Kill for Me

by Tom Wood

  Tonight, he’d found half of a bean burrito that was even still a little warm, and he picked off the dirt and the other garbage and settled down to enjoy his food.

  Footsteps interrupted the banquet.

  He stiffened where he sat, because he feared the two Mexicans had spotted him. But Ikal didn’t move, because he saw there was just a lone man walking toward him, and he didn’t fill the alley like those two fatsos.

  Ikal reached into the folds of his coat and drew out his penknife. He’d stolen it from a market stall and had kept it on him ever since because a young kid of no more than sixteen had beaten Ikal until he thought he was going to die and had only stopped when Ikal had pissed himself. Ikal had done nothing to the kid. The kid had just decided to beat him because he could, because Ikal didn’t matter.

  The man stopped a few feet from Ikal. His face was hidden by the darkness of the alleyway but Ikal could tell he was a foreigner.

  “What you want?” Ikal snapped. “Can’t you see I’m eating my food here?”

  “Do you have a criminal record?”

  Ikal stared with wide eyes. “What kind of question is that?”

  “A valuable one,” the man said, “if you answer it.”

  The man held a hand into the light. Between his fingers he held a hundred-quetzal banknote.

  “This can be yours if you answer me honestly. Yes or no, it doesn’t matter. You’ll get paid either way.”

  The foreigner was crazy, but Ikal played along in the hope it was a genuine offer. “No,” he said. “I’m clean. I’m no thief.”

  “Have you ever been arrested? Ever spent a night in jail?”

  “No,” Ikal snarled, angry at the implication.

  “Can you read and write?”

  Ikal searched the darkness to try to see the man’s face, to decipher what this was, but could not. “What difference does it make to you whether I can read?”

  The man produced a second banknote and Ikal’s eyes glimmered at the sight of so much money, so much opportunity. Then he grew agitated. He knew a cruel scam when he saw one.

  “What is this, some kind of joke? I tell you, boy, I may be old but I’ll kick your ass from here till Sunday if you don’t get out of my alley.”

  “I want you to write something for me,” the man explained. “No jokes. No tricks. One minute of your time for two hundred quetzals. What do you say?”

  Ikal said, “Then let’s get on with it.”

  There was a rustling as the man produced a packet of something and threw it to Ikal. It landed in his lap.

  “First, clean your hands with these.”

  “Boy, why you want me to clean my hands? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Why do you want to question my desire to pay you well for a sliver of your time?”

  Ikal grumbled and opened the packet. It contained wet wipes, like the ones ladies used to clean off makeup. He used a bunch to scrub the dirt from his hands.

  “Happy now, crazy man?”

  “Almost.”

  The man produced a thin, square object covered in a clear plastic wrap. “Open this.”

  This time he didn’t throw it, and Ikal took it from his hand. He tore off the plastic wrap and saw there was a greeting card inside. The man tossed him a pen.

  “Write down what I say, exactly as I say it. Ready?”

  “Yes. Get on with it.”

  “Write ‘For the attention of Special Agent Joanna Alamaeda . . .’”

  The man then recited several pieces of information that Ikal wrote down in his neatest handwriting. There were names and times and locations that made no sense to him, but the man made sure he got it right. Ikal wanted to get it right too. He wanted all that money.

  When it was done, the man said, “Place the card in the envelope.”

  Ikal did.

  “Seal it.”

  Ikal tore off the thin strip covering the adhesive and pressed the fold down.

  “Write this on the envelope.” The man dictated an address.

  “That it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Ikal handed the man the envelope containing the card, and the man handed Ikal the money. The man left without another word, and Ikal watched him go. When he was alone again, Ikal reached into his underpants and withdrew the slim roll of banknotes that were his life’s savings. He unhooked the rubber band and added the two hundreds to it, happy to have earned so much for doing so little, but unable to shake the feeling perhaps he should have refused the crazy foreigner’s offer.

  He consoled himself by returning to the burrito banquet.

  • Chapter 69 •

  An empty casino felt not unlike a mausoleum, Lavandier realized. The endless rows of lightless slot machines could almost be sarcophagi; the poker tables made Lavandier think of embalming stations. Hundreds of millions of dollars had been poured into its construction. Heloise, one eye on her legacy, had spared no expense. No corners had been cut. Every room was luxurious. Every feature and fixture was the best money could buy. Lavandier had pleaded restraint at every turn, and at every turn had been ignored. Now as he walked through the excess as the solitary voice of reason, he wondered if any paying customer would ever walk across the same marble floor.

  They could, of course, but not while Heloise’s shadow hung over the casino. He imagined a future, a year or two down the line, when, after refusal upon refusal, Heloise would have no choice but to sell the building to a reputable enterprise, taking a huge loss in both money and influence in the process. Then, half-broke and without the unfaltering loyalty and respect she enjoyed now, she would be usurped and Lavandier would be usurped with her.

  If he tried to walk away before then, to ensure he survived that changing of the guard, she would have him hunted down and killed before he could make it out of the country. If he remained at her side during the inevitable decline, he would not survive the usurpation. Whoever succeeded her might kill her fast out of respect. They would make an example of Lavandier.

