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

by Jack Cuatt

  Machine eases the corpse to the floor and takes the .45 and three full clips from the man’s belt. He jams the weapon into his waistband, the clips into his pockets, and walks into the maze of stacked boxes, reading labels.

  There's not much of interest near the bank of roller doors. MREs, clothing, and medical and communication gear. He trots farther into the stacks and finds what he's looking for in a pile of green wooden crates: M-14 thermal grenades. He shoves the top crate off the stack. It crashes to the floor and bursts open, spilling grenades and a mess of Styrofoam packing beads. He puts two grenades in the front pockets of the oversized slacks and carries another two in his hands as he walks to the middle roller door. He places the grenades he's carrying on the floor, frees the roller door's chain and starts reeling it up. When the door is two feet off the floor, he drops to his knees and looks under. It's still dark, probably early morning. A narrow service alley lies beyond the door. It’s bounded by brick walls and more loading docks. A damp breeze blows under the door and cools his sweaty face. It smells like the wind off a landfill. In the distance he hears traffic noise, the chatter of music played too loud, fights, laughter and curses. Home sounds. He's almost free.

  Machine picks up the loose grenades, stands, pulls their pins, and throws them to the right and left, deep into the boxes. Three seconds and counting. He pulls the pins on grenades three and four. Pitches them into the middle of the stacks, drops to his stomach and rolls under the door, up into a crouch, the .45 in his hand. The alley is still empty. He stands and jogs toward the street.

  Behind him, inside the warehouse, blue-white lightning flashes and the grenades roar out an air-sucking explosion. Arcs of white phosphorous shower the crates. The fire builds at an incredible rate. The second pair of grenades detonate, the sound followed closely by a louder explosion and then a dozen more smaller detonations in a long chain. One of the roller doors rips free and flutters into the alley like a curtain in a stiff breeze, flame boiling behind it. The asphalt beneath Machine's feet trembles. He doesn’t look back.

  He stops at the head of the alley. People are already drifting through the shadows toward the explosions. In a moment the cops will join the spectators.

  Machine runs his fingers through his sweat-stiff hair, steps out of the alley and turns right, brushing past a skank so wired on crank that the needle is still hanging from his arm. Dark blood is clotted at the bottom of the plastic syringe. The dope fiend heads down the alley, toward the flames, a dazed look on his dirty face.

  Machine is at the end of the block when a tremendous explosion sends a column of fire and burnt bricks rocketing into the smoke-stained clouds. The bricks come back down, jagged edges smoking, and people start screaming, running for cover or going down in broken piles. Machine drops his head and walks faster, heading for the river.

  The damp cold makes his battered body ache even more. He thinks of his face, how he must look, and wipes at the dry blood. He doesn't worry about it too much; he doesn't look much worse than the people he passes.

  On the corner of Eighth, a prostitute and a straight are bartering. They start in on the preliminaries before Machine steps off the curb. The straight's got his hand halfway up the whore's dress and his tongue in her ear. She's moaning like she's enjoying it, but her hard, suspicious eyes follow Machine as he passes.

  In the distance Machine hears cop and fire truck sirens. The firemen aren't having much luck judging by the occasional night-shattering explosion.

  45

  Machine picks his way across the dark docks, through the ashy fog, past water-logged debris to the warehouse. He stops for a moment near the green metal building, listening and scanning his back-trail. All he hears are the sodden groans of the docks and the sluggish ripple of the river moving through the pilings. He sees nothing out of place. He knocks on the metal door.

  No answer.

  He knocks again and waits. Nothing. He tries the knob, knowing Kyokuto's crew isn't that careless.

  It isn't locked.

  With a gut-churning sense of unease, he pulls the .45, cocks it, steps into the musty darkness and closes the door behind him. He stands just inside the threshold for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust. The emptiness of the huge space stretches away from him. The catwalk is dark above. Something isn't right. Someone should be keeping an eye out for visitors. He remains motionless in the almost absolute darkness, the Colt up and ready. Nothing moves. Not a sound. He takes a quiet step, then another and soon he's creeping up the metal stairs to the offices above.

