Clean Kill

by Adam Nicholls

  Blake hurried to climb out and grabbed the bag from the back seat. Rachel sat there staring wide-eyed. “We have to go. You’re safe with us, okay?”

  She turned to look him in the eye. “You promise? Because I don’t feel safe around that prick.”

  Blake swallowed. It felt like a cactus squeezed its way down his throat. “Of course,” he lied and then offered his hand. He eased her from the car, removed his jacket, and slipped it over her shoulders, though she seemed not to notice. Blake threw the backpack over his shoulder and put his spare arm around her. It surprised him that he would be the nurturing one in this situation. It was usually the other way around.

  The stench of ocean air filled his lungs as they followed Greg through the yard. They kept losing him as he slipped between containers, disappearing into the maze. It would have been hard enough to walk even without the weight on his back. Playing cat and mouse only made it seem a whole lot more like torture.

  “Over here, kid.” Greg’s voice to his right. He rapped against the container door.

  There was a silence, the song of seagulls echoing through the tranquility, and the low rumble of thunder in the distance. Rachel shivered in his arms, and he held her closer. It was pretty damn cold out here.

  “What are we doing here?”

  Greg stood silent, waiting.

  There was a metallic clunking sound, and the container door sprung open, a young black boy pushing it from the inside. He was garbed in a collection of rags, mostly with the theme of black and grey, though it looked more like he was wearing them for warmth than fashion. The coat was three sizes too big, and the black hat covered most of his tiny head. It looked like he’d been spat out of Victorian London. As soon as he spotted Greg, his eyes lit up.

  “Mr. Daniel, sir!” he cried, throwing his arms around Greg.

  It amused Blake to hear the man be called by yet another name. He wondered if he would ever learn his true identity but quickly dismissed that as a fantasy. Yet curiosity got the better of him.

  “How you doing, Ron?” Greg asked, smiling for the first time since they’d left Val’s house.

  “Very good, sir. Very good-mmm.” The boy added a humming noise, like he was clearing his throat to speak.

  “Is it ready?”

  “Exactly how you left it,” he said, hopping up and down on the spot. “This way-mmm. Watch your step.” The boy, Ron, led them into the container and pulled the door closed, bathing them in darkness. Blake felt a threatening sensation of claustrophobia, but at least it was warm in here.

  Lights flickered on, getting brighter as they grew warmer. It looked no different from what Blake presumed a normal container would look like until the boy slid his finger under a piece of weather-worn cloth and pulled the flap back to reveal some stone steps.

  Ron led them downstairs, and Greg followed, leaving Blake and Rachel arm-in-arm at the top. More lights went on as the boy descended, hovering above the steps with an orange glow beaming from behind him. It looked far too much like a crypt, and Blake would’ve had trouble trusting it if the circumstances were different. He could barely imagine how alien this whole situation felt to Rachel. “Come on,” he told her, guiding her down. He took her hand so he could lead her in single file.

  When they reached the bottom, Blake could barely believe his eyes.

  All around him, row after row of rotten mattresses lay on the cold stone ground. Poor-looking people lay there, some coughing, some sleeping, some quietly playing cards with others. Under the ground and by the ocean, the entirety of the room was graced only by candlelight, glowing in the hollowed alcoves.

  “What is this place?” Blake asked, catching up to Greg and Ron.

  “This is our home,” the boy said, not turning to address him. “It’s warmer than outside, yes-mmm, and we take care of each other.”

  For the first time since the car, Rachel spoke. “You’re just a kid. Where are your parents?”

  The boy removed his hat. “My ma died giving birth to me down here, but Papa, he right over there-mmm.” He darted into the back of the dungeonlike basement like he was eager to introduce them.

  Greg looked at Blake. “This is their way of life, kid. Whatever you do, don’t insult them. They actually prefer to live this way.”

  “Why? I mean, why don’t they live in houses or at least on the street?” Blake looked around, feeling horrible pangs of sympathy and misunderstanding. How could a kid grow up in this? It didn’t seem right to him.

