“A client.” Elsen blinked, as though confused about the whole event. “He didn’t want to pay the rest of my fee.”
Anderson rolled his eyes. “Moron. How long will it take to kill him?”
Kyle waved a hand rather vaguely, as though he hadn't put too much thought into the matter. “That depends on how long it takes to find him.”
“So you’re going to the Ground Zero?”
“Perhaps.” The Assassin's voice was non-committal. It was always non-committal, but Anderson was sure he knew the answer already.
“I’ll see you there, then. I have to check out a few things and do the rounds.”
“What are you up to, Anderson?”
Anderson smiled. “A MegaCorp based originally on the East Coast. Omega. They’ve been buying all of the Wasteland they can get their hands on.”
Kyle’s brow furrowed for a moment. “Strange.”
“Exactly. Even for San Francisco. I’ll see you later.”
They went their separate ways, Kyle moving to the edge of Chinatown.
*
The bar was the next building on his right. The Ground Zero was in the middle of the city, at the edge of Little Hiroshima, taking up a sizable area in between the major factions. It took up a whole corner of the street, on the edge of the financial district, near not only the Brokers, but also the Hackers’ Union headquarters. Practically anyone in the city could get in to the ’Zero without that much difficulty, even Children of Thanatos.
Kyle walked the rest of the way to the bar, the blue neon “NO ’SIXTY USERS” sign flickering and buzzing as he walked past it, eyes flicking a glance at the few addicts who stayed just outside the door, begging for whatever they could. Kyle shoved one out of the doorway as he came up the stairs and walked inside, stepping around the weapons scanner. Kyle could feel the bass from the thumping beat of the music through the soles of his boots on the deck. He ignored it, continuing toward the bar.
A moment later, he cleared his throat, catching the attention of tiny, frazzled, fluorescent-orange-haired Mickie standing behind the counter mixing drinks. She pushed a bit of her hair back from her face and looked up at Kyle, an amused glint in her pale blue-green eyes.
“You still haven’t paid your bill, Kyle! What if I started letting everyone get away with murder when it came to their tabs?” Mickie smirked at her own bad joke, getting no reaction from the assassin, nor expecting one. A few nearby customers rolled their eyes.
“Mickie, just shut up and give the man his drink. It’s on the house. Forgive my little sister. You know how much of a bitch she is,” Mac's voice came from the door behind the bar.
Mac stepped out, smoothing down his reddish-blonde hair. He took the glare Mickie threw at him in stride, smiling sweetly back at her. “In fact, make that two East India Ales, Mik. One for me, and one for the…” he chuckled softly, “…gentleman executioner.”
The bartender frowned, but brought two bottles up from under the bar, dropping them on the counter. “Your drinks.” She turned, shoving past him. “I’ve got other customers to take care of. Now get out from behind my bar, you big oaf! And who the hell do you think you are, extending his tab without asking?” Without another word, she stormed away.
Kyle blinked and looked back-and-forth, confused. He had always found it a source of mild amusement before, a floorshow for the customers. It might still be, but now that he wasn't drinking as much, he wondered if there was something else at work.
Mac came around the bar, reaching for a bottle opener as he came toward Kyle. He opened the beer bottles, placing one in front of Kyle, and kept the other, taking a short drink before lowering it. He leaned back as Kyle reached into his pocket and deposited seventy-five credits on the bar. As Mac pocketed them, Kyle lifted his bottle and took a drink, silent. Bemused, he watched Mickie glare once more at her brother, then at him.
“There. Paid off … listen, I need a favor from Lotus. Someone just tried to kill me.”
Mac choked on the drink he’d just taken, spitting it out his nose. Coughing, he blinked at Kyle. “I really hope that's some kind of joke... Oh, wait, you don't have a sense of humor.” He took a deep breath, slowly letting it go.
“Whoever it was is someone looking to get ahead in the world, Mac.” He dropped another two hundred on the counter. “This should cover at least opening costs.”
