Clean Kill

by Adam Nicholls

  “No, just something to make calls with.” He wondered just how safe this was. Would the police know that the number was his? Would the Agency? Would either of them be able to track it? It didn’t matter; he had no choice. “That one will do fine.” He pointed to a small, light-looking Blackberry. “How much is it?” He rifled through a big bunch of twenties, careful not to drop any.

  The fat man licked his lips. “That one is $89.99. Can I interest you in any insurance?”

  “No, thank you. Just the phone. And bag it.”

  “No problem. If you like, I could make a package deal, give you—”

  “Just the phone,” Blake almost screamed at him. He was desperate to make the phone call and wasn’t about to wait any longer.

  The fat man’s eyes opened wide, and then he slumped back, sulking. He took the money, doing as he was told, and almost threw the bag at him. “Thanks. Bye now.”

  Blake huffed, surprised at how quickly the man’s temper had altered. If he’d been through what Blake had been through, he wouldn’t have come out the other side. But sure, thought Blake, lose your damn patience with a paying customer.

  He left the shop and found a quiet alley. He tore the packaging off, and it glided to the ground. He then dropped the box on top of it. While he waited for the phone to boot up, he tried to recall Rachel’s phone number. Before he had a chance to remember, he had automatically typed it in and hit the dial button. It amazed him how quickly the subconscious could take over.

  The number connected okay and began to ring.

  Blake paced up and down the alley, barely noticing he was doing it.

  The tone stopped. A familiar voice.

  “Hello?” It sounded like Rachel, only… it didn’t. There was a stress in her voice that wasn’t usually there. A knotted hurt, laced with worry.

  “Rachel, it’s me.” He didn’t want to say his name. He had no idea who was listening.

  “Oh my god! Are you okay?” There she was, warm, loving, and understanding.

  It’d been over twenty-four hours since the workplace arrest. He realized that to her it must seem like he’d gone rogue, hurt those police officers of his own accord, and been on the run ever since.

  “I’ve seen better days,” he told her, trying to keep it simple and short. “Listen, can we meet?”

  There was a pause—an awkward silence that he’d never felt with her before. They had always got on like a house on fire. And if that was still the case, why did he feel uncomfortable asking for her help?

  “Blake, I’m… I’m trying to get you out of this, but you’re not making it any easier on yourself. What you did—”

  “It wasn’t me, Rachel. My father isn’t even dead.”

  “What?”

  “Listen to me. His death was faked, and I was taken from the police station by someone he knew. They could be listening, so I’ll explain it when I see you.” Hearing his own voice, he realized just how desperate he must have sounded.

  She sighed. “Okay.” Although she’d said it was, it didn’t seem okay. Something was off. Could he trust her? Blake didn’t know if he could trust anybody anymore. But if he could, Rachel would be the one person he could turn to.

  “All right?” He had to think of somewhere. Somewhere public where he could fit in as a tourist. Somewhere in a wide-open space where he could disappear into a crowd if things got really bad. “Can you get to the La Brea Tar Pits?”

  “Sure. Give me thirty minutes.”

  “Make it an hour,” he said, knowing he would need time to prepare. If the feeling he was having at the back of his mind meant anything at all, then he would have to do some things first. That’s how his father would have done it, he figured.

  Blake said goodbye and ended the call. He would have to hurry if he wanted to set everything up in time.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It had been years since he’d been beaten like this—maybe as far back as Vietnam, when he was barely a man. He’d almost missed the feeling, the rush of not knowing what was going to happen or which of the men he was going to kill first.

  “Take his toe,” Matthews said. He was looking wired now, the strain of delivering torture taking its toll on his dreary eyes.

  Greg had options, but most of them resulted in him losing something or having something broken. What he wanted was a way out that involved turning the torture their way.

  “Consider it done.” Canavan shuffled forward and produced a pocketknife. He lifted it to his own waist, the blade pointed outward and ready to strike.

