Clean Kill

by Adam Nicholls

  “Passport, please,” the bubbly young lady said to the people at the front of the line.

  “Thank you.” And then the next man, woman, or couple would pass through with an uncomfortable embarrassment on their faces, and a fear of the upcoming metal detectors.

  Guilt did that to a person. He thought it was funny, trying not to seem like you were up to something was exactly what made it look like you really were up to something, and that was why Val always did the opposite.

  His background in psychology helped him see the world the way others did. It was something he could turn on and off. He was manipulative, crafty, and when needed, very malicious. But one thing that could never be said for Val Salinger was that he lacked empathy. He had felt horrible for leaving his life behind.

  “Passport, please,” the lady said to him with a painted-on smile.

  Val stepped forward and handed it to her, but he did it as Oscar Wales.

  “Thank you.” She handed it back. “Enjoy your flight.”

  Yeah, right, he thought but smiled and boarded the plane nonetheless.

  Every time he’d been on a business trip, he couldn’t help but look over his shoulder. He knew the shadows that the Agency worked in. They had their ways like any other business, but if he ever proved to be anything of a problem, they would not hesitate to sever the cord. Even now, en route to his own retirement destination, he had that niggling at the back of his mind that something would catch up to him. After all, it would it be easy for them to slip something into his drink.

  After a long wait in the departure lounge, Val boarded the plane and found his seat beside the wing. He couldn’t have been happier that he couldn’t see below him. The last thing he needed right now was the anxiety of flying to poison the vat. But he had his happy thoughts: sun, cash, and his new life, or whatever was left of it.

  More people boarded, pushing and shoving and cramming their luggage into the overhead storage, careless of the poor passengers whose faces they were rubbing their crotches in. An old lady gently lowered herself next to him and introduced herself as Gloria.

  “Oscar,” he said and shook her hand. It was easy for him to turn on the charm, whether he wanted anything from her or not. “That’s a beautiful necklace. My granddaughter has one quite similar, though she doesn’t wear it as well as you do.”

  The lady blushed, playfully slapping his arm and giggling like a young girl. “How old is your granddaughter?”

  “She’s twelve now.” He pulled the wallet from his pocket, unfolded it and showed her the photograph.

  “Oh, she’s beautiful,” Gloria said, not knowing she was complimenting a magazine snipping he’d taken from the airport café to add a little realism.

  “Thank you. Although I’ve seen equal beauty. Recently, in fact.” He smiled at her, and she smiled back before lowering her head. He never knew, she might come in handy sometime.

  The system beeped above their heads, indicating that they should fasten their seatbelts, though Oscar had done it as soon as he sat in his seat. There was no way he was risking an in-flight casualty after all he’d been through.

  The flight attendants lined the aisle and demonstrated the plane’s exits while a voice rang through the speakers above them.

  “What’s your business in Geneva?” he asked Gloria, shifting the topic straight onto her. Knowledge was always power, as his mentor had drilled into him throughout his career, and so he always tried to acquire as much as he could and as soon as possible.

  “My daughter owns a timeshare,” she said. “Lets me stay in a lovely apartment whenever she isn’t using it. Though I don’t like to fly too often.”

  The flight attendants equipped lifejackets, demonstrating the blow-pipes and tag procedures. He’d seen it a thousand times, so much that he knew it backward. As soon as they finished, they disappeared behind a curtain, and Oscar was left with Gloria, nervously anticipating their departure.

  The engines began to hum, indicating their ignition. The plane rolled to the runway.

  Oscar gripped the armrests. His back stiffened, and his eyes shot from one end of the plane to the other. This had always been the worst part for him, though as soon as the wheels left the ground, he would be safe in knowing that the Agency, and his entire career, was behind him for good.

  The plane slowed and turned to face the runway. Oscar began to hyperventilate. His breathing became fast, sudden, unexpectedly restricted. The engines roared to life, and they began to pick up speed. The back of his head hit the headrest.

  Gloria giggled, then placed her wrinkled hand on his. Comfort from a stranger.

  But then they slowed down.

  “What’s going on?” Gloria asked.

  Everyone else around him was asking too, fidgeting with panicked faces. The plane stopped entirely, and some passengers removed their seatbelts before the flight attendants rushed over, politely asking them to clip them back in and to remain in their seats.

  Oscar—though at this point he was still only Val—stared out the window, squinting to see in the dark. He had to push his face up to the cold glass to see in front of the plane. When he did, he felt a sudden black cloud looming over him.

  They’d come for him.

  A number of black cruisers sped up the runway, their orange lights flashing.

  Val counted them on instinct, memorized the license plates as a force of habit. It was a curse, really—walking into a room and immediately evaluating everything he saw. It made it impossible to relax.

  Gloria was saying something to him, but Val wasn’t listening. The facade was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Men dressed in smart black suits leapt from the vehicles as soon as they stopped, and Val watched as a stair truck pulled up to the plane, locking itself onto the aircraft.

  “Why have we stopped?” One obese man almost stood to question a flight attendant.

  “Is there something wrong with the plane?” asked a concerned mother from the row in front.

