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

by Jack Cuatt

  A six-foot chain-link fence encircles the pit, which is four feet deep and steeply sloped on all sides so that the view from the grandstands is unobstructed. The bottom of the pit is covered by a thin red canvas mat to keep the floor from getting slick. A steel gate at either end gives the fighters admittance. Trainers and coaches stand around the gates near tables covered with weapons approved as nonlethal: brass knuckles, varying lengths of chain and a selection of short-bladed knives. A sadist's delight. At the moment the two men in the pit are fighting barehanded, but the bouts will become bloodier as the night progresses.

  The two fighters are heavily muscled and scarred from previous battles. They’re dressed in shorts and sandals in the tradition of the old gladiators. They move well, bob and dart behind punches and kicks. Blood and teeth fly. They're about evenly matched, but Machine isn't interested in the fight. He searches the bleachers methodically, a row at a time, seeing a lot of faces he recognizes, but none he can use. It takes him twenty minutes to be sure Sculli is not in attendance.

  As Machine stands to go, the double doors that access the gyms, offices, and smaller arenas at the rear of the building open, and Victor Stark strides into the arena. Dressed in a black silk suit, white shirt and string tie, he has the imperious bearing of the untouchable. Machine knows better. Everyone is meat waiting for grinding. Two short, light-skinned Brazilians built like oversized fire hydrants travel in Victor's shadow. They keep a perfect V-formation, ten feet back, covering their boss's flanks, dark eyes skimming the crowd.

  Victor joins the group of trainers and cut-men clustered near the pit's gate.

  Machine drops down the metal steps, circles the grandstands, and walks down the aisle that leads to the pit, forcing his way through the press of people dressed in party clothes, swilling drinks, laughing and making bets.

  As machine nears Victor, the pit's gate crashes open and two men in white carry out a stretcher laden with two hundred pounds of bloody flesh. The loser making his exit, unconscious, possibly dead.

  Victor Stark breaks away from his flock as the fight's winner, looking almost as mauled as his opponent, plods up the pit's steps. Victor pats the man's shoulder and hands over a white envelope. The fighter mumbles something, takes the envelope, and stumbles away, a medic close behind. Victor returns to his conversation. He's facing Machine, but doesn't notice the pale teenager through the crowd.

  Victor is six-foot-three with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. His complexion is pallid. A brooding ridge of scar tissue bulges his black eyebrows and deep scars distort his face. His long black hair is tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Machine has known Victor a long time. He isn't sure if Victor can help find Sculli, but if he can, he better.

  Victor hasn't always been as clever as he now appears. Smart with money, he was a fool for pride. In the first year the Den of Thieves was open, Victor was strung out on a prostitute working for one of Fat Paul's street pimps, a Latino named Jimmy Rose. The girl was sixteen, blonde and innocent looking, but with a cold streak a mile wide and a lion's lust for blood. She started running with Victor and avoiding her pimp. It couldn't last. Jimmy Rose caught up with her on the Avenue one night while Victor was in the pit killing an Australian with a big reputation and brittle bones. Rose worked the girl over but he didn't permanently damage her.

  While the Australian was being dumped in an alley, the girl put it to Victor in the locker room. She cried and bled until he hit the streets, throwing an overcoat on over his sandals and shorts. He caught up with Jimmy Rose in the Zone and smashed Jimmy’s head flat with a table leg. The cops didn't care, but a contract was put out by Fat Paul. Money was paid to Moses. Bone work. A lesson to others. Victor was as good as dead.

  Victor hid out with three of his hard boys and the girl in a cabin upstate. All of them had a good time, waiting for things to cool down, drinking and snorting, swimming in the lake. Victor and the whore were rolling around on the waterbed when Moses came through the bedroom door. The shocked pair cringed under the sheets, waiting to die. But Moses was a big fan of the fights. He and Victor made a deal. Machine listened to the negotiations from the living room, three corpses at his feet, a bloody straight razor in his hand.