  “Wait,” Greg said, stalling. Each word was its own exercise now. His eyelids were growing heavy, and his body felt like it had been through a minefield.

  Both men paused.

  “What?” Matthews asked.

  “Don’t you…” His head dropped, and he brought it back up. “Don’t you want to know where Val hid his stash?”

  “Stash of what?” Canavan asked, lowering the knife.

  “Stash of cash, baby,” Matthews bit at him. “Stash of cash.” He turned his attention back to Greg. “How much are we talking about?”

  Greg made up a number—a believable one, he hoped. “Twenty thousand in the house and more tucked away elsewhere.” He tried to keep them talking, still considering his escape route. The worst part would be the rope that bound him, and he was working on dislocating his thumb.

  The men looked at each other as if trying to assess what the other was thinking.

  Matthews shrugged.

  Canavan nodded.

  “What do you want out of this? I can’t let you go. My head is worth more to me than some bits of flashy paper.”

  “I know that.” Greg gripped on tight to his thumb, grateful that his hands were behind his back, out of sight from these two. “Just a bit of leniency. You know, maybe stop with the dismemberment. Maybe even tell Charlie I turned myself in.”

  “You know,” Matthews knelt down and leaned in close, “he might not even want to kill you. Life in prison can’t be too bad, can it? I hear the soap is slippery this time of year.”

  They both laughed, but their faces dropped when Greg laughed with them. He wanted to get punched again. He could use the noise to cover the sound of dislocation. “I might get pounded by twenty men, like your wife does when you’re not home.”

  Matthews’s eyes lit up for a flicker of a second before he lunged at him.

  Greg snapped his thumb as the punch connected, dislocating it. A fire shot up through his hand so bad that he barely felt the sting of the punch. Matthews must have seen him wince, but probably thought it was because of him.

  “The stash?” he prompted, cutting back to the point.

  “Yeah, all right. Okay.” Greg lowered his head, slowly and painfully sliding his thumb out from the rope. It caught around his hand, tore up a flap of his skin. Still, it was either that or suffer what would happen if he didn’t. “Outside this door is a panel. Up against the stairs. Just push on it.”

  Matthews lowered his gaze in contemplation, then looked up. “Bullshit. You think I’m stupid?”

  “I do, yes. But humor me, will you?”

  Matthews gave him a questioning look, breathed deep and then decided to trust him. “Canavan, keep an eye on him. I’ll be back.”

  “Sir.” He saluted sarcastically, and Matthews grabbed him by his shirt.

  “Don’t get too close to him. This ain’t a Bond movie where you become friends before he turns on you. Eyes and gun on him at all times. Got it?”

  Good, thought Greg. Looks like I’m not the only one who thought he was stupid.

  Matthews turned, narrowing his eyes on Greg before leaving the room. As the door swung shut behind him, Canavan stepped forward and raised the gun.

  “Such a dick.” He snickered, flipping his head back toward the door.

  “Tell me about it.” Greg was actually starting to like this guy. It would be a shame to do what he was about to do.

  There was an excited but somehow masc
uline scream from outside, and then the unmistakable clunk of the bolt sliding across the door.

  “Guess he found it then,” Canavan said.

  Greg smirked but said nothing.

  “You know, this is my first field assignment in five years.”

  “You don’t say?” It was useless chit-chat, really, but it kept things mellow while he waited for Matthews to distance himself. “Why so long?”

  “I disobeyed an order. I was told to bring someone in alive, but I lost my temper.” He grinned down at Greg, who now understood that this man was all about the theatrics.

  “Well, you’re back in the game now. How does it feel?”

  “I don’t like killing people any more than I have to. That’s why I let the boy go. Like I said, I enjoy the chase more than the actual killing.” He sighed. “You didn’t have to drag him into all this. I remember when he was knee height, running ’round with that bloody toy fire engine. Remember?”

  Greg thought hard, recollecting something. “Vaguely.”

