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

by Jack Cuatt

  Machine is inside the warehouse for twenty minutes. He returns to the Granada carrying an awkward bundle wrapped in green canvas, opens the trunk and drops the bundle inside. Kyokuto slides across the front seat and Machine drops behind the wheel, puts the car in gear and drives down the alley, back the way they came.

  Machine is cautious in his choice of streets on the way to the river, neither too crowded nor too empty. The task becomes impossible as they near the docks. No one in their right mind heads this way after dark. Too remote and grim, though safe in comparison to the Zone. Criminals stay where their prey lives; this humid, polluted area is always empty.

  Three blocks from Shoreline, Machine slows to ten miles an hour. Kyokuto jumps out of the car, hits the ground on the run and disappears in the direction of the docks. Machine reaches across the seat, pulls the door closed, takes a left at the corner and circles the block, using up time, thinking about the work to come. He makes a left back on Second Street and kills the headlights but leaves the running lights on.

  As the battered Granada approaches the intersection of Eighth and Shoreline, a shadow detaches itself from a doorway and runs toward the car. Machine reaches over and pops the door handle. Kyokuto jumps in, breathing hard.

  “The big door. Second warehouse. Tap the horn once as you pull up.”

  “The door work?” Machine asks.

  “I think so,” Kyokuto says doubtfully. “I hope it does.”

  “Perfect,” Machine mutters as he stops at the corner. Both teenagers lean forward to check the street. No traffic. Machine stomps the gas. The Ford surges across Shoreline and drops hard onto the moldering dock. The wooden platform doesn't give an inch. Warped planks rattle under the tires as they wind their way past empty warehouses. When they reach the roller door, Machine taps the horn and the door immediately begins a slow ascent accompanied by the clatter of a hand operated pulley. It’s a long minute and a half before it is high enough for the Granada to pull under.

  Machine parks just inside the door, cuts the engine and steps out of the car as the roller door rattles down behind him.

  “Hey,” a voice comes from the darkness, and Wino steps out of the gloom and flicks on an industrial sized flashlight.

  “Hey,” Kyokuto replies in kind as Machine steps to the trunk. The clatter of the roller door's chain stops and Tic-Tac's chunky silhouette approaches.

  Machine grabs the bundle from the trunk and sets it on the floor. Tic-Tac immediately squats and reaches for a corner of the olive-drab canvas. Unprofessional. Machine doesn't think before he speaks.

  “Step off,” he says harshly.

  With the canvas still in his hand, Tic-Tac glances up at Machine then looks a question at Wino. Wino shrugs and Tic-Tac drops the cloth and stands, hands at his side. He doesn't say anything, but he glares homicidally at Machine for a long moment before turning and slowly walking toward the stairs up to the catwalk. Wino trails behind him.

  Machine hefts the bundle of weapons and follows the pair. Kyokuto brings up the rear.

  As Machine comes through the office door carrying the bundle of weapons, Tic-Tac is saying something that ends with “...chop that motherfucker.” They both look up at Machine.

  “Is there a problem?” he asks as he sets the bundle on the carpet.

  Kyokuto comes in and closes the door on the drafty warehouse.

  “No problem,” Tic-Tac replies in a low rumble that suits his muscular, brick-shaped frame. “Just watch how you fucking talk to me and all is well.”

  Instantly the darkness pushes up Machine's spine. “Did I hurt your feelings?” he asks, staring Tic-Tac straight in the eye.

  “Watch that shit,” Tic-Tac warns. “Don't fuck with me.”

  “Or what?” Machine asks. There is no backup in him. No discretion. All threats are met head on with lead or a blade.

  “Or I'll chop your fuckin' ass,” Tic-Tac growls. His hand inches along his hip, aiming for a bulge in his waistband.

  “It won't happen,” Machine assures him. “I'll kill you where you stand.”

  Tic-Tac's fingertips touch the hem of his sweater. “Talking's free.” His face furrows and his hand darts under the sweater.

  It's amazing how quickly a situation can turn to shit.

  The Smith appears in Machine's hand like magic, aimed at Tic-Tac's forehead, hammer back. Machine keeps half of his attention on Kyokuto and Wino; if they decide to join the conflict, he'll have to kill all three men. He won’t hesitate.

  Tic-Tac's hand freezes on the butt of a snub-nosed .38. He stops breathing, doesn't move or blink.

  “Shit,” he whispers in a voice too high to be his own. His hand slides off the .38's checkered grip. The sweater drops over it again.

