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

by Jack Cuatt

  “You know it,” Wino hisses back.

  Kyokuto emerges from a doorway halfway down the hall, his HK at chest level. He trots over and kneels beside Wino as Machine steps to the top of the stairs. Machine’s eyes pick through the shadows. Two dead men are sprawled across the steps, arms and legs tangled, eyes glazing over. Nothing moves.

  Machine walks quickly back to room 310. “Let’s go,” he says as he takes a yellow-banded phosphorous grenade and a roll of gray tape from the chest pack. As Wino and Kyokuto head for the stairs, Kyokuto in the lead with the HK, Machine kneels by the door, straightens the grenade's pin and tapes the explosive to the door frame at chest level. Tearing off another, longer piece of tape, he wraps one end through the grenade's pin and loops the other end around the doorknob. When the Hispanic shooter opens the door he will meet some resistance, but not enough to arouse suspicion, the pin will release, the grenade will detonate, and he'll be fried extra-crispy.

  Machine trots to the stairs where Wino and Kyokuto are waiting, their weapons aimed down the dim steps.

  “Frag?” Wino whispers.

  “Phosphorous,” Machine whispers back as he steps past his partners to the stairs and heads down at a trot, the Škorpion aimed down the steps.

  Wino drops in behind Machine, carrying the briefcases. Kyokuto takes the rear. The three men keep close to the inside wall. As they emerge from the stairwell the awakened clerk takes one look at them and hits the floor behind his desk, dragging his gin bottle down with him. The lobby is otherwise empty.

  Machine is first out the front door. The rain is still falling, low and desultory. People are gathered near the entrance, a half-circle of jaded, doped-up faces, drawn by the gunshots, dressed in rain ponchos or cringing under dripping umbrellas. Machine scans the street for Jesus creeps. There's none in sight, but sirens are fast approaching.

  The gawkers fall away from the crew and look the other way. No one wants to be caught staring a hit-team in the face. It's a good way to become the next job. All the good Samaritans in Low Town are in the graveyard.

  Maintaining an unhurried pace, the three teenagers navigate their way through the crowd to the corner. They’re crossing the street against the light when a Christian Police battle cruiser screeches to a stop in front of the hotel. Machine, Wino and Kyokuto keep moving as colored lights and shouted orders fill the street behind them. Suddenly an explosion shakes the pavement, a brilliant flash lights up the avenue and glass showers down from the hotel's third floor like silver rain. Shimmering white streamers of phosphorous arc into the street. The cops fall back and the crowd panics. People run over each other. The weak get stomped. An uptown hooker in a red leather miniskirt and five-inch heels tries to outrun the glass by heading into the street. A bad idea. A Lincoln clips her off at the knees and grinds her under, not even slowing.

  Machine and his crew make the corner and pick up their pace, walking fast.

  Tic-Tac is on the money. They’re two blocks from the Lexington when he slows and pulls to the curb. Machine, Wino and Kyokuto clamber inside the still moving car.

  “How did it go?” Tic-Tac asks as he accelerates toward Shoreline, the windshield wipers thumping steadily.

  “Smooth,” Wino answers from the back seat. “They're all dead and we ain't.” He laughs but no one else joins in.

  Tic-Tac cuts the Granada's lights at the intersection of Shoreline and slows to a crawl. Kyokuto exits the car on the run and disappears into the smoky fog. Five minutes later Tic-Tac drives across Shoreline. The Granada's front tires land heavily on the waterlogged dock. Tic-Tac weaves through rotting piles of debris and dark warehouses, his expression inscrutable. Machine knows it's a teeth-gritting job watching and waiting, not knowing for sure what's happening to your crew. A job more dangerous than the work itself. When you're working, you create the situation that others react to. Support places you in the passive role.

  “Good work,” Machine says, looking sidelong at the imposing black man behind the wheel.

  “Edgy stuff,” Tic-Tac replies in a low voice. “Cops everywhere, seemed like. I pulled off for five minutes. Got a soda. I didn't want to leave the car, but I was getting tight behind the wheel,” Tic-Tac isn't apologizing or complaining, just telling.

