It was something alien to Kyle's experience, outside of the Assassin's Guild. He had spent his entire life in San Francisco, and had been fed a steady stream of platitudes: that he should help other people, people who would never help him; he should give to other people who couldn't be bothered to do anything for themselves; that, or he was told that he could have all the help he could ever want, if he gave away that which was most precious to him.
And that was before San Francisco was nuked into isolation.
So, Kevin Anderson's casual treatment of Kyle's deepest secrets was … puzzling.
Kyle had spent almost two weeks since stalking Kevin Anderson. Usually, Kyle would have only spent that much time tracking a target. But the thought of some random Exile with some of his secrets, merely walking around free … it was something he had never faced before.
And after days of stalking Kevin, Kyle noticed something strange. He was shaking. His control was excellent, so no one could really notice that he had a tremor, but Kyle did.
Kyle hadn't really seen how far he had fallen into a bottle until he accidentally crawled out of it.
Now he took one long, deep breath, and then another. The exercises had settled back into what they had once been. What they had been for years before the April Fool’s War, before the Last Day. Detoxing had hurt.
After it stopped hurting, Kyle could only think of one thing: Kevin Anderson.
Whether the man had known it or not, he had kept Kyle so busy, he was no longer drinking. Kyle had always thought his drinking had been recreational, at worst. Maybe the worst was even worse than he had thought. But Anderson was still a puzzle that Kyle had not solved. It was going to take a little more effort to solve that puzzle. And Kyle could not solve it by stalking the man.
Kyle thought back to his instructor, Peter Hur. What would he do?
*
Kevin slipped into his apartment, and closed the window. He sighed, relaxed, and turned... And jumped.
Kyle Elsen, Assassin, stood in his apartment, looking over the wall of weapons. “I believe I owe you something, Mr. Anderson.”
Anderson opened his mouth, about to speak, paused, and tried again. “First: Should I even ask how you got in here?”
“No.” Elsen nodded at the weapons collection. “Interesting wall. Why the swords?”
“Because they look really cool, and because they were what I collected. You can't believe some of the stuff I've found kicking around this bloody city.” Anderson shrugged and walked over to the kitchen area. “Get you a drink? Or, more precisely, water?”
Elsen turned his eyes to Anderson. “As I said, Mr. Anderson, I believe I owe you.”
Anderson shrugged as he poured out his own glass of water. “Really? Like I said, no one would believe me. As for the other,” he didn't mention the scars, “I don't think that's really anyone's business but yours.”
Elsen nodded, his deep black eyes thoughtful. “Not many would take that attitude, Mr. Anderson.”
Anderson sighed. “Well, I guess I'd hate for you to have outstanding debts.”
“As would I.” Elsen lifted a suitcase from the side of the couch. Anderson could only assume that he had brought it with him, since it wasn't the Exile's. “As part of my training, I am supposed to spar with someone at least once a week. I have not found anyone to perform that task with since the Last Day. Would you be interested?”
Anderson blinked. Sure, let's get into a weekly fistfight with the deadly Assassin. He shrugged. “Sure, why not?” He sipped his glass. “By the way, what's in the case?”
“A gift...”
Anderson smiled. “Christmas, already? Wow, time flies. Um, thanks. Didn't get you anything, but—”
“Open it.”
Anderson took it out of Elsen's hands, and turned around, placing it on the kitchen counter, and popped it open. It was disassembled, but Kevin knew what it was immediately: a high powered, anti-material, .50-caliber sniper rifle. “Wow, this is impressive. Now all I need is ammu—” Kevin glanced over his shoulder, and Kyle was gone. In his place was another suitcase, larger, with possibly enough room for a few thousand rounds of .50-caliber rifle bullets.
“—nition.” Blink. “And Mac says that I've been playing Batman.”
Anderson looked at the case. Initials had been engraved near the latch. “MA P. Hur.”
“M.A....Master Assassin, P. Hur. Who the hell is Master Assassin Hur?”
