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

by Jack Cuatt

  “Standard procedure,” Victor assures Marshall, trying to cover his ass. Victor just wants to stay for the fight. “I brought the gear if you want it.” He nods at a card table where the weapons of the pit are carefully arranged.

  “None of that,” Marshall shudders as he plops into one of the velvet seats. “Bare hands will be sufficient.”

  “I will need nothing else,” Helmut says disdainfully while glowering at Machine.

  Ignoring Helmut and the others, Machine pulls off his jacket and tosses it on the table beside the row of short-bladed knives and brass knuckles. He slides the Smith and the chest-pack off, stashes them under the jacket, then climbs up and through the boxing ring's ropes as Helmut kneels down beside Marshall. The two men whisper for a moment. Finally, Marshall pats Helmut's shoulder and the German climbs into the ring and crosses to the far corner, preening and flexing the whole time.

  Wearing an anticipatory smile, Victor seats himself three chairs from Marshall and settles in for the show.

  Helmut peels off his T-shirt. A red and black swastika is tattooed over his heart. He drapes the T-shirt over the far corner of the ring and turns to face Machine. The two men are quite a contrast. Helmut is bronzed, his muscles so overdeveloped he can't straighten his arms all the way. Machine is pale and trim, his body toned and rock hard. The veins stand out in his forearms and neck. His face is an expressionless mask. He's ready to work.

  Joe enters the ring, stands at its center and addresses both men in a nasal twang. “The rounds are five minutes each, but there ain't no bell. Go when I say, stop when I say. There ain't no other rules.” He looks at Helmut and Machine in turn, nods to himself, and takes a step back. He ducks through the ropes and drops lightly to the floor.

  “Go,” Joe says a split-second after his feet hit the concrete.

  Helmut doesn't hesitate. He comes out of his corner fast, elbows tucked, guarding his face with two ham-sized forearms. His right shoulder rolls back, telegraphing an overhand punch. Machine waits until the last moment, sidesteps the German's clumsy rush, steps in behind the bigger man and hooks a hard right into Helmut’s lower back, aiming for his kidney, pulling the punch slightly. Machine doesn't want to kill Marshall's toy and the kidneys are very delicate organs prone to massive hemorrhage.

  Helmut winces as he hits the ropes and spins around. His forearms come up and he rumbles forward again, loading up a right cross, bobbing left and right, pretending he knows how to box. Machine waits for him, steps inside a clumsy right hook, ducks around Helmut, and whips a pair of slicing uppercuts into the big man's liver. Helmut grunts in pain, whirls on his heel and throws a left jab at Machine's chin, following it up with a stiff-legged kick at his crotch. Machine ducks the punch, blocks the kick with his thigh and chops the German in the Adams apple with the edge of his right hand. Tracheal cartilage crunches and Helmut stumbles back on his heels, gagging.

  Machine pursues the German, pounds him twice in the head with the heel of his fist then snaps a kick into his kneecap. Helmut goes down hard. The ring's rusty springs scream as he hits the canvas on his face. He struggles to push himself up, a long silver thread of saliva hanging from his lip, blood streaming from his nose. Machine dissuades him by kicking him in the side of the head. Helmut slumps back to the canvas..

  Victor shivers. Machine is the most horrifying and brutal thing he has ever seen. No wasted energy or motion. A born killer.

  Machine steps through the ropes and hops down as Joe and Skinny climb into the ring.

  “Back to business,” Machine says, directing the remark at Marshall.

  Marshall's lips are pinched tight. He looks from the prostrate Helmut to Machine, then back to Helmut.

  “567-3298,” Marshall spits out a phone number, stands, and brushes past Machine, heading for the ring where Skinny and Joe are kneeling over Helmut with a towel and a vial of amyl nitrate.

  Helmut groans. His shoulders heave. He tries to sit up. His eyes roll and he's flat on his face again.

  “Be careful with him,” Marshall snaps as he rolls under the bottom rope. He crosses the ring and squats beside his fallen warrior.

  Machine ignores the drama. He has what he wants, or hopes he does. Crossing to the card table, he slips into the chest-pack and jacket. The Smith goes into its holster. He's snugging the automatic down when Victor approaches, smiling and holding out his hand.

