Kill for Me

by Tom Wood

  He was wearing down faster than his opponent, the gap in their stamina widening to a void as Victor suffered more from their traded blows. His enemy saw it but kept his composure. He was content to let attrition do the hard work. Had he succumbed to hubris, Victor might have fared better, but El Perro was too patient to make a mistake he didn’t have to make. He wasn’t going to do anything different, because what he was already doing was working.

  Every strike that made its way past Victor’s guard hurt and pushed him farther away from his ultimate target, back into the open-plan area. His ears were ringing from the elbow jabs that connected with his skull. His ribs were on fire from the body shots. Each breath he took made him feel sick from the knee strikes he had taken.

  He fought on, failing to block a fast kick to his thigh, too slow to slip an elbow to his skull, too weak to ward off the punches to his ribs.

  His knees buckled, but he remained standing. Going to the floor was the last thing he wanted. It would be the end of it. Sheer will kept him on his feet.

  Fresh, Victor could dictate the pace. He could exploit the inevitable gaps in defense to land vicious strikes. But he was fatigued and had lost the edge of his speed. The timing was there, but he was a split second too slow.

  Victor revised his strategy. His opponent was too strong, too tough, to be defeated with counterattacks. He absorbed them and kept on coming. Victor had never encountered such imperviousness. The longer the fight went on, the better El Perro’s chances. Victor had taken far fewer blows, but he was feeling them. His head ached and a piercing whine interfered with his hearing, drowning out all but the loudest noises. Each breath felt tight and constrained. He would be vomiting blood before the night was out, he was sure. In a war of attrition, he was destined to lose.

  El Perro said, “I see the doubt in your eyes.”

  “You see what you want to see.”

  Victor regarded his opponent. The Guatemalan was short and square. His shoulders were wide enough to fit an extra head on each. His hands were two blocks of stone at his hips. He had thick, tanned skin, weathered and coarse. His head and face were shaved but dark with stubble. If there was a neck, it was disguised by the triangular trapezius muscles and dense jaw. His eyes were half-hidden by drooping lids and prominent brow bones, but Victor saw an intensity in them.

  Hard to recognize at first, but he understood where that intensity came from. Victor was used to intense gazes. Determination, hatred, surprise, terror were all things he was used to seeing. This look was different. He was used to people wanting to kill him, and some of those people really wanted to kill him. Often because he was trying to kill them too, and nothing made a person more determined to kill than to avoid being killed. That kind of determination was visceral; it was instinctual. An emotional response. This guy’s was of another kind. Something was driving him, energizing him, beyond the need to survive. Something gave him more strength, more ferocity. There was only one explanation: Heloise. So this guy was loyal. Fiercely so. That was why he was so determined to kill Victor. He wasn’t just doing his job. He was protecting someone he cared about.

  “Is she worth dying for?” Victor asked.

  El Perro didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  “And who will protect her when you’re dead?”

  The Guatemalan’s eyes narrowed. Not angry but afraid, only not for himself.

  Victor gestured. “Let’s get this done.”

  They exchanged attacks. El Perro loaded up to throw his punches with as much power as possible, because he was enraged now at the thought of Heloise’s death. Victor blocked and slipped, having plenty of time to see them coming and position himself for vicious counterattacks—body shots delivered by fists and knees.

  The Guatemalan took them well but each one Victor landed chipped away at El Perro’s reserves of energy and will. The frustration and rage were obvious, because El Perro responded by throwing his punches with even more intent.

  This made them slower and more predictable. Victor expended only as much energy as he needed to, stepping out of the way of each strike, circling around to force his opponent to turn on the spot after him and lose his balance, and in doing so letting Victor steer him to the edge of the suite, to the shattered floor-to-ceiling window.

  El Perro didn’t understand. He was gasping now, exhausted from throwing all the big shots that had failed to land. Victor picked his own shots. He slipped quick elbow strikes past El Perro’s nonexistent defenses. When the Guatemalan paused to get his breath, there was more blood on his face than sweat.

  Victor caught the next punch, the fist in one hand, the elbow in the other, and locked out the arm.

  Victor walked him backward, the locked arm acting as an immovable barrier between them, preventing El Perro from making any attacks of his own. He was off balance and his feet were working hard just to keep him upright. The left arm was thrashing, sometimes trying to reach Victor, sometimes trying to find a handhold, but failing at each.

  When El Perro realized where he was going, he cried out in fear, for himself this time.

  He looked over one shoulder, looking toward the inevitable, shouting and begging.

  Victor kept walking him.

  Of course, all El Perro had to do was lift his feet from the floor and he would fall straight down, but it was not uncommon for people to ignore the obvious when they were flooded with fear.

  When they reached the edge, El Perro’s free hand found something to grab hold of: the broken window itself. He gripped so hard blood bloomed out from between his fingers before the glass shattered in his hand and Victor shoved him out into the night.

  He turned to see Heloise picking up one of the guns from the floor.

  She looked as she always looked. She was tall and poised in a glamorous dress, perfectly presented, ready for a night out, not fighting for her life. If she was scared, she didn’t show it. Victor grimaced and took a step forward. She didn’t take one back. Heloise had the pistol held out in one hand, muzzle pointed at his torso. Center mass, the biggest target. She couldn’t miss.