  “Are you ready to die?” Machine asks as a warning from his father echoes in his skull. ‘Take no chances, if you think someone is a threat, put them in the ground.’

  Sweat rolls down Tic-Tac's forehead and beads on his upper lip. A muscle throbs in his neck. He has too much courage to answer.

  Machine's knuckle whitens across the trigger. “I don't care either way,” he assures Tic-Tac. “Yes or no?”

  “No,” Tic-Tac replies with a sullen grimace. He is prepared to die standing up, but he's not stupid enough to ask for a bullet.

  Machine holsters the Smith.

  Suddenly Wino is laughing. “I told you, motherfucker,” he gasps with relief, pointing a bony finger at Tic-Tac. “Don't fuck with shit that bites.”

  “Fuck you,” Tic-Tac rumbles shakily.

  “Fuck me?” Wino asks through his laughter. “Fuck you, my brother. Lucky he didn't make you pay for that lesson. I'd have made you pay with your ass.”

  “Fuck you,” Tic-Tac says again and flops on the sofa, shaking his head and wiping his face with the back of his hand.

  “You're one fast motherfucker,” he says to Machine.

  “This is what I do,” Machine replies simply.

  “Practice makes perfect; fronting makes you dead,” Wino says through more laughter.

  Tic-Tac makes a disparaging face. “Like I said,” he rumbles. “Step off.”

  “What you gonna do, shoot me?” Wino likes that joke best of all. He almost doubles over with laughter.

  “Assholes,” Tic-Tac mutters, but he's smiling.

  “All right,” Wino says, becoming instantly serious, “You're our ears, Kyokuto. Let's hear it.”

  “First, let's see what Machine brought.” Kyokuto makes a flourish at the green bundle.

  Machine kneels and spreads the canvas to expose a cornucopia of blue steel.

  “Jesus,” Wino says, stepping close. “What is all that?”

  “Everything we'll need,” Machine replies as his hands work over the weapons, carefully placing them on the grungy carpet.

  “MP5-K,” he says, patting a pair of plastic shrink-wrapped mini-assault rifles. “Heckler and Koch, 9mm. Full auto.” His voice is as clinical as a science teacher's. “Four clips for each.” His hands move on to a large cardboard carton and peel back the cover.

  “Flash-bang,” he says pointing at six metal cylinders lined up in a neat row. “Fragmentation grenades,” he says as he places six more cylinders on the threadbare carpet.

  “Glock 20,” he points to a large black automatic pistol. “Three twenty-round clips for it.” Machine places four boxes of Super-9 hollow-points beside the pistol. “Submachine rounds for the Glock and the HKs. Don't load them in your handguns,” he advises, “They're not built to handle them. The silencers are for the HKs. I don't have one that will fit the Glock.”

  “Got three or four I made myself,” Tic-Tac rumbles. “Steel wool and PVC jobs. They don't last long, but they're quiet.”

  “Good enough,” Machine says and moves on. “This,” he says clear and loud, “is the most important thing,” he separates three small camo pouches with faded red crosses on the side. “Medical kits. Antiseptic, gauze, and morphine. Everything you need to treat a noncritical gunshot or stabbin
g wound.”

  “What if the wound's critical?” Wino asks jokingly.

  Machine's reply is severe. “Add one more bullet and make it fatal.”

  No one replies. They know it's the truth. Capture is the thing to fear, not death. The prison factories will make you wish you were dead.

  “All right,” Machine breaks the uncomfortable silence. “This should be more than enough. Wino and Kyokuto will carry the HKs. Tic-Tac,” Machine says, “you're driving, right?”

  “That's normally how it is,” Tic-Tac agrees.

  “You take the Glock. Divide up the grenades and flash bangs equally. Any questions?”

  The others are too busy gathering their weapons to reply.

  “Think you can handle these?” Machine asks.

  “Shit,” Wino's eyes flash as he rips the plastic off one of the HK's and works the bolt, getting the feel of it. “Like it was made for me,” he whispers, stroking the cold blue steel.

  “I think it likes you too. Why don't you give it a name?” Kyokuto says and laughs.

  Wino chuckles, shakes his head and says, “Quit bullshitting. Tell us what you know about Bishop.”

  Machine takes a seat beside Tic-Tac on the sofa. Tic-Tac and Wino load clips as Kyokuto gives a brief description of the hotel and surroundings. They've all been there before; the rundown Lexington has been in business forever.

