Clean Kill

by Adam Nicholls

  “Why though?” Blake felt his own defiance as soon as his teacher stopped dead in his tracks. When he turned, Blake braved up and continued. “You’re the hitman-spy-assassin, whatever you are.” It came out in one desperate breath that sounded like a moan. “I’m just a salesman. I make presentations. I make coffee for my boss and go home in the evening hoping to read my book before I go to bed. I’m not cut out for this.” As he said the words, he came to realize it for himself. His voice cracked under the threat of tears. “I just want to go home and see my friends, return to my job. Dad can do whatever he wants.”

  Greg studied him for a moment, his eyes questioning and curious, and then a light flickered in his eyes. “Listen,” he said, sniffing at nothing as he stretched his back. “I don’t want to be out here any more than you do. Fact is, your old man is in trouble. You want to save him, don’t you?”

  Blake spat it out before he had chance to think about it. “Yeah.” It surprised him; he’d had no idea that he gave a damn about his father. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was just his moral code to do the right thing.

  “Well then, man up. In under an hour, an agent will be pulling up to that driveway, and I promise you, it will not be as simple as exchanging a few words and waving buh-bye. When the shit hits the fan, you need to be ready. You got it?” He didn’t wait for an answer, only pushed the gun into Blake’s chest and jolted his head to summon him. “So come on.”

  Blake looked down at the heavy black pistol, supposing he was right. But no matter how right, wrong, or downright ridiculous something seemed, he felt as though nothing could prepare him to fire this thing into a human body.

  Even if it meant his own survival.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dusk was approaching fast, and they were kneeling in position in the old bedroom. Blake had no trouble seeing the irony; he was probably going to die right where he’d been raised.

  They were watching the horizon, where the driveway started and the gate divided it from the road. Earlier, they’d taken Marcy’s phone—a job Greg decided to take upon himself as an act of kindness—and placed it on a rock next to the intercom system by the gate.

  The back door, however, was a different story, wired up with a spray can of gas, a Zippo lighter, and a few feet of chicken wire. It wouldn’t hurt any intruders, but it would alert Blake and Greg to someone’s presence and, if nothing else, scare the living shit out of anyone brave enough to attempt breaching the house.

  “You ready for this, kid?”

  He didn’t know the answer to that question, but he didn’t have time to worry about it either. All he cared about was whether he could fire a gun if he needed to, and if his aim was good enough to hit the poor son of a bitch he was aiming for.

  It was almost an hour before a car crept into view. It was a silver Porsche, something that Blake imagined only Wall Street types could afford. The car slowed at the gate and Blake pulled the binoculars away from his eyes. “I feel sick.”

  Greg was peeking through a scope he’d slid off a rifle earlier. Blake didn’t habitually watch action thrillers, but even he had seen that maneuver once or twice. In the movies, of course.

  “Stay strong. Don’t lose your head.”

  “What kind of advice is that?” He returned to looking at the car, his nerves rattling through to his core. He had a plan—they’d made it together, but whether it would work was an entirely different matter, and that didn’t keep his legs from shaking.

  On the driveway, a man leaned out the car window and pushed a button on the intercom. Greg hit a set of numbers into the landline phone and lifted the handset to his ear, his eyes still trained on the distant visitor.

  The man’s face contorted as he looked around and stepped out of the car, glancing at the ground as if it had insulted him. When he got to the rock, he saw the phone, picked it up, and raised it to his ear. His voice rang through the speaker next to Blake.

  “Hello?”

  “Come on, Matthews,” Greg said. “You should know the drill by now.”

  Blake saw the man smile and his lips move almost in sync with his voice.

  “What, no trust between friends?”

  “No honor among thieves, no trust among spies,” Greg jested. “Take off your jacket.”

  Matthews set the phone back on the rock and slid off his expensive-looking jacket. He then spread his arms like an angel and spun like a slow top.

  Before long, he picked the phone back up. “Happy?”

  “The peashooter strapped to your leg.”