  “It’s the only life they’ve ever known,” Greg explained. “Would you take a penguin from the cold and throw him into the desert to keep him warm?”

  Blake thought about that, marveling at Greg’s empathy. Daniel, he reminded himself. He’s known as Daniel down here.

  They followed the boy to the back, where he lifted a black sheet to reveal a starved-looking old man whose beard was long and grey.

  “This is my papa, Junior,” Ron said.

  “Junior?” Rachel asked while Blake raised his hand in greeting. “But you’re the young one. Shouldn’t he be Senior?” It looked like she was trying now, trying to create a distraction for herself. Trying to forget about the real world.

  “Yes ma’am. This is Ronald Wyatt Jr. His father, my grandpapa, was Ronald Wyatt Sr. Which makes me Ronald Wyatt III. I’m the third Rowboat Ron, but I never been on a rowboat. Seen one though, I did! Mmm.”

  Blake felt sorry for the boy—it was like he was stuck in his own personal hell, but he actually wanted to be there. Like he didn’t know there was a bigger, better world out there.

  “Good to see you again, Junior,” Greg said as he patted the old man on the shoulder. “Come on, Blake.” He tilted his head and stalked off into the darkness.

  “Where are we—”

  “Leave the girl. We have business to discuss.”

  Blake looked to Rachel, worry parting her lips.

  “We’ll be okay, won’t we, lady?” Rowboat Ron said, tugging on her hand. It was probably a rarity that he or any of the others laid eyes on a woman. One in a business suit and knee-high boots anyway.

  “It’s all right,” Blake assured her, and then watched the kid lead her off to his mattress. He stood for a moment, admiring the boy’s excited expression as he showed Rachel his playing cards as if they were his prized possessions.

  He caught up to Greg.

  “So… Greg,” Blake began. “Or is it Daniel? I forget.”

  “You’re supposed to.” He led them to the back of the room, pulled a Zippo from his pocket, and lit the candle on the wall. Orange light hazed over a big-blanketed structure in front of them. Greg ripped the sheet from the object, a mushroom cloud of dust puffing upward as the sheet dropped to the floor to reveal a wooden crate.

  “What’s inside?” Blake asked, twitching with discomfort as he wondered if he’d been forgiven for abandoning him at the house.

  “Your old man had a small chest of treasures.” He flipped a couple of padlocks off the chest and pried up the heavy-looking wooden lid. “I keep a fuller cache.” He lifted out an object and tossed it to Blake, who knelt to catch it just before it hit the floor.

  “Guns?” He turned the pistol in his hands, much less afraid than he used to be.

  “Mostly. But there are some other useful bits. I try to keep a load in most US states. You never know when the shit’s going to hit the fan.”

  “How do you afford all this stuff?” Blake asked. “Where do you get it from?”

  Greg continued to rummage, pulling out bags of clothes and smaller wooden boxes. “The Agency pays. Call it business expenses.”

  “Won’t they know where this is? I mean, wouldn’t they know that you would come here? If you’d truly gone rogue, wouldn’t they come and take all this away?”

  “What exactly are you saying?”

  Blake shifted uncomfortably. “Have you really left the Agency?”

  Greg stopped and looked over at him. His grin was menacing in the low light. He dropped
the lid back onto the crate and strode toward him. Blake felt uneasy, remembered again what the Shadow Man had told him: Greg was a traitor.

  “Are you—”

  Greg slapped him hard across his cheek.

  Blood rushed to his face. Blake held his burning skin. Was the Shadow Man right after all? Was Greg really a traitor?

  “That’s for leaving me at your old man’s house and adding insult to injury by asking me stupid questions about my loyalty.”

  Blake figured he deserved that. Really, he thought himself lucky that it was all he got. “All right,” he said, blushing and rubbing his cheek. “So now you’ve had your payback, I need to know something.”

  Greg stepped back, returning to his wares. “It better not be about me being a traitor.”