  But Val knew exactly what the problem was; they were coming for him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats,” the speakers buzzed at a startling volume. “There’s been a slight mix-up with a boarding procedure, and we ask for your patience and cooperation while passports are inspected. Again, we ask you to remain in your seats.”

  Val stood and kindly asked Gloria to move aside so he could use the bathroom. But before he got anywhere, a flight attendant gestured him back into his seat with pleading eyes.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “They’re here for me.”

  He tried to shuffle past, but she seemed not to hear him. Over her shoulder, he could see four agents boarding the plane. Two of them hung back, their hands clasped together in front of them. The rest marched down the aisle toward him, an aura of superiority and self-importance surrounding each of them. Val craned his neck and spotted another three behind him. It was exactly the kind of unnecessary bravado that vexed him, especially since he’d stood to offer himself over without a fuss.

  “I’ll come quietly,” Val said, raising his hands in submission.

  The flight attendants stepped aside, crowding a seated passenger as she stumbled back into their row of seats. One agent came forward and took Val by the arm with unnecessary force.

  “Take your hand off me,” he ordered, his temper rising, “or I’ll break every bone in it.”

  The agent obeyed, retracting his hand but smiling gingerly, clearly trying to hide his embarrassment as he stepped back a little.

  Val walked toward the door and left the plane in the escort of the many men. He was shown into one of the cruisers. Surrounded on each side of his seat, they closed the door from the inside and sped off toward the hangar.

  Val thought he recognized one of them. “Conway, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir.” So, I’m the authority here. But then… why go to such trouble?

  “John, was it?” Val asked, trying to recall the kid’s first name
.

  “Jack, sir.”

  “Ah.” The boy was like a baby compared to Val. He reminded him a little of Blake. He thought back to when he was that age; he’d already killed at least six people, and all for the good of the Agency. Some of those he was not proud of, and others… well, let’s just say there was a reason he stayed in the business for forty years.

  The car pulled into a hangar, where a black limo sat at the back surrounded by more agents. It surprised him just how used to this kind of scene he was. What felt oddly different was being on the wrong side of the Agency. More often than not, he’d been the one they sent to get a job done, and one person was often enough.

  The car stopped, and the engine shut off. Val looked around him, eager to see who would exit the vehicle first. It wouldn’t alter his situation or benefit his cause, but he always found it interesting to see how the new recruits turned out.

  “Follow me, sir,” the Conway kid said.

  He was led out of the car and across the hangar. As they approached, the limo’s door opened to him—a welcome into the seat for a business discussion. Val climbed in, his expectations set and his dreams of retirement put on hold.

  “Salinger.” Charlie sat across from him, and the door closed as Val lowered himself in.

  “Sir, I was promised retirement. A way out.” Off with the formal greetings.

  Charlie removed his scarf. Pulled his gloves off one at a time, exposing scarred hands. “I apologize for the interruption, but your presence is required.”

  “I’m not working anym—”

  “I said your presence is required. Not your disobedience,” he spat, the infamous anger cracking through with a bit of a squeak. “It seems that boy of yours is running wild.”

  Oh, no.

  They could have deprived him of his retirement, even beaten him black and blue if they wanted, but he’d feared that Blake would prove a complication. Was it too much to dream that he would fly off into the sunset without any kind of repercussions from the family?

  The newspaper slammed onto his lap with a flump, and the headline hit home in its bold text: Salesman Loses Mind—Escapes Police Custody. Val picked it up and studied it, barely able to take in the words. “What is this?”

  “He knows you’re alive, Salinger. This is unacceptable.”

  “Of course.” Val paused for consideration. This was probably the hardest situation of his entire career, and he felt like a solution was expected of him. “He can’t be convinced otherwise?”

  “I doubt it. You see, he’s not alone.”

  For some reason, that struck Val. There was something in the way Charlie had said it that told him his son was with someone he knew. “Who?”

  “Let’s just say your ex-partner has gone turncoat. You deal with him, then you can get on with your retirement. Do we have an understanding?”

  He thought about it. He was far too old to be running around taking lives and covering his tracks. That was why he’d wanted out in the first place. Now he had to kill his partner—his friend, no less. He knew the Agency, and that meant he didn’t have much of a choice.

  Val tipped his head and climbed out of the limo but felt a strong, urgent grip tighten around his forearm.

  “Don’t let me down,” Charlie said, locking eyes with him. There wasn’t an ounce of friendliness or consideration in there. It was as though he had no care for Val whatsoever—like he hadn’t worked with him for so long and even saved his life on some occasions.

  Val nodded and closed the door. Never mind, he thought, watching the limo rev to life and pull out of the hangar, leaving him alone in the dark. At least you get to see your son one more time.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The punch hit him like a brick. His mind went foggy and weak. He’d taken a punch before, even laughed one off on some of those occasions, but it always had a way of stinging after the twentieth hit.

  “That hurt?” Matthews said through gritted teeth, kneeling in front of him with a huge, shit-eating grin. “Charlie wants you alive, you know. Personally, I think that’s a little too generous, so I suppose we can take him on a technicality. What do you think, Canavan?”

  “Oh, I agree.” Canavan’s voice came from behind Greg.

