shaved in a while and rubbed at his stubble. He owned a lot of jewelry. He had several rings and several bracelets, all gold. As were many of his teeth, which caught the light when he opened his mouth.

  He entered the back room with the arrogant gait of a man who believed he was always welcome, who always had a seat at the table. The atmosphere in the room changed in an instant. There were words and signs of greeting—everyone knew him—but no one was pleased by his unexpected arrival.

  Least of all Victor.

  He hid it, of course. He acted as if he didn’t have a clue who Diaz was, as if he didn’t notice the change in atmosphere at the table.

  Diaz gestured toward him. “Who’s this?”

  “We were a man short,” the old guy explained.

  Diaz shrugged. “Now you’re not.”

  “It’s not Friday.”

  Diaz shrugged again. “I felt like a change.” He then stared at Victor. “Leave.”

  Victor was happy enough to do so. He was glad Diaz didn’t want him at the table, because Victor didn’t want to be there now either. His plan
was to learn about Diaz but to keep clear of him. Playing poker with him was the last thing he wanted to do.

  The problem was that no one else wanted Victor to go. They were making too much money.

  The old guy spoke for them. “The game’s in progress, Miguel. You’re welcome to join us, of course, but our new friend stays.”

  Diaz didn’t respond. He continued to stare. His eyes were bloodshot and he was sweating. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine Diaz enjoyed using his own merchandise.

  Victor said, “I’m happy to make room. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

  The old guy raised a hand. “No, you’re going nowhere. This is my bar. My rules.” He looked to Diaz. “What’s it going to be? Shall I fetch you another chair?”

  Diaz had come to play poker, to blow off steam or win money or both. He wasn’t going to turn around and drive away again, so he said, “Get a chair.”

  The old guy left the room to do just that, and while he did so Diaz sat down in the chair the old guy had vacated so that he was directly opposite Victor. Victor’s thoughts turned away from compiling a dossier and preparing a car bomb and toward preventing a bad situation from getting even worse.

  The old guy rolled his eyes when he returned with a new chair, only to find Diaz had taken his own. He didn’t comment, however. It was his bar, his game, his rules, but he had to keep his patrons happy. Or in the case of a clearly agitated Diaz, calm.

  He wasn’t calm, though. Whether it was the drugs in his system, his recent woman trouble, a missing crew of private-security men, or perhaps not getting his way regarding Victor’s presence, Diaz became increasingly volatile as the game failed to go his way.

  He didn’t like Victor. He hadn’t liked him from the start, and liked him less now that Diaz wasn’t doing so well. He was quiet and sullen and had an unmistakable air of menace about him. This was a man who was quick to anger and didn’t like to lose. A dangerous combination.

  When he was forced to fold, he left his seat to shoot pool at the nearby table, returning when it was time for another hand to begin. Leaving the table during play was against poker etiquette, but the other players, used to Diaz’s temper, allowed him to let off steam to keep things friendly.

  Victor, so used to recognizing the signs of escalating danger, knew potting a few balls would not be enough to calm Diaz down. The cartel man needed a win before it turned ugly. Given the cards were not on Diaz’s side, he was going to create his much-needed win another way. Victor saw it coming, but not soon enough to do anything about it.

  “He’s cheating,” Diaz said when Victor won a hand.

  He had three of a kind—jacks—which had been called by a man with two aces.

  The quick-fire banter halted. All gazes fell on Diaz, who stared at Victor with unblinking eyes.

  “He’s cheating,” Diaz said again.

  Victor hadn’t been. He had played with a single jack, only for another to be revealed on the flop, and then the third with the final card. He had lost three or four hands in a row before.

  The old guy who owned the bar said, “What do you mean, cheating?”

  “He had a card up his sleeve. One of those jacks, obviously.”

  The old guy shook his head. “Don’t be stupid. We’d have seen it.”

  Diaz was still staring at Victor. “Not if he’s good.”

  Victor remained silent.

  The owner looked at him. “Do you mind rolling up your sleeves?”

  His expression and tone was apologetic. He didn’t want to humor Diaz, but he knew he had to.

  “Sure,” Victor said, and did as asked.

  “Look,” the guy said, gesturing. “No cards.”

  “Check the deck,” Diaz said. “There’ll be five jacks.”

  Victor’s gaze said: I know what you’ve done.

  Diaz’s gaze said: Good.

  The owner gave Victor the same apologetic look once more and started collecting up the cards. He slid them across the table from where people had folded or already made halfhearted attempts to slide them over.

  Victor’s gaze stayed on Diaz. Diaz’s gaze stayed on Victor.

  The old guy pushed all the cards together into one deck and began sorting through them, laying first one jack on to the table, then the second. Then the third and the fourth.

