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

by Jack Cuatt

  “I hear you.” Kyokuto takes another bite of his sandwich and glances at his watch. “I told them we'd meet them in an hour and a half. Not enough time for an interrogation, but we could swing by Crest's. Get the layout.”

  Machine nods and the two finish their food and water in silence. As Kyokuto smokes a final cigarette, Machine quickly fieldstrips the Smith and cleans it. The reassembled 9mm goes back in its holster.

  Kyokuto stubs out his cigarette, looks at his watch, and stands.

  “We better get going.” He leads the way out and down, through the alley door to the street and turns toward the river. They walk in silence.

  On the way, they pass Stanley's apartment building. Machine doesn’t glance at it. He feels no sorrow for Stanley - he deserved to die as much as any other murderer, as much as Machine himself - but Machine would have liked to hear what the ex-Jesus creep found out.

  They leave the Free Zone and skirt the Bottoms. Two blocks from the river they turn east on Lincoln Avenue. Pawnshops cluster on Lincoln, grouped together for protection. They’re all barred and shuttered for the night. Only a bottle shop with a street service window is still open this late. Out in front, a trio of people are loitering, passing a bottle, the only sign of life on the street.

  They’ve only made a half block on Lincoln before Kyokuto sucks his breath in sharply and goes flat against the iron grill of Big Saul's Pawn World. Machine instantly follows suit, hand on the Smith.

  “Shit. That's Crest over there at Marty's with the chicks,” Kyokuto whispers, pointing at the three shadows in front of the bottle shop. Two of the shapes are obviously female, the other male. “Let's turn back and cut down to Sixth,” he says, already fading back, but Machine is not interested in detours. He wants Crest. And Crest is right here, right now.

  “Go ahead,” he replies without taking his eyes off the Hammerskin. Without another word he slips away from the wall and heads straight at Crest.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Kyokuto curses and follows, hanging back.

  “We're going to be late,” he whispers to no one.

  Crest and his girlfriends drop the bottle to shatter on the sidewalk, turn and start strolling toward the river, the girls carrying shopping bags. Machine lags back fifty feet, pacing the three. The streets become darker, more polluted as they near the river. The sewer smell and humidity are thicker. The girls' laughter drifts back to him. He uses it as camouflage as he increases his pace and cuts the distance down to thirty feet. Crest pays little attention to his surroundings. He never looks back.

  Machine hears Kyokuto approaching from twenty feet away.

  “Where are they going?” he whispers when Kyokuto pulls even with him.

  “Back to their flop I suspect,” Kyokuto whispers back. “It's another three blocks.”

  “You strapped?” Machine asks.

  Kyokuto nods, not too happily. “What've you got in mind?” he asks, but Machine is already gone, walking fast, almost invisible against the steel-shuttered buildings.

  Kyokuto reaches under his jacket for the grip of a Colt .357 and trails the teenage chopper.

  Machine pulls the Smith and works the slide, chambering a round, the sound masked by the chatter from the group ahead. As an afterthought, he tugs the Velcro and drops the razor into his hand. His feet find the quietest path, avoiding contact with anything but pavement, as he lessens the distance between himself and Crest. It takes three minutes of stealth to cut the distance to ten feet.

  As Crest and the women come abreast of a narrow alleyway, Machine closes on them. Crest hears something and starts to turn. Too late. Machine is already on top of him.

  Machine kicks Crest behind his right knee and the Hammerskin goes face down on the pavement. Before he can begin to rise, Machine is leaning over him, the barrel of the Smith pressed to the nape of Crest’s neck.

  One of the women chokes off a scream, a cross-eyed, makeup-less blonde with tangled hair.

  “Help! Help! Help!” She shrieks at the top of her lungs.

  “Shut her up,” Machine says as Kyokuto arrives with an old wheel gun in his fist. The Asian teenager breezes by Machine and the prostrate Crest and heads for the girls. That’s their clue to take flight. This is Low Town, after all: every woman for herself. They drop the shopping bags and sprint toward the river, both of them screaming for help that’s never going to arrive.

  Kyokuto starts to follow, but Machine stops him.

  “Leave them,” he says. He has what he wants.

  Machine looks back down at Crest. One wild eye looks back. His cheek is pressed into the sidewalk, his mouth bloodied by the fall.

