Kill for Me

by Tom Wood

  They were keeping out of the way, at least. Close enough to help out, but only if needed, while the second motorcade, which consisted of three vehicles, parked right outside the building. Her bodyguards knew enough to make sure she wasn’t exposed for long, and they were out of the vehicles first, making sure it was safe for her to step outside. The three vehicles were cheap and nondescript. No blacked-out windows, let alone armor. Passing through Guatemala City, no one would look at them twice.

  He counted eleven men, each with a submachine gun or assault rifle. A sizable force, Victor noted as he watched them. He in turn could not be seen inside the building. He was armed with the gun that had killed the pale assassin, which he would use if things went wrong, but he didn’t plan on needing the gun at all. At least, he didn’t need it for shooting.

  Maria entered the cabaret club with a single bodyguard, who was wheeling two large hard-shell suitcases he had taken from the trunk of one of the vehicles. The rest of her men remained outside, as per the agreement.

  Inside, the club was no drier. The flat roof hadn’t held up without maintenance. Rainwater came through holes and cracks, as snaking rivulets down walls and pillars, or else in staccato streams from the ceiling. The whole floor was wet. Where it was carpeted, the carpet was soaked and stank of rot. It squelched underfoot. The air was more humid inside, and even colder as a result. The VIP section looked better than the rest of the interior. It was a little raised, so its carpeted floor had been spared the worst of the water damage.

  The sole surviving daughter of Manny Salvatierra was dressed all in black and looked neither pleased nor displeased to find Victor waiting on the stage before the curtain that hung across the back of the space. It was still red, but the color had been muted by rainwater, dust, and dirt. The brass rings that held it up had not been designed to support the weight of a soaked curtain. Some had distorted to ovals.

  Maria said, “It’s been a long time since I felt safe enough to come into the city.”

  The bodyguard had his nose splinted and bandaged. He was the guy Victor had knocked out in the en suite bathroom of the yacht’s master bedroom. He looked angry, even with his face half-hidden by dressings, but said nothing—no doubt under strict orders. He released the suitcases, which stood on their own thanks to four wheels, and approached Victor. He motioned for him to come forward and raise his arms.

  Victor stepped off the stage and did as instructed. The carpet squelched underfoot. Decay soiled the air.

  “Back of my waistband,” he said.

  The bodyguard with the broken nose took the pistol and frisked him with a quick, thorough pat-down. He then returned to Maria’s side.

  “You made quite a mess at my sister’s casino,” she said.

  “Like you,” Victor said, “she was not easy to corner.”

  Maria said, “Did she suffer?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Something, at least. And her death means dozens more will not have to die. Maybe hundreds.”

  Victor didn’t bother to say that violence always begat violence. Whatever peace Maria had created for herself would be temporary.

  “I suppose you would like to get paid.”

  He nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”

  She considered something. She looked around. “You’re on your own, yes?”

  “That was the deal.”

  “No booby traps?”

  He shook his head.

  She pursed her lips. “Then why do I need to pay you at all?”

  “Why did you bring the money if you weren’t going to pay me?”

  “I imagined someone as resourceful as you would have a contingency plan in place to ensure cooperation.”

  “A deal’s a deal,” he said.

  “Only when it’s equally beneficial.”

  Victor remained silent.

  “My sister was an awful woman. The world is better off with her no longer sullying it.”

  Victor waited.

  She gestured to the suitcases. “Here’s your money. By killing Heloise you’ll earn me a hundred times what’s in those suitcases.”

  “I told Lavandier I’m worth every penny.”

  Maria said, “I hope you don’t intend to count it now. We’ll be here all week.”

  She motioned, and the guy with the nose splint wheeled the suitcases closer to Victor and then backed away with the same perma-angry expression. Maria’s gaze remained on Victor. There was an intensity in her eyes, growing stronger and more powerful with every passing second. Victor had seen such looks before, eyes full of emotions he could guess at but not truly understand.

  When the bodyguard was next to her again, Maria said, “Hand me his gun.”

  The guy with the nose splint did as instructed.

  Maria took it from him, feeling the weight of it in her palm. An unfamiliar weight. “I’ve never shot anyone before.”

  “I believe you.”

  “I’ve never needed to,” she continued. “Heloise was always the one who did that when it was necessary. She didn’t ever give me the chance to.” Maria paused. “I suppose it was her way of protecting me.”

  Victor remained silent.

  Maria had never shot anyone, but she knew how the gun worked. She gripped the slide and pulled it back to check there was a round in the chamber, then pointed the gun at Victor.

  She said, “What’s to stop me shooting you now?”

  “Your good character.”

  She smiled. “I might need a little more convincing than that.”

  He held her gaze. Like her sister, her eyes were large and full of cunning and strength. She had no fear of him. She hadn’t even been scared of him while she had been at his mercy on the yacht. Now she held a gun, but she didn’t need it. She had eleven guys with her. Guys with automatic weapons. Guys who would fight to the death for her. The gun was just a tool. She didn’t need it to be powerful. She couldn’t be more powerful.