  “You did the right thing,” Machine assures him as the Granada slows after the final curve, the green metal building dead ahead. The roller door is four feet off the warehouse's floor. Tic-Tac drives under it, almost scraping the roof of the old Ford. In the absolute darkness of the empty warehouse, the car rolls for twenty feet before Tic-Tac brakes and kills the engine. The three exit in unison, the sound of the car doors slamming echoes off the musty walls.

  Wino lays his HK on the trunk and leans against the quarter panel. He opens a fresh pack of cigarettes and lights up. The match briefly illuminates the three men's faces.

  Machine studies his companions in the flickering flame. They look calm, thoughtful, no high-fives or posturing. Professional. Wino flicks the match out. His cigarette glows a feeble red.

  After locking down the roller door's chain, Kyokuto turns on a flashlight and approaches. “What's in the cases?” he asks.

  “Trouble,” Machine replies.

  Wino ducks into the back seat, grabs the two briefcases and dumps them on the trunk beside his HK.

  It takes him only a few seconds for Machine to open the first case with the miniature lock-pick he keeps secreted in his belt. The case is black simulated leather. A cheap lock. Inside are two dozen stacks of bound currency that fill the briefcase to capacity. Mixed serial numbers, all small denominations; tens, twenties and fifties. Two hundred thousand or close to it.

  “Ka-ching,” Kyokuto whispers, playing the flashlight's beam over the soiled green bills. Wino and Tic-Tac both start grinning, but the cash doesn't interest Machine. He pushes the open case aside and draws the other one close.

  The second lock takes more time than the first. The case is top quality calf skin with gold-toned accents. The lock finally springs and the lid pops open a quarter of an inch. Machine slips the lock pick back into the compartment in his belt then opens the case, dropping the lid carelessly. The clasps scrape gray paint from the Granada's new trunk.

  Three pairs of eyes join Machine's at the rasp of metal on metal. Strapped to the inside of the Hispanic's case are two small cylinders the size and shape of a quart of paint, their lids sealed with red plastic tape. Machine extracts one of the canisters. Red letters two inches high read !CAUTION! DO NOT RUPTURE OR STORE NEAR HEAT. Beneath that is printed GAS NV-17 (LEVEL 5). Under that is the universal symbol for danger, a skull and crossbones.

  “What the fuck?” Tic-Tac mutters as Machine sets the canister down and picks up the second canister.

  The label is similar, but the second is gas NV-12. No skull and crossbones. Blistering agent. The thought of what the Militia could do with them is frightening.

  “What were they going to do with that?” Wino asks in a low voice.

  No one answers him. Machine reads the fine print below the warning labels. RESEARCH SAMPLE ONLY. SECURITY CLEARANCE: TOP SECRET. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE PROJECT CLEO. RESTRICTED TO LEVEL 5 LABORATORY.

  “They say the Militia are building up in the woods upstate,” Kyokuto comments. “Maybe they were going to use it out there against those Green River assholes.”

  “No,” Machine disagrees. “If that was the case they wouldn't be risking a meet in Low Town. If they took delivery in the city, they want it here.”

  Kyokuto thinks about that for a second then says, “The Council is pushing them out; maybe they've decided to push back.” He looks at Wino and Tic-Tac “We should keep after this.”

  Wino nods wearily.

  “Agreed,” Machine concurs, but he’s thinking about his own problems. About what he found out tonight and what he didn’t. He’s only sure of one thing: Marshall Jones is the one who set the Hammerskins on Machine at Stanley’s. One question answered and a dozen more added to the list of unknowns.
What did Marshall Jones want with Machine? Revenge for the beating that Machine had given Marshall’s boy-toy, Helmut? That seems unlikely, but people have died for less in Low Town. And what about this Ghost? If the ex-skinhead bodyguard, Wesley, was being truthful, there has to be some history on the chopper. No one can be in the business for thirty years and not leave a trail of some kind.

  Vlad had said he was close to finding this Ghost. Maybe he already has. Machine needs to check in with the old gangster. And if Vlad hasn’t found the Ghost? Then Machine will pay Marshall Jones a visit.

  “Give me the car keys,” he says, extending his hand. Tic-Tac does so without comment.

  Wino closes the case containing the money. Machine unlocks the trunk and puts the Hispanic's case inside then takes the Škorpion from under his jacket, ejects the clip and racks the slide to expel the bullet under the hammer. He places the machine-pistol beside the case and closes the trunk.