  How long had he been there?

  “See, he didn’t say a damn thing about whether he wants you slapped around a little. Hell, he might even appreciate the extra effort.”

  Although he’d not long been conscious, Greg was getting sleepy. They’d done all sorts of things to him so far: dragged him through the dirt, taken an electric stun gun to his balls, even removed three of his toenails. And now he was tied to one of Marcy’s dining room chairs. On the bright side, she wouldn’t complain about the bloodstains.

  “Bet you’re wondering where your little friend is, huh?” Canavan said.

  “No.” Blood and spit oozed from his mouth as he spoke, and it was a lie on some level. He had a rough idea where Blake might have gone.

  Matthews rolled up his sleeves. “He took off as soon as we told him the truth about you. About how you beat on his old man and forced him to retire.”

  “He doesn’t believe you,” Greg said. “You’re a piece of—”

  Matthews’s fist rocketed against his face, drawing blood.

  “You were saying?” They both laughed at him, safe and out of reach.

  “Where’s the boy?” Greg spat.

  They laughed again. They reminded him of a couple of teenagers sharing a joke, and he was the brunt of it. An uneasy feeling, whether there was blood on his brow or not.

  “You’re ballsy, I’ll give you that.” Matthews stepped back and admired his handiwork. “Listen, forget about the boy. He’s halfway into the city by now, probably seeing that girlfriend of his. We’ll take care of him from there, so don’t worry.”

  “That’s exactly where he’s going,” Canavan said. “I let him go, and the moron told me that’s where he’d be headed. Shame—I was looking forward to the chase.”

  They laughed again.

  Greg’s mouth opened as if to speak, but more blood dripped onto the floor. He wasn’t sure why it happened, but he began to laugh.

  Matthews crooked an eyebrow. “What? You think this is funny?”

  “I—I do.” He couldn’t keep the hysteria at bay. “You only had one chance to kill him, and you even fucked that up, you pussies.” And then he spat in Matthews’s face. Blood refilled his mouth in an instant.

  Canavan came out from behind Greg.

  Matthews stood up, and they both towered over him. “How long do we have?”

  “Long enough,” Matthews said. “Want to cut him a little?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Canavan said, taking the knife from his partner and wiping it against Greg’s trouser leg. “Don’t mind if I do,” he repeated, slower this time.

  Greg closed his eyes tight, preparing for another bout of agony, and hoped they would keep him alive long enough to escape. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t be too late to help the boy.

  * * *

  Blake had sprinted the whole way back to the car with the heavy bag strapped to his back. He hadn’t been able to keep his hands off the straps, though—the thing had a tendency to fall from his shoulders, causing grave irritation in the form of friction burn.

  The rocky fields had been tough to traverse, stepping over hard mounds with all that weight. The worst part was the vile, looming sensation of guilt that overrode his feelings.

  How the hell could he leave Greg like that?

  There was the flicker of an idea that Shadow Man had told him the truth. The problem was, even if he’d managed to evade said Shadow Man and run to Greg’s aid, he would forever be questioning whether it had been a lie or not.

  Blake found his way back to the car, threw the duffel bag into the back seat and hightailed it out of there without stopping to think. During the entire drive back to the city, he shivered, cried, shook, and then cried some more. This whole thing seemed stupidly out
of perspective right now. First, his father’s death, then the accusation coming his way. Shortly after that, he’d been abducted by a man claiming to be a member of some agency who’d said that his dad was still alive. As if that wasn’t enough, that same man had murdered his stepmother, who had apparently pinned all this on Blake.

  But what if Shadow Man had been telling the truth?

  If Greg had been twisted enough to kill a defenseless old lady, he must have been more than capable of telling a lie to get what he wanted.

  Why was it so hard to get the truth?

  It didn’t matter now, he kept telling himself. He was not far from Central LA, where he could make a phone call and try to resolve this whole thing. Greg was long behind him, and if he couldn’t take care of himself, then… well, it was his mess, not Blake’s.

  When he found somewhere to park, he slept for a few uncomfortable hours. When he awoke, the first thing he did was abandon the car and find a disguise for himself. This time he had the money from the backpack to pay for a tacky blue sweater and a pair of jeans. He thought about picking up a pair of sunglasses like detectives did in the old noir movies but quickly dismissed the idea. For early winter, he would feel too out of place. Besides, if he ran the risk of being identified, he could simply put up his hood and scurry out of there.

  He wondered just how many of the police officers knew about him. Was it just the ones from the station he’d escaped, or was he national news by now? It must have been a big deal to the press, what with the chase through the city. Blake recalled opening the door on that motorcycle cop, and his stomach knotted.

  The change from buying the clothes gave him enough to use a payphone, which, to his surprise, he had a lot of trouble finding. It seemed like most of them had been removed to fit in with the twenty-first century. He supposed everyone had cell phones now. When he got that idea, he went straight into a phone shop and approached a clerk.

  “Hey. I’m looking for the cheapest phone you have that comes pre-charged.”

  “Sure,” the fat, four-eyed salesman stood, showing him a line of phones along a wall. “Most of them come fully charged now. Are there any particular features you’re looking for?”