  Then a fifth jack followed.

  Diaz wasn’t watching, but he smiled when he heard the gasps and tuts.

  Victor nodded at him. It was a good scam, a good trick. Good vengeance. Diaz didn’t like to lose, so he cheated. He kept a spare jack on him to palm into a hand. Not an ace or even a king. People paid attention to those cards. Most players would play a hand with just a single of either, but a jack? Not for experienced players. Not guys like these. Victor knew Diaz had slipped it onto the table moments after Victor had showed his triple, when everyone’s attention was diverted. Diaz had superb sleight-of-hand skills because even Victor hadn’t seen it, and there wasn’t a lot he didn’t notice.

  “This is not good,” the old guy said, peering over the gold rims of his glasses.

  Victor said, “I know.”

  “It’s about as far from good as it gets.”

  Victor took his gaze from Diaz because the men at the table were as tense as they were angry. They were silent, but they didn’t need to speak to communicate. They were sprinters at the gate, but they were waiting for guidance, for authorization. Diaz was the cartel guy, the dangerous one, but it was the old guy who commanded their respect. They were waiting for his decision.

  He said to Victor, “Put your palms on the table.”

  Victor had to perform no evaluation of the situation because he had done so already. He did so almost without thinking. Within moments of entering any room he memorized the layout; he knew where every improvised weapon lay, where every obstacle was located; he knew who to take out first, who was strongest, who was carrying a weapon. He had that data in his mind, continually updated as circumstances changed. He accessed that information now, putting together a plan of action.

  He placed his palms on the table.

  The old guy motioned for one of the players to stand up, who was quick to obey. “Hold him down.”

  Two strong hands gripped Victor’s wrists. He noted that the guy holding him needed no detailed instruction. Hold him down could be interpreted a lot of ways, but clarification wasn’t necessary because they had done this before.

  The old guy’s mouth opened, but before he could speak, Diaz said, “I’ll do it.”

  Diaz stood and circled the table. He took his time, because he was enjoying himself. He wanted to savor every triumphant moment.

  “We have this rule,” the old guy said, “to deal with cheaters and to discourage would-be cheaters.”

  Diaz said, “We break their hands.”

  Victor looked up at him. “I worked that part out for myself.”

  The old guy took one of the pool cues to hand to Diaz, but he shook his head and pushed the cue away. Instead, he took out his gun.

  It was six-shooter, a revolver. A snub-nosed .45. A heavy piece of metal, good for breaking the small bones of a hand. The weapon was polished and had an ivory grip. Victor had never been a fan of revolvers. Reliability was excellent—they almost never misfired—but reloading burned time and they couldn’t be suppressed. The way Diaz held the gun said he had a fondness for it. It was a prized possession.

  The old guy said, “It’s not personal, but it’s the way we do things. We’re not good people here, but we have rules. This table is our church. This game is our worship. It has to be respected.”

  Victor said, “I understand.”

  The guy holding Victor was standing to his right. Diaz was to Victor’s left. The table was in front of him. Boxed in, there was nowhere to go. He kept his arms loose to give the impression of passivity to the guy
holding him down, but the grip on Victor’s wrists remained strong. The pressure pinning his hands down didn’t relent. The guy wasn’t going to be fooled into lessening the hold.

  Diaz said, “It’s not personal,” because it was personal.

  He adjusted his hold on the gun so he had it braced in his palm. The barrel was too short to hold it like a hammer. Diaz placed his left palm on the table next to Victor’s hands to both brace and help his aim. The guy holding Victor’s wrists down strengthened his grip and pushed down harder to compensate for the inevitable reaction.

  Diaz wouldn’t go for the fingers. The back of Victor’s hand made the natural target. Five metacarpals for five fingers, covered with skin. A little muscle, some blood vessels. The gun was big enough and heavy enough to hit four of the five metacarpals at once. The first metacarpal that led to the thumb would be spared in all likelihood, but the bones that were struck would be crushed. If Diaz aimed more for the knuckles, the phalanges could be broken too. If he aimed more toward the wrist, the carpals might also break.

  In either case, surgery would be needed to put all the pieces back together, and months of recovery, maybe irreparable nerve damage, and permanent loss of strength and dexterity. Not fatal, because the major blood vessels wouldn’t be severed by blunt-force trauma, although there would be significant internal bleeding. A person so damaged could play poker again eventually, but such injuries would be catastrophic for Victor. Even if he survived so long a period of vulnerability while his hands healed, he would never be the same again. He would lose his fitness during that time. He would lose his strength. His skills would erode without practice. And then, after the bones had all healed, it might not be over. He might struggle to hold a gun steady or squeeze a trigger. He could fail to maintain a choke hold.