The Good Kill

by Kurt Brindley

  Henderson complied, never taking his eyes from Killian’s.

  “Good man,” Killian said, grabbing the key fob and pocketing it. Keeping the gun pointed at Henderson’s head, he slid off the hood and stepped over to Henderson’s open window. He took the cinderblock off Henderson’s lap and then tossed it onto the hood of the car. He then patted him down.

  “Where’s your gun? And don’t try to tell me you aren’t carrying.”

  Henderson stared straight ahead. “I don’t know,” he said. “The cinderblock must’ve knocked it out of my hand.”

  Killian pulled out two cable ties from his back pants pocket and tossed them onto Henderson’s lap. “Okay, I’ll find it for you in a minute. In the meantime, do me a favor, pretty boy, and bind your partner’s ankles together for me.”

  It was awkward for the large men to maneuver within the sedan, but eventually, Henderson managed to comply with the direction. He sat back up in his seat and Killian tossed two more ties onto his lap. “Now tie his wrists to the steering wheel.”

  Henderson gave his partner a helpless look. McKnight ignored it as he glared at his rogue mark and offered his wrists to Henderson.

  “You know you’re a fucking dead man, right, hero?” McKnight mumbled through the blood and broken teeth. The right side of his face looked like he had a baseball tucked into his cheek.

  After McKnight was bound tightly to the steering wheel, Killian tossed more ties onto Henderson’s lap. “Okay, good. Now tie your ankles together, then tie your right wrist to the left side of the steering wheel. This should be a decent dexterity test for you. Let’s hope you pass because I’m certain you wouldn’t like the consequences of failure.”

  It took several comical efforts before Henderson figured it out that he needed to loosely zip the cable tie around the steering wheel, then thread his right wrist through the loop before zipping it tight with the left hand.

  Killian reached in and gave the ties around Henderson’s and McKnight’s wrist a good tug, causing the men to grimace from the pain. He leaned against the open window and said to Henderson, “You know, you’re even prettier in person than you are on camera.” He then looked to McKnight, “And you’re even bigger. What are you, big man, six-seven, six-eight?” McKnight’s only response was a deadly stare.

  Satisfied the men were no longer an immediate threat, Killian opened the door and searched for Henderson’s gun, finding it just under the front of the seat. He stuck it into the back of his pants and closed the door again. He then reached into the car and pulled Henderson’s left arm out the window and bent it back in a way that looked as if it could snap at either the wrist or elbow.

  Henderson jerked spastically in his seat and tried to free his arm, but with his right arm tied to the steering wheel, he couldn’t get enough leverage. “What the fuck, man,” he screamed.

  Killian eased up slightly on the pressure. “I just wanted to make sure I had your attention because we need to talk.”

  Henderson shot a look at McKnight and then turned back to Killian. “You jump us for no reason. Fuck that. I ain’t got shit to say to you, dead man.”

  “Wrong answer, pretty boy,” Killian said. He then reapplied the pressure to Henderson’s wrist as if he were going to snap it. But instead of snapping the wrist, he grabbed the pinky finger with four fingers of his right hand and, with his thumb braced on the inside of Henderson’s wrist, bent the finger back as if he were squeezing together a pair of plyers. The finger snapped, breaking clean at the metacarpophalangeal joint, the joint that connects it to the palm.

  Henderson did the best he could to suppress his scream.

  Killian took off his backpack and dug through it until he found the can of squash balls. He opened it and took out a ball. He grabbed Henderson by the jaw, yanked it open as if he were trying to rip it from the head, and shoved the ball inside the mouth. He dug out a roll of duct tape from the backpack and taped the mouth shut.

  Killian looked at McKnight. “As hard as it may be for you to talk, big man, it appears you’re going to be the one I have to rely on for information.”

  McKnight glared at him.

  “Where are the women?” Killian said.