  The plan takes several hours to talk through, though it is very simple. When they're finished, all four men head for bed. It will be a long day tomorrow. Maybe their last.

  Machine lies down on a musty sleeping bag in one of the storerooms. It takes him a long time to fall asleep. He's not used to working with partners, except for Moses. He doesn't like the idea of trusting his life to these three men, but he has little choice. Finally he closes his eyes and forces himself down.

  39

  “Come and get it.” Kyokuto calls, as he closes the metal building’s front door and crosses to a card table set up in the middle of the warehouse. Lights have been strung up in the area in front of the catwalk. Extension cords snake across the floor. In the far corner, a stack of mattresses and clothing has been ripped to pieces by practice rounds.

  Kyokuto puts the food down on the table beside the two HK assault rifles lying on a greasy towel, and removes cardboard boxes of Chinese food complete with plastic forks. “They'll be in room 310. The meet's at 1:00 AM, but one of Bishop's bodyguards is already there, sitting by the front door,” he tells the others as they drift over from the improvised firing range.

  Machine lays one of the silenced Škorpions aside and opens one of the white boxes. Pork fried rice. He grabs a pack of soy sauce and tears it open with his teeth.

  “How many people do you think will be there?” he asks.

  “No way of knowing,” Kyokuto says around a mouthful of rice.

  “How many in Bishop's contingent?”

  Kyokuto shrugs. “I couldn't ask a question like that straight out. Stupid as she is, she’d still know something was up. I tried to work her around to it, but she kept babbling about her runaway kid.” Kyokuto shakes his head. “She probably sold the kid. Best I can guess from the names she dropped, three or four.”

  Machine digs into the rice, shifts a forkful from the box to his mouth, chews, and swallows. “We've got four hours,” he says, turning his gaze in a tight circle, meeting each man's eyes. “Let's eat and get packed.”

  At 11:00 PM, the four young men are seated at the kitchen table going over the plan. They are all dressed similarly, in black jeans, dark T-shirts, black jackets, and tennis shoes. Each has a chest-pack with the frags, clips and medical kits. Four pairs of eyes stare from beneath the brims of black baseball caps. Again, Machine runs through the vaguest outline of a plan, trying to cover the contingencies. It's the third time they've been through it. It sounds worse every time.

  “Tic-Tac stays in the car. We won't be inside that long. Make a loop. Take it slow. Fifteen minutes, maximum. When we’re through, we’ll walk west on Lexington. When you see us, don't stop; just slow down and pull close to the curb.”

  “Cool.” Tic-Tac nods, resting his elbows on the table. “Got you covered.”

  “Kyokuto, you've got our back. The place is crawling with dealers and freaks. You cover the stairs. Just hang out in the lobby near the door. Smoke a cigarette. If the clerk gives you any shit or makes a move for a phone that's not ringing, put him to sleep for a couple of hours. Don't kill him.”

  “All right,” Kyokuto nods, obviously disappointed by the assignment. He takes a half crushed pack of Marlboro's from his pocket, lights one, and flicks ash onto the carpet.

  “Wino, you go up the stairs on my back. We take the door, me first. If somebody gets stupid, the whole crew goes down right then. You understand?” Machine wants to be perfectly clear on this. No picking out the shooters from the non-shooters. If anyone pulls a gun, everyone dies. It can be no other way if they expect to survive.

  “Solid,” Wino says, grinning. “No witnesses.”

  Machine nods. “Everyone ready?”

  “As I'll ever be,” Wino responds. Nobody laughs. Machine's call to action sobers the mood. They rise in unison, four lean, heavily armed killers.

  “Let's do it,” Kyokuto says.

  The four trail out, their shapes lost in the deep shadows. Kyokuto goes to the roller door as the others climb into the beat-up Granada. Tic-Tac takes the wheel, Machine beside him.

  The half-open door reveals a sky as black as the warehouse's ceiling. Tic-Tac backs out with the lights off. The door starts down. Two minutes later Kyokuto comes out the front door and gets in the back seat. They ride uptown in silence, the four lost in their own thoughts.

  It's three minutes after 1:00 AM when Tic-Tac slows and pulls to the curb a block behind the Lexington Hotel.

  The street is dark and damp, cut off from the neon lights one block over. Kyokuto, Machine, and Wino exit the car and walk toward the corner as the Granada glides away, bright orange flasher indicating a right turn.