“All right, then. Let’s get started. Give me every detail you can about the job… how you were hired, how much you were supposed to be paid, etcetera, etcetera.”
Kyle slowly went through the situation, watching as Mac absorbed every piece of data, writing some notes in shorthand on a napkin. It was a start, at least...
Chapter 25: Symposium
Kyle took a long breath and leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed. He felt a familiar presence nearby. “Might I help you, Mr. Anderson?” His voice was almost amused.
Anderson smiled, sliding onto a bar stool two seats away from the assassin. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”
Kyle opened his eyes. “Is there some reason you have your back to the rest of the room?”
Anderson shifted his weight, leaning an elbow against the bar as he scanned the stock of bottles behind it. “I only do it when I’m speaking with you, Kyle.”
He sat there silent, watching Kevin Anderson a moment. “Because I’m your friend, then?” The tone was almost … teasing and lighthearted.
The self-titled “Inconvenient” almost laughed. “Because your professional sensibilities would be offended if some amateur tried to kill me while I was sitting in front of you.”
Kyle let one corner of his lip curl upward into what once might have become a smile. “Is someone following you?”
“A tall, skinny little brat who still belongs in diapers? About six feet away, to my left and behind?” He had given a perfect description of the man Kyle had noticed fingering a knife a short distance away.
Kyle nodded. “That would be the one,” he said casually.
Anderson was amused. “That jackass has been following me for a few hours. I think he believes that if he drops me, the Children would stop patrolling Chinatown.” Anderson shook his head, sighing. “Have you ever felt like you’ve been trapped inside a perpetual, city-wide gang war?”
Kyle arched a brow, shifting. “You are in San Francisco.”
Anderson sighed again, this time showing a little emotion behind it. “True. Now… do you have any empty bottles near you?”
Kyle reached over the bar, selecting a suitable bottle. He slid it in Anderson’s direction a moment later.
“Thanks.” Anderson picked up the bottle, glancing at it for a moment, and he blinked. “Johnny Walker Blue Label… Where the hell did the triplets get fifty-year-old scotch?” He put the bottle back down on the bar in front of him, careful to angle it so that it would reflect everything happening behind him—the brat was coming toward him, fast; he held the knife angled point-down in his hand.
Anderson sighed, turning on his bar stool to face his would-be killer. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice was tired, and clearly annoyed.
The young man halted in mid-stab. “W-what?”
“I asked what you thought you were doing, young man.” Anderson slid off of his bar stool. “Who taught you how to handle a knife? Oh never mind.” He grabbed his would-be assailant by the shoulder and dragged him toward the other end of the bar, frowning. Anyone watching would have been reminded of how Mickie had dragged her brother away earlier.
Anderson stopped a number of feet from the bar, taking the knife away from his attacker with no effort. “You hold it with the pommel in your palm, so that you can shift it back and forth between your hands with no problem. You raise the other arm…” he raised his arm in what looked like a boxer’s block, “…like this.” He shifted again, his tone that of an exasperated teacher. “That arm is used as a shield if the guy you’re trying to stab has a knife of his own. When you go to stab h
im, you pivot your torso…” he demonstrated “…like this, to make the stab into a thrust. Understand?”
The man nodded slowly, blinking and confused. “Yeah...” He spoke slowly and cautiously, clearly uncertain as to what Anderson had in mind for him.
Anderson handed the knife back to him. “Now go and practice. When you’re ready, I’ll be here waiting for you, right where I was. Is that okay?”
The man nodded again, still confused, and finally walked away, apparently to take the advice his target had given him.
Kyle frowned at Kevin, confused, as he sat down again. “Interesting, Mr. Anderson. May I ask what that was about? Correcting his technique isn’t going to make a difference.”
Anderson shrugged at the assassin, smiling faintly. “Keeping up appearances, Kyle; I have a reputation to maintain. So…what are you thinking about? It's obvious your mind is someplace else.”