  Canavan paused, rubbed his chin. “Why did you do it?”

  “Do what?” He was paying more attention to his timing, finally sliding his hand out from the rope. There was a little shuffling sound as it dangled toward the floor. Though Canavan seemed not to notice.

  “Why did you take the boy?”

  “I needed him,” Greg said like nothing else mattered.

  “And that’s okay with you, is it? You need something, and you’ll just ruin somebody’s life, despite the consequences?” Canavan lowered the gun, a sign of comfort in a distressed moment, but it was still gripped in his hand.

  “We’re professionals. We do what we need to do.”

  “Even if that means going rogue?”

  “Especially if that means going rogue.” As his voice raised, he slid his hand out from behind his back. In an instant, he shot to his feet and tackled Canavan. He slipped on the small pool of blood by his feet but just managed to reach the man’s throat. With his other hand, he knocked the gun away.

  Both men tumbled to the floor. The gun went skittering across the room.

  Canavan tried to wriggle free, a stunned expression on his face. He drew his knee back and dug his heel into Greg’s gut, kicking him away.

  Greg fell back, the pain in his flesh scorching like fire. But he had no time to think about it if he wanted to survive. He clenched his fist and drove it into the man’s throat—a dirty move that he was fond of using. Canavan made a gurgling sound but, instead of reaching for his own neck, wrapped his hands around Greg’s head and dug his thumbs deep into his eyes.

  Greg recoiled, delivered a jab to the man’s ribs, but stumbled back on weak knees.

  His legs could barely take the weight. He fell back into the chair and hit the floor again. He surged to his feet and was just getting back up when the man came at him, trying to seize the advantage. Greg took his attacker’s elbow, twisted it to contort his body, got two good punches back into his ribs. A third cracked against the man’s hip.

  Then Canavan squirmed around, wailing as he swept out Greg’s leg.

  Greg dropped to his other knee and blocked an incoming right hook. He was in trouble. but using the last of his energy, he jumped up and slammed the heels of his hands at Canavan’s face. While he was dazed, Greg wrapped his hands around his throat.

  The life was leaving Canavan’s eyes. His legs became weak and useless while he scratched at Greg’s hands. As his body drooped to the floor, his resistance lessened.

  The man’s body made a thud as it hit the ground.

  He was dead.

  Greg rose in the newfound silence, his cuts stinging, his lungs exhausted. If he had been in better shape, it may have been easier for him, but his wounds were too deep. He turned to the door, was about to walk through it, and then remembered the gun. He scrambled for it in the pale shadows of dusk, eventually finding it under the dining table. When he picked it up, he felt in control again. He felt complete, as if the weapon was an extension of his own body.

  His thumb bent oddly around the grip, throbbing wildly. Greg put the gun on the kitchen counter, held his breath. Then, he gripped his thumb with his other hand, closed his eyes, and counted.

  3, 2… click.

  He stifled his own scream as his thumb snapped back into place. Every time he’d done this in the past, it had left a tingling numbness for a matter of days. But the lasting of the effects seemed to get easier each time.

  Matthews, he reminded himself.

  Furious at the Agency and everyone who worked for them, Greg slid out of the kitchen, gun dropping slightly between his finger and weak thumb. The panel was open and the door was, too. There were thin rays of sun shooting in through the glass panes.

  Limping, he crossed over to the door, hugged his back to the wall, and peered around the corner. His finger was steady on the trigger. It’d been a while since he’d had to use his left hand to fire a weapon, and his lack of confidence made him cautious.

  From the basement, a light was cast up the stairs and across some of the hallway. A shadow danced across the room as if it was looking for something. Clanging metal sounded again and again.

  Greg stopped to ponder whether it was possible to descend the staircase but decided it would be safer to wait it out.

  Soon, heavy footfalls sounded up the wooden steps.

  Greg gripped the gun, took a soft step back.

  The steps grew louder. The shadow swelled across the floor.