  “Kind of, but… back at the house, one of the agents said you betrayed my father. Said he would let me go because I’m just the victim and you’re using me. Is that true?” Blake held his breath, scared to know the answer.

  Greg sighed. “I told you they’d try turning you against me, didn’t I?”

  “Well, yeah… Sorry.” He looked down at the floor. “So, are we even?”

  “Not even close. But if you stick by my side and do as you’re told, you’ll be back in Daddy’s loving arms in no time. Tell me, did you arrange that whole tar pit business by yourself?”

  “I did. I screwed it up good, huh?” Blake felt like he had failed a test, explaining himself to the back of his disappointed teacher’s head.

  “Not at all. It was actually quite impressive. There’s hope for you yet.” Greg turned, smiled, and wandered back toward Rowboat Ron.

  Blake stood in the empty corner of the room and called after Greg. “So, how do you think we should find my father? He could be anywhere by now.”

  “I told you.” Greg stopped and turned, looking at him like a smile was about to break apart his lips. “Matthews spilled the beans. I know exactly where Val is. Now blow out that candle. We have work to do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Val had never intended to get back in the game. It was a temporary contract that Charlie had forced upon him. He had no control over it, and hopefully this would be his final job. His grand finale. Though he would have to live with his ex-partner’s blood on his hands, and that was never an easy thing.

  Since the incident at the airport, he’d been careful, clever, and most important of all, patient. Getting everything together had been a last-minute job, and a tough one. He’d worked alongside this man for years and knew it would not be a simple thing to stop him.

  But those years were merely a distant memory now. A memory from a life that didn’t feel like his own. He wondered where the years had gone, but he knew: travelling the world to fulfill contracts, killing those who needed killing and stealing what needed stealing. It’d all been for the greater good. And although his partner had saved his life on more than one occasion, he could sometimes make things difficult, too. Not too long ago, they’d had to pay a visit to the outskirts of Virginia where the Russians had been kidnapping women and selling them to the sex trade. That had been his final mission with the man.

  But that was back in those days. Back in that life, where a man named Val Salinger did bad things for the right reasons. Back when the Agency were the good guys.

  The radio crackled on the shelf beside him, snapping Val out of his reminiscence. His ears had popped, and his eyes were dry with fatigue. Reminding himself that it would all be over soon, he snatched up the radio, cranked up the volume, and listened to the kid he’d hired for this job.

  “Mr. Black, the sniper is in position,” the voice spat through the ageing radio.

  Mr. Black was a name he’d used before, but not in this city. Not even in the United States, for that matter. He wasn’t an expert at assigning random names like his partner had been, but he was always willing to give it a shot. There was always a worry for him—because people travel, talk, compare peers—that his identity would become confused. The six degrees of separation had too many degrees for his liking.

  “Very good. Remember, no shots fired until I say so. Under any circumstances,” he told the kid. He had no idea if his team were competent, only that they were all he had.

  “Understood.”

  Val clipped the radio to his belt and gazed out the window. The night was black, but the moon was full and white, spreading its glorious light across the rippled water. It stole his attention, luring him into a deep trance where thoughts of his son haunted him.

  Had he been hurt? If all had gone well, Blake should have been kicking back on a beach somewhere with his inheritance. A couple of million would do the trick. He’d never been a good father—that was, he hadn’t been there when he was needed—but if financial support was any consolation, Val considered himself redeemed.

  It wasn’t long now. His partner, Daniel—the name used in this area of Los Angeles—would already know where to go. That was what had made him such a damn good agent. Although he sometimes acted alone, it would only be to recover intelligence and get the Agency a step ahead of where they needed to be. So, Val understood, if Daniel wanted to know where he was holed up, he would only have to wait.

  Soon, they’d come through the marina gate, and the war would begin. Val had always known his ex-partner to be quite the strategist, and if he still had a silver-haired head on that neck of his, he would leave the boy elsewhere. Although, deep down, Val still clung onto that little thread of hope that he would get to see his son one more time. If not just to get a chance to say how sorry he was that he’d abandoned him—how pitifully ashamed he was for not being every bit the father he’d wanted to be. Maybe, just maybe, he would tell Blake about his mother, and that the details of her death had been a lie.