  How had he found himself—so very clever as he knew himself to be—in a no-win situation?

  It didn’t matter. He couldn’t change the past and there was nothing to be gained in obsessing over what could not be altered. What could happen in the future was his focus. He wanted to carry on living and carry on being wealthy and enjoying all the perks that wealth provided, particularly perkiness.

  Which was why he drove to meet with Special Agent Joanna Alamaeda, who said, “Why the face-to-face?”

  It wasn’t something they really did. Maybe once or twice over the past few years, just to keep the relationship alive and well. He thought of her as his insurance policy. For the small price of a few low-level traffickers, Lavandier had established his bona fides, his usefulness to the Drug Enforcement Agency. Should he ever feel the need for a swift departure from Guatemala, he could turn himself over to Special Agent Joanna Alamaeda. A worst-case scenario. A worse than worst-case, because Lavandier would rather die than go to prison, but that was now, that was today. Tomorrow, a few years in a minimum-security resort might become suddenly appealing. Especially if he could ensure a good degree of his wealth would be hidden away well enough to be waiting for him upon his return to freedom.

  Then, a life of mediocrity in a program to keep him alive. Somewhere far away from anywhere interesting. One of those small American towns, no doubt. Picket fences. Quiet. Hell. No way. Not today. Not ever.

  “Today is different,” he explained. “Today we take our relationship to the next level.”

  He had always played down his role, of course. He was not Heloise’s counsel, but one of many advisers. High enough up the ladder to be of use, but not so high that he should know a lot more than he ever revealed. Alamaeda wouldn’t simply accept him as a source, as an inside man, but force him into testifying, and what a witness he would be
on the stand. He could sit for hours and accurately recount all manner of crimes personally committed by Heloise and seen with his own eyes, let alone all those that could be tied to her through conspiracy charges.

  “I’m waiting,” she said.

  Lavandier said, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “I’m starting to believe that you’re wasting my time.”

  “Forgive me, but you should believe in ghosts, because there is one in Guatemala City as we speak. A spirit conjured by my employer to put harm upon her sister. The Wraith.”

  “Who is this guy?”

  “He has no name I could find, and may not have one at all, but he’s very good at what he does, I can tell you that, at least.”

  “What does this Wraith do exactly?”

  “He kills people for considerable amounts of money.”

  “You’re talking about a hit man.”

  Lavandier nodded. “Hired in Madrid by Heloise herself to kill Maria, to end the war, to ensure victory.”

  “How long has he been here?”

  “Some weeks now.”

  “And what has he been doing all of those weeks?”

  Lavandier shrugged. “Preparing, I suppose, but in truth I know nothing of his methods.”

  “Are you going to give me anything I can actually use?”

  “I always have, haven’t I?”

  They had a perfect illusion of symbiosis. He gave up traffickers whose usefulness was on the decline, and in doing so established himself as a trusted informant, a man on the inside, a valuable asset who had the ear of a DEA agent. Plus, he enjoyed the subterfuge. For a coward, the thrill of taking such risks was a surprising high. He liked to think he was slowly corrupting Alamaeda. He liked that even such a supposedly stalwart champion of justice and virtue could be manipulated into betraying everything she thought she believed in.

  Lavandier said, “You know, of course, that Miguel Diaz is dead.”

  She nodded.

  “The Wraith killed him.”

  Alamaeda stepped closer. “Say again?”

  “The Wraith killed Miguel Diaz.”

  “He was paid to?”

  “Oh no, not at all. I don’t know, but he assures me it was to further the objective of killing Maria.”

  “You have proof he killed Diaz?”

  “Of course not. That’s your job, not mine.”

  “I’m not going to chase after some apparitional Spaniard hired by Heloise, based on your assurances alone.”

  “I didn’t say the Wraith was Spanish, only that he was hired in Spain.”

  “But he’s Latino?”

  “No, probably European.”

  “Probably?”

  “We spoke Spanish, and his was as good as mine.”

  She said, “You have a description, surely?”

  “Over six feet. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Lean.”

  “Notable features?”

  “None.”

  “That all sounds pretty generic. Kind of like you just pulled those details out of the air. Almost like he doesn’t really exist.”

  Lavandier showed a thin smile. “It is not my fault he is nondescript. I suspect that my failure to provide sufficient distinguishing details of him is no accident, either a precursor to his success in his chosen profession else a deliberate act, series of acts, to ensure it.”

  “I see,” Alamaeda sighed. “So, he’s either made up or some kind of chameleon. Great, and no sale. I want something solid before I leave, otherwise this conversation meant nothing and I’ll walk away right now. I’ll get back in my car. I’ll forget this ever happened, but I won’t forget you wasted my time with a make-believe assassin.”

  Lavandier thought for a moment. “What if I can prove to you that he exists? What if you can see him with your own eyes? I could arrange a face-to-face, given enough time.”

  All of a sudden, Alamaeda was in no rush to leave. Her posture relaxed. She was here to stay. He hadn’t even got to the best part yet.

  “Agent Alamaeda,” he began. “We’re getting sidetracked by this killer, by Diaz. That’s only a small part of why I’m here, only a fraction of what I know. And what I know, and you need to know, is that the Wraith was recently successful in the task he was hired to complete. Maria Salvatierra is dead. Murdered.”