  “Stay loose,” Machine intones, taking the lead, his right hand under his jacket on the Škorpion's chunky wooden grip. Wino and Kyokuto flank him, three feet out and five feet back. In this formation, they all have a clear field of fire; Kyokuto to the rear, Wino the street, Machine the front.

  Machine checks his watch's luminescent dial. “Five,” he says under his breath as they turn the corner and walk back up Washington. Five minutes after 1:00.

  The three stop on the corner of Lexington and Washington. The strip is bright and busy. People move fast and talk fast, making deals, growing more anxious as the night gets older, nervous to score or sell. A sullen drizzle begins with a splatter of sludge. A benefit to the work ahead. The rain has a high toxicity; it keeps the cops in their cars. They turn right and blend in with the crowd.

  They turn in under the Lexington’s tattered green awning and hit the hotel’s steps in single file. Machine is the first through the front door.

  The lobby is small. An open flight of stairs is to the left, the front desk on the right. Moldering yellow paint flakes from the walls. The clerk’s head is face down on his crossed arms, a half-empty bottle of gin at his elbow. A short row of mismatched plastic chairs flanks the desk. Seated on one of them is the Militia bodyguard Kyokuto mentioned. He's an ex-skinhead in a faded olive jacket, khakis, and combat boots. His brow is low, his nose smashed flat. He looks up at the three new arrivals and his hand slides toward his lapel. He doesn't look worried, just cautious. Not cautious enough. Machine steps swiftly toward him, draws the silenced Smith and shoots him twice in the chest. The shredders plow through his heart and he goes over backward, his skull bouncing off the tile. The clerk doesn’t wake up.

  “Get him behind the counter,” Machine says to Kyokuto, then heads for the stairs, Wino hard on his heels.

  Kyokuto grabs the skinhead by the boots and drags him behind the front desk, then returns to the chairs and takes a seat, one eye on the front door, t
he other on the stairs.

  Wino and Machine take the three flights of uncarpeted steps on the balls of their feet, climbing quickly, Machine in the lead. At the top of the third flight, Machine stops. From one of the rooms, a stereo is blaring soul music from the last century. A guard is posted outside the door to room 310, snapping his fingers to the beat. He’s faster and smarter than the guy downstairs. He spots Machine and Wino and goes for his gun.

  Machine fires two silenced shots from thirty-five feet and the guard crumples, the sound of him hitting the floor lost in the racket of the stereo. Machine looks at Wino and makes a sweeping gesture toward the far end of the hall. Wino nods and heads toward the rear of the hotel as Machine steps to room 310's door.

  Machine's heartbeat slows. He feels no fear or anxiety, just a ruthless determination. Over the stereo, he can hear nothing through the door of 310.

  Wino rejoins Machine, shaking his head. Nothing.

  Time to work.

  Machine checks his watch again - seven minutes after 1:00 - then holsters the Smith in favor of the Škorpion. He checks the clip, chambers a round and flips the safety to semiautomatic. Wino produces the squat black HK, racks the slide and presses his shoulders into the mangy plaster to the right of the door. He looks to Machine for the GO signal.

  Machine holds up two fingers, pale in a latex surgical glove. He drops one and then the other, then snaps a kick into the door. The jamb splinters, the door crashes open, and Machine charges through the gap, leveling the Škorpion.

  Wino is close behind, stepping through the door and to the left, sweeping the HK across his path.

  40

  Four men's surprised eyes jump to the door as Machine kicks it in. Four hands move for shoulder rigs or pockets, but freeze mid-reach as the two black-clad teenagers boil into Room 310 leveling automatic weapons.

  The room is large. A nappy maroon sofa and a pair of chairs face each other across a massive glass and chrome coffee table. The TV is tuned to a religious channel, volume low. A pastor in a two-thousand-dollar suit is talking about Jesus while an 800 number flashes across his chest. Two doors on the opposite wall are closed: bedroom and bathroom. Two closed briefcases lie on the coffee table. Three of the room's occupants are seated on the sofa: a gray-faced older man in an ill-fitting gray suit flanked by two younger men in jeans and leather jackets. Militia traveling incognito; they usually favor uniforms. Both the younger men are ex-Hammerskins. Big arms, tribal tattoos, cropped hair and muddy eyes. Bishop and his bodyguards. Across from them, sitting in one of the chairs, is a tall, elegant Hispanic dressed in pressed khaki slacks, leather loafers and a suede jacket.