Machine's Work: A Hyper-Violent Crime Thriller (Assassination City Book 1)

by Jack Cuatt

  When the answering machine picks up, he enters a six-digit security code. A female monotone tells him that there are no new messages. He pockets the phone then stands there for a moment, trying to decide what he should do, where he should go. He can't wait for Kukov; he has to do something now. Tonight. Has to get a lead on the insurance salesman.

  A name comes instantly to mind.

  “Priest Thompson,” he mutters under his breath and starts walking, heading back to the Bottoms.

  6

  Priest Thompson is an ex-mercenary who runs a club in the Bottoms called the Lucky-7. The place is a hangout for cut-rate soldiers of fortune, leg-breakers, street-choppers, and wannabes. Priest makes his cash by acting as middleman for his clients, brokering murders and assaults. In Low Town, business is always brisk.

  Several years ago, Moses had started taking contracts from Priest for dope-money. The two men had a falling-out after Priest commissioned Moses to chop an assistant Presbyterian minister who had been accused of molesting one of his parishioner's children. Moses did the work with a half-brick of C-4 planted on the church's gas connection. He detonated the explosive during Wednesday night services. Twenty-four people were killed, including the minister. Moses got a real charge out of the body-count.

  Bishop didn't want to pay. The parishioner who contracted the hit was one of the people killed in the explosion. Moses had convinced Priest to come across by putting the barrel of a 9mm automatic against his tonsils. Priest had handed over the cash, but he had never called on Moses again.

  The Lucky-7 occupies the ground floor of a twelve story tenement. Dim light glows beyond sloppily-painted over windows. The club's narrow black door is closed. A pair of bouncers in bulletproof vests are hanging around out front. Machine passes them and the door without a glance. He turns right at the alley that runs beside the building. Halfway down the narrow passage, behind a row of three rusted dumpsters, is a steel fire-door. Machine raps twice and waits. It takes a minute, but the door finally opens and he's staring down the barrel of a crappy Tec-9 machine pistol into a dim, smoky corridor. The man holding the Tec-9 is thin and tall, his face yellow as egg yolk. It’s too dark for Machine to make out more than that.

  “Machine to see Priest,” he says and the guy’s eyes go wide before he slams the door closed in Machine’s face.

  Machine slips the Smith from under his jacket and puts it on top of the trash that fills the dumpster nearest the door, then steps back and looks up the alley, toward the front of the club. One of the guys that had been watching the front door is now standing at the head of the alley, watching Machine.

  The door opens behind Machine. He turns and steps into the back hallway of the Lucky-7.

  “Got to frisk you,” the guy with the Tec says, sounding nervous. Machine raises his hands and turns his back. The guy does a sloppy job, missing the razor Velcroed to Machine’s forearm. When he’s finished, the goon points down the dark hall to the left. Machine heads in that direction, the guard lagging ten feet behind, the Tec pointed at the middle of Machine’s back.

  The corridor ends in another steel door. Machine stops and knocks.

  “Come,” a voice bellows.

  Machine shoves the door open and steps into a plush, modern office furnished in white-washed pine. Behind a massive desk sits Priest Thompson.

  Priest is built like a brick and has the same ruddy-red complexion. His blond hair is cut boot-camp short, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal massive forearms covered in fine white hair. He glowers at Machine as he tells the guy with the Tec, “Wait in the hall, JT.”

  JT pulls the door shut.

  “What do you want?” Priest snaps at Machine. He’s a tough guy when his crew is close by.

  “I'm looking for a chopper,” Machine replies. “Red Sleeves got worked two hours ago at the Metro.”

  Priest smiles. “I heard that fucking junkie got faded. What's that got to do with me?”

  Machine keeps his cool. He wants answers, not a confrontation. Killing Priest will get him nowhere.

  “Blond hair, thin, thirty, blue eyes, a sharp chin, and a low hairline. Likes to use a gauge. Sound familiar?”

  Priest's smile vanishes. “I got a business here. My customers expect privacy. That's what they pay me for. Even if I did know him I wouldn’t give him up to you.” He pauses and the smile returns. “I know you got this whole fucking city spooked, but I ain’t scared of you. Without Red Sleeves to take your back you’re fucking meat,” he says as his hand ducks under the desk. Somewhere down the hall a buzzer sounds loudly.

