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

by Jack Cuatt

  Machine swiftly crosses the room and stands between the two closed doors. He’d like to kick those doors in too, but he can't afford to takes his eyes off the four men in the living room. He puts his back to the wall, covering the group, and watches the two doorways in his peripheral.

  Wino pushes the broken front door closed and puts his heel against it to keep it shut.

  “Hands behind your heads and interlock your fingers. You've got two seconds,” Machine orders as Wino pans his HK over the four men, looking like he can't wait to use it.

  Nobody moves.

  “That's one,” Machine says and points the Škorpion at the ex-skinhead on the left end of the sofa, a greasy blond with a receding hairline. Machine's lips form the word ‘two,’ his finger tightening on the trigger.

  The skinhead lifts his hands and places them behind his head, teeth clenched.

  Machine shifts the Škorpion's aim to Bishop. Bishop also puts his hands behind his head, moving slow and careful. His other escort makes it unanimous.

  Machine glances quickly at Wino, who looks deadly-competent at the door, the HK steady in his hands. Wino nods at Machine. So far so good. No heroes. Machine cuts his eyes to the Hispanic.

  The Hispanic's hands are still in his lap. His expression is bland, unperturbed, as if this happens to him every day.

  “Hands behind your head,” Machine repeats, shifting the Škorpion's foresight to line up with the bridge of the man’s nose.

  “That won't be necessary,” the Hispanic replies in a precise, cultivated accent.

  “It is if you want to live,” Machine replies.

  “I don't have any weapons,” The Hispanic explains. His hands stay put.

  “You won't have a head in a moment.”

  The Hispanic sighs. Slowly, in a way calculated to be annoying, he elevates his hands and places them behind his head, giving Machine a long-suffering look.

  Machine considers whether to ask if anyone is behind the closed doors, but decides any answer he got would be a lie.

  “You two stand up,” Machine orders the skinheads, “and move to the middle of the room.” He keeps the Škorpion locked on them at stomach-level as they do as instructed, looking from Machine to Wino with hate-filled eyes.

  “Stop,” he commands when the muscle-bound duo reaches the midpoint between Wino and the two closed doors. “Turn and face each other.”

  They grudgingly comply.

  “On your knees.”

  The skinheads clumsily hobble to their knees. Massive muscle development has a detrimental effect on mobility.

  “Cross your ankles.”

  Additional clumsiness ensues. The big men move sullenly, but neither of them gets stupid. Machine looks at Wino, points to the two skinheads. Wino pivots and aims his HK at the pair.

  Machine turns to Bishop.

  “You,” he points the chunky machine pistol at the center of Bishop's gray vest. “On your feet.”

  Bishop's deepset blue eyes give Machine a look that would blister paint. He rises stiff-backed, but without comment. He's shorter than he looked on the sofa, but not soft. Muscular legs support ten pounds of hanging gut, but his shoulders and arms bulge in the gray off-the-rack suit. His knuckles are heavily scarred and lumped with calcium deposits.

  “Put your hands straight out in front of you. Shoulder height.”

  Bishop shows no surprise, no reaction except impatience and anger. He does what he's told, then asks in a gravelly baritone, “Want me to do the fuckin' polka now, wise guy?”

  “I want you to shut up,” Machine replies evenly.

  Bishop grunts and his face changes color, deep brown to flushed red, but he doesn't say anything else, just continues to stare, measuring Machine for a coffin. Bishop isn't scared. Just the opposite; the Colonel looks confident, pissed off, but controlled. He's been in tight places before and made it away clean. The other guy always died. But he doesn't know who he's dealing with tonight.

  The two skinheads fidget. Breathing in each other's faces is no treat. The Hispanic looks uncomfortable with his hands behind his head, but calm.

  “Bend at the waist and take the handles of the briefcases,” Machine directs Bishop.

  A grumble comes from Wino's charges.

  “Shut up,” Wino snaps.

  The skinheads look at the HK and close their mouths as Bishop bends as rigidly as an ironing board and grabs the two handles.

  “Stand up the same way, arms clear of your body,” Machine directs and takes a cautious step back.