  When Greg could hear the unhealthy wheeze of the out-of-shape desk jockey, he raised the gun to Matthews’s head.

  “What the—” As the man’s eyes locked onto the end of the gun’s barrel, his eyebrows raised in a look of horror that Greg found amusing.

  “Your protégé is okay.” He couldn’t keep the smile off his face for long though. “Oh, no. Wait. He’s on the floor in a bloody heap. Put up a good fight though. The little son of a bitch.”

  Matthews hesitated, his eyes cold black stones in the dark of the hallway. Then he clenched his fists and spoke through his teeth. “I was helping you, you fucking fool!”

  “What?”

  “He wanted to kill you. I was just letting him torture you to make him believe I was on his side.” He took a step closer.

  Greg tensed his gun arm. “Don’t.”

  Matthews raised his arms in surrender, realizing his ploy had fizzed and fallen to the ground like a moth as it kissed the flame. “All right. Please, don’t kill me. I… I’m sorry.” His voice cracked, and a tear glistened in his eye. “I have a family. Please understand. I was just following orders. Please.”

  It surprised Greg to find that he hesitated. When he pictured the man’s wife, whom he had met once at a barbecue, he began to empathize. But empathy, as he had always said, was a poison; let it enter your system and it would be the death of you.

  “It’s my daughter’s birthday,” Matthews went on, desperate. “Let me go and I can—”

  “Val Salinger was boarding a plane, but something tells me the Agency wouldn’t allow it. Where is he really? And don’t even think about lying to me.”

  “You know I can’t—”

  Greg thumbed the hammer of the gun.

  Matthews began to whimper. “I don’t know where he is but—”

  “Guess.”

  “Uhh…” Matthews wiped his eyes with his sleeves, his hands trembling like balls of dust caught in a strong wind. “I know he owns a yacht. Yeah.” He looked up, his eyes wide and white with excitement, as if the knowledge had just saved his life. “He probably won’t come here, so he might go there.”

  “Where is it?” Greg was growing impatient, his body filled with pain.

  “It docks by San Pedro. At Bishop’s Marina.”

  “Thanks.” The gun went off with a pop, the bullet a swift, gracious mercy.

  A red blotch appeared on Matthews’s forehead, and he fell to the floor.

  The house was silent now, save for the steady tick of the
grandfather clock, its pendulum swinging in perfect rhythm as it minded its own business, echoing through the hall. Soon enough, more agents would arrive to collect Greg, and he didn’t want to be here for that. Hopefully, he would have just enough time to patch up his wounds before making his way back to the city.

  After all, he had a friend to find.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It’d always seemed easier in the movies. The hero would stand on a rooftop and scope out the scene. If anything seemed out of the ordinary—an FBI agent who was too stupid to take off his earpiece, for example—there would be a clear indicator to cut and run.

  The reality, however, was a stressful struggle. Blake had to lie to get into the museum without paying, avoiding cameras on the way. After learning there was no roof access, he left the way he’d come in and hauled the backpack up a short slope. When he reached the grass verge overlooking the pits, the wind froze him through to his bones.

  On the bright side, he had a clear view of the tar pits, and his father’s binoculars were proving useful. He used them every few seconds, alternating between them and his watch. She’s due here any minute, he noted, worried that he’d seen no sign of her. Not even one agent or police officer to confirm that she would come.

  From the way she’d sounded on the phone, somebody had been to visit her. It would have to have been a pretty ineffective police force to not think about her or even tap her calls. And then the Agency… how far ahead were they? From what he’d heard and the awful things he’d seen, they should have been all over this.

  In spite of the cold, he felt the first warnings of sweat.

  Minutes dragged by. Blake spotted Rachel stepping into the road outside the site. As she stood on her own, she looked around as if she was expecting somebody. Maybe she was. Maybe they had gotten to her somehow. Blake had to get down there and be ready. If the coast was clear, he could arrive in time to talk to her, but he would have to move fast, or she would give up and go back to work.