  McKnight mumbled something incomprehensible, but Killian could tell by the look in the man’s eyes that it wasn’t pleasant. He took hold of Henderson’s ring finger and started squeezing on it like he did the pinky finger. Henderson began squirming and jerking around in his seat again, trying to free his arm. Killian held it fast. “What’s that you said, big man?” he said to McKnight. He put more pressure on Henderson’s finger and Henderson reacted accordingly.

  McKnight leaned out his window and spit out a mouthful of blood and teeth. He turned back to Killian and said, “We don’t know anything about any women,” he said slowly, giving glimpses of the broken teeth inside his mouth. “We’re nothing but tourists who must have taken a wrong turn on our way downtown.”

  The snap of Henderson’s ring finger when it broke didn’t sound as clean as did the pinky finger’s.

  Henderson went wild in his seat from the pain. Killian let the arm loose, allowing Henderson to bring the broken fingers to rest on his chest, the only means of comfort he could provide them.

  Killian took the gun from the back of his pants and looked at it admiringly. “Okay guys, time to stop playing games.” He placed the barrel of the Desert Eagle against Henderson’s temple. “That nowhere Pennsylvania farm of mine you guys tracked down Toni to with your creepy GPS tracking system also happened to be a farm covered with security cameras. As I alluded to earlier, I saw you both very clearly on camera poking around my barn. I then saw you taking off to chase the girls after they escaped, so don’t try to play me like I’m fucking stupid, okay? Because it really pisses me off.”

  He poked Henderson hard on the side of the head with the gun before tucking it into the back of his pants again. He then leaned back into the car. Henderson tried to lean as far away from him as he could. He began rifling through Henderson’s pockets until he found his cell phone. He walked around the car to the other side and searched McKnight until he found his cell phone.

  He tapped McKnight on the shoulder with the phone. “What’s the passcode, big man?” he asked.

  McKnight gave Killian a glaring look of resistance for a moment before looking over at Henderson’s fingers pointing back grossly in the wrong direction. He took a deep breath and then said, “7817.”

  Killian walked back over to the driver’s side and ripped the tape off Henderson’s mouth. “Take the ball out and tell me what your passcode is, pretty boy,” he said.

  Henderson nodded obediently and spit the ball out. “2836,” he said with a gasp.

  “Thank you, sir,” Killian said. “Now put the ball back in your mouth.” After Henderson had complied, Killian taped his mouth back up. He then unlocked Henderson’s phone and navigated straight to its security settings and disabled the screen lock option. He then navigated to the application list. The app he was looking for wasn’t loaded on the phone. He tucked the phone into his back pants pocket and began concentrating on McKnight’s phone.

  He found the GPS tracking app he was looking for and opened it up. He watched as the program went through its digital machinations, locking onto the satellite as the map zoomed in to the signal’s location. The blip was still in the same location off New Orleans’ coast as it was on Blackman’s phone in Baltimore. The app informed him his distance to the signal’s location was 12.7 miles. He reached across Henderson and held the phone in front of McKnight’s face.

  “Where is this?” he demanded.

  McKnight didn’t look at the phone. He just stared straight ahead and didn’t answer.

  Killian grabbed Henderson’s busted up hand and squeezed.

  Henderson screamed through the gag.

  McKnight turned to Henderson and shook his head. He turned away to stare straight ahead again. “It’s the fucking casino,” he finally said.

  Killian
recalled his conversation with Blackman. “DeBlanc’s casino?” he asked, as he began a search on the phone’s browser.

  McKnight nodded.

  “The Half Moon Island Casino and Resort,” he read off the phone. He let go of Henderson’s hand and grabbed another cable tie from his backpack, using it to secure the hand to the right side of the steering wheel above his partner’s hands.

  He unsheathed a fourteen-inch buck knife, another one of his Walmart purchases, that was attached to his belt and pointed it into the femoral artery in Henderson’s left thigh. “Now, I’m sure even you two dumb fucks must realize that in order for me to know as much as I already know about your joke of an operation against me, that I must have gotten it through means a bit more severe than just a few broken fingers.” He slowly began to dig the tip of the blade into Henderson’s leg.