  Machine was not mistaken about the muscles under Bishop's gray suit. The old man holds the bags straight out without tremble or sag. Glaring at Machine, Bishop waits for instructions. Waits for Machine to fuck up.

  “Over here.” Machine points to a spot on the matted brown carpet four feet in front of him, between himself and the skinheads.

  As the Colonel complies, Machine backs slowly to the wall, keeping one eye on the Hispanic.

  The Hispanic's practiced accent flows from Machine's left. “You're going to be disappointed. There's no money in those cases.” He leans forward, eyelids drooping with disinterest. “Take our wallets and get out—”

  “Shut up,” Machine says.

  “I'm just trying—”

  “To get yourself killed,” the teenager finishes icily.

  The Hispanic shuts up.

  “Drop the bags and put your hands behind your head,” Machine tells Bishop.

  The cases thud on the floor.

  “On your knees, cross your ankles, put your hands behind your head and interlock your fingers.”

  Bishop slowly goes down on one knee. The other knee drops and he crosses his ankles, unbeaten but at bay.

  “I have some questions. You'd be wise to answer them,” Machine explains, looking down the barrel of the Škorpion.

  “Take the money and get out of here,” Bishop spits. “You ain't got much time, you fucking punk.” Even with his hands behind his head and a gun in his face the old soldier can't keep his mouth shut. “I'm a Lieutenant Colonel in the Children of The Blood Militia.”

  “Colonel Bishop?”

  “That’s right,” the old man says and nods. “And you're a dead man. A walking carcass.”

  Machine shakes his head. “I doubt that.”

  Wino chuckles, eyes on the skinheads. He knows what Machine is saying. No one gets out alive.

  “Fucking greaser,” the Colonel hisses through curled lips. “Fucking crawler. Just like your fucking father.” Instantly, he looks like he regrets the words. Too late.

  “I see you know who I am. That's good. I've killed a lot of people to get to you, Colonel.”

  Bishop says nothing, but he fires a challenging glare at his bodyguards, kneeling, elbows bent like chicken wings. The skinheads look away. Bishop looks disgusted.

  “Why did you send a crew after me?” Machine asks.

  “Fuck you.” A vein is throbbing in Bishop's forehead. He's about to blow an artery.

  Machine doesn't appear to move. A blur, a flash of his left hand, and blood erupts from Bishop's nose. The Colonel rocks back on his knees and his hands jump to his broken nose. Blood pours through his fingers.

  The Hispanic blanches, his cool expression gone, replaced by fear. He's finally realized that Machine and Wino are not here to commit a simple armed robbery.

  “Hands behind your head, Colonel,” Machine reminds coolly. “Or I'll fix your nose with a bullet.”

  With a mumbled curse, Bishop turns his blood smeared face up at Machine. “You'll fucking pay,” he whispers, rage choking his words. “You'll fucking pay.” He puts his blood-wet hands behind his head. His nose is badly broken, pushed in and twisted to the left.

  “Did the Children of The Blood Militia pay to have my parents chopped?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Machine has had enough. Time is running out. Tic-Tac will be on the street downstairs soon. The Škorpion whispers and a 7.65mm slug shatters Bishop's shoulder and
knocks him sprawling across the carpet. Flat on his back, Bishop screams one short, sharp syllable and claws at the bleeding hole in his suit.

  The Hispanic gasps then looks furtively at one of the room's two closed interior doors. He’s breathing in hitches and gasps.

  “Mother fucker,” one of the skinheads growls under his breath, jaw muscles bunched. “You can't fucking do that—”

  “Shut up,” Wino snaps, his cold eyes staring the young gorilla down.

  Machine toes Bishop's knee. “Colonel?”

  “Fuck you,” Bishop hisses. “Fuck you. You'll have to kill me.”

  “I'm willing to do that, but it’s not going to be painless,” Machine assures him as he shifts the Škorpion’s aim to Bishop’s other shoulder.

  “Tell him, Jim. It was Marshall, he—” One of the skinheads says, twisting his head to see beyond his steroid-enhanced bicep. “Tell him it was Mar—”

  “You shut your fucking mouth!” Bishop explodes, forgetting the pain.