  Kyokuto changes the subject. “I laid in some things. Frozen pizza, ice cream. Tic-Tac finally got the freezer working.”

  “Finally got the part I needed,” Tic-Tac growls back. “I can't make an actuary valve.”

  “Whatever. We can watch the show at the hotel on TV.” Kyokuto says. “See what the Jesus creeps are telling.”

  Wino nods and Tic-Tac grunts agreement. All three turn toward the stairs. Machine doesn't follow.

  “I can't. I've got another lead I've got to follow.” He has no thoughts of sleep or food, only blood.

  Kyokuto turns and speaks softly to Tic-Tac and Wino. “You guys go on up, I’ll be there shortly.”

  They leave Kyokuto with the flashlight and head for the stairs. Machine hears them talking as their shadows merge with the darkness. They're chuckling as they climb the stairs.

  “So,” Kyokuto begins, taking a step forward, looking concerned, “what's the plan?”

  “The Militia.” Machine replies simply, unwilling to share his thoughts, the complexity of the situation. He really can't afford to cross Vlad by going straight at the Militia. The old man could have a hundred soldiers on the street in twelve hours. Machine could avoid them, but he couldn't find the Ghost at the same time.

  “You're sure it was the Militia?” Kyokuto asks.

  “Sure enough.”

  “You'll be back?”

  “If possible,” Machine assures him.

  “Watch your ass out there,” Kyokuto says.

  Machine nods, barely listening. He’s wondering if it might become necessary to kill Vlad. The thought doesn’t disturb him - he has no love for Kukov - but it did complicate things.

  “You taking the car?”

  “Yes. I'll dispose of the nerve gas.”

  “Be careful with that shit.”

  Machine nods again, impatient to be gone. He's closer than ever to his mother's killer.He can feel it.

  “I'll get the door.” Kyokuto says.

  Machine climbs into the Granada as the door rattles upward. He starts the car and reverses onto the dock, running lights off.

  Kyokuto waves from the hip and starts the door down as the Granada rumbles down the dock.

  Machine heads for the garage and the Lincoln. He'll spend the night in New Town. He needs time to rest and regroup without worrying about Hammerskins or the Militia.

  41

  Machine turns the Lincoln off the Beltway, down the dark service ramp of the Eli Whitney building. The janitor's space is waiting. He parks and gingerly gets out of the Lincoln, every muscle aching. The last week has been hard on his body and his spirit.

  The building's processed air tastes unrefreshing, more deodorizer than oxygen. He takes a quick look around. The loading bay's doors are closed, no cars, no trucks. At the steel service door, he uses the janitor's spare key then takes the service elevator down ten stories and lets himself into the apartment. He locks the door behind him, settles wearily on the sofa, leans back, and stares at the wall. His thoughts dwell on his mother. His teeth grind. There must be an end. He can't go on this way. He'd rather put the Smith in his mouth.

  “No straights,” he whispers, “No kids.” A familiar promise. He takes a long, slow breath, stands and walks into the bathroom connected to his bedroom.

  Machine strips out of his clothes, lays the Smith on the bathroom shelf, and peels away the bandages. His wounds are scabbed, healing. He looks at himself in the mirror. The stitched wound on his cheek doesn’t look too bad. Another few days and he can remove the surgical thread, but he’ll always have the scar. He climbs under a cold shower and washes carefully.

  It's past 4:00 AM by the time he replaces the bandages. He carries the Smith into his bedroom and lays it on the floor beside the bed before climbing in. He's asleep almost instantly.

  His dreams are as dark and turbulent as his life.

  Machine awakens just before 10:00 AM, hunger cramping his stomach. He brushes his teeth, dresses in slacks and a dark pullover, seats himself on the sofa in the living room, and dials Dino’s Supper Club. Fat Paul answers.

  “Hello,” he shouts cheerfully.

  “Hello, Paul.”

  After a moment’s silence, Paul responds in a flat voice, “Machine. What do you want?”

  “To pass along something. This line clean?”

  “Certainly,” Paul replies, which could mean yes or no.

  Machine takes the chance, knowing that the apartment's line is secure, almost untraceable.