  The girl screamed when Moses made the suggestion that she take the fall, but Victor agreed without argument. Machine heard the muffled shot and a moment later Moses came out of the bedroom dragging the woman by her bloody blonde hair. Father and son dumped her in the river an hour later, her stomach and lungs slit open so she wouldn't float. Problem solved. Victor paid Paul fifty thousand for his loss and went into debt to Vlad Kukov for life.

  Victor's bodyguards spot Machine heading toward their boss. The two Brazilians, dressed in dark blue suits and cream-colored shirts, share a look. The one on the left moves to intercept Machine as the other takes a closer position to Victor. Both the bodyguards are Brazilian, new since Machine was here last. These days, most of the top bodyguards come from a single school in Brazil. Their forte is close work, when the concern is a crowd not a sniper. Their style of martial arts can best be likened to the way a python kills. They move in hard, get a grip on you, no matter how tenuous, wrap you up, and crush you with their powerful legs.

  Machine moves to the railing, out of the flow of traffic, and stops with his hands in plain sight. The Brazilian comes to a stop six feet off, facing Machine. People drift around the two men, paying them no attention.

  “What do you want?” The Brazilian's accent is lilting. He's up on the balls of his feet, arms slightly bent, fingers splayed.

  “Tell Victor Machine wants to see him.”

  “He's busy.” The bodyguard says.

  The base of Machine's spine tingles, but he remains calm. This man is a trained killer. Machine will try the easy approach first.

  “Tell him,” Machine repeats.

  The bodyguard takes a step closer, eyes narrowing. Machine reacts instantly; he takes a step back with his right foot and blocks the right side of his body with his forearm, the razor butterflying open in his left hand. If the Brazilian tries to move in, he'll get Machine's elbow in his chest and the razor in his intestines. But the Brazilian doesn’t rush in; he falls back a step.

  “Who are you?” he asks. Machine can barely hear him above the announcer's babble. A body-count bonus has been scored at thirty seconds into the second bout. A dead man is being hauled from the ring.

  “Victor knows,” Machine replies.

  The bodyguard spends a long moment silently appraising the teenager, obviously not liking what he sees. Finally, without a word, he turns and heads for the pit. The second bodyguard keeps a wary eye on Machine as the first pulls Victor away from his cronies.

  After a hurried conversation, Victor looks up at Machine standing in the shadow of the bleachers. Across the gap their eyes meet, each void of emotion. Victor bends and speaks to the Brazilian before the ex-pit fighter starts up the aisle. The bodyguard follows, moving to Victor's right flank. The second bodyguard joins the pair, taking Victor's opposite flank.

  It takes Victor a few minutes of handshakes and back slaps to reach Machine. Looking fit and unfriendly, he stops facing the teenage killer, his lips turned down in a bloodless gray frown.

  “Hello, Machine,” he says without pleasure, his voice deep and even-toned.

  “Seen Sculli?”

  “A couple of weeks ago. He was in here with Red Sleeves.”

  Sculli and Moses. Machine wonders again what his father was up to in the last two weeks of his life.

  “Any of his people around?”

  Victor shakes his head.

  The bodyguards are creeping in, six feet away and still coming.

  Machine smiles a brittle sliver and flicks the razor open. “They come one step closer, Victor, and I hang your lungs around your neck.”

  Victor glances at the Brazilians, and waves them back with a flick of his fingers. They don't like being told their job, but they step away.

  “It's not personal
. I like them close,” Victor says.

  “I don't.”

  Victor shrugs. His eyelids droop. “What do you need from Sculli?”

  “Heavy equipment. Suggestions?”

  Victor looks irritated. “There's a...” he trails off then resumes with obvious reluctance, “There's someone here. One of the Children of The Blood Militia. He might hook you up. If he thinks you're the right people.” Victor shrugs, “No promises.”

  “You deal with him before?”

  “I'm not dealing with him now. Introductions only,” Victor replies.

  Machine nods. He’s out of options.

  Victor turns to the nearest guard and speaks rapidly in Spanish. The conversation does not improve the bodyguard's sour expression.

  “He'll fix it,” Victor says turning back to Machine. “And that's it. You don't need to come around here anymore. I owed your father, not you.”