  “You betrayed me,” she said. “I could have made you rich beyond your wildest dreams. You could have had a whole continent of clients based on my recommendation alone. You would be revered and feared wherever you set foot, from Tijuana to Buenos Aires.”

  “Some things are more important than money,” Victor said. “And I prefer it when people are not afraid of me. They reveal their true natures so much more readily.”

  “Was it the insult?” she asked. “Was it the need for revenge that brought this upon you?”

  “I’m a hard man to offend, I assure you. You are entitled to do what you think is best to look after your own interests, as am I.”

  “Turning on your client is in your best long-term interests?”

  “Few people will ever know what transpired here.”

  “Even if you had been successful, your broker would know. You would have cost them a lucrative revenue stream. Would it have been worth it?”

  Victor shrugged. “A broker is an agent. They work for me, not the other way around.”

  “My men would have hunted you down wherever you went.”

  Victor shook his head. “They’ll be too busy fighting one another to take your seat to be thinking about the person who gave them a chance to sit on it. If anything, they’ll send me a thank-you card.”

  Heloise stepped closer. “Are you so stubborn you don’t understand you failed?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I have the gun. You should have shot me, not Luis. You wasted your best chance.”

  Victor said, “I didn’t shoot him.”

  “Semantics,” she said with a bitter smile. “It was an automated rig acting all by itself.”

  He shook his head. “Not this time. This time I have a partner.”

  Victor threw himself to t
he floor and a final shot rang out.

  • Chapter 73 •

  Constantin didn’t really care who he killed, only that he killed. Whether it was a nameless sicario or a cartel boss, it was all the same to him. They were all ugly, all unworthy of life. He didn’t like to discriminate. After all, who was he to judge? His soul was even uglier than the meat sack it resided inside. So it had been an easy decision to join forces with the Wraith and kill Heloise on behalf of her sister.

  He left the unfinished parking garage and drove away with the rifle to rendezvous with the Wraith as planned. There were no celebrations, no congratulations either. They still had work to do.

  The Wraith arranged the meeting with Maria over the phone while Constantin waited. The details were discussed briefly and agreed upon without fuss. Constantin envied his ability to deal with clients so closely, so personally. Constantin preferred to keep his distance from clients and people in general. He was not one of them, and had no longing to be near them, unless it was to elevate them to a higher state of aesthetics.

  The Wraith had worked out the plan, knowing his presence would distract Heloise’s security and provide Constantin the opportunity to sneak into the compound. He really was quite the tactician.

  Which meant Constantin had to be very careful how he killed him. Before, he had not understood just whom he was up against. He had killed other professionals in the past, of course. One could not thrive in this business without doing so, but the Wraith was a cut above the norm. But so was Constantin.

  It was nothing personal, and it wasn’t even business. It was for the satisfaction, the amusement, the irony of the universe, because there was no reason to kill him beyond his innate ugliness. As things stood, they would each receive a considerable amount of money from Maria for a successful hit on Heloise. Constantin could retire with his share, and go back to murdering people pro bono.

  Where was the fun in that?

  “Set up here,” the Wraith said.

  They were on the walkway of an old water tower overlooking an expanse of empty brownfield space. At the center of the space was a low building. A former cabaret club, the Wraith had explained.

  “You’ll have a good view, wherever they approach from.”

  Constantin nodded. He assembled the rifle, a beautiful brand-new AX50. It had been a joy to use it against Heloise and that snake Lavandier. The one-way window had been no barrier to the sophisticated infrared scope.

  Should I shoot the Wraith first or Maria? he wondered.

  The Wraith was the greater threat, and so from a purely tactical viewpoint he should be killed at the earliest available opportunity. Which would be before Maria even arrived. Constantin pictured the Wraith walking across that expanse of empty space and understood the problem. He would be looking at the Wraith’s back. The Wraith wouldn’t be looking at Constantin. He wouldn’t know what was happening. He wouldn’t understand the betrayal.

  Constantin said, “Would you like to hear something funny?”

  “Always.”

  “Our paths have crossed before. Before we ate hot dogs, I mean.”

  The Wraith was unconvinced. “I find it hard to believe that I don’t remember you.”

  Constantin smirked. “I was sitting down. It was only for a moment. You were distracted. We didn’t actually meet, of course, but I saw you. I can picture it clearly. You were wearing a charcoal suit, white shirt, and no tie. You had longer hair and a beard then. The same tan, though. It was in Minsk, and I was part of a crew that was hired to kill you. I was new to this particular group, so I was tasked with little more than being a lookout. It was outside a railway station on a cold November’s day. Does any of that sound familiar?”

  The Wraith remained silent.

  “I shall take your reticence as confirmation, although I don’t need it. In case you’ve forgotten, you killed most of the crew. I had to saw up the three corpses you left in a back room. How did a large shard of mirror glass end up pinning one of their hands to a table?”

  “That would be telling.”