Chapter 24: On the Wagon
June 20th, 2093
As Kyle Elsen waited for his target, he stared out from the shadows at the corner of Harbinger and Dempster, reflecting on the world he had avoided by hiding in a bottle. The world was brother against brother in a way that made Civil Wars seem congenial, and rabid dogs look sane. You didn't turn your back on someone in San Francisco; that was suicide...
But there were many ways to commit suicide in San Francisco; unfortunately, a lot of the population didn’t recognize those ways. Some accidentally committed suicide quite often—walking down the wrong alley, insulting the wrong person, or calling a Burner a “flamer." Whoever had said suicide was painless had obviously never tried to insult one of the residents of San Francisco.
Kyle glanced at his watch. There was still time. He'd followed tonight’s target for over two weeks, learning the man’s daily schedule...but that was before he had crawled into the last bottle and stayed there. From Kyle's notes, the target, Philip Samuels, was anal about keeping to his schedule, and having it disrupted by even a moment upset him terribly.
That obsession would kill him. Kyle had disrupted the elevator service in his office building, and delayed Samuels fifteen minutes. Being that far behind schedule would send him over the edge. Other than that, tonight would be no different than any other night. He would go to his mistress’s apartment for an hour or two of casual sex and then head for home, his wife none the wiser. He was nothing unusual in San Francisco. His timeliness was just another drug, how to control a world that had gone out of control; any changes were unacceptable.
Tonight, Ockham’s straight razor applied: the simplest way to kill someone was the best. Pulling a knife from a sheath on his belt, Kyle was careful to keep the streetlight from reflecting off its blade. He was as careful, at the same time, not to expose his hand. He would only have this one opportunity. Failing would mean risking losing his contract.
He relaxed, watching the street. His subject normally wore hard-heeled leather wingtips, as per the typical corporate desk jockey. They made a lot of noise on sidewalk concrete, and their distinctive sound was Kyle’s cue to get ready.
Philip K. Samuels’ last thought was interrupted as a hand clamped over his mouth and he was pulled into an alley, and introduced to the business end of a knife. He didn't even have a chance to register the horror of losing sensation in his legs, since a split second later the knife drove into his brain.
Philip K. Samuels, CEO of Wal-Tech, was dead, and easily so. His assassin sighed. Challenges were so hard to find these days. If he were still in the bottle, this might have been hard; it would have taken him a split second longer.
Kyle yanked his knife loose, taking bits of tissue and bone out with it. Dropping the body, he wiped the blade on the dead man's shirt. Kyle’s right hand slipped into the man’s breast pocket, pulling out an identification card and the money that was there with it. Both card and cash went into his pocket as he dropped his dagger back into its sheath.
Hefting the body, Kyle dragged it down the alley, grunting with effort. He had no intention of letting the Scavengers have the body. What they did was disgusting, and as little respect as he had for the living, he did have some for the dead.
Finally, he put the body on the lift-pad of the ionization unit, noting as he did that the ID had gone inactive. With a cold chuckle he turned, heading for the communication terminal at the end of the street. He shoved the blank calling card his anonymous employer had given him into the activation slot and relaxed, waiting. He was about t
o provide proof of death. Soon enough, he’d have enough money to support himself comfortably for at least the next three months, and perhaps longer, if he was frugal.
“Good evening, Mr. Elsen. You’ve completed the task for which I hired you, then?” The screen did not light up—no face showed, just a blank screen and the soft whine that made it clear the voice on the other end was being distorted. Kyle nodded, and slid the corpse's ID through the terminal’s card scanner.
“Yes. As promised, there is no body.” He smiled, trying to keep a straight face—this client was annoying. The man continually tried to sound like some melodramatic cartoon villain, and failed to reach that level of menace. Kyle must have been really drunk to accept this one. “You can transfer my final payment to the account.”
“Payment? If I pay you, I would have to risk you finding out who I am,” the man sneered. “I appreciate your time and trouble, but I no longer have need of your services, and if I need someone killed again I am certain I will be able to find someone else of comparable ability. I do not have the time for nor wish the trouble of a blackmail attempt by a two-bit drunk from the sewers. Goodbye, Mr. Elsen.”
