by Jack Cuatt
He crouches by the passenger side rear bumper, slips on a pair of skintight black leather gloves then takes a small, micro-burst transmitter from his pocket. Attached to the transmitter is a digital tracking unit. A punch of a button and the tracker starts working, searching for the car’s alarm frequency. It only takes a moment for the screen to start blinking. Machine hits the kill tab and the alarm is history. He stows the transmitter away and extracts a three-inch long, one-quarter-inch wide strip of spring steel from the chest-pack. He jams the metal shim into the trunk's key slot and twists, breaking the lock with a brittle, plastic snap. Not subtle, but effective. The next time someone inserts a key, they'll know it's been pried, but by then Machine will be long gone or dead.
He glances over his shoulder at the empty street before carefully lifting the trunk's lid and slipping inside. The import's trunk is spacious. The spare tire is hidden beneath a thick sheet of cardboard and a square of gray carpet. Machine is relieved to find no personal items. It isn't likely the trunk will be opened unless they have a flat. He pulls the trunk lid closed. The latch of the broken lock catches and holds.
Machine draws the silenced Škorpion and prepares himself for a long wait.
Time passes slowly in the dark. He doesn't look at his watch; it would only make the wait seem longer. He breathes deeply and stays focused. Ready to work.
The sound of voices and the rhythmic slap of feet on pavement precedes the sound of the Mercedes' electric locks popping. Three of the car’s doors open and the chassis settles under the weight of Scarpo's nephew and his boys. The doors slam closed and the engine starts. The car backs abruptly out of the alley and accelerates smoothly away. There's no way out for Machine now. No turning back. Kill or be killed. As the incline of the elevated highway's access ramp passes under the Mercedes' tires, he settles back and lets the Škorpion rest on the floor, his hand loosely covering the pistol's chunky wooden grip.
Kill or be killed. Like every other day of his life.
After a seemingly endless drive, the Mercedes slows, makes a short turn and brakes. The grating, metal on metal sound of Scarpo's electric gate rolling open reaches Machine and then the Mercedes is accelerating up the straightaway. It curves through a long, looping left turn then travels in a straight line for a short distance before stopping. The car's doors open and the chassis rocks as the three men exit.
Machine waits for the sound of shoes crunching on gravel to fade, then another five minutes to be sure, before slipping the trunk's latch and easing it open a crack.
The Mercedes is parked in front of a four-car garage, a long, low box of a building screened from the main house by a row of trees. A white rock path, illustrated in the architect's plans, begins beside the garage. It leads to the out-buildings and the mansion's rear doors. Antony and his friends must have gone that way.
Machine slithers out of the trunk in one sinuous movement. He pulls the trunk lid softly closed and crouches against the Mercedes' right flank, the Škorpion in his hand, his eyes panning the landscape.
The night is dark, the stars pinpoints half-hidden by patchy clouds. Nothing moves. The only noise is the rustle of the trees’ leafless limbs. The shadows under the trees are scant, but the best available. Bent at the waist, Machine sprints into the darkness.
Dry leaves crackle under his shoes. Barely visible in his dark, loose-fitting clothes, he breathes in the night, fills his lungs with the cold, damp air, willing himself to be cold, relentless. He looks toward the house, sitting beyond a row of tall hedges that bisect a sloping lawn of winter grass. Floodlights mounted in the mansion's eaves turn night to day, illuminating huge columns, tall windows, ornate metal work, and stained glass. All the home dope money can buy.
Quietly, Machine steps through the trees to the gravel path. The white rock walkway is bordered by four foot high evergreen hedges. It crosses the yard to the Scarpo Family soldiers' quarters, forming a ‘T’ with another path that leads to the main house. Left of the path, the ground slopes away to the perimeter wall, the crisp green lawn gradually giving way to less manicured growths of lilac and shabby silver maples. He creeps down the path, stepping lightly on the loose rock, keeping his head below the hedge.
A hundred yards from the garage, sixty feet past the cross path to the main house, the walkway ends at a rustic frame cottage half overgrown in ivy. The crew's bunkhouse: it was labeled as a guesthouse on the architect’s plans. Machine stops twenty feet from it.