  Machine looks at the hand, then into Victor's eyes. He zips his jacket over the chest-pack and 9mm.

  Victor lowers his hand, but doesn't lose his smile. “You're better than your father,” he says. Machine doesn't take that as a compliment. “You ever want to make some extra cash, call me.”

  “If you see Sculli, tell him I'm looking for him.” Machine replies and turns to the exit. Sculli was with Moses two weeks ago, according to Victor. Weapons or no, Machine wants to see him.

  Machine heads down the hall to the double doors that open on the arena, keeping close to the wall, watching his back. No one follows.

  The sixth fight has begun. The crowd is more raucous, panting for blood. Machine ignores the Brazilians eyeing him from pit-side, walks through the lounge and steps out the front door, into the cool humidity, screams, gunshots, and laughter of the Zone.

  As he steps onto the sidewalk, a low-slung olive-green Mercedes with blacked-out windows and a Children of The Blood Militia logo glued to the windshield pulls up in front of the Den. The car's passenger side doors open and two Militia corporals dressed in pressed fatigues jump out, hands on the pistols belted to their waists. An officer with the gold collar tabs is right behind them, his face shadowed by the visor of a tan campaign hat.

  Machine makes a right down the sidewalk as the three Militia men head for the club's front door. The lead corporal is passing cash to the bouncer when the black Nova Machine noticed as he entered the pit-fighting arena an hour ago suddenly roars to life and comes charging down the street in reverse. At the same moment, the wino sitting near the Den’s entrance rises and the blanket draped over his lap falls away to reveal an automatic twelve-gauge shotgun with a sawed-off barrel. The wino’s shotgun locks onto the Militia men as a man in a black raincoat emerges from the doorway of an abandoned building across the street and races toward the Mercedes, a large caliber revolver in his fist. Machine recognizes the man in the raincoat as the Asian teenager he saw at the Roundup Saloon three nights ago.

  As the Nova squeals to a stop, its bumper inches from the Mercedes’ grill, Machine ducks into the doorway of the peep-show, out of the line of fire.

  It all happens in a matter of seconds. The wino stops five feet from the Militia men and the shotgun discharges with a roar. One of the corporals goes down, almost ripped in half by the blast. People scream and drop to the sidewalk or run for cover. The second corporal, at the top of the steps, turns to face the wino just in time to take a blast from the twelve-gauge. The impact knocks the officer off his feet. He drops to the concrete, his head a pulpy ruin. The remaining corporal is game, but stupid. He sprints down the steps, pawing at his side-arm, but he’s too slow. The Asian fires twice from the other side of the Mercedes, the unsilenced revolver sounding like a cannon. Both rounds take the corporal high in the chest. He spins, bounces off the Mercedes' fender and collapses face down in the gutter, wedged between the car and the curb.

  The Asian and the wino are in the back seat of the Nova before the echo of the gunshots has even faded. The car burns out, takes the corner on two wheels, and disappears.

  Machine steps onto the sidewalk and walks away fast, wondering who the Asian and the wino were. Probably Playboy Gangster Crips. That would explain the street-work. The Crips are at war with the Hammerskins and the Militia.

  Machine doesn't really care. It's not his problem. He heads for his hotel.

  21

  It's 10:00 AM when Machine leaves the hotel. The streets are empty, the day hazy, humid, and cold. Machine leans against the front of the hotel and dials the number Marshall gave him last night
. It rings five times before a sleepy voice answers.

  “Hullo?”

  “Marshall Jones gave me your number. He said you had something I'd be interested in buying.”

  “Buying?” the voice asks, still shrugging off sleep. “Marshall Jones?”

  “Yes.”

  A silver Cadillac rolls by. The Cadillac's driver, cruising for a stud hustler or dealer, tries to catch Machine's eye.

  The man at the other end of the phone mutters something unintelligible.

  “Marshall Jones,” Machine repeats, stretching the syllables, speaking louder.

  “Marshall!” the sleepiness is gone. “Marshall told you to call me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What's your name?”

  “Machine.”

  “Machine?” The voice repeats. “Give me a number you'll be at in five minutes.”