The terminal emitted a piercing screech – the sound of a detonator’s arming code. Kyle turned, running from the terminal. He’d been set up. It blew apart a few seconds later, shrapnel slamming him against the side of a building, finally landing flat on the pavement. The world went black.
*
Kevin Anderson was awoken by someone throwing pebbles at his window. He was up and out of bed in a moment, on the floor in a crouch. He had gone to bed wearing a simple black shirt and a pair of pants, so all he would need was his dark leather jacket before he went out. He glanced around the room and sighed—no one had thrown a grenade through his window. He noted the time—his evening nap was almost over anyway. Time to play Batman.
He cautiously moved to the window, and then peered out. Some white idiot was standing in the middle of the Chinatown street, waving his hands like he was either in the middle of doing jumping jacks or trying to wave in an airplane. “Anderson? Kevin Anderson?”
Kevin cocked his head. “Who wants to know?”
“Edward Newton, Omega Corporation. Can we talk?”
Kevin rolled his eyes, and then slipped down the fire escape. He landed on the street, and folded his arms, leaning against the building. He wasn't worried about this pale, puny, near-anorexic little man. Unlike Newton, Kevin saw the Children of Thanatos who stalked him. Unless the man had a full-scale assault rifle hidden under his suit jacket, Kevin wasn't at risk.
As Newton approached, Kevin called up everything he knew about Omega. They were primarily a terra-forming operation, and had worked with the Israelis to make the desert bloom, making the Middle Eastern Alliance a green, fertile land from Sudan to Pakistan, within the decade after the Israelis had taken it over.
“I've got some information. Omega is buying up all the land from here to the East.”
Kevin blinked. The area described was a radioactive wasteland that covered about half of the territory of the continental United States. “Why?”
Newton shrugged. “That's the thing, I don't know.”
“And you're telling me this … because?”
Newton smiled, a freakish looking thing. “If you can stop them, I can get promoted.”
Kevin rolled his eyes. “Assuming I'd want to stop whatever it is they're doing.”
Newton nodded, but his eyes were glinting with amusement. “I'm sure you will. Once I find out.” He glanced at his watch. “It's only eight, now. I'll have it for you by midnight.”
Kevin arched a brow. “Uh huh... how about this? I'll meet you, say, a few blocks away from the local Omega branch, and we'll talk. If you should, for whatever reason, decide to screw me, I'll sic the Children of Thanatos on you, got me?” He looked at his watch. “If you'll excuse me—”
One of the shadows peeled itself out of the alley and rushed to meet him. “Angel-Servant! We have a problem!”
Kevin blinked. This was a first. “What is it?”
*
Kyle woke a little over an hour after the explosion had slammed him in to the wall. One hand immediately moved to check for any injuries that needed immediate attention. It appeared he had gotten lucky, though. His former client hadn't known about his armor, and the armor had stopped the shrapnel from shredding him. Kyle pushed to his feet, the rush of blood from his head leaving him a little dizzy.
The credits he’d taken from the body were missing along with his own, clearly victim to a street scavenger. Only the money was gone, though. The rest of his equipment looked untouched. Shaking his head to clear it, he turned back toward the alley and the corpse.
The corpse was still on the ionizer’s lift pad. It, unlike him, was stripped clean—even the fillings from its teeth had been taken. Kyle chuckled. Whoever had done this must have started with the corpse, and planned to make their way back to him, guessing he was dead too. He wasn't, though, and that had scared them off.
Kyle stood, straightening his equipment and clothing, and winced. He should have known to be more careful. Never trust a client to be honest... An honest person would, after all, have no need of his services.
Kyle smiled faintly to himself. He needed to teach his former client a lesson, and the man would most certainly not like the lesson plan.
Kyle walked through Chinatown from the financial district. Kyle stalked the back alleys and shadows, where he was the scariest thing in the dark. He remained parallel to the main street, keeping close to the well-lit avenues, in case he needed to leave the dark quickly.
And then he heard the fight.