The cottage faces away from the estate's perimeter wall, its profile to Machine. A long porch spans the front of the one-story structure. The front windows are bright. Light spills pale yellow across the porch and the lawn. The tinny sound of a radio comes from the building's interior. There are two windows on the near side of the building. The one at the rear is dark, the other bright. Machine rises, slips through the hedge and cautiously approaches the cottage. He drops to his knees and presses flat against the rough siding beneath the dark window.
From the chest-pack, he fishes out a small square of mirror set in a black plastic frame and inches it over the window's sill until the room beyond comes into view. By tilting the mirror slightly and swiveling his wrist he can see it all: three beds, a pair of dressers, two wing chairs and a bookshelf filled with magazines and paperbacks. No people. He lowers the square of glass and silently crawls to the lighted window.
A jumble of voices are muffled by the window's glass. Machine strains to hear, but can make out only random words. With a steady hand, he extends a corner of the mirror above the window sill and sees five Scarpo soldiers in shirt sleeves and loosened ties playing poker. Beer cans and poker chips litter a folding table. Two of the players, both balding, overweight, and older than the other three, are smoking huge cigars. The ashtray is full of ragged cigar stubs and cigarette butts. Everyone at the table is carrying a gun. Machine can see two Mac-11's, a 9mm and an old-fashioned wheel-gun clearly.
He slips the mirror back in the chest-pack, opens the zippered pouch further and removes a rectangular plastic box, narrow and curved along its length. A claymore anti-personnel mine, part of the haul from Tommy’s: a charge of c-4 plastic explosive behind a blanket of steel ball bearings.
A willow tree five feet back from the window is a little smaller than Machine would like, only one foot in diameter, but it's directly in line with the window. He takes a roll of black electrical tape from the chest-pack and circles behind the tree. A tug on the strip of Velcro and the razor drops into his hand. He uses the razor to cut two strips of tape about two feet long, smoothes the middle of each strip against the curved face of the mine. Holding the claymore firmly against the bark with one hand, he wraps the loose ends of the tape around the willow then ducks back down. The card players play on, oblivious to the explosive looking over their shoulders.
Machine crawls back to the path, slips back through the hedge and walks in a crouch to the cross-path that leads to the main house. He's five feet up it when the cottage's front door bangs open behind him and a gruff baritone laugh booms out into the otherwise silent night.
Machine turns, drops, and rolls tight against the hedge, its limbs digging into his ribs. It isn't nearly enough concealment; you can't hide a six foot shadow on a three foot wide path, but it's the best available. He aims the silenced Škorpion down the length of his body, toward the cottage, and dips his free hand into the chest-pack to grip the claymore's remote detonator.
The cottage's front door slams again and a second voice joins the first, nasal and bitching.
“Eric's one lucky motherfucker. Guy don't know shit about poker, but don't lose. If I had his luck I'd be living in Vegas.”
The baritone replies with derisive laughter. “You ain't got brains enough to find the fuckin' airport on your own.” The laugh sounds like the speaker is gargling glass. A hardcore smoker for sure. “You probably can't fucking spell Las Vegas.”
“Why you got to say shit like that? What the fuck I ever done to you, Charlie?”
; “You were born stupid,” Charlie says and laughs again. “Don't be a fuckin' bitch, Terry. I'm just busting your balls.”
“You're always disrespecting me. You don't treat the other guys like that. What up with that?”
Machine lies still, watching the two shadows under the eaves of the porch.
Charlie quits laughing. “All the other guys have half a fucking brain. Now shut the fuck up and get back inside.” Charlie crosses to the door and opens it, backlighting himself in the glow from the interior. Bulging stomach, balding, a pistol in a shoulder harness under the left arm, grip down to make a fast reach possible. “Come on,” he rumbles as he puts a cigar to his lips. “Let’s play cards.”
“I'll be there in a minute,” Terry replies as he steps to the railing. The motion is followed by a low ripping noise and the unmistakable sound of a man urinating.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Just getting back to nature, Charlie. Get a little fresh air on my dick,” Terry says and laughs.