  “It was something of a curiosity to me then, truth be told. There were no broken mirrors anywhere in that station. I checked every conceivable one. Of course, then I realized it must have been from a toilet on a train. They obviously didn’t frisk you very well.” He flexed the fingers of his hand. “Must have been very painful.”

  The Wraith said nothing.

  “You look different now, of course. Your face isn’t quite the same, but it is still you. We cannot change our essence, can we?”

  “I’ll keep trying.”

  “I want you to know that I bear you no ill will from that day. I didn’t even realize I knew you before I sat down with that hot dog, and it wouldn’t have changed things had I known. You lost me a job and a sizable reward, but it’s happened before and will no doubt happen again. It’s not personal.”

  The Wraith understood. He was a professional.

  “Here,” the Wraith said, presenting a burner phone. “I’ll call you when I’m inside and we’ll keep an open line. You can let me know when they’re close.”

  “Good idea,” Constantin said, taking the phone and thinking he would call the Wraith in a few minutes’ time, when he was halfway to the abandoned club.

  I don’t mean to interrupt, he would say, but could you please turn around so I can see your eyes before you die?

  After that, who knew what Constantin would do? Maybe he would wait for Maria to show up and he would kill her too and anyone else who couldn’t make it to cover fast enough. The AX50 had a ten-round magazine, and there was still a full spare even after the shoot-out at the casino. Twenty antiarmor bullets were more than enough to take out a sizable entourage. Or . . . maybe he would just go. Kill the Wraith and take the first flight to a cooler climate.

  Either way he would leave Guatemala in a better mood than he had arrived in.

  He had a thought, sudden and glorious. He should kill the DEA agent before he left. Of course. He was angry at himself for almost missing such an opportunity. He could have real fun with that. He could imagine her face as he explained to her just who her new boyfriend really was.

  I killed him purely because I wanted to. Which is why I’m here now . . .

  The Wraith checked his watch. “They won’t be long. I’d better get in position.”

  Constantin nodded. He had finished assembling the rifle and set it in place on the walkway of the water tower.

  “All set,” he said.

  The Wraith had explained the plan: “Maria will bring the money here, in person but not alone. It’ll be cash, so it will be cumbersome. She’ll have her men carrying it into the club. That will keep them occupied. They can’t lug suitcases and wield AKs at the same time. Wait until you see them and they’re out in the open, and start shooting. Once they drop, the rest won’t hang around in the open. They’ll scatter.”

  “Maybe Maria will play fair,” Constantin offered.

  The Wraith was adamant. “I show her proof Heloise is dead and she no longer needs to pay me. She no longer needs me alive at all.”

  Constantin said, “We stick to the plan then,” because he didn’t care who he killed, as long as he killed.

  He lay down behind the rifle, which was awkward, given his dimensions and the walkway’s restrictions. The Wraith stepped back to allow him room to test the positioning, and Constantin settled as much as he could. The metal walkway was uncomfortable, biting at his kneecaps and elbows, but he would not suffer for long. Maria would be here soon and then it would all be over.

  Constantin imagined putting half a dozen sicarios out of their eternal misery, but their ends were meaningless. No worth. No satisfaction. That would come from the Wraith. Constantin was eager to see the surprised look on the Wraith’s face when the first shot hit him, severing a leg or arm perhaps. Anywhere else would mean instant death, an
d where was the fun in that? Constantin peered down the sight and focused it on the center point of the empty lot.

  Constantin said, “I’m ready.”

  He pictured bright mists of pink and perfect arcs of crimson.

  It was his gift to the world, transforming the ugly into the beautiful.

  • Chapter 74 •

  The air was saturated in moisture. It had been raining all afternoon. A light, fine mist of a downpour that seemed without end. Puddles reflected the night sky and the gleam of distant streetlamps. There was a chill in the night too. The first time Victor had really felt the temperature drop since he had been in Guatemala. When the weather changed, so did people.

  The tall, pale man said, “I’m ready.”

  I’m ready too, Victor thought.

  He shot him in the back of the head.

  A single round, fired point-blank to the brainstem. Very little happened. The tall, pale man was already prone, so he remained so, albeit with a slackness where there had been rigidity before. His long, thin body became relaxed in death, each lifeless component coordinating with a seamless grace that he had lacked while alive. The bullet made a neat little hole and only a narrow trail of blood trickled from it, snaking down over his skull and neck and dripping to the metal walkway in a slow, steady patter.

  It was nothing personal, but it was only ever going to end one of two ways: Victor killing him or being killed in return. People said there was no honor among thieves, but there was even less between killers.

  Besides, Victor needed a corpse.

  * * *

  • • •

  Maria Salvatierra and her entourage arrived in two motorcades. The first delivered her sicarios, who formed a perimeter around the club’s car park, scouting and guarding in preparation for their patron’s arrival. Victor kept track of them by the glowing cigarettes, even if they were too far away for him to see their faces. Even in the days when he had smoked, he had never done so when working. He had never turned up to fulfill a contract stinking of tobacco. He had never performed surveillance with glowing embers to give his position away. Though it came as no surprise, it was never easy to understand why his enemies so often failed to maintain even the most basic level of professional competence.