  “You’re not scared,” she said.

  “I’m not,” Victor admitted.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t get scared.”

  She didn’t believe him. “Why not? What makes you so very special?”

  “I never walk into a room I can’t walk out of again.”

  She didn’t understand. “I decide whether you can walk out of here or not.”

  “You’ll let me.”

  She asked, “Why?”

  “There are two reasons, but only one matters in this instance. If you squeeze that trigger, the gun will blow up in your hand.”

  She glanced down at the weapon. “You said no booby traps.”

  “I lied.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  He didn’t blink. “Do you really want to risk it?”

  No one spoke for a moment. The bodyguard with the nose splint shifted his weight. He was the only person in the room who was scared. He didn’t know what either of the other two might do.

  “You killed my sister,” Maria said.

  Technically, he didn’t, but there was no need to correct her.

  “I should kill you,” she continued. “Even if I could let my sister’s murderer walk free, you’re too dangerous to keep alive.”

  “I agree.”

  Maria smiled.

  “But you can’t shoot me,” Victor said.

  Her large eyes grew larger. “Why ever not?”

  “Because in a matter of minutes a lot of police are going to surround this club and flood the area with men. You see, a good citizen has tipped them off that you’re going to be in the city. Here. Now. And that you have killed a foreign national. So the very last thing you want is for them to show up with you standing over a fresh corpse. Even your no-doubt exceptional lawyers would struggle to get you out of that one.”

  “You’r
e bluffing.”

  He nodded. “About the exploding gun, yes. About the cops, no. Remember, at this precise moment in time you’ve committed no crime.” He glanced at the suitcases full of money. “Well, aside from failure to report earnings.”

  Maria was silent for a long moment, and then the gun lowered in a slow, smooth arc. She pushed it back into the bodyguard’s hands.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I’ve committed no crime. I’m just a woman in a derelict building, sheltering from the weather.”

  “Credible,” Victor said.

  “But that’s now. That’s this moment, as you made clear. There will be many more moments once this one is over. And know this: in one of those coming moments, whether soon or a long time from now, I’ll find you.”

  “Unlikely,” Victor said.

  There was no scowl, no frown. Only her eyes showed her anger, but even that was restrained. That restraint made her a far more dangerous enemy than her sister had been. A patient foe was the deadliest of all.

  She said nothing further and motioned to the guy with the nose splint, and together they left the club. Before they had gone out of Victor’s line of sight, the bodyguard looked back over his shoulder, like he wanted to deliver some final insult or threat, but then thought better of it.

  A minute later Victor heard the sound of engines revving outside. He took one suitcase in each hand, climbed up on to the stage, stepped behind the curtain, and disappeared.

  • Chapter 75 •

  Maria Salvatierra didn’t get far. Her convoy had barely made it out of the old cabaret club’s car park before police swarmed the scene, blocking off the road and surrounding her and her men. Dozens of weapons were pointed their way. Dozens more were close by, securing the perimeter but ready to act should it prove necessary. Alamaeda watched it all. It was quite a show. A huge operation that had started with her. She had been the one to receive the anonymous tip-off, but it wasn’t her place to make the arrest. That went to a senior police officer, who took great satisfaction in ordering Maria out of her SUV, and even more pleasure putting the cuffs on her himself. She didn’t try to fight her way out. Instead she came willingly, happily, even. She wasn’t expecting to stay in custody long.

  “What have I done wrong?” she asked in an innocent tone.

  Within moments, the Guat cops had her men out of the vehicles too, stripped of weapons and their hands on bodywork. Maria watched, smiling as if it were all a big joke. The search didn’t take long.

  “Found it,” a cop said.

  The smile slipped from Maria’s face as she saw a gun, a handgun, bagged as evidence. It was a beautiful moment. Wickliffe and Alamaeda hugged when the smug smile slipped from Maria’s face and doubt crept in.

  The logistics of processing her entourage were significant and it took time. Alamaeda and Wickliffe used it to join the crime-scene investigators already at work at the water tower.

  The John Doe they found there was more Giant Doe. A foreigner. He looked like a pencil, long and thin and white. The only color was the trickle of red at the back of his skull that pooled at the base of his neck and then snaked in a jagged pattern along the curvature of his throat before dripping into a little puddle beneath. A neat bullet hole. No excess mess. No signs of a struggle.

  “An execution,” Wickliffe said.

  Alamaeda agreed. There was no room for debate. Next to the corpse was a huge military-grade sniper rifle. No signs it had been fired in the past few hours, but the muzzle stank of cordite and it fired the same massive .50-caliber bullets that had torn up Heloise’s casino the previous night.

  Wickliffe said, “So, our mystery foreign hit man wasn’t simply a rumor.”

  “But why kill him?”

  Wickliffe shrugged. “Served his purpose. Heloise is dead, so why keep him around longer than necessary?”