“That's what's wrong with you; you’ve got no respect for anything.” Charlie doesn't give the kid time to respond. “You better learn when to shut your fucking mouth or I'll twist your cap back,” he growls a parting threat, then slams the cottage's door closed behind him.
Terry mutters as he zips his fly. Alone on the porch, he lights a cigarette, leans against the porch rail and looks toward the mansion.
Machine watches Terry's silhouette, the glow of his cigarette, reluctant to move until the soldier returns inside. But Terry is in no hurry. Lazily, he turns from the porch rail, walks to the steps and then down them to stand on the white-rock path sixty feet from Machine.
Machine turns and crawls, staying low. He moves several feet up the cross path that leads to the rear of the house, then stops on hands and knees, the silenced Škorpion cradled against his chest. Crunching footsteps alert him to Terry’s movement on the path, coming closer.
Machine calmly plans the next few seconds. If he has to take Terry out, he needs to do it quickly and quietly. He thinks briefly of using the Škorpion, but someone might be near and see the flash. He flips the machine pistol's fire select to safe and shoves it under the chest-pack. This is close work. He will rely on the razor.
Terry strolls casually toward the cross path, paying little attention to his surroundings. Nothing's ever happened here and nothing ever will. He's at home. Flicking ash from his cigarette, he shambles along, gravel popping under his feet, heading nowhere but getting closer to Machine with every step.
Machine cups the razor, his thumb on the back of the blade, and watches Terry through the close growing branches of the hedge, coiled and ready to fling himself at the man. He’s so tense that he almost jumps when Terry's cigarette hits the gravel with a mini-explosion of sparks, but Terry continues on up the path toward the garage.
Suddenly, Terry stops and turns back. He slows as he reaches the intersection. He's bent at the waist, his eyes scanning the gravel. He stops just four feet from Machine and reaches down to pick up his still smoldering cigarette butt. He snuffs it out on the gravel, pockets it and starts to rise. And that’s when his eyes meet Machine's.
Shock would be expected from a man suddenly confronted by an intruder on a dark path in the middle of the night, but not Terry. With a snarl, he jerks upright and paws at the Mac-11 hanging under his arm, but Machine reacts just as quickly. He levers himself off the gravel and leaps at Terry, tackling the larger man at the waist, driving him through the hedge with a clatter of limbs. The Mac-11 goes flying as the pair land in a heap on the lawn, Machine atop Terry, pinning him to the grass, the razor glittering in the watery moonlight. Terry throws a hand up to ward off the blade, but Machine batters it down then slashes the man’s throat, carving through his trachea and severing his carotid artery with one swipe. Hot blood geysers from the gaping wound as Terry gags on five inches of steel. He doesn’t quit fighting; he grabs Machine’s wrist and tries to wrench the blade free, but his strength is fading fast. In a matter of seconds he goes limp.
Machine rolls off Terry’s corpse, rises to one knee and sweeps his eyes across the lawn toward the glow of the cottage. Nothing moves. He moves fast, rises, grabs the dead-man by the ankles and drags him closer to the hedge then slips through the hedge back to the path. In a crouch, he trots up the path toward the main house, slipping back through the hedge just before the path crests a low hill. He swiftly crosses to the deep shadows of a huge maple and looks over the ground separating him from the main house.
The mansion rises like an ocean liner before him, draped in lights, every downstairs window blazing with light, the curtains parted. The lawn that surrounds it is broken up by hedges, trees, and flower beds. Quickly, he plots the darkest route through the maze of landscaping then sprints to another tree twenty feet closer to the house. He moves from tree to tree, pausing to listen and check his back trail, and finally reaches the first of a dozen flower beds just thirty yards from the mansion. Keeping low, he sprints to a row of flowering crepe myrtle five yards closer and drops to his knees.
There's no cover beyond the crepes. On his left is the oval-shaped swimming pool surrounded by lawn chairs and concrete, on his right are more flower beds. The rest is open lawn.
Machine runs his hands through the chest-pack, making sure everything is secure after the fight with Terry - he doesn't need a jangling racket to announce him - then pulls the Kevlar vest's chest straps tighter. After one more quick look around, he steps from between the crepes, drops his head and runs, angling his sprint to avoid a direct line of sight from any of the windows. He makes three long strides before his ears pick out a rushing whisper from behind him. Something moving fast across the grass. Much faster than Machine.