  Machine circles the desk before Priest can get his finger off the buzzer. Priest tries to grab the gun belted to his hip, but Machine already has it in his hand. He jerks Priest out of the chair by the collar of his shirt then ducks behind him.

  The office door bursts open and JT rushes in, the Tec-9 at hip-level.

  Using Priest as a human shield, Machine fires three silenced shots into JT’s chest from ten feet away. JT goes flying back out the door, but there is no blood. Body armor, Machine realizes as JT hits the concrete on his back. JT starts to sit up, still clutching the Tec. Machine puts a round through his forehead and he goes down for good.

  Priest looks stunned. He had obviously planned to get a little payback for the humiliation Moses had inflicted on him. Machine presses the hot barrel of the silencer to Priest’s temple.

  “We're going out the side door,” Machine says in Priest's ear and gives the mercenary a push in the right direction. It's been less than a minute since Priest pushed the panic-button, but Machine is expecting more of the mercenary's crew at any moment. He lets Priest take point.

  Trembling, staring at what’s left of JT’s face, Priest shuffle-steps toward the door, stuttering. “Scarpo!” Priest says, spraying spit. “Scarpo had an open contract on Red Sleeves. Five-hundred K—”

  “Shut up.” Machine says as he shoves Priest down the dark hallway, moving fast, Priest’s pistol locked to the mercenary’s temple. Priest had his chance at the easy way; from here forward it’s blood work.

  The pair are almost at the back door when one of Priest's crew barrels around the corner at the far end of the hall, twenty feet away, a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun in his hands.

  It's too dim for a clear head shot, and the man probably has body armor on under his clothes. Machine aims for the guy's knees and squeezes the trigger four times fast, sending a wall of lead screaming down the narrow corridor. Kneecaps, shins and thigh bones shatter. The guy doesn't even get off a shot. His shotgun hits the floor a split-second before he does.

  “I’m hit. I’m fucking hit!” he screams, the last words he will ever speak.

  Machine puts an end to the screams with two more rounds to the head then jams the pistol back against Priest’s head.

  “Oh Jesus,” Priest whispers as Machine slams him flat against the steel door.

  “Open it.”

  “I—”

  “Open it.”

  Priest fumbles for the handle, finally gets his hand on it and twists. It pops open and Machine shoves him through the gap into the alley.

  Two of the front door crew are there waiting, facing the door, compact 9mm Uzi’s in their fists. They see Priest and one of them starts to speak.

  Machine is a master marksman with a variety of rifles and handguns, but that hardly matters. At such close range, he can't miss. He fires two shots that sound like one and both of Priest's men are heading for the pavement. But, dead or not, one of them manages to let off a three-round burst as he hits the alley floor. All three rounds strike Priest low in the chest.

  Priest hits the asphalt on his knees, his hands covering his abdomen, trying to push the blood back in. It’s a losing battle.

  “Fuck you, Machine,” he whispers and falls flat on his face in the trash.

  He lies there shuddering and moaning as Machine wipes down Priest’s handgun and ditches it beside the dying man then retrieves his own pistol from the dumpster. He’s
halfway to the street by the time Priest releases his last breath. At the street, Machine turns east, cursing himself for a fool. Priest won't answer any questions now. He should have known better than to approach the mercenary head-on. He should have snatched Priest and put the razor to work. Priest was weak. He would have spit out a name at the first cut.

  Machine has to get off the strip before Priest's crew decides to hit the Zone looking for revenge. He heads for the Daylight Restricted Area, a zoned off section of the city close to the Easter Industries Chemical plant.

  Two acts of industrial sabotage at Easter Industries had forced the daylight restriction. No one is allowed near the fences after dusk. The Jesus creeps ignore the junkies and winos that occasionally wander through during the dead hours of the afternoon, but God help anyone there after dark. The creep's orders are to shoot on sight, an order they enjoy enforcing. A perfect place to hide out for a while, clear his mind, and try to figure out what comes next.