“Just remembering the past, Mr. Anderson.” The Assassin’s voice was soft—almost too low for Kevin to hear.
Kyle’s eyes flicked a glance past Kevin’s shoulder. The idiot amateur was there once again. A second later, Kevin noticed where Kyle was looking.
“Got it.” Anderson shifted his weight, keeping careful track of the man who hoped to kill him. He waited a moment, and then spun on his stool, raising a hand to halt the man in his tracks, and snapped, “What do you think that you’re doing this time?” He sighed, shaking his head sadly, exhaling through his nose, clearly disappointed. “Aiming for my heart, really?”
The thug paused once again. “Huh?”
Anderson growled with annoyance. Grabbing another customer by the arm, Kevin turned toward the thug and spoke again as if he were instructing a classroom. “When you’re trying to stab someone from behind, you either stab them in the kidneys…” He tapped the man whose arm he held on the kidneys with the handle of the knife, which he had somehow gotten a hold of once again. “…or you shove the knife into their brainstem, right here.” He tapped the knife handle against the body of the man he was using for a model again. He sighed. “Get it right next time.”
Anderson turned and walked back toward his stool when the amateur killer yelled, “Um, can I have my knife back?”
Anderson smiled and spun, throwing the knife to land right between the thug’s feet, the tip of the blade just inside the floor grout.
Kyle furrowed his brow, simply confused now. “Do you have any idea how unprofessional that was?”
As he returned to his seat, Kevin shrugged. “It’s very simple, really. Your public image is that you’re a killing machine. Mine is that I’m completely out of my mind.”
Kyle shrugged and reached for a book in his inside jacket pocket. He pulled out the thick novel and said, “I have very little control over how other people see me.” He opened the novel to the page he wanted. “I read here every night, though most people want to see me as you said. As though I have no other hobbies.”
Anderson arched a brow. “And the VIP room?”
Kyle’s nose was pointed straight into the book, but the right corner of his mouth turned up. Of course, it was the corner nearest the bar, so that the patrons couldn’t see it. “Well, maybe I help their perceptions along. A little.”
Anderson chuckled. “I’m surprised no one notices that you trust the triplets.”
Kyle did not answer, though he did glance over at the thug stalking Anderson. “Are you just going to hurt him, or are you going to make an example?”
Anderson answered. “I’m not absolutely certain, yet. Perhaps a little of both.”
“A man cannot be a little dead, Anderson.”
Anderson looked Kyle in the eyes. “You of all people should know better than that. How many people do we see in a day in this city that aren’t alive, but are just surviving?”
Kyle cleared his throat. “What of your current project?”
“I have someone looking into OmegaCorp right now, a contact within the organization. With any luck, he’ll find out why they’ve been buying every piece of land they could between California and Illinois.”
Kyle frowned the way he did when he had a puzzle. “That is certainly odd.”
“Especially when you consider how the only reason it hasn’t been all terraformed by now is that San Francisco looks like the Ninth Circle of Hell.” Anderson shrugged.
Kevin Anderson looked over at the bottle he’d angled to watch the bar, and noticed the thug moving in to stab him. Without a moment’s thought, he spun on his stool again, shifting as he swung a rigid hand downward in a pendulum swing, headed straight for the man’s wrist. As Kevin struck, the blade went flying from the thug’s hand. Kevin followed it up to grab the wrist of the hand that had held it with both of his own, digging the nails of his thumbs into the primary veins in the back of the man's hand. A moment later, he spun the man around violently, ending the maneuver with the man’s arm locked tight up behind his back, one of Kevin’s hands at the man’s elbow, the other still on his wrist. With the first, he pressed upward against the man’s elbow, the second forcing the man’s hand downward until it almost touched his own forearm.
With a beatific grin on his face, Anderson said, “That was so much better that time, kid. You have the potential to be quite a skilled killer when you grow up.” He chuckled. “Pity you may not.” He pressed against the man’s hand again, chuckling a second time as the man winced violently, whimpering as softly as he could.