  “No,” Machine overrules without taking his eyes off the colonel. “Continue.”

  “Marshall Jones gave the order to snatch you,” the skinhead says. Jim didn’t want—”

  “You’re dead, Wesley. Dead,” Bishop interrupts. His face is pasty white beneath the blood.

  “And my parents?” Machine asks Wesley.

  “I don't know,” the skinhead answers helplessly. “I was there when Marshall said he wanted you. Jim, Colonel Bishop, just followed orders.”

  “Ever heard the name ‘Ghost’ before?” Machine asks.

  The skinhead’s jaw sags and he goes three shades paler. “He’s dead,” he whispers, shaking his head.

  “He will be soon,” Machine replies. “Who is he? Who does he work for?”

  “Anyone that’s got the cash.” Wesley says, talking fast now, trying to buy his life with a flood of words. “He started out with the Militia, but that was almost thirty years ago. After that he went freelance. He—”

  “Son of a Bitch,” the Colonel bellows, baring his teeth. “You little cocksucker—” His hand rises and a tiny .380 automatic pops out of his sleeve on a spring-loaded metal bracket. Machine registers the motion but it's too late to stop what's about to happen. Bishop squeezes the trigger and the skinhead is on his back, legs tucked up under him, half his head blasted away. The sound of the unsilenced shot reverberates off the walls like a cannon as Bishop sweeps the .380 left, trying to bring it to bear on Machine. He doesn’t make it. The Škorpion lurches twice against Machine's palm and two 7.65mm rounds smash through the colonel’s forehead. Bone fragments and blood splatter the floor, Bishop's mouth forms a question his brain will never provide the answer to and Bishop crumples. His bladder and bowels release. The smell comes quick and overpowering. Machine barely notices. He turns to face the Hispanic. Bishop is old news, the coroner’s problem now.

  “On your feet,” he says, leveling the Škorpion on the elegantly dressed man.

  “You're the next contestant on 'Don't Fuck with Us,” Wino says and laughs a harsh cackle.

  The Hispanic stands, licks his lips, but his eyes stay glued on Bishop's corpse. Sweat trickles from his hairline. His complexion has faded to khaki.

  “I want no trouble. Anything you want, it's yours,” he stammers.

  “Step this way.” Machine indicates a spot beside Bishop's out-flung legs with a flick of the Škorpion. The Hispanic doesn't try any tough routine; he crosses the room stiff-legged, drops to his knees and clasps his hands behind his head.

  “First question,” Machine says. “How are you connected to the Children of The Blood?”

  ““I provide a...a service, a...a product,” The Hispanic wheezes as cold-sweat darkens the collar of his shirt.

  “What?”

  “Specialized weaponry,” the Hispanic is having a hard time catching his breath. “I have asthma...my bag...in the...room,” he points at one of the closed doors.

  “And that’s where it will stay. Be more specific.”

  “Nerve agents. I used...to... To work for the government.” A muscle jerks in the Hispanic's cheek. He sucks in air and pushes it out with obvious effort.

  “And now you provide services and products,” Machine finishes stonily. “Nerve gas for the Militia. Fatal or blistering?”

  “A mix,” the Hispanic pants, staring at the carpet’s clumped weave.

  “Why are the Militia buying?”

  “I...didn't... ask,” the Hispanic whispers.

  “Noticing your swarthy complexion, I find your choice of customers surprising,” Machine says, but the Hispanic says nothing in reply. The twitch in his cheek pulses to a Latin rhythm. “You do a lot of business with the Militia?” Machine asks.

  “This is the first... the last time. I won't...be back, you have my...my word,” the Hispanic whispers with the kind of sincerity that fades when there’s not a gun in his face.

  “I'm going to need a little more than that,” Machine replies.

  “What?” The Hispanic barely has the strength to ask a question he already knows the answer to. He looks into Machine's face for some sign of reprieve. He finds nothing there. Emptiness. Death. He cranes his neck, appealing with his eyes to the skinhead kneeling on the floor. The skinhead looks away.

  “Your life,” Machine replies with no remorse. Death was this man’s product and, if there was one thing Machine knows after a lifetime in Low Town, you reap what you sow.