  “Don’t kill me,” he says.

  “On your feet,” Machine says. “If I wanted you dead we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  Crest complies, keeping his hands wide of his body as he rises.

  “Into the alley,” Machine says, the 9mm leveled on Crest’s belly. The skinhead turns into the alley. He’s only made three steps before Machine rushes in behind him and shoves him flat against the wall. He pins him there with the barrel of the Smith and speed-frisks his upper arms and chest. Crest has a 10mm Browning ultra-light tucked into his waistband and a seven-inch switchblade in his pocket. Machine tosses both into the trash at Kyokuto's feet and steps back from the Hammerskin.

  Crest spins to face Machine, feet spread, hands doubled into fists. He might be stupid, but he’s got guts. He throws a looping right cross. Machine slaps the punch aside with lazy grace then whips his elbow into Crest's nose and follows it with a chop to the throat with the butt of the Smith. Blood spews and Crest's knees buckle. He hits the ground. But he doesn’t stay there.

  “Motherfucking Kyokuto,” Crest says as he rises, his voice vibrating through his fractured windpipe. He wipes blood from his face and shoots a hate-filled glare at Kyokuto. “You ganking the wrong motherfucker. You know me. I'll fuckin' kill you and your bitch-ass friend. I—”

  Machine levels the Smith and pulls the trigger before Crest can get any farther.

  A 9mm Hydra-Shok shreds Crest's kneecap. The joint shatters, his leg buckles, and Crest goes down again.

  “Aaagghh, fuck!” Crest shrieks, clutching his knee, writhing in the trash as blood spills through his fingers.

  Kyokuto looks at Machine. The teenaged chopper‘s expression hasn’t changed; it is remote, detached. The face of a predator. Kyokuto turns away, steps to the end of the alley, and looks nervously up and down the street as Crest continues to scream and curse.

  Machine barely hears the screams. He sees not the skinhead bleeding on the pavement in front of him, but flashing knives and lunging shadows.

  “Who paid you to chop me?” he asks down the barrel of the Smith.

  Crest doesn't seem to hear. He's trembling with rage and pain. Tears roll down his acne-pitted cheeks. “Oh you motherfucker! You cock-sucking motherfucker! You're gonna pay!”

  “Who paid you to try to chop me?” Machine repeats.

  “Fuck you!”

  The Smith's barrel throws flame and Crest's good knee explodes into blood and bone splinters. He flops to the asphalt on his front teeth. They snap off at the gum. He rolls over howling.

  “Jesus! Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!” He chants over his ruined knees as blood runs down his chin.

  “It only gets worse from here.”

  “Ohhh, fuck,” Crest sobs. He rolls against the wall and presses his face into it.

  Machine pulls the trigger again and a razor-edged chunk of lead punches a hole in Crest's thigh.

  “Ahhh!” Crest crawfishes, covering the new wound with his hand, gasping and choking. Litter sticks to his leather jacket, clings to his face.

  “This is the last time I'm going to ask,” Machine says. “Who paid you to chop me?”

  “I don't fucking know!” Crest rolls over and looks up into Machine's dead eyes, but not for long. What he sees there is his own mortality. He turns back to the wall. “I don't! I don't! I don't!”


  Kyokuto looks over his shoulder at the pair. Gun smoke wreathes Machine’s upper-body. The Smith's hammer is back. Crest is sobbing. Kyokuto turns back to the street, white-knuckling the Magnum.

  “You better hurry this shit up,” he says.

  Machine doesn’t acknowledge Kyokuto; his eyes stay on Crest.

  “Who handed you the money?”

  “Bishop,” Crest moans. “Bishop gave Jimmy Tate the cash! Oh, fuck! My legs. You fuckin' crippled me! You fuckin' bastard!”

  “In a moment it won't matter. Who are Bishop and Jimmy Tate?”

  “Jimmy's the clan leader. The warlord.” A long groan warps Crest's features.

  “And Bishop?”

  “They'll fuckin' kill me!” He screams.

  “I can understand their attitude,” Machine says and pulls the trigger again.

  Crest's right shoulder collapses in a ragged mess of blood and bone and the skinhead's eyes roll white. He bounces off the wall and lies still, unconscious. Unacceptable. Machine delivers a sharp kick to Crest's leg, between his demolished knee and the hole in his thigh. The skinhead's eyes pop open and he screams his throat raw.