  A press conference was hastily organized once the ballistics had come back from the lab. A rush job, trumping all other tests, but no mistakes. Orders from on high. If there was even the slightest problem with the evidence, then everyone knew Maria would walk. Once they were sure, or even when they were pretty sure, the word went out to the media, so a whole host of police officials and politicians could claim credit for the arrest of Maria Salvatierra, only surviving patron of the Salvatierra cartel, previously untouchable.

  Alamaeda watched the press conference from the back of the room, trying to keep a straight face at the exaggerations and untruths. There was no mention of any tip-off. No mention of DEA assistance. Just talk of excellent police work, excellent tactics, excellent resolve.

  “He must be a contortionist,” Wickliffe said.

  Alamaeda glanced at her for elaboration.

  Wickliffe said, “To pat himself on the back like that.”

  Alamaeda remembered that three-million-dollar bust, way back. She remembered her pride and then her embarrassment when she watched the video they sent her. There would be no video this time. Maria Salvatierra had been arrested for conspiracy to murder, with a gun in her entourage’s possession that had killed a foreign national.

  Of course, it wouldn’t be anything like open-and-shut, Alamaeda was sure. No slam drunk, despite the gun that was, almost literally, smoking. Maria wasn’t answering questions right now, but would no doubt deny any involvement in the murder, plead her innocence, claim a conspiracy of corrupt cops had set her up, or anything else that might work once a defense strategy had been put together. An entire law firm’s worth of lawyers would rise from the pits to represent Maria and her people, the best money could buy and fierce and effective. Alamaeda could see it all playing out before her eyes, even if she hoped—prayed—it would be different. She imagined the guy who had been found in possession of the gun would claim the weapon was his, only his, and Maria had had no knowledge of it or what he had done or not done with it. He would admit to the murder, plead guilty like a loyal soldier, and his family would be buying new cars for cash before the year was out.

  What would ultimately stick, Alamaeda didn’t know. But what she did know was that Maria was done. Maybe down the line she would confess to some minor charge to make the big one go away. Maybe she would give up some of her Mexican customers to reduce her sentence. Or, perhaps her wealth and influence would be enough to make sure she walked free, unscathed and unsullied, but not now and not for a long time and certainly not in time to realign the fractured cartel.

  “Stop thinking about what might happen farther down the road,” Wickliffe said. “Enjoy this victory. It might be a long time before we get another one.”

  “I’m enjoying it, I assure you. But I don’t like to have unanswered questions rattling around my head.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as: who tipped us off?”

  “A good Samaritan,” Wickliffe said.

  “Maybe,” Alamaeda said. “Or maybe he got something out of it too.”

  Wickliffe shrugged, dismissive. “I hope he did, because he deserved it. I’d like to thank him.”

  Alamaeda stared into the middle distance. “I have a horrible feeling I might be able to.”

  • Chapter 76 •

  The money itself presented a problem. There was only so far Victor could conceivably drive with it and he couldn’t just walk into a bank and deposit it in one of his offshore accounts. Suitcases full of money were a little unsubtle, so he had unpacked the stacks of hundred-dollar bills and redistributed it into toolboxes, gasoline canisters, and the fuselage of a truck and the inside of its spare tire. None of which would survive a thorough examination, but which would hide the money from a cursory glance.

  Given that he hadn’t been paid by Heloise for the original contract because he hadn’t executed it, Phoenix had no claim to the cash Maria had given him. He planned to pay the commission anyway, because it wasn’t Phoenix’s fault things had transpired the way they had. A deal was a deal, a
fter all.

  When Joanna arrived at the beach, it was clear she hadn’t slept. Her skin was a little pale and her eyes were red with bags beneath. Her clothes were yesterday’s outfit. There were wrinkles on her jacket and trousers. No one looked their best tired, but she still looked good, though.

  It was windy on the shores of Lago de Amatitlán. They were on a narrow strip of beach, facing distant mountains. The water shimmered orange and red in the sunset.

  “I haven’t slept since yesterday,” she said, then rested an elbow on the load bed of his pickup. “You have a cut lip, and you’re going to have a black eye come tomorrow.”

  “I had an unfortunate encounter with a very angry gentleman.”

  “Is that so?”

  Victor nodded. “I spilled his drink. He had a temper. It was messy.”

  “He beat you up?”

  “Just a couple of punches and it was all over.”

  She took this in, or didn’t. “I don’t suppose you happened to see the news?”

  Victor shook his head.

  “Well, just to catch you up on proceedings, out of the two warring patrons of the Salvatierra cartel, one is dead and one is in police custody. I’ve been after them for years, and now . . . Now it’s kind of over.”

  “Kind of?”

  “Getting a boss in handcuffs is only half the fight.”

  “Sure,” Victor said. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” She removed her sunglasses to look at him uninterrupted. “But it was all down to an anonymous tip-off. A handwritten note, if you can believe it, telling us where and when we could find Maria, the rifle that shot up her sister’s casino, and the gun that killed the sniper she hired to assassinate Heloise.”