  Scarpo.

  Then the blond chopper.

  Machine tries the answering machine every two hours for the rest of the night to no avail. He spends that time sitting in an abandoned building, brooding over his mother's death. And Scarpo. Planning his revenge. It’s all he has left.

  Never has he felt more alone.

  7

  Eight AM finds Machine walking out of the Daylight Restricted Area into the Free Zone. The rain has stopped, but a cold wind whips down the sky-scraper canyons, chilling him to the core. The sun is just coming up, a fuzzy red oval edged in dirty gray. He's tired. His head is throbbing. Hunger and thirst make him light-headed. He stops at a bodega set between two burned-out buildings. Without conscious thought, he buys milk, cereal, an orange, and coffee in a Styrofoam cup. The girl behind the counter, thin and pretty in a sleepy way, bags it up while staring shyly at Machine. He ignores her. She doesn't charge him the recycle fee.

  Back on the street, he considers his options. Immediate needs only; the rest can wait. The Bradley Hotel, where Machine and Moses were staying, is the most likely place for one of Priest’s crew to wait for Machine. He won't go back there. Dragging his feet, he heads for a flophouse several blocks north of the strip, fatigue driving all thoughts but sleep from his mind.

  The hotel is seedy, graffiti-covered sandstone. A faded sign over the steel barred door reads “Men Only” in three-inch letters. Above that a long-dead neon sign announces THE WAYSIDE INN, Daily and Weekly Rates. He climbs the steps and enters the tiny lobby, little more than a wide spot in the hall. Dirty gray carpet, dingy gray walls, the smell of ammonia and nicotine.

  The desk man is seated behind a felt-topped counter paging through a tit magazine. He's a hype with skin the color of yellow Play-Doh, long ratty black hair and a tight look about the mouth from worrying he won't be able to score his next fix. He's wearing a Metallica T-shirt stained yellow under the arms. The room rates are written on the wall behind him. Twenty dollars pays for one night.

  The clerk looks up and his yellow eyes crawl over Machine. “Welcome,” he says, rising and smiling. He closes the magazine and starts massaging the felt with his palms.

  Machine can smell him from ten feet away. Junkies don't bathe, it ruins the high. You sweat too much if you're clean. Dirt blocks the pores, keeps the heroin in.

  Machine doesn't reply. He drops his sack on the balding felt, takes out his wallet and pulls out a twenty dollar bill without letting the clerk get a look at the rest.

  “A single,” he says.

  The clerk looks at the money and his smile broadens. His teeth look like a row of fire-gutted houses. The best of them are gray and ragged at the edges. Most are black stumps broken off at the gum.

  “You wouldn't be needing anything would you?” He leans across the counter, reaching for the twenty, “Cause if you are, I can maybe help. You know, dope, bitches. Whatever—”

  “The key,” Machine says.

  The clerk's smile dissolves, but instantly returns. Junkies take no offense when money is involved.

  “Just trying to help out,” he says with a shrug. “No hard feelings.”

  “The key,” Machine repeats, extending his left hand, palm up.

  The clerk shrugs, reaches under the desk and comes up with a worn brass key connected to a battered chunk of wood with the number six scrawled on one side.

  “Second floor at the back. Drop the key off when you leave, pick it up when you get back. The block is so you don't forget.”

  Machine picks up the key and turns away. The clerk's eyes follow him to the stairs. The teenager is on the third tread when the hype calls after him.

  “If I can do anything, just ask. The name's Marty.”

  Machine doesn't reply and he doesn’t look back. His feet drag up the stairs to the second floor and down the hall to his room.

  It's small, lit by a sixty-watt bulb screwed into the ceiling. Mottled gray walls and matted brown carpet. The single bed is covered with a faded yellow spread. Rat droppings, dead roaches, a rickety dresser, and a wooden kitchen chair are the room's only other features. Machine sits on the edge of the bed, opens the plastic bag and eats, gulping down the coffee first then using the Styrofoam cup to eat the cereal and milk. He chews and swallows the soggy corn-flakes, his appetite gone with the first bite. But his teeth continue to masticate, his stomach to accept. A mechanical process. Joyless.