  Machine gives him the number of the prepaid.

  “Five minutes,” the voice promises and hangs up.

  Machine starts walking, reaching into his right hand pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

  The guy in the Cadillac drives by even slower, giving Machine the buyer's eye. With the cigarette between his lips, Machine points at the Caddy and pulls an imaginary trigger. The guy hits the gas. The Cadillac squeals around the corner, accelerating.

  The phone rings and Machine answers.

  “Here.”

  “Convention center, booth twelve fifteen.” It's the voice from a moment ago. The line clicks dead.

  The convention center? Machine hits End Call and turns to the convenience store behind him for breakfast and a paper.

  Machine sits on a bench in Lee Park with the dozing junkies, the sun peering down, ozone-muted. He spreads the paper on the bench beside him and tears open a pack of stale powdered donuts with his teeth as his eyes scan the events page. An advertisement for a paramilitary-survivalist show at the Convention Center fills a quarter of the page. The shows are a natural setup for crooked gun dealers in need of receipts for tax purposes. All he needed to know. He finishes the donuts, drops the newspaper by a rusted can overflowing with soggy trash and leaves the park, headed for the garage and the Granada.

  Horace and Ox are nowhere in sight. Probably still sleeping. Machine claims the battered tan Ford and drives to the convention center.

  The soiled white granite building sits beside the city jail, a gray concrete fortress with narrow slits for windows. The Convention Center isn’t much more attractive. It’s low and sprawling, with loading docks and a huge parking lot on the left. The landscaping is overgrown, the lawn badly cut and yellow. Broken windows and heaving sidewalks. The buildings around it are no better, mostly bars and bail bondsmen. In this area of Low Town only the elevated highway, thirty feet up, looks well maintained, though the landscaping designed to disguise the highway’s giant concrete structure has gone native, becoming a wild bramble of shrubs and vines sculpted into tiers by brick retaining walls.

  The parking lot beside the convention center, one floor lower than the main entrance, is half-full. Mostly pickups. In the area reserved for dealers, close to the center's loading dock, three dozen tractor trailers vie for space with double that many smaller trucks and vans.

  A half block past the convention center, Machine pulls into an almost empty parking lot and parks the Granada in a slot facing the exit. He puts the Smith and razor in the glove compartment and takes out a one-quarter-inch thick rectangular strip of clear plastic. The plastic strip is an inch wide and six inches long with one side sharpened to a razor-edge. It will cut to the bone, but dulls easily. He straps it down where the straight-razor should be then pulls his jacket sleeve down over it. Ready for the metal detectors.

  Machine strolls to the convention center's main entrance where a queue of hicks in camo, bangers in black, and New Towners in Levis and sweaters are waiting in line. He pays the twenty dollar admission and passes through a shining new metal detector, between a matching pair of Jesus creeps.

  The escalators aren't working. He joins the pack filtering down the stalled metal steps to Hall B, a long, low concrete bunker with white paint on the floor demarcating dealer spaces. The cavernous room is filled with folding tables that are draped in fatigue or hunter orange and littered with hardware and ammunition. All of the men behind the tables and cash boxes are white, but the customers are a mix of races. Even white supremacists respect money more than their ridiculous beliefs. They'll sell to a black man as quickly as a white, though they might jack up the price.

  Idly, Machine cruises the aisles looking over the offerings, stopping here and there, but buying nothing. Stun guns, shotguns, pistols, piles of camo pants, shirts, belts, knives, and martial arts weapons. Low end junk or slow fire. Only certain weapons are for sale at these shows. No assault rifles or full autos. Nothing that can stand up to the creeps or the Children of The Blood Militia. At the rear of the hall, in a curtained off area, a video demonstration of rubber biological weapons gear is drawing a crowd. Nearby, a fall-out shelter sales rep and a freeze-dried-food booth are doing good business. Machine finds stall 1215 on the last row.

  Behind the counter are two scruffy, unshaven men dressed in greasy jeans and camo patterned t-shirts. They must be brothers, same dirty blond hair and sparse mustaches. Same watery blue, suspicious eyes. Same tip to the filthy caps they wear. Both are bone-thin and nervous-looking, with chapped lips and jittery hands. Obvious methamphetamine users.