  “You owe Vlad,” Machine reminds the ex-pit-fighter. “I'm only the bill collector. And unless you think you’re bulletproof, you'll keep paying.”

  Victor's lips suck in and his face muscles stiffen. “You chop me, you die too.”

  Machine smiles. He’s heard that line before. “I don't plan on living forever. Apparently neither do you.” The words mask the movement of his left hand.

  Feeling something, Victor looks down to see the razor tracing a lazy figure eight across his stomach. His flesh crawls; he had detected no movement from Machine.

  “I don't like you, Victor,” Machine says softly. “Never have. Push me and you'll end up with Jimmy Rose's bitch. Understood?”

  Victor blinks, body rigid. One of the Brazilians comes closer, but that’s all right; Machine is almost done with their boss.

  “I understand,” Victor says like he has a mouth full of gravel.

  Machine flips the razor closed.

  Victor turns and marches down the aisle. The second bodyguard trails him, the first stays close to Machine, his hand under his jacket.

  “Come,” he says, then spins on his heel and heads for the lounge. Machine follows at a distance.

  The Brazilian pauses and peers around the lounge before spotting who he's looking for. He makes a straight line for an isolated table at the back of the room where two men sit sipping drinks and smoking. Machine takes his time following. As he nears the table, the Brazilian ends a discussion with one of the men and departs. He passes Machine at a distance, glad to leave the grim teenager behind.

  Machine stops three feet from the table, angled so he can watch the room and the front door of the club. Two men face each other across the scarred tabletop, drinks and empty glasses in front of them. Neither of the men's hands are in sight; they disappeared with the Brazilian's approach. The one on Machine's right, rocking his chair on its rear legs, is about six-two, wide-shouldered with bristling short blond hair growing low on his forehead and seventeen inch arms. His muddy blue eyes narrow to slits as he looks Machine up and down. He flexes his shoulders, stretching the thin cotton of a white T-shirt with White Riot spelled in red letters across the chest. Your typical Nazi poster-boy.

  Machine ignores the muscle. The blond's companion is obviously in charge. He's medium-height, thin and carefully groomed, with a complexion the consistency and color of cottage cheese and a liver-colored smile. He's dressed in a maroon silk shirt and black silk pants, heavy gold chains at wrist and neck. He stares up at Machine over the rim of his highball glass, eyebrows arched.

  “Good evening,” he says, losing the glass and extending a bony hand. His fingernails are glossy with clear polish. His voice is unpleasantly feminine.

  Machine nods at the femme, glances at the pasty-white hand and says; “You'll excuse me if I don't.” Too often a hand shake is followed by a knife to the ribs.

  A dark look passes over the guy’s textured face, but the reaction only lasts a second before the liver-colored smile reappears.

  “Sit down,” he offers, waving his fingertips at the chair beside the blond body builder. Machine pulls the chair to him and sits facing the femme, the muscle on his left. He keeps his feet under him, shoulders forward, making it easier to get the Smith into action.

  “My name is Marshall Jones,” the femme says, his tone clipped and precise. He lifts his glass, takes a dainty sip and wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. Machine recognizes the name. It rings warning bells. Marshall Jones is the son of Colonel Jason Jones, the head of the local Militia. Jones is a legend in Low Town. He was in charge of the shock troops that cleaned up the liberal agitators and demonstrators after the Moral revolution. Toward the end of the revolution, the ACLU organized a Mother's March on Low Town's city hall. All men were encouraged to stay home in order to avoid a violent confrontation. Jason Jones and his cadre had waded into the crowd with baseball bats. By the time the battered women dispersed, forty mothers and twice that many children lay dead. It was the last time the ACLU was heard of in Low Town.

  “I'm called Machine,” he offers his street-tag and nothing more.

  Marshall nods slowly, accepting the moniker. Almost no one in Low Town uses their real name. He cocks his head back, thrusts out his chin and looks at Machine with lidded eyes. “Victor's monkey tells me you're in need of Mr. Sculli's services and that Mr. Sculli is currently unavailable?”