  A light shows beneath the door of Wino and Tic-Tac's living area. Machine stops in front of the door and listens for three minutes to nothing. Finally, he turns the doorknob until the tongue is fully out of its slot, then flings the door open wide, giving himself a view of the entire room down the barrel of the Colt.

  The place is a wreck. Cut open furniture, smashed video equipment, torn up carpet, and ragged craters chopped in the paneling. On the floor near the sofa Wino lies in a puddle of dark fluid, a gaping hole in his chest. On the sofa, Kyokuto is sitting with his legs crossed aiming his Browning at the middle of Machine's forehead.

  “Hello, Machine,” he says through his teeth.

  “What happened?” Machine lowers the Colt to his side. If Kyokuto pulls the Browning's trigger, Machine will not return fire. He won't have Kyokuto's murder on his conscience.

  “Your friends paid us a visit,” Kyokuto says, grinding the words out, the Browning's focus on Machine unwavering.

  “My friends?” Machine asks. The word is meaningless to him. He has no friends. “Would you mind not pointing that weapon at me?”

  Kyokuto does not lower the pistol. “Your boss sent a crew down here to do some work. How do I know you ain't the cleaner?”

  “Kukov?” Machine asks dumbly. His brain is one step behind, sluggish and slow.

  “Am I not speaking English, motherfucker?” Kyokuto asks acidly, white-knuckling the automatic's hair trigger.

  “How?” Machine asks, looking down at Wino's corpse.

  Kyokuto follows his eyes. “Don't waste your energy thinking about him.” He leans forward, baring his teeth. “He's history. Died fifteen minutes after they left. Five minutes after I got back.”

  “How do you know it was Kukov?” How had Vlad make the connection between Machine and Kyokuto's crew?

  “The guy said he was from Kukov.” He waves at Wino’s battered corpse. “And this kind of shit is his specialty, right? Your specialty.”

  Machine ignores the indictment. What Kyokuto says is true. He’s done worse. “Where's Tic-Tac?”

  “Dead,” Kyokuto says flatly. “They shot him in the face. Wino was working the door, keeping watch. This guy comes out of nowhere, caps Tic-Tac and gives Wino two in the back,” Kyokuto almost chokes on the words. He swallows hard and continues. Tears fill his eyes. “Wino was still alive, so this guy dragged him up here and worked on him.”

  Kyokuto sees something in Machine's face. Grief, anger, something that makes him believe. “He was looking for papers. Something of yours. He didn't find it,” he says as he lowers the Browning. “If I had been five minutes earlier...”

  “Papers,” Machine says and shakes his head again. The word doesn't sound right. Doesn't mean anything. “Money,” he adds thickly. They were after the money Moses had stolen.

  “It always is. That old fuck and his fat friend have to go. Just stay out of my way, Machine,” Kyokuto warns.

  Machine shakes his head. “I'll chop them myself.” His voice vibrates with cold intensity.

  Kyokuto nods and swipes away the tears. “We've got a problem. The stash is gone; all our gear. All I have is the Browning.”

  “Not a problem,” Machine assures him. He looks at Wino then away, wearily accepting responsibility for his death, and also the responsibility for avenging it. Blood for blood. The mantra Machine has been raised on. “We'll pick up what we'll need at the Decatur warehouse tomorrow.”

  “I can go
now,” Kyokuto says, half-rising from the sofa. “You could get some sleep, patch yourself up. You look like shit.”

  “I have some things to tell you first.” Machine closes the office door, drags one of the tube steel chairs over from the kitchen and briefly relates the Sculli hit, the Children of The Blood Militia lying in wait at his apartment, the shootout at the New Town’s gate with the Jesus Creeps, and the deaths of Marshall and Helmut.

  “I already heard about the creeps in New Town. You’re all over the news. Public Enemy Number One.” Kyokuto says as Machine finishes with the destruction of the Militia's supplies. “Now, what about Kukov?”