Kyle examined the situation with an almost scientific detachment, finally speaking to the man whom Anderson held captive. “You would be amazed at what a person can live through. I’ll let you learn that on your own, however.” He glanced up at Anderson. “Be careful. You know how the triplets are about blood on the floor.”
The man began to blubber, eyes widening in fear and pain. “But… but…” He hid another wince as Anderson pushed ever so gently up against his elbow once again, and swallowed hard as he forced back the whine that accompanied the wince.
Anderson continued to grin devilishly at him. He shifted his lock on the man’s arm ever so slightly. “You see, I’m not going to hurt you severely because you tried to kill me. I don’t take that personally anymore.” He frowned. “But you picked here of all places to make the attempt. Here, in front of my friend, a professional assassin, in an establishment owned by three of our well-known acquaintances. You can try to kill me all you like. I can guarantee you won’t succeed. When you try to do it here, however, you are insulting my friends. That costs you.”
Lotus, who had just come out from the back, patted Kyle on the arm. “I just knew I liked him for some reason.” A moment later, she played her own part in his act. “Just don’t get any blood on the floor. My brother would be furious.”
After about thirty seconds of screaming, Mac and Mickie came out from the back of the bar, rejoining their sister. Sixty seconds after that, the first bones broke. At the three-minute mark there were the first drops of blood, which Mac leaned forward to catch on a towel.
Kyle watched dispassionately. Normally, he would have said this was unprofessional and over the top. However, as Anderson noted, it both fit his public persona, and the bastard had tried to kill him in the Ground Zero. Standard operating procedure was for anyone who started a fight to be tossed out after a thorough beating, so what had happened to this fool was not really anything that anyone could reasonably object to. The man had asked for it. The guests probably believed it to be a floorshow to make a point about not causing trouble in the bar.
When Anderson was done, Leo the bouncer dragged the thug outside. Anderson sat down at the bar and the smile faded, his eyes turning flat and tired. “Lotus…a drink, if you wouldn’t mind.” She complied with water.
He turned back to Kyle. “We were discussing Omega before we were interrupted, yes?”
Kyle nodded. “It sounds interesting. Keep me apprised of the situation.”
“You too. When you catch up with your moron, tell him hello from me. I’d offer you
my help, but you wouldn’t think of taking it even if you needed it, would you?”
Anderson thought he saw Kyle’s eyes glitter for a split second, but it was over before he could be sure. Anderson leaned down, picking up the knife. Another item for the collection. “So, Kyle, how’s your monetary situation coming?”
Kyle frowned for a split second. He was going through so many facial expressions today that Anderson half expected his face to break. “I manage.”
Anderson said nothing for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was lower to make certain no one else heard him. “That bad, huh? Considering that your last client tried to stiff you—and turn you into a stiff—how many contracts are you going to have to take on before you can pay the triplets? It’s not like they’re going to allow you a tab for long.”
Kyle didn’t reply. Considering the amount of money required, he would either need several small contracts or a large one in order to make this work.
Anderson was about to press the issue when he looked into his bottle of scotch. “I think you have a customer.”
A moment later Kyle heard a voice, and it belonged to the woman who had been staring at him with nervous, haunted eyes since she had come in. “You're Kyle Elsen, aren't you? The Assassin?”
Kyle glanced at her, mainly because he didn’t like anyone standing behind him. “Yes?”
The woman blinked and nodded, lowering her eyes. “Mr. Elsen, I need you to kill… my…my husband... Please. ”
Kyle blinked. “Ma'am, I am a contract killer. I have a policy that I do not get involved in domestic assassinations. The number of times people change their minds make them hazardous.” He looked to Anderson. “I even had one client jump in front of his spouse, who he had hired me to kill in the first place. I couldn’t collect the rest of my fee on that one.” He glanced back to her. “So, you see, I try to avoid complications like that. They’re unnecessarily messy.”
Codename: Winterborn (The Last Survivors Book 1) Page 28