Kill for Me

by Tom Wood

  It wasn’t a long wait, which was one of the many reasons Victor was partial to fast food. The longer he stood in line, the longer he sat at a table, the more he put himself at risk. He liked to watch his food being prepared too. There was next to no danger of being poisoned while eating out—an enemy would need to know in advance where Victor would be eating, and he never knew himself—but by watching he could be certain.

  The hot dog was big and loaded with guacamole. It came on a paper plate that bowed under the weight. The guy with the ponytail shoved a fistful of napkins Victor’s way and then flopped down onto a seat of some kind—Victor couldn’t see—and commenced thumbing his phone screen.

  Victor took his food to a nearby bench and sat down. The bench was made of wood and painted white. The paint had split and chipped from sun exposure. It was hot to sit on. He ate in quiet bliss for a few minutes. He ate a little faster than he would choose to, because he knew the bliss wouldn’t last long.

  “Mind if I join you?” another customer asked.

  Victor gestured. “Be my guest.”

  He had seen the man approach, of course. No one came into Victor’s personal space without his knowing about it, and he had seen this man long before. Even a civilian couldn’t miss this man’s approach, given the particulars of his appearance. On the face of it, a tourist. He wasn’t dressed like a tourist, though. He was dressed like a traveler, an adventurer, a student on a gap year off to see what life was like outside of his comfort zone. Only a couple of decades or more too old for that. He had no camera. He had no guidebook. He had no wife or friend or companion of any sort. He was alone like Victor, because he was like Victor.

  The man sat down next to him, so unhurried in his movements he seemed in slow motion. “Much obliged.” He had a hot dog of his own. “I saw yours and thought it looked good.”

  “It’s excellent,” Victor assured.

  The man took a bite and nodded his large head while he chewed. Whereas Victor sat perched on the bench, straight-backed and head over hips, ready to spring into action, this guy leaned backward in a relaxed pose, elbows at his sides. His face was damp with perspiration.

  “You’re right,” he said after swallowing.

  The accent was Czech; unmistakable to Victor’s ear. He finished and wiped his mouth and hands on a napkin. He bunched it up, along with the wrapper, and tossed them into a nearby bin. He remained sitting on the bench.

  “I hope you don’t mind my coming over,” the man said.

  “Not at all,” Victor said. “I prefer to get introductions out of the way as soon as possible.”

  The man nodded his agreement. “It felt only polite to introduce myself.”

  Victor said, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Then my presence here is no surprise to you?”

  “Until yesterday I had no idea you even existed.”

  “The shack?”

  Victor inclined his head.

  The parasol protecting the guy with the ponytail had a rainbow of colors that had been bleached pale by the sun. He played music from his phone. Something tinny and soulless.

  “I’ve grown weary of hiding in the shadows.”

  Victor said, “I don’t imagine that’s easy for you.”

  “It’s not my forte, I’ll admit.”

  He was as tall as Victor had expected, but much thinner. He was pale and whatever hair he had left was cut so short as to be invisible. His eyebrows were dark, but thin and sparse. He moved in a slow, precise manner. When he smiled, he revealed yellow teeth, and the skin around his eyes creased into many lines. A cream linen shirt hung loose from the man’s thin frame, the shirttails dancing around his midriff in the breeze. The sleeves were rolled up to reveal long, hairless forearms crisscrossed with jutting veins. The shirt was unbuttoned to the sternum. Victor could see ribs beneath a veneer of skin and muscle. He looked weak, but not fragile. There was more strength than what could be measured by muscle mass, and no strength was needed to squeeze a trigger or slip a knife point between ribs. The man projected no threat, but Victor recognized danger when he saw it.

  “So you know who I am,” the man said.

  “My competitor.”

  “You don’t seem to mind that we are in competition.”

  Victor said, “I don’t see this as a competition.”

  “Such a thing is beneath you?”

  Victor shook his head. “I don’t see you as competition.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I don’t see why you need to be rude about it.”

  “Stating facts is rude?”

  “That depends on how they’re stated.”

  “Then you’ll have to forgive my lack of manners.”

  The man said, “I’m not sure I want to, but, as they say, to err is human, to forgive is divine. May I ask, how did you know I’d been to the shack after you?”

  There was no harm in answering, so Victor said, “There was cobweb stretched between two beams on the ceiling. When I went back, it was gone.”

  The pale man nodded in a slow and thoughtful gesture. “My hat,” he said. “I didn’t notice I had disturbed any web.”

  “Then,” Victor continued, “I knew you were very tall and your presence no happenstance because you had left that leaf near the entrance.”

  He continued the slow nods. “So, you must have entered elsewhere. Ah, you’re a climber, then. I must admit I find such things a little . . . awkward.”

  “I bet.”

  “And unnecessary.”

  Victor shrugged. He wasn’t prepared to argue climbing’s benefits. He didn’t feel the need to convince the man he was wrong. He preferred it that way.