  “Who is Bishop?” Machine overrides the scream, aiming the Smith between Crest's dazed eyes.

  “He’s a Colonel in the—” Kyokuto begins.

  “I didn’t ask you,” Machine cuts him off without even looking at him then kicks Crest again.

  More screaming.

  Machine waits it out.

  “Bishop,” he repeats.

  Crest spits blood and sobs. “He's a Colonel in the Militia. A Big shot. Fucking big shot. Got us all killed! The motherfucker!” he screams, his rapid breathing rustling the trash he’s lying in. “Bishop ordered the work. But we wasn't supposed to kill you, just carve you up a little and call him. They want to talk to you. He said the money was a gift, not payment. That meant we had to do it.” Crest turns wild eyes up at Machine. “I didn't have no fuckin' choice! I didn't want to carve you! I didn't!” Wet sounds and tears. Machine is unmoved. Stanley probably cried too.

  “Where can I find Jimmy?”

  “You killed him. Fucking shot him.”

  “What about Bishop?”

  “I Don't Fucking Know!” Crest screams. “Leave me alone! You already fucking crippled me. Fucker. Fucker!”

  “Answer my—” Machine begins, sensing Kyokuto's approach but ignoring it until the Asian teenager steps between Machine and Crest.

  Before Machine can object, Kyokuto raises the Magnum and fires twice into Crest’s face. The roar of the unsuppressed .357 reverberates off the brick walls, rebounds down the alley and into the street. Crest's head whiplashes, his skull bounces off the wall, and he lands face down in the trash, beyond both pain and Machine's reach. But Kyokuto isn’t done; he whirls around and aims the Magnum between Machine's eyes.

  “I wasn't quite finished,” Machine says, ignoring the gun.

  “I was finished watching it,” Kyokuto snarls. “That wasn't fucking necessary.” His knuckle is white across the Magnum's trigger. “You get off on that shit?” Kyokuto whispers. “You like the way it feels to chop somebody up?”

  “Pull the trigger,” Machine says indifferently.

  Kyokuto slowly lowers the Magnum. “You were acting crazy as a motherfucker,” he mutters in way of justification. He cuts his eyes to the street. “That shit didn't have to happen.”

  “Fear is a great motivator,” Machine replies while he ejects the Smith's clip and replaces it with a fresh one. He de-cocks the 9mm and returns it to its holster.

  “What about this?” Kyokuto picks up Crest’s Browning from the trash.

  “Leave it,” Machine says with a shrug.

  “Fuck that. I'll keep it. Use it and ditch it later.” He tucks the Browning into the top of his jeans.

  Machine makes no comment, but it’s an amateur move. Who knows where the Browning has been? To what crimes it’s linked? It's a stupid risk. He walks past Kyokuto and heads for the street. Kyokuto follows. Without comment the teenagers head south, cut across a weed-choked lot bounded by the concrete foundation of a burned-out building, then turn down the next alley. Halfway down it they have to climb over a ten-foot wall of used tires. They pause at Shoreline where it parallels the river. Shoreline is a four lane divided highway built for the diesel trucks that service the plant upriver. Streetlights are mounted on concrete blocks down the center median, all in working order. They crouch in the shadow of the concrete loading dock of a mold-green warehouse. The air tastes of rotten rope, oil, and diesel fuel. Across the street are a row of thirty-year-old warehouses suspended over the river on wooden pilings. The warehouses sag against each other, black with water rot.

  “Follow me,” Kyokuto whispers and sprints out of the shadows.

  Machine waits ten seconds and follows, providing himself with enough time to react to Kyokuto's moves.

  Kyokuto runs across Shoreline then slows to a fast walk when he reaches the darkness of the docks. He leads Machine through a maze bounded by windowless buildings, moored barges and rusted machinery. Far out over the water, they turn left down a narrow alley flanked by the rotting carcasses of two warehouses. The alley is crowded with old packing crates broken open with hammers and crowbars, piles of splintered planks and rusting steel bands. Kyokuto heads for the far end where the two warehouses are linked by a green corrugated metal shed, featureless except for a single steel door. He stops outside it.