  Even with the ball taped shut in his mouth, Henderson’s scream still had presence. Killian punched him in the face, shutting him right up. He then jammed the knife harder into the leg. A small circle of blood began soaking through the pants and expanding outward. Henderson didn’t scream but it looked like his head was about to explode from containing it.

  Killian looked hard at McKnight. “I want to know where the women are, in very specific detail. And I want to know exactly how I can get them out of wherever it is they’re being held without anyone getting hurt. Or, I guess I should say, at least without the ladies or me getting hurt.”

  McKnight looked down at the knife digging into his partner’s thigh and quickly assessed that if the crazy-assed mark wasn’t bluffing, and McKnight didn’t think he was, then Henderson would bleed out long before any help would arrive if the cut got any deeper. The big man closed his eyes and let out a defeated, raggedy sigh from his broken mouth before telling the mark everything he needed to know.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  As Killian approached the Half Moon Island Casino and Resort’s executive parking lot, he slowed down so he could scope it out as he passed. High-powered LED security lights had the lot lit up as if it were high noon and everything looked to be situated just as the big man with the broken jaw had said it would. There was the automated security gate, the two black Escalades parked in the back, and the one lone white sedan the big man said was his. Beyond the lot there was the landing pad, and beyond that the private marina with the docked thirty-five-foot powerboat the big man said was used primarily as a shuttle between the mainland and the island resort for the executive staff. Killian parked his rental off the side of the road behind a cluster of wild swamp azaleas, well beyond the reach of the light stretching out from the glaring flood lamps atop the security fencing surrounding the lot.

  After putting up the convertible top, he locked his wallet inside the glovebox, grabbed his backpack from the back seat, and began placing into it some of the items he had taken from DeBlanc’s men that were now piled onto the passenger seat. There were the men’s guns, both fully loaded. The big man’s Desert Eagle would go in the backpack, pretty boy’s more subdued Glock 19 he would keep on him. There were their phones. He decided to keep both with him in case either received any texts or calls. There were their wallets and company security badges. Killian looked the big man’s badge over before sticking it into the backpack with the wallets. It identified his name as McKnight, Sean and Killian noticed that even in a small, fuzzy picture like the one on the badge the big bald black man still looked like one mean son of a bitch. He looked over pretty boy’s badge too and found that Henderson, Richard looked just as pretty in the photo as in real life, and he couldn’t help but be impressed by the man’s wide, toothy smile.

  He set that badge aside. There were two sets of keys. Henderson’s went in the backpack as it only had on it the fob for the Cadillac and several insignificant personal keys. The keys on McKnight’s ring, however, were much more significant. In addition to a few personal keys, it also held several others that, after McKnight had explained their purposes to him, Killian realized could help him in his mission to recover RJ and Toni. He set McKnight’s key ring aside as well. The last thing he had taken was from Henderson alone. It was obvious by the two men’s near identical garb that they were wearing some sort of company uniform, a uniform that could help Killian blend in if he were to ever make it inside the resort. So, he had set the pretty boy free long enough for him to get out of the car and strip off his shoes, pants, shirt, and sports coat. Then, clad only in a skimpy pair of black briefs and calf-length brown dress socks, Killian forced the pained and highly aggravated man back into the Caddy where he once again zip-tied his ankles together and his wrists to the steering wheel.

  Killian got out of the Mustang and quickly changed into Henderson’s things. The clothes were a little tight – a little too tight was a better option than swimming in McKnight’s oversized clothes had he taken them instead – and the bloodstain on the inside of the left pant leg wasn’t that noticeable. The shoes, too, were a bit snug but he could manage them. After he was dressed he grabbed everything he needed from inside the car, slipped on a Saints ballcap – another Walmart purchase, tucked the keys to the Demon and the rental car deep inside the right exhaust pipe for safekeeping, and then hustled back toward the lot, staying as close to the shadows of the night as he could.