  The pale man said, “I feel as if I’ve had an unfair advantage. I knew about you from the start. As I knew you didn’t know about me.”

  “Now we have an even playing field. If you mean to disrupt my work, you’ve lost your chance.”

  “Who says I would have disturbed you? I might have let you get on with it in peace.”

  “I bet,” Victor said. “Let me kill Maria, then you kill me and claim my fee as your own.”

  The tall man’s eyes crinkled with a smile. “The thought may have flashed through my consciousness.”

  Victor raised an eyebrow. “It would have crossed my mind too.”

  “But that was before. Now that isn’t what I want. If you will permit me, I have a proposal for your consideration.”

  • Chapter 61 •

  The tall, pale man said nothing for a little while. The hot-dog stand was popular and the immediate area became too crowded with customers to discuss anything without the risk of being overheard. So they sat in silence, side by side, killer next to killer. The sun was hot and the air heavy with moisture. Victor was sweating, but the pale man was drenched. His scalp was reddening. He wasn’t suited to the heat, and smelled like it. There was a scent of stale sweat, bitter and strong.

  In time, the line lessened until the guy with the ponytail was serving the last customer who had been in line: an old man with trousers he kept having to pull up. He walked away with a brown paper bag stuffed with food. For himself or to be shared, Victor couldn’t tell.

  The tall man said, “If you don’t mind me asking, how are things progressing with your preparations?”

  “I don’t mind talking shop,” Victor said. “They are progressing as expected.”

  “A tricky target, isn’t she? Always protected, always at her ranch.”

  “Not always.”

  “A long-range rifle shot is obviously the most viable course of action.”

  “Obviously,” Victor agreed.

  “But not the only way.”

  Victor nodded. “Are you looking for advice? Do you want to copy my homework?”

  The man smirked. “And here was I, prepared to offer you a
look at my own.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Are you so very arrogant?”

  Victor shook his head. “Not at all, but what works for you and what works for me are unlikely to align. But, more to the point, why would you want to help me?”

  “So that we may help one another.”

  “Explain.”

  “For one of us to succeed, the other must fail.”

  “That’s how such a competition works.”

  “But it doesn’t have to be like that, does it? We can both succeed.”

  “Fifty-fifty?”

  The man said, “Fifty percent of something is better than one hundred percent of nothing.”

  “How could we possibly trust one another?”

  “Are you a professional?”

  “I am.”

  “As am I,” the man said. “Aside from being a killer, I’m a model citizen. I keep my lawn short. I pay my taxes. I even volunteer from time to time.”

  Victor said, “You’re a better man than I.”

  “Do you only work with those you can completely trust?”

  “I generally work alone.”

  “Generally?”

  Victor remained silent. There was no need to elaborate and his thoughts were elsewhere. The linen shirt was transparent where it clung to the man’s shoulders. His clavicles jutted out, long and obvious, and Victor couldn’t help but imagine snapping them with downward strikes with the blade of his palm. They were too inviting to ignore as targets.

  The man said, “You don’t have to trust me for us to work together. If you like, this can be the last time we are in close proximity. But we can share intelligence remotely. We can assist one another at arm’s length.”

  “Only one of us gets paid.”

  “So why would the other share his purse?”

  Victor nodded.

  “Simple. To ensure his survival.”

  Victor raised an eyebrow.

  “It is no threat,” the tall man said. “What I mean is that whichever of us collects that money will need the assistance of the other to ensure continued survival in the face of external threats.”

  “From our employer?”

  “Of course. You don’t expect Heloise Salvatierra to honor the contract, do you?”

  “Clients turning against me is not uncommon. But why do you expect betrayal in this instance?”

  “She’s already betrayed you by hiring me, as her consul made clear. You were not to know of my involvement. So why wouldn’t she betray you a second time?”

  “Gratitude? The war with her sister will be over.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “I don’t know what I believe at this particular moment.”

  “Understandable, of course. Take your time.”

  “I wasn’t planning on rushing.”

  The tall man’s voice rose for the first time. “The very idea of competition is contemptible. It offends me. That offense must be punished.”

  “I don’t take these things personally.”

  “They told me about you. They told me what you looked like. Is not such a betrayal intolerable?”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever had a client who hasn’t betrayed me in some way.”

  “I think you are dishonest in the presentation of your feelings on this matter.”

  Victor shrugged. “I’m not much of a sharer.”

  “Why are you here?” the pale man asked, slowly and thoughtfully.

  Victor said, “It’s my job.”

  “That’s no answer, which is why you gave it. I, however, have no fear of you seeing into my soul. You will find nothing there you can use against me. I am here in the pursuit of beauty, for the love of art. I was given a gift to share with the world and the most efficient way of sharing it is in this field of work.”

  “How interesting,” Victor said without inflection.