  But that was for another day. The boy had been through too much lately.

  The radio made a screeching sound on his belt. He flicked it up and pushed in the button. “What is it?” It couldn’t be him, could it? It was too early. He wasn’t quite ready.

  “Sir, there’s a problem. You should really come and see this.”

  Val could almost feel the blade at his neck. He knew it would have been too easy. “Well?” he pressed. “What’s the problem?”

  “I think you need to see this for yourself, sir.”

  Val huffed, scratched at his spiky stubble, and tossed the radio onto the desk. Sighing, wondering what the problem could be, he made his way to the bridge of the yacht. When he reached the rail, he had to squint to make sure he was seeing right.

  In the distance, blue and red lights flashed in vibrant contrast to the black sky. The police car was at the gates, so it seemed unlikely that they would see the sniper from there. And if this bunch of amateurs had any sense about them, they would have ducked out of sight as soon as they saw the cops.

  Val walked down the sloped jetty, wondering if he knew the officers. Whether or not he did would make a huge difference in the outcome of all this. If God was on his side, he would not be recognized. After all, Val Salinger was a dead man as far as the world was concerned.

  Steeling his nerves, Val approached.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked, his hip aching in the cold and giving him a slight limp. As the shorter officer turned, Val saw the hard face of a woman, scowling under neat, brown hair that was cut short. “Miss—I apologize.”

  “That would be officer to you. Officer Lang,” she said, cutting through the pleasantries. Her partner—a tall, balding man—lurked behind her, leaning against the car. “May I ask if you’re the owner of this yacht?”

  A newbie, Val thought. She must not know me. “Yes, I am.” He glanced at the two guards who stood at the gate. If the officers searched them, they would find their firearms. It may not lead to conviction, but it could certainly cause unnecessary hassle for the Agency, and he wanted to avoid that if at all possible.

  “Do you have the documentation?” the male officer piped up, still not having introduced h
imself. From the looks of it though, he was a nobody. It seemed Officer Lang was in charge of this one.

  “Not right now, I’m afraid. I keep all of that at home. Silly of me, really.” Val chuckled as genuinely as he could muster. He needed to be convincing.

  “Yes, it is.” Lang took a black pad from her breast pocket, flicked it open, and clicked a pen to it. She cleared her throat. “Can I take your name, sir?”

  “My n-name?” He shuffled closer, leaning in to see the pad. “What do you need my name for?” This was getting far too much for him. The officer seemed to be challenging him, and he didn’t like to be threatened. “What is this about, miss?”

  “Officer,” she corrected again. “We’ve had reports of a domestic disturbance upon your craft.”

  A disturbance? It was becoming clear that this woman was not on the Agency’s payroll.

  “Well, do you have a search warrant?” he tried.

  “Not yet, but you’ll find that we don’t need one if all we aim to do is take your details. Are you refusing to cooperate? If you are, then that’s even better.” She smiled like a wolf who’d cornered its prey, flipped the pad closed, and looked him dead in the eye.

  Val could sense the hostility, a knowing with bitter intent.

  The officer reached one hand behind her back, going for her handcuffs.

  After years of experience, Val’s reflexes told him not to flinch. “Of course not,” he said with a smile. This woman was pushing her luck, and he was concerned that he may have to take action. “My name is Vincent Black. I’m a zoologist from the city.” He’d always wanted to be a zoologist. This was probably his only chance.

  “Sounds like a superhero name,” she said without the faintest hint of humor.

  “Well, I’m no superhero. Just an old fart who likes to fish.”

  Lang glanced around the yard, up at the platforms where the snipers were hiding, and then back at Val. “Mr. Black, do you have any identification with you?”

  The male officer still hung back, as if he didn’t want to get involved.