  At the lot’s automated security entrance system, he pulled the brim of the ballcap down low over his eyes as he held Henderson’s badge up to the RFID card reader. The gadget’s steady sensor light changed from red to green and, after a loud click and a clattering of metal wheels along a metal track, the eight-foot-high security gate began to roll open. He assumed that all activity at the gate would be logged electronically somewhere with the badge holder’s identity and a timestamp. He only hoped that the cameras on the gate weren’t being monitored; if they were then whoever was monitoring them would certainly be alerted by seeing someone who was supposed to be Henderson entering the lot on foot.

  He started second guessing himself, wondering if perhaps it wouldn’t have been smarter for him to have driven the Mustang into the lot. That way, if the cameras were being monitored, perhaps the guard on duty wouldn’t have noticed that Henderson was driving a Mustang instead of his Cadillac. But he had gone through this mental drill already on his way over and had concluded that it was best to leave the Mustang outside of the lot. There was always a chance that the gates could be locked from a central command center, preventing any cars from exiting and leaving him without a means of fast escape were he to need one. And chances were, he would need one.

  After entering the lot, he stayed close to the fencing and out of the cameras’ coverage the best he could. Southern magnolias grew wild along the outside of the fencing lining the east side of the lot, the same side where the SUVs and sedan were parked, and even though their large white flowers were not yet in bloom, the trees perfumed the humid night with a musky scent of lemon. Sprawling limbs with their large, fleshy dark green leaves stretched over the fence and hung down inside the lot, blocking some of the light from the flood lamps and allowing Killian a semblance of cover in their shadows as he made his way around to the vehicles. He ducked in between the SUVs, using the cover to assess the cameras monitoring the marina. There were two set atop the fence to the right of the gate separating it from the lot. One pointed down on the gate, and the other covered the dock.

  While he couldn’t see it from where he was, he assumed there was another camera somewhere on the dock that monitored the bay to keep check on all approaching and departing watercraft. He crept to the back of the SUVs and looked out on the landing pad. Three-quarters of the way up on the lamp post at the southwest corner of the pad were five cameras rung around it – one covered the pad, itself, one covered the southern sky over the water, one covered the northern sky, one covered the approach from the parking lot, and one covered the approach from the marina. Killian looked in amazement at all the cameras mounted on the post and thought, someone is either highly thorough in their job, or highly paranoid. Probably
a bit of both, he concluded.

  He sat back on his haunches. There was no way he could get to the marina without being hit by one of the cameras. He thought about this for a moment. Did it even really matter at this point whether he was spotted or not? They, whoever they were, knew he was coming, as was evidenced by the tail they put on him. His only chance was to come at them hard and fast and hope that he can somehow overcome their safeguards like he did with the tail.

  He looked west. Adjacent to the executive parking lot, directly opposite the security fence, was the public lot for the Half Moon Island Casino & Resort shuttle service. He did a search on McKnight’s phone’s web browser and, according to the resort’s website, discovered that the shuttle service consisted of a three-steamboat rotation that ran non-stop, twenty-four-hours a day, seven days a week, between the mainland and the island, which provided gambling, hors d’oeuvre, and drink accommodations for its passengers throughout the fifty-minute trip. A shuttle would depart from either location on the hour.

  He looked down at his watch. It was 03:46. If he wanted, he probably could make it to the shuttle in time before departure. But this was another aspect of the plan he had already considered and rejected. He learned from McKnight that the security coverage at the island landing was weak and, if he were trying to infiltrate the island during the day when the crowds were large, then perhaps he could manage to slip through unnoticed. However, at this hour when there would be significantly fewer passengers on the shuttle, the risk of exposure was too great.

  He shook his head to try to clear it. His mind was racing to the point that now he was second and third guessing himself. He would stick to what he had already determined to be his best option. He needed to keep moving, to use as much of the cover of night as possible. He stood up from in between the SUVs and began walking over to the gate for the marina as if he had every right to do so. He pulled out the keyring he had taken from McKnight and flipped through it until he found the key for the thirty-five-foot powerboat that was moored at the dock on the other side of the security gate.