  “We can handle him. If I can get past the cops tomorrow.”

  “What about...” Kyokuto waves his hand at Wino's body, faltering on the words. Wino's and Tic-Tac's deaths have hit him hard. They were his family. All he had. Now, like Machine, he has only revenge. Payback.

  “You take care of Tic-Tac and I'll take care of Wino,” Machine replies. “When this is over we'll get them buried properly.”

  When Wino is wrapped in a trash bag shroud, Machine makes a turn of the room righting furniture. The work makes him calmer, occupies him, keeps back the darkness that is threatening to swallow him, threatening to send him on a killing rampage through Low Town. Picking through the smashed pieces of video equipment, he finds a TV that might still work and plugs it in. He hooks up the cable and switches to CNN to find himself staring out of the screen.

  A close-up picture. Not footage from the security booths at the North Gate, but a photo of him climbing into the Lincoln outside a large, blurry white home. Machine recognizes the Kukov estate. Vlad and Paul are being very helpful.

  “Brutal Killings, Atrocity, Panic, Murderer.” The words jump out at him. Four Jesus creeps, a ‘citizen with valuable information about the crime families in Low Town’ and four Hammerskins are dead. Obviously, they haven't found the bodies at the apartment yet, but it won’t be long. An old man was injured when the battle cruiser crashed through the liquor store window on Washington. The cops guarding the North Gate are in the hospital but are expected to recover. A police search for the perpetrator, a reputed mob chopper known only as ‘Machine’ is in full swing.

  Machine turns the TV off.

  The door handle rattles. He palms the Colt and aims chest-high at the steel panel. Kyokuto comes in and he lowers the automatic.

  “It's done,” Kyokuto says, looking sea sick. His eyes are red rimmed and bloodshot. “What do we do with them now?” he asks, seating himself on the edge of the sofa, trying not to look at Wino's lumpy black outline.

  “That comes later. There's an undertaker that handles this kind of work for the mobs and Militia. He's protected by everyone.”

  Kyokuto's head jerks up. “Just dump them off at some disposal service like garbage?” he demands angrily. “I’m not—”

  “They do it right, Kyokuto. Whatever you ask for. They back date the death ten or fifteen years so no one notices a new resident in the cemetery. We'll do all we can for them.” Machine doesn't think it matters to Wino or Tic-Tac, but if it makes Kyokuto happy...

  “Okay,” Kyokuto acquiesces grudgingly, staring into the carpet's blood-clotted weave, clenching his fists. After a long moment, he looks up at Machine. “So, what do you need to get past the cops?”

  Machine runs down a list that he made mentally while he worked on Wino. It isn't very long. When Kyokuto has digested it, Machine explains briefly how it will go tomorrow. By the time they are both satisfied with the plan, it is well into the heavy hours of the morning.

  Taking Machine's keys, Kyokuto leaves the warehouse at dawn, too wired to sleep.

  Machine retires to one of the store rooms and lies down for a few hours sleep. He feels like he's been awake an eternity.

  But it’s almost over.

  The chopper is coming.

  46

  At 10:30 AM, Kyokuto wakes Machine from a deep sleep by rapping on the storeroom door. He comes through the door carrying two plastic bags and a paper sack from a Low Town resale store, Gina's Seconds.

  Machine awakens immediately. He doesn't say anything, just sits up and nods at Kyokuto.

  “It's 10:30,” Kyokuto says as he sits on the metal floor and crosses his legs. He reaches into one of the plastic bags and pulls out a fast food bag. From it he takes milk, orange juice, and two breakfasts in paper boxes.

  Machine grunts without enthusiasm as he accepts one of the boxes. His teeth are aching, his gums tender and bloody. They eat in silence, chew their food distractedly, preoccupied. They're both wondering the same thing: is Machine healthy enough for the confrontation they're orchestrating? Neither dares ask out loud. It doesn't really matter; they'll do it or die trying.

  After breakfast Machine enters the bathroom carrying one of the plastic bags and the paper sack from Gina's Seconds. He's in there a long time, showering, bandaging his wounds, and dressing.