He paused. There were not many brawls in Chinatown. Kyle slid in to an alley, taking a quick look down Grant Street. There were about six men versus one, and it was obvious to Kyle that the man standing alone was not in any trouble. The attackers were average San Francisco thugs, most likely members of the gang of the week.
One of the thugs finally attacked, and had his punch deflected by a palm strike, pushing his arm off to the side and throwing him off-balance. A moment later the other man's foot kicked forward, making contact with the side of the thug’s knee, dislocating it. Screaming, the thug fell, clutching at his leg and whimpering.
Thug #2, somewhat brighter, tried to attack while his friend was being taken down, but their intended “victim” had not stopped moving, instead shifting his weight to the side. A moment later he swung a foot backward, opening up with his hips and adding the weight of his entire body behind a hammer-fist that connected with Thug #2’s temple. The loud ‘crunch’ that followed the strike’s connection almost certainly foretold a cracked skull.
Kyle caught sight of the putative victim’s face as the second attacker collapsed, taking note of the brightly lit eyes and large, annoying smile. He sighed. Kevin...
Anderson did not stop moving. As his upper torso pivoted to swing the hammer-blow, his right palm lashed out to strike a third attacker’s nose, driving the bridge of the bone above it into the thug’s brain. The man was dead before he fell, and Kevin turned his attention to the remaining thugs. Another wannabe killer stepped over his kneecapped comrade, attempting to jump his victim from behind while the other two still on his team attacked from either side.
Kevin dropped to a crouch and shifted his weight on one leg. The other was extended in a sweep as he took the feet out from under the one on his left. Kevin only half-turned, pushing off on his other leg on to the other, coming under and behind the swing of the man who had tried to sneak up on him. Anderson's right arm wrapped around the man’s neck and jerked back sharply; the loud snap that accompanied the gesture made it clear the thug’s neck had been neatly broken.
A moment later, using his free hand, Kevin took a lead pipe from the dead man, and then let the corpse fall, staring at the two who were still standing and alive. The smile never left his face as he flipped the pipe into his right hand.
They stared at him, st
unned, and took what seemed to be an unconscious step backward.
Anderson beamed. “What’s the matter? You don’t want to play anymore? Come on, you beat up one of the border patrol, you tap-danced on the head of a Tong enforcer, and then you jumped me! And, if you run, you know you’ll just die tired.”
He raised the pipe and screamed at the top of his lungs, moving as though he were about to rush the one on his left. That thug pulled back reflexively, and a moment later, instead, Anderson's right leg snapped into the air, launching a side kick in to the chest of the member on the right, crushing his ribs and sending him to the sidewalk. Seconds after that, the gang member on the left spun and ran away. The lead pipe was hurled after him like a javelin, finally slamming into the back of his head with yet another 'crunch', sending the punk to the sidewalk, unconscious.
Kevin’s smile widened further, and he sighed. “That’s it? That was no fun at all...”
Kyle had closed the distance during the fight, and slipped the knife from his hand into its sheath. “Work isn’t supposed to be fun, Mr. Anderson.”
Anderson looked up and smiled. “All work and no play make St. Jack a dull boy, Kyle, which explains a lot about the Children of Thanatos.” He raised a brow. “You look like hell.”
“Thank you for noticing the obvious, Mister Anderson.”
Anderson raised a brow and walked with Kyle down the street, leaving the thugs lying dead, bleeding, or simply unconscious. “So, what the hell happened to you? Or were you the bomb that went off in the financial district before?”
Kyle's voice tensed. “I am not capable of self-destruction, Mister Anderson.”
He blinked. “Wow, you must have been rattled, you’re being snarky. Absolutely remarkable.” He moved towards Kyle cautiously. “You want I should look you over?”
Kyle responded to the question with a thoughtful, almost confused frown. Anderson sighed, and walked with him. “So who tried to blow you up? And no, I wasn't joking before—this is San Francisco. You know how fast news travels. Someone tries to blow you up; people hear a few minutes later—in my case, a Child of Thanatos told me as we were running here to meet these twerps. So who did it, Kyle?”
Codename: Winterborn (The Last Survivors Book 1) Page 27