  “I'm not...lying,” the Hispanic whispers. “I'll never...come back,” the words are sobbed out. Blood from Bishop's head has soaked the knees of his slacks. He looks at it and tears roll down his cheeks.

  A knock on the front door interrupts.

  Machine looks at Wino sharply then jerks his head at the far wall.

  Wino circles the room fast, keeping his HK locked on the one remaining skinhead as Machine shifts the Škorpion's aim to the door and takes a step in that direction, keeping one eye on the Hispanic.

  “Fuck!” A muffled scream comes from the hallway preceded by a droning buzz that Machine recognizes as Kyokuto's silenced HK going to work. Heavy caliber return fire splinters the thin door. More screams. Feet pound the hall floor and the roar of an unsilenced automatic rifle rattles the hotel's windows. Then the HK buzzes again.

  Machine and Wino share a quick glance. Wino raises an eyebrow and Machine nods. Wino grimly nods back.

  Without hesitation, Machine turns and shoots the Hispanic twice in the head. Blood splatters the carpet and the Hispanic lurches sideways then falls face down on the carpet beside Bishop.

  Wino doesn't waste any time. His HK chatters a windy moan and flame leaps from the stubby barrel. The Hammerskin tries to rise but he doesn't have a chance. Two three-round bursts rip into him before he can get his tattooed hands unlocked. The Super-nine hollow-points slap him down bloody and wrecked atop his dead partner.

  More unsilenced weapon fire comes from the hallway - a full twenty round clip then dead quiet. Machine crosses the room and slaps his back against the wall beside the door. The wall is thin plaster and lathing, not much for cover, but all there is. He looks at Wino and points to the briefcases.

  Wino slings his HK, grabs the cases and puts his back against the wall on the opposite side of the bullet-riddled door.

  The sounds of falling plaster and the soft rustle of cloth on wood come from the hall. Nothing more. Machine flips the room's overhead light off, pulls the door open a crack on smoky darkness and the smell of gunpowder and spilt blood. The single bulb that had lit the narrow passage is dead. Only a pale impression of light rises from the stairwell, just enough to reveal a body lying on the hallway carpet, half-blocking 310’s doorway. He looks further down the hall, unfocusing his eyes to absorb the dim details. A shadow on the stairs catches his attention. Kyokuto? Someone else? Someone watching the door for movement, waiting to open fire?

  Machine focuses in. The glint of blue steel. A slight movement. Nothing more. The rest of the hall looks empty.


  Suddenly one of Room 310's two closed interior doors bursts open behind Machine and Wino, and a wild-eyed kid lunges into the room firing a Tec-9, spraying the room with lead. Plaster flies from the walls and ceiling as the room is lit up by streaking yellow. The kid is Hispanic, olive-complexioned, with heavy brows and thick, pouting lips. A Don Juan with an automatic. The dead Hispanic's contribution to the bodyguard contingent.

  Machine whips the front door open, dives into the hall and rolls to his knees. Wino is close behind. He throws the cases into the hallway floor, swings up his HK and back-pedals out the door, blasting away. He trips over the corpse blocking the door and goes down on his back, wasting ten rounds into the ceiling.

  Room 310's bullet-pocked door swings closed on its own weight and the kid inside quits shooting.

  On his knees, Machine looks toward the stairs. Flame flashes from the steps and a bullet digs a furrow in the wall above his head accompanied by the concussion of an unsilenced weapon. Another flash and a slug drives into the wall beside his right cheek.

  Machine flicks the Škorpion's fire select to full auto and strokes the trigger. Two rattling bursts light up the hall. In the flash, a skinhead on the stairs is revealed. He takes a chest full of lead and somersaults down the steps screaming, the gun flying from his hand. Machine chases the skinhead with another burst of three Hydra-Shoks that ends the screams, then peers down the dark hall, through the twisting gun smoke, looking for Kyokuto. Wino clambers up into a crouch behind him, stoops and grabs the cases, looking once again to Machine for the go signal.

  “Fellas?” Kyokuto's tentative call, little more than a whisper, sounds huge in the silence following the gunfire.