  Kyokuto watches the news channel. He's seen the episode about Machine four times before the bathroom door opens and the teenage killer steps out. He takes one look at Machine and explodes with laughter.

  “Oh shit,” he sputters, grinning for the first time since he found Tic-Tac and Wino dead, “it's the Creature from the Black Lagoon.”

  Machine is dressed in black jeans and a long ratty-black overcoat that will allow him freedom of movement and offer concealment for the weapons he will carry. He’s dyed his hair a shiny, pale pink. His eyebrows are jet-black. On his cheek, below his left eye, there's a dark blot shaped like a tear. A small, silver skull on a chain dangles from his right ear. Eyeliner and a dried-blood-red lip gloss complete the anarchistic motif.

  “Think it will work?” he asks.

  “Yes,” Kyokuto gasps, still laughing,

  “Don't underestimate Kukov, Kyokuto,” Machine warns, He sees nothing humorous in the situation. He's ready to work.

  Kyokuto's expression turns serious. “I never underestimate anyone. Just remember not to take any chances.”

  “Did you get the Lincoln? My gear out of the Granada?”

  “Out in the warehouse. I picked up ammo and a silencer that should fit the Colt. I grabbed a Jackhammer twelve-gauge for myself.”

  “Then let's go over this one more time.”

  Once again, Machine stresses that Kyokuto's role will be support. It's what he needs most, someone to watch his back. Kyokuto accepts grudgingly. Machine will handle the wetwork himself.

  47

  Fat Paul makes his collection run in the early afternoon, before Dino's Supper Club opens, then drops off the take at the southside safehouse for one of Vlad’s thugs to deliver. He usually hangs around the safehouse giving orders and acting like a big shot for a few hours before he heads for Dino’s for the evening.

  The safehouse is the only sure place to take him. Too many people at the club - bus boys, waiters and cooks - and too many cops on the street. That means Machine must be prepared for Paul plus four or five of Vlad’s crew. That’s fine with him; he's looking forward to killing every one of them. It's a start in the right direction.

  When Machine and Kyokuto arrive at the safehouse just after 2:00 PM, Paul's red Cadillac is parked at the curb out front. Sparkling clean with gold accents, it screams gangster from the gold Daytons to its satellite dish antenna. The brownstone behind it looks empty, shuttered and locked.

  Kyokuto drives by without slowing. Three blocks past the safehouse, he makes a u-turn and parks the Lincoln at the curb, a half-block from the brownstone, on the opposite side of the street. He cuts the engine.

  “He's going to be backed up heavy, Machine,” he says, looking doubtfully at the quiet building as Machine eases the Škorpion from the chest-pack and checks the clip one last time. “He knows you're on the loose. He'll be ready.”

  “I'm counting on it,” Machine says as he racks the slide, chambering a round. He glances out the windshield at the safehouse, a place he has used as refuge many times. Paul might have a small
army inside. It doesn't faze Machine. He flips the Škorpion's fire select to safe and snugs it back under the chest-pack. The razor is a comforting rigidity strapped to his forearm. The angular bulk of the silenced Colt stuffed into the Smith's holster digs into his armpit.

  “You okay?” Kyokuto asks with genuine concern, sensing that Machine no longer cares if he survives, only that the work gets done.

  Machine nods distractedly. In his mind he is already at the door of the house.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Kyokuto says firmly, “And I come in after you.” He will not let Machine commit suicide.

  “Fifteen minutes and you get out of here,” Machine replies just as firmly, his eyes on the brownstone. A curtain moves and a face briefly appears in the gap before the curtain closes again.

  “Fifteen minutes and I come in after you,” Kyokuto repeats.

  Machine shakes his head. “In fifteen minutes I'll either be dead or have Paul on a leash,” he replies quietly. “Don't be a cowboy. I'm not worth that.” He means what he says.

  “Fuck what you're saying, Machine. Paul goes down one way or the other. He faded my whole