Machine drops to the ground and rolls left, up into a crouch, facing his rear. A black blur is streaking across the cropped lawn, heading straight at him. A Doberman, trained to kill, minus the vocal chords that would render him almost useless, covering ground like a race car. A flash of white fangs and the dog springs straight at Machine’s throat.
With only a split second to react, Machine sidesteps left, grabs one of the animal's legs and uses its momentum to flip the animal over his head, sending it flying across the lawn to crash land in a tangle of legs. But the dog doesn’t stay down. It struggles to its feet, dazed but not dissuaded, its remorseless eyes locked on Machine, its lips curled in a silent snarl as it charges again.
Machine flips opens the razor with a snap of his wrist. From ten feet out, the dog leaps again, its aim unerring. Machine ducks and turns gracefully to the right like a matador slipping past a bull. As the dog flies past, its teeth snapping at empty air, Machine whips the razor down and across, carving deeply though fur and muscle. The dog's fluid leap turns into a meteor's dead-weight spin. It crashes into the short grass on its back, legs twitching with the last beats of its heart.
Machine jogs to the dead dog, scoops it up and carries it to the cluster of crepe myrtles. He lays the Doberman beneath the shrubs, pressed tight against their trunks, wishing futilely that there had been another way to stop the attack. The dog hadn’t chosen its owners or training. It is the only truly innocent thing Machine has ever killed. But there’s nothing he can do about it now. He turns and sprints toward the front corner of the house.
It's amazing no one's seen him yet. No one who's still alive anyway. He reaches the rear corner of the house and drops flat into the evergreen ground cover close to the wall.
Classical music is playing inside the house. He uses the throbbing bass chords for cover as he crawls to a rose trellis that clings to the side wall of the house, near the front corner of the building. He stands and slips behind the trellis into a thorny two-foot gap and leans back against the wood siding. For two long minutes he rests, watching the yard through the rose vines, pulling cold air into his lungs. The dark blotch of the Doberman is clearly visible against the grass beneath the crepes. If there’s another dog roaming the grounds…
&
nbsp; Time to move.
Machine takes a grip on the trellis' wooden slats and tests his weight against them. The white cross-members show no signs of stress. The trellis was built to last, the way only the wealthy can afford, but the rose vines are straggling and winter-thin. Finding thornless handholds is easy. He starts to climb.
Hand over hand, he pulls himself up until he is even with the second story, then scoots along the rung to a window on the right. Leaning against the wall beside the window, supporting himself with his feet, he reaches into the chest-pack for the mirror and uses it to look through the glass down a wide central hallway paneled in dark oak. A dozen gilded chairs bracket a wine-red carpet. Dark, smoky oil paintings line the walls. There are four doors on either side of the hall. The stairs are at the far end. Near them, seated in one of the chairs, a lanky blond in a blue suit and tie slumbers. His head lolls on a pipe cleaner of a neck. His arms are draped over a twelve-gauge automatic shotgun lying across his thighs. He breathes evenly and deeply. Asleep.
Maybe.
Machine pockets the mirror, grabs the slat and inches back across the trellis to the window on the left. Again he uses the mirror as he leans against the exterior of the house. Tilting the square of glass, he peers into a dark guest bedroom. A queen-size bed, a gilded dresser with a spotty mirror that scrapes the fourteen-foot ceiling, and a pair of chairs. No one is in residence. The windows are multi-paned. No alarms; the security investment was made in the perimeter. No one was ever supposed to get this far.
Machine takes out the razor and a roll of black electrical tape. He cuts a six-inch-long strip of tape and smoothes it flat over the pane of glass directly above the window's latch, then repeats the process five more times. When the pane is completely covered, he chops it with the edge of his fist, shattering it with a muffled crunch. Most of the shards stay glued to the tape. The sound is barely audible above the music from downstairs. He eases the tape covered glass out of the way, reaches through and unlatches the window and shoves it open. It rises quietly. He ducks through into the bedroom, closes the window and squats on the floor.