  At first Blake didn’t understand what he meant, but when the man lifted his trouser leg and pulled a small pistol from a holster, it registered. He almost chuckled at how clever Greg was; it was like seeing Jason Bourne in all his glory.

  “Can I come in and play now?” Matthews asked.

  Blake didn’t like this guy. Something seemed off about him. Something slimy. Like a lawyer with a sly, foxlike grin. He wondered how long it would be before he spat out chicken feathers and bolted.

  “Gate’s unlocked. Hands on your head as you walk through it,” Greg instructed with cool confidence. “Take ten steps inside and then stop. Wait with your hands right there or we’ll fire.” He hung up the phone and shuffled to his feet, placing a hand on Blake’s back. “You’ve got this.”

  “What if I miss?” Blake panicked at the idea. The weight on his shoulders was too real.

  “You don’t have to hit anything. Just be careful not to hit me. I trust you.”

  It was reassuring to an extent; he could almost wild-fire to his heart’s content. He couldn’t hit a stationary target if he tried, so maybe he didn’t have to try at all.

  Within minutes, Greg appeared outside, strutting like he didn’t have a care in the world. His arms outstretched to offer a mutual absence of hostility. He kept walking, getting smaller and smaller the farther he went, and then stopped a few yards from Matthews.

  Blake stayed kneeling at the window, his body freezing up as he tensed. His foot tapped against the carpet, and his knees felt cramped. He put down the binoculars and studied the rifle. He sucked in a deep breath and slid the scope back onto it. For a moment, he froze, just long enough to ponder whether he could go through with this. But he didn’t let it dissuade him. He couldn’t, not when lives hung in the balance.

  He lifted the rifle to his shoulder and aimed down the sight, fiddling with the magnification adjustment ring until Greg and Matthews were both in clear view.

  Wait for the signal.

  His mind was elsewhere, however, dancing between the security of the back door and Rachel; how he longed to see her again, her gentle lips the perfect promise of safety. She could never be his, and he could just about accept that. He was happy knowing that she was being taken care of by someone else, and that it didn’t affect his friendship with her.

  In the distance, Greg’s hands moved to match his words. Blake was waiting, ready, his finger coiled around the trigger like a snake. He’d only had one practice shot with this thing, but he was ready as he’d ever be.

  Greg gave the signal, a short wave of two fingers.

  There was no time to hesitate. Blake pulled the rifle up and squeezed the trigger. He closed his eyes as he fired, though he hadn’t meant to. The gun jolted in his arms, a pain searing through his shoulder in a fiery blaze. It was only the warning shot and, according to Greg, it was all that was needed.

  One smooth shot hit the dirt beside Matthews to let him know they were in control—that this was their territory. Matthews jerked back, startled and embarrassed of his own reaction. Things were going so smoothly. So far, at least.

  A deafening explosion roared from downstairs. It was everything Blake had feared. It was one thing to sit in a window and blindly shoot a gun where no one could touch you, but that explosion meant someone could be inside the house. Knowing that it had to be a trained agent, Blake allowed himself to worry.

  His body went stiff. Deep down, he was nothing like his fath
er, the fabled spy. But then a strong, primitive instinct stole over him, and he jumped to his feet, running out the room and grabbing the pistol off the dresser as he passed.

  He stopped at the top of the stairs. He wasn’t sure if it was to listen or to give him enough time to flee like a coward. Regardless, he could hear nothing other than the mechanical tick of the grandfather clock below him, echoing eerily up through the hall.

  How much noise did you really expect him to make? Whoever it was had already given himself away with the homemade booby trap, and it was unlikely that the intruder would come waltzing up the stairs with a target strapped to his chest.

  But why such silence?

  It was unbearable. His nerves were already wrought. Whoever it was could already be upstairs—could come up behind him and feed a blade into his back. He shuddered, glanced over his shoulder, and stepped down the stairs little by little. He paused halfway, listened.

  Nothing again.