  Alamaeda’s expression didn’t change. “Is that so?”

  Lavandier nodded. Just a little nod. Understated. Classy. “Yes, that is so. The news hasn’t broken yet, and I’m not sure when it will. I imagine her lieutenants will keep it hidden for as long as possible while they seek to limit the damage to the cartel. But, believe me, it’s true.”

  “Yeah, that’s the problem. I don’t believe you. Why should I?”

  “Because I’ve seen proof, Agent Alamaeda, and because I’ve even met the hit man responsible for Maria’s murder. I was there when Heloise hired him. It was in sunny Madrid, in a lovely suite at the Ritz, no less.”

  “Okay,” she said, still skeptical but too intrigued to dismiss his claims. “Let’s assume what you’re telling me is true.”

  “It is,” he assured.

  “If you’re right, if it is true that you’re so close to Heloise, if it’s true that Maria was killed on Heloise’s orders, why are you telling all of this to me?”

  “Because I’m scared. Because I’ve had enough.”

  “Well, you’re not the first guy to realize he didn’t much like the bed he’s made for himself and decided to cash it in for a plane ticket to a new life Stateside.”

  Lavandier almost laughed. “Oh no, you mistake my intentions. I have no plans to go anywhere. I’m willing to let you use what I know to bring down Heloise Salvatierra. I’m willing to give you the hit man who killed her sister. But when the dust settles, I want the casino.”

  “You have lofty aspirations, don’t you, Mr. Lavandier?”

  “The casino is a tiny price to pay for the complete destruction of the Salvatierra cartel, is it not?”

  “It does sound like a good deal, but ultimately it’s not up to me.”

  “But you’ll present the proposal to your superiors?”

  “Not on this conversation alone.”

  “How about this then?” He reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew the small box with the black ribbon. He removed the lid and held up the ziplock bag so Alamaeda could see the silver pendant stained with blood. “This was Maria’s. This is her blood. It was taken from her by the Wraith when he killed her on her yacht this past weekend.”

  Lavandier was smiling with triumph, too caught up in his own production, his own success, to notice that Alamaeda was still not convinced.

  “Nice try, asshole,” she said as she walked away, “but I know for a fact that Maria isn’t dead. If the Wraith really does exist, then he’s played you for a fool.”

  • Chapter 70 •

  Victor had been in many casinos. Sometimes to work. Sometimes to gamble. The latter was rare, although it hadn’t always been. An old acquaintance had told him he was addicted to risk, and maybe there was some truth to the observation, but Victor had no desire to understand himself any more than he already did. He didn’t want any more answers.

  This casino had no name, but was otherwise the finished article as far as he could tell. It was a Vegas-level super casino, just as huge, just as gaudy, just as mazelike. The sentries kept him at the gate for about as long as he expected. Enough time to pass on the message that he was here. Enough time for deliberation. Enough time for the answer to come back. He parked the car he had stolen right outside the entrance to the casino proper, where the valet station stood but where no valets waited to take his keys and park in the nearby multistory garage.

  A well-dressed guy was waiting for him and invited him into the building, where another search was conducted. The sentries at the g
ate had done the same, of course, but it would have been reckless to trust a single frisk when inviting an assassin inside. This wasn’t only a business, but also a home.

  The well-dressed guy did a good job with the search. Victor wouldn’t have been able to get a weapon past him had he tried. Better to appear unthreatening at all times.

  There were several elevators that led to the many floors of the hotel, but only a single one led to the Goddess Suite, and it was operable with only one key. Victor stepped inside and the well-dressed guy used the key. He said nothing as he kept his gaze on Victor and didn’t blink for the entire ascension.

  In the silence, Victor could just about hear the whir of machinery. The car was well insulated behind the mirrored walls. Victor saw no cameras, but knew they were there somewhere. Hidden behind the glass, perhaps. They were watching him the whole time. It would be reckless not to do so.

  When the car stopped, the doors opened with an automatic mechanism to reveal a short man, squat and almost boxy. He wore a suit like the well-dressed man, but it didn’t fit quite right. A little too big at the chest, a little too loose at the arms and hips. Like Victor’s own.

  The squat man gestured for him to step out of the elevator and proceeded to search Victor for the third time. This search was more thorough than even the well-dressed man’s had been, and it was conducted without the good manners. Victor suffered the rough pat-down without comment. He understood the reasoning, after all. He agreed with it too.

  Once the squat man was sure Victor had no weapons, and in the process conveyed to Victor that he disliked him as much as he didn’t trust him, another wordless gesture beckoned Victor farther into the suite, where he found Lavandier and Heloise waiting for him.

  He hadn’t interrupted. Both were standing. Both were already looking his way. Lavandier was troubled by Victor’s presence. The Frenchman was fidgeting with his hands and shifting his weight. Heloise, however, was motionless and emotionless. Closer, he saw the curiosity in her eyes. It reminded him of when they had first met. She hadn’t expected what she had found that time in the suite in Madrid, but she was full of expectation now that he was in her own suite.