  Machine stops a few feet behind Kyokuto, observing that the door is surprisingly strong and new looking for such an old building. After a moment of silence, Kyokuto knocks seven or eight times in a complicated code. An oily mist starts to fall from the mottled purple-black clouds. It hazes the air and wets their hands and faces. Kyokuto raps again. Several seconds pass before the door opens a crack, sighing pneumatically. Kyokuto steps through, leaving the door open behind him.

  Machine follows him into the musty darkness of a cathedral-size space. He hangs back, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The outline begins to form in seconds: high corrugated metal ceiling and wooden walls on the right and left. The metal building is thirty-five-feet wide. The center of the room is crowded with piles of furniture, clothes and car parts. The perimeter is occupied only by dust and spider webs. Large wooden doors on wheels give access to the warehouses on either side. He spots a security camera mounted above the annex's steel door, another in the far corner.

  His eyes come to rest on grated steel panels overhead. A catwalk with space for several offices overhangs the warehouse wooden floor, supported by metal columns, and accessed by a set of metal stairs. Kyokuto is already at the top of the steps. Machine follows him up.

  At the top of the stairs are four doors: three on the right and one at the far end of the walkway. A dim pink sliver glows under the far door. Kyokuto is halfway to it. Machine trails at a more cautious pace, checking each of the other three doors as he passes. All are locked. Storehouses for stolen goods? The piles below must be the discards. Sloppy.

  Kyokuto raps on the far door, opens it and enters a dimly lit room. The door swings almost closed behind him; only a weak slash of light falls across the metal grating.

  Machine approaches warily. He'll have to trust Kyokuto. He should be getting used to it, but he doubts he ever will. He steps through the door with all senses on alert.

  The room is large, twenty feet by fifteen. A small kitchenette with a sink, oven, and a tiny refrigerator occupies the farthest corner. Dirty dishes cover the counter top, and two black tubular steel chairs are grouped outside the kitchen. Empty fast-food wrappers, costume jewelry and a large rhinestone jewelry box clutter the table. A red-shaded floor lamp, placed beside a shabby sofa, sheds a gritty-pink light. The far wall is covered with stereo and television equipment. Facing the electronic array, seated on the sofa, are two young men, one black, one white.

  Both men have close-cut hair and unfriendly eyes. The black guy has a sawed-off pump twelve-gauge in his lap, pointing in
Machine's general direction. The white guy has a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He squints through the smoke at Machine, his hands empty. Both men are wearing gray jumpsuits with names sewn above the pocket and a logo of a van with flames pouring out of its tailpipe. They aren't much older than Machine and Kyokuto, late teens or early twenties. According to the names on their jumpsuits, the white guy with the goatee and the red do-rag is Mike. The black guy with the gold incisor is Dave.

  Kyokuto introduces them differently. “This is Wino,” he indicates the white teenager.

  Machine nods. Wino stares blankly back.

  “And this is Tic-Tac,” he indicates the black man.

  Tic-Tac smiles and nods, but he doesn’t alter the shotgun's aim. Machine recognizes him as the bum who shot-gunned the three Children of The Blood Militia outside the Den of Thieves. Wino must have been at the wheel of the Nova.

  “So this is the infamous ‘Machine’,” Wino says.

  “He's cool, Wino. We got held up. He faded Crest fifteen minutes ago,” Kyokuto says.

  “Yeah?” Wino's interest perks up only slightly. It isn't friendly interest. “I'm not trying for new hassles, Kyokuto. We got things working smooth and quiet. I ain't fucking that up.” His eyes never leave Machine as he speaks.

  Kyokuto starts to reply, but Machine cuts him off. He steps into the living room, the shotgun's barrel tracking his progress.

  “That’s my tag.”

  “I've heard a lot about you, Machine,” Wino says. “Heard the name Red Sleeves too. And Kukov. Know what all those names got in common? Body count. Corpses.”

  Tic-Tac nods and smiles mirthlessly. His incisor flashes gold. The shotgun stays steady. “Gangsters,” he says. “Dope and whores.”

  Machine doesn’t say anything, he just stares back at the two men. The silence grows heavy.

  Wino drops his cigarette on the carpet and grinds it under the heel of his shoe. “Kyokuto told us about you and the Hammerskins. He says you want to hit the Children of The Blood Militia. Take a few scalps. But what about after? What if me and the fellas decide to hit one of the Kukov's dope houses? Waste a few dealers and grab the cash? What then?”