  After swallowing the last of the cereal, he steps into the grimy bathroom. His black running shoes stick to the tile. A half-used bar of soap sits on the edge of the sink and a surprisingly clean-looking towel hangs from a rusted metal rack. There's no shower curtain around the tub and enough hair to make a wig clogs the drain. Ignoring the soap, Machine washes with his hands then uses the towel to dry himself. When he's done, he carefully wipes down the sink to remove all fingerprints. The chopper's most important dictum is never leave a trace. He switches off the bathroom light and returns to the bedroom. After stripping the sheets and spread from the bed's stained mattress, he pulls it off its box springs, drops it in front of the hall door, spreads his jacket over it and lies down in his clothes, the soles of his shoes pressed flat against the room's only entrance. He'll sleep for a few hours and then see Fat Paul Fielder and Vlad Kukov. Arrangements have to be made. Machine will see his mother buried properly. Her killer as well.

  In seconds he is asleep. He dreams.

  8

  The dream opens on a landscape of fire, blood, and writhing corpses. Machine's wrists are nailed to a burning crucifix. His hair is on fire. The pit lies open, seething and sulfurous before him. The screams of the damned burst his ear drums as his flesh runs like melted wax from his skeleton. Flames flare blue-green, tall and monstrous, scorching his naked bones black.

  Suddenly his father, Moses, appears, walking along the rim of the pit, casually pushing huddled figures over the edge. Moses is clothed in fire, his skin crisped black. His charred lips grin, teeth impossibly white against his scorched flesh. He waves at his crucified son as he passes, then lifts his other hand in which he carries a severed head by a length of tangled brown hair. The blackened face is Connie Slaski's. Her eyes flutter open and find her son’s.

  “Run, Alex, run away,” she shrieks as Moses ambles past on barbecued legs.

  As the gruesome couple shrink into the fire-hazed distance, the flames overrun Machine. The heat shatters his bones. He awakens in the dark hotel room to the sound of footsteps on the landing.

  Machine lies there, the razor in his hand, and listens to the steps continue on to the next floor. For a moment, yesterday is blotted out by the clarity and horror of the dream. Then his mother's shredded face comes back to him in a rush. She's gone. Forever.

  Machine gets to his feet, holsters the Smith and looks at his watch. 5:05 PM. He's been asleep almost eight hours, longer than he had intended. Crossing to the window, he peels back the curtain and looks down on the street.

  The bars are open. Pimps and hookers, dealers and junkies, fried food and wine, liq
uor, crack and heroin. The beginning of another long night. In front of a bottle shop halfway down the block, a knife fight flares between two pimps. The big one, tall and fat with bleached hair, is graceful and quick for his size. He lunges in and flicks his blade twice across the smaller pimp's sport coat, drawing blood. The bleeding pimp is running before the fat one can do any real damage. The cutter and his fans laugh and high-five. The Jesus creep on the corner doesn't even look their way.

  Machine lets the curtain drop, walks to the bathroom and splashes water on his face. After carefully wiping down the room's doorknobs and anything else he might have touched, he heads downstairs.

  The same clerk is behind the counter reading the same porn magazine. Machine drops the key off as he passes. The clerk starts to say something, but the front door shuts behind Machine before the junkie can finish.

  Machine walks through the night feeders that crowd the dark, neon-smoky streets. He calls the answering machine. Still nothing.

  He stops at a store that sells eggrolls, hamburgers, tacos, and a dozen other greasy items cooked on a grill that hasn't been cleaned in years. He orders two egg rolls, gets a quart of orange juice from a cooler in the back and takes a newspaper from the rack. He pays the girl and hangs the sack over his left arm.

  Two blocks from the store is a rundown city park called Freedom Green. The park was the site of dozens of public executions in the weeks following the Moral Revolution. The Children of The Blood Militia had appropriated an eighteenth century headsmen's axe from the city's museum and given it its first taste of blood in four hundred years. Now, weeds and scrub brush grow high on the playing fields and junkies occupy the peeling benches, nodding or cooking a fix. Prostitutes lead the cheapest dates into the weeds where they do their work quickly and passionlessly in the long grass.