  The man continued: “A paycheck is merely a happy by-product. An accident, almost. They think they own me because they are paying me. They forget that they exist because I allow them to exist. All of you exist because I allow you to exist.”

  “And we’re very grateful,” Victor said.

  The eyes crinkled and the yellow teeth appeared for a brief moment. “You should know that the Frenchman asked if I would kill you.”

  Victor thought about this. “There’s a certain sense to that. He asked me to kill Heloise.”

  Many lines deepened across the pale man’s forehead. “How interesting. And you must have declined, which is why he asked me to kill you. I’m not surprised. He is without will.”

  Victor said, “And what was your own answer?”

  “I agreed, of course. But, as I said, that’s not what I want.”

  The sun was overhead. There was no shade in the little courtyard. The man looked down at his pale, thin forearms. So white in the bright light they almost glowed.

  “I don’t tan,” he said with something like regret. “I never tan. I am the shadow that light forgot.”

  The guy with the ponytail was now talking on his phone, one moment laughing and joking with whoever was on the other end of the line, the next moment shouting and cursing.

  “I find them so very ugly,” the pale man said, observing. “Their lives are a plague. An insufferable, disgusting plague. They’re better dead. All of them are better as corpses. Then, finally, they shut up. They’re still. Then they can be beautiful. Only then can they be.”

  He finished wiping his hands. Like the rest of him, his hands were large but elongated—slender bones that seemed almost stretched out. In a funhouse of mirrors his squashed reflection would be that of a normal-sized man. His nails were bitten down to the quick. His cuticles were dry and cracked.

  “My appetite is that of a man half my size,” the man said when there was half of the hot dog remaining. “However hungry, however good it tastes, food never satisfies me.” He presented his leftovers to Victor. “Would you like to finish it?”

  “I’ll pass.”

  He threw away the remnants of his meal and stood. His shadow fell over Victor.

  “What is your answer to my proposal?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Take your time,” he began. “I’ll leave a number you can reach me at with your concierge. Please don’t share it.”

  “Not my style.”

  “Of course,” he said with a note of apology in his tone. “And I must say it is a curious thing to talk to another killer.” He did not elaborate. He lifted his wicker hat to wipe his brow with a handkerchief. The white square of cloth was soaked when he had finished. “I hate it here,” the man said. “I hate the people. I hate the noise. In particular, I hate the climate.”

  “Personally, I like it. When the contract is complete, I might even stay.”

  “How very curious,” the tall man said. “I have enjoyed our conversation. It is unimaginably rare that I get the chance to speak with someone in this business for whom I have any respect.”

  Victor said, “It’s even rarer for me.”

  The tall, pale man said nothing further and went on his way. Victor watched him until he had faded into the distance and his thoughts were interrupted when his burner phone chimed. He checked the message. It was from Petra.

  She’d been booked to work on board Maria Salvatierra’s yacht over the weekend.

  • Chapter 62 •

  Victor sat on the bed while Joanna showered. She took her time, making good use of the walk-in cubicle, the overhead waterfall dispenser, the excellent water pressure. Victor missed showers. It had been years since he had felt the spray of hot water on his shoulders, on his back. He missed the efficiency too. Two minutes from that first twist of the dial to squeaky clean could not be replicated any other way. He knew.
He had tried every one without success, but two minutes of sensory deprivation under a shower was close to a good night’s sleep in its potential for lethality. It had been a long time since he had killed anyone who was taking a shower—he didn’t count using a shower head to drown a woman trying to kill him—but it had once been one of his preferred strike points. Even hard targets took showers, and even the hardest of targets was vulnerable that way. It was only a matter of learning their time window and waiting. No one took a gun with them.

  Her long shower increased the room’s humidity. He had turned off the air-conditioning, as he always did. The chance of an assassin pumping in poison gas was minimal—it wasn’t a method he would ever even consider—but hotels were notorious for spreading disease. He didn’t remember the last time he had been sick, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Prevention over cure, always.

  She returned looking happy. “I don’t know what you’re paying for this suite, and I don’t want to, but it’s worth every cent just for that shower. I mean, wow. I never want to get out of there. Best thing ever, right?”

  He nodded.

  She had taken one of the white robes, but left it open. She looked great as she combed her wet hair with her fingers, before pulling it back into a loose ponytail.

  “Truth be told, the only reason I agreed to see you again after the first time was so I could come back here and take another shower.”

  Victor shrugged. “The end result is the same, so I don’t mind.”

  She shook her head but smiled. She started gathering her things.

  He said, “You’re not going to stay over?”

  “No can do, buddy. Too many numbers to crunch. I need to be in the office bright and breezy.”

  “You work too hard.”

  “You’d better believe it. I’ll be doing this when I’m in a wheelchair. They’ll have to drag me away from those spreadsheets, kicking and screaming. Well, assuming I can still kick and scream when I’m ninety.”

  Victor regarded her. “You’re surprisingly passionate about what you do.”