  The dealers have no customers, though the hardware they're displaying is in better condition than they themselves. On a piece of red felt, cleaned and oiled weapons are mixed in with Watchtower pamphlets and a series of old audio tapes labeled Church of Scientology. The rednecks give Machine the once over, their eyes attached to the same hinge, but maintain their position, shoulder to shoulder, at the far end of the table. They're not very eager salesmen.

  As Machine picks up a Smith and Wesson snub nose .38, one of the brothers - the older by looks - unglues himself and hurries forward. He stops across the table from Machine.

  “How much?” Machine asks.

  “Six hundred. It's almost brand-new,” the redneck's voice has a sleepy twang. The same voice as this morning on the phone.

  “A little high.”

  “Almost brand-new,” the dealer repeats, scratching his chin, eyes on the .38. “I might take less, though,” he acknowledges with a shrug.

  Machine replaces the .38 and browses down the table, picking up an old Luger, then a Smith and Wesson .22.

  “How much?” he asks the redneck.

  “Three-twenty-five,” he replies.

  Machine puts the Smith on the counter and produces a thick sheaf of bills from his inside jacket pocket. He flips the wad open, not too elaborately but so the brothers can see it, then closes his fist around it. In a voice lower than the crowd noise he says, “Marshall Jones sent me.”

  The other brother joins them in time to hear the name.

  “Marshall,” the older one says, leaning forward, resting his weight on his skinny forearms. His hands are stained black with grease, knuckles skinned, nails bitten to the quick. He gives Machine a speculative look, and, after a moment, nods.

  “Follow me out to the truck,” he says as he rounds the table and heads for a bank of metal roller doors along the back wall.

  At a distance of ten feet, Machine follows the gun dealer out a side door that opens on the loading dock. A painted sign taped to the inside of the door warns; NO RE-ADMITTANCE WITHOUT DEALER ID. A misting rain has begun to fall from the low gray clouds. The wind has shifted from the river.

  The two men cross the warped asphalt to a yellow van parked at the back of the dealers’ area. The redneck opens the van's rear doors, graciously steps aside and points inside.

  Machine shakes his head. “You first.”

  The dealer hesitates a moment before scrambling in, watching Machine over his shoulder. Machine follows then closes the doors on the rain and pushes the twin plungers down, locking the
m in. The dealer crouches in the dusty darkness behind the front seats and paws through the ankle-deep litter covering the van's floor. He finds a flashlight and flips it on. Its weak yellow light reveals a jumble of fast food containers and beer bottles. The dealer turns to a huge red toolbox, opens it and lifts two large pistols from inside. Each pistol has black plastic grips, a stubby barrel, a wire frame stock, flip sights, and a curved clip in front of the trigger guard. They're about ten inches long, compact, black, and deadly looking. He hands them to Machine.

  “Škorpion vz 61 machine pistol, the Czech army version. 7.65mm pistol cartridge. Eight-hundred-fifty rounds per minute. Twenty-round box magazine. Not good for long range, but easy to conceal. Low muzzle velocity makes it easier to silence,” the dealer pauses and searches the teenager's face for signs of interest. He finds nothing. “One of the true machine pistols,” he continues. “I got two four-inch Silent Viper silencers and four extra clips to go with them. One price for the whole thing. Five grand.”

  “Forty-five-hundred, and this isn't all I need,” Machine replies as he places the Škorpions on the floor at his feet and takes the roll of bills from his pocket. “I need five hundred rounds for these, a half-dozen fragmentation grenades, a decent collapsible sniper’s rifle, nothing smaller than a 5.56mm, and a night vision scope. I'll go all the way for it.” It's the bare minimum he needs for the Scarpo job.

  The dealer whistles through teeth that look like rotten tree stumps, and rocks on his heels. “You gonna start a war?”

  “What do you care?”

  “I don't.” The dealer grins.

  “Can you do it?”

  “I ain't got it, but I can get it.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. Right here. I know a guy's got a booth. He might be able to help with the frags. Meet us here at seven and we'll go from there.”

  Machine nods and starts to put the wad of bills back in his pocket.