  “If the price is right,” Machine answers cautiously. The possibility of a setup is always present.

  “What exactly are you looking for?” Marshall sips again and wipes his lips.

  “Heavy equipment.”

  “What you need it for?” The blond muscle opens his mouth for the first time. His accent is guttural German, hard consonants and missing vowels. An import from the Homeland. Militia types are crazy about Germans.

  Machine keeps his eyes on Marshall and says nothing.

  Marshall sends a smoldering glance at the blond giant. “Be polite, Helmut. Machine is a guest.” He looks back at Machine. “You'll have to forgive my associate,” he stresses the word 'associate.' “He's had a disappointment. He was going to perform for me tonight. But, sadly, Victor is unable to accommodate us.”

  “Maybe he can,” Helmut growls, his tiny eyes boring into Machine’s face. Machine remains motionless, expressionless. “If this punk has the balls.”

  “Helmut!” The soft edge leaves Marshall's voice; it's all command with a core of whip-steel. He's obviously used to being obeyed. The German mutters something in his own language and looks away. “Be polite!”

  Helmut frowns but he doesn’t argue.

  “But,” Marshall says, turning his gaze back on Machine, “perhaps Helmut has an idea that could benefit all of us. You need my help. How badly?”

  “Name the price.”

  “You and Helmut in one of the private arenas. Three rounds.”

  Machine looks at the German briefly, then back at Marshall. “I won't need more than one.”

  Helmut's head snaps up and he starts to say something, but Marshall waves him silent then continues the gesture, motioning the waiter over. The waiter, dressed in a soiled waistcoat and a frayed, gilt string tie, bows close to hear Marshall over the announcement of the next fight. He nods several times and heads for the pit at a trot.

  “He'll bring Victor,” Marshall explains unnecessarily.

  Five minutes later, Victor is standing at the table, looking unhappily from Marshall to Machine. Marshall notices his sour expression and laughs.

  “Don't worry Victor. All I want is the keys to number six.”

  “I don't allow any dealing—”

  “I want it for the traditional reasons, Victor. Your young friend is willing to accommodate us.”

  Victor glances at Machine then back at Marshall. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  “Is there some reason I shouldn't?” Marshall's eyes stay on Victor.

  Victor shrugs and looks at the floor. “Machine is...” He trails off.

  “I know what Machine is,” Marshall cuts in impatiently, “and who he works for. But thi
s is a fistfight, not a gunfight. And Helmut is quite strong.”

  Machine is not surprised that Marshall has heard of him before; in Low Town very little escapes the Militia's notice.

  Victor shrugs again and slips a ring of keys from his pocket. He separates one and hands it to Marshall. “Is that all?” he asks, and receives a regal nod in reply. Victor disappears in the direction of the pit, walking fast. His bodyguards have to hurry to catch up.

  “Well,” Marshall sighs, pushing himself up with his hands. “Let's get this under way.” He grins excitedly, glancing between Helmut and Machine. “I should warn you that Helmut has killed three men in the ring.”

  Machine isn't impressed. He just wants to get to business. He shrugs.

  Marshall leads the way, extending his highball glass like the prow of a ship, hips swishing. Machine waits for Helmut to follow his master, then falls in behind the two men. The three weave through the ringside crowd and head up the aisle, through the double doors and down a dank corridor smelling of sweat, cigar smoke, and disinfectant. Number six is marked in Roman numerals. The door is already open.

  Victor and two men from the group by the pit are waiting inside. The Brazilians aren't in evidence. “This is Joe and Skinny,” Victor indicates the two men. Joe looks like a Joe, droopy eyelids and dark hair unsuccessfully covering a wide forehead. Skinny is all bones and teeth, big eyes and a bald head.

  “Joe's a separator,” Victor explains. A separator is what passes for a referee in a no-holds-barred fight. When a fighter is knocked out, or beaten beyond response, the separator pulls the aggressor off, ending the fight. “Skinny's the cut man.”

  “I don't recall asking for any of this,” Marshall snaps, striding toward a row of red velvet theater chairs that face an elevated boxing ring with sagging ropes and worn-out matting.