  It struck him that he was in the perfect position to run away. He still had the barman’s car keys. He could slip out while Greg was preoccupied. If he could get out at all, that was. But the silence was enough to drive anyone crazy.

  Blake drew his pistol.

  His hands trembling and his mouth bone dry, he traipsed down the last of the steps, half-expecting to be attacked as soon as he hit the bottom. But no such thing happened. He took a right, passing the backpack he’d left in the hallway, and poked his head into the kitchen. Belated in his actions, he raised the gun to defend himself. He would have to be quicker next time. Much quicker.

  Blake closed the door and crossed the hall to the library. His finger shook around the trigger. His voice seemed to echo up the massive walls, like a desperate man’s final wail. Sweat seeped through his skin as he approached the door. Eyes closed tight, he counted to three and burst into the room, lifting the gun to the eyes of a man.

  The shadows danced across his face in the gloom, but his scars were visible and his build would be intimidating in any lighting. “You better shoot that thing,” he said.

  Blake paused. He thought he saw the faintest glimmer in the man’s eyes, like he enjoyed this kind of stuff. It was almost as if he wanted to be shot. But why would he? He worked for the Agency, so he was obviously trained to survive, and it didn’t take a genius to know that a bullet in the chest would slow him down.

  “I’ll shoot.” Blake lied to himself.

  “No, you won’t.” The Shadow Man was so confident that he seemed not to care what happened. He took a step back. “I’m going to give you one chance. You can lower the gun, and I’ll go easy on you, or you can fire and see what happens. But I promise you this: if you shoot that thing at me, you’d better kill me, or I will tie you down and cut you up.”

  Blake believed him.

  The man took another step back into the shadows, where Blake found it harder to see him. His eyes played tricks on him as he lost his nerve. The gun rattled in his hands. He knew he wasn’t prepared to take a human life. But for his dad, for Rachel, and for himself?

  Blake gripped the gun tighter, but by then it was too late.

  “You were warned.” The voice was beside him now, as if the man had teleported from one end of the room to the other.

  Blake could no longer see him. The shadows concealed his enemy. He ran for the light switch, his heavy panting even more noticeable in the silence of the room. When he flicked it, nothing happened.

  Shit!

  “Didn’t think the power would still be on, did you?”

  The voice shifted again, somewhere indistinguishable. “I don’t understand it, myself. I mean, I’ve heard of unlikely teams, but what’s your place in all this?”

  Blake fidgeted, shifted his aim from left to right, unsure of where exactly the man was. “I…” His voice was weak, quivering. “He’s my friend, and he’s helping me find my dad.”

  “Ha! Is that what he told you?”

  A hand on his shoulder.

  Blake recoiled, spun around, and fired the gun. A bullet exploded from the barrel, but it only hit a wall behind the black air. “You can’t turn me against him, so give up now.” It was an obvious ploy, but there was still a little room for doubt. Blake would have to close his mind to it entirely or succumb to the tale this man was weaving.

  “I don’t care what you do. Live. Die. It’s all the same to me.”

  A fist flew out. It connected with Blake’s already damaged nose, producing a new kind of pain, flooding new shades of blood. He stumbled back, took two quick steps to regain his balance, but failed. His back hit the cold marble ground, smashing his coccyx. The gun left his open hand, spinning across the room. The man was on him in a heartbeat, gripping his throat like a vise.

  “Fact is, you’re being used,” Shadow Man said, his breath hot against Blake’s face. “Ask him if you don’t believe me. Ask him what his name is. Ask him what his real connection to your father is.” His pearly-white grin shone as the sunset seeped through the window. His eyes sparkled with obvious humor. “I would tell you myself, but you won’t believe me.”

  Blake felt the hand on his throat loosen. The weight left his body.

  “You’re… letting me go?”

  “I’m giving you a chance. I know he’s manipulated you. Hell, it was his specialty. But if you leave right now and let the trail go cold, I won’t track you down. You have my word on that.”