  “The Militia tried to have me snatched the other night. I've done a little research. Marshall Jones gave the order.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” Paul bellows. “Was that you at the Lexington last night?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” Machine answers woodenly.

  “Fuck. What do you want me to do about that?” Paul asks. “The fuckin' Children of The Blood Militia? Jesus Christ, Machine!”

  “Tell Kukov that I'm going to talk to Jones.” Machine says. “And ask him if he's found anything out about this Ghost. I’m ninety percent sure he worked for the Militia.”

  “I'll have to call you back,” Paul mumbles. “Vlad ain't going to like this. He told you to wait.”

  Machine puts down the receiver, cutting off whatever else the fat man has to say.

  The phone rings twenty minutes later. Machine is picking at a can of tuna and drinking a warm bottle of spring water. He puts his meager meal aside and picks up the receiver.

  “Hello, Paul.”

  Paul talks fast. “I told Vlad what you said. He says you're right, but to back off. Give him a day. He's got a lead on this Ghost. He'll have him by tomorrow. Guaranteed.”

  “He's asking a lot.”

  “He ain't asking. He's telling. Twenty-four hours. Guaranteed.”

  “Guaranteed,” Machine repeats, wanting very badly to believe it. “This better be real, Paul.”

  Paul replies indignantly, “Vlad keeps his promises.”

  “He better.”

  Paul digests the threat for a silent moment. When he continues his tone is velvety. Mocking. “Vlad has a little problem he wants you to fix. He was gonna send Jimmy Six, but he thinks you'd do a better job.”

  “In return for the favor he hasn't done me,” Machine replies, anger making him careless. Vlad sure doesn't waste time collecting what he's not owed.

  “That's how he figures it. One of our boys dropped dime. He and a couple of Scarpo’s crew are meeting at ‘A Taste of Philly’ this afternoon. Two o'clock. Vlad wants the work done there. Fade 'em all.”

  “That’s New Town, Paul,” Machine says. Philly's is a small restaurant near the center of New Town, in the Gemstone Building. Doing a chop there meant almost certain death for the chopper.

  “No choice,” Paul says. “He's going from Philly's to the cops. Vlad's not happy about it, but it's the only way. He can't do nothing for you if he's out on bail.”

  Machine squeezes his eyes closed. “Two o'clock,” he repeats dully. “Name and appearance.”

  “We don't kno
w for sure. I know the guys he'll be with, nobody you'd know. Jerry Crostaga. They call him the Crow. Big, square head, scraggly mustache. The other guy's easy to spot, thin, narrow face, a scar from eye to chin. Stitch marks. Real Frankenstein look. One of those two will be carrying a briefcase. Grab it and bring it to the southside safehouse by 4:00 PM. That's from Vlad. It's important.”

  “What's in the case?” Machine asks.

  “Papers,” Paul replies cryptically.

  “All right,” Machine says. “Tell Vlad I'll do the work. And I will be paid. One way or another.”

  “You shouldn't talk like that, Machine. You should show respect.”

  “I show respect to the dead,” Machine says and breaks the connection.

  He glares at the phone for several minutes, his pulse pounding behind his eyes. None of Vlad's crew would have a chance of doing the work and getting away. It would be suicide for an amateur killer. The outlook isn't much brighter for Machine. With no time to think or plan, he'll have to improvise on the run.

  Machine rises and heads for the bedroom.

  From the bedroom closet, he selects snug-fitting jeans, a blue T-shirt and a dark blue wool suit of his father’s, a size too large for Machine. A snowy shirt and quiet tie follow. He dresses quickly, jeans and the T-shirt first and then the suit over that. The double layer of clothing adds twenty pounds to his frame, but he needs to alter his appearance further. New Town's corridors and malls are lined with security cameras. He can't avoid them, but he can change his appearance enough to avoid a positive ID.

  In the bathroom, he uses a small pair of tweezers to remove the stitches from his cheek and hands, then takes a tin of blush from the medicine cabinet. With his fingertips, he spreads the blush over his cheeks and nose, and blends it in. It doesn’t cover the puckered wound completely, but it makes it slightly less noticeable. He stashes the blush and slicks his hair back with hair-gel then puts on a pair of square-framed glasses with slightly tinted lenses. The silenced Smith goes in its usual location and he looks himself over in the full-length mirror.