  Blake grimaced, letting out a little huff. “No, you won’t. But the Agency—”

  “When the Agency has that friend of yours, there’s no reason left to chase you. Just let sleeping dogs lie.” The man’s hand was extended, an offering of peace in a field of nightmares and war. “What do you say?”

  * * *

  Greg approached Matthews with caution, his arms spread wide with the safety of a warning shot up in the window behind him.

  Let’s see you try something now, you bastard.

  The gravel crunched under his feet until he stopped, considering his first words carefully. It was absolutely imperative that he showed off his position of power. “He isn’t yours to take, Matthews.”

  Matthews chortled. “Take? Why do you think we want the boy? You’re the problem in all this. We were happy with Val where he was until you stuck your fucking nose in.”

  He doesn’t want the kid? It could have been a bluff. Having worked for the Agency for most of his adult life, he knew the place held a ton of secrets, turncoats, traitors, and most of all, lies. “You say that, and yet I’ve not seen him protest.”

  “Because he’s starting his new life, dammit! He gave up everything for his retirement. Who the hell do you think you are to intervene?”

  “Me?” Greg smirked at him, shooting a condescending look. “I’m just the guy with the gun.” And as simple as that, he gave a flick of his fingers, signaling Blake.

  A stone exploded at Matthews’s feet.

  He jumped.

  Greg laughed. “That’s exactly who I am. A field agent having a conversation with a pencil-pusher. But I only want one thing.”

  Matthews adjusted his sleeve, unhooked the top button of his plain white shirt, and cleared his throat. “What might that be?”

  Greg took a step closer. “Where is he?”

  “Val?”

  “Yes, Val.”

  Matthews was visibly sweating now. Greg had seen him nervous before, but never this intimidated. “Look, you can torture me all you want, but I don’t know where he is. What I do know is that Canavan is inside the house, and we both know the kid can’t take care of himself.”

  A loud explosion echoed on the wind from behind Greg. He smiled. The trap. Perfect timing. “It’s taken care of.” He reached out toward his old colleague and gripped his throat. “Where is Val Salinger?”

  “I don’t—”

  Greg pinched the man’s nose, tightened the grasp on the neck, forcing him to the ground. “Where?” He could feel all his anger erupting from his soul, like a demon emerging from the sha
dows. He’d tried so hard to restrain it until now, but sooner or later, the monster always came unleashed.

  “At LAX, getting on a plane. He’s probably gone already!”

  Greg let go, shoved him into the dirt. “Charlie won’t let him go. Not while there’s trouble and leverage behind him. You know that.”

  Matthews gasped for air.

  The sun was dropping fast, darkness approaching.

  Greg shivered and zipped up his jacket. “We’re going inside.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” Matthews spat, clambering up to his feet. “I came here to negotiate, and all you’ve given me is one option.”

  “That’s how I negotiate,” he sneered.

  Matthews glanced behind Greg. A fresh confidence crept into his voice. “But that’s not how we do it. Ain’t that right, Canavan?”

  Greg wasn’t given the time to turn around. He felt the butt of the gun smash into his neck, a cold, numbing sensation shooting shock down his spine. His feet collapsed, and he hit the ground like a sack of rocks. Rolling onto his back, he looked up. Humiliated, he saw his two ex-colleagues towering over him through blurry eyes.

  “Good job,” Matthews said.

  “It was nothing really,” the new voice said. Canavan? “Thanks for distracting him.”

  Their voices grew deeper as consciousness left him.

  “Ha. You got the boy?”

  “It’s been taken care of.”

  That was the last thing Greg heard before his world faded to black.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When Val Salinger had gone in to hiding, he was simply Val Salinger—father, assassin, power to the people who couldn’t help themselves. He was a mixed bag of morals with a hell of a paycheck. Days later, when he emerged, he was Oscar Wales, retired geography teacher with a passport under the same name. His knowledge of the world stood true enough. He could pass off as a teacher just as easily as he’d performed other roles in his line of work: postman, poet, preacher. Only this time, adrenaline pumped through his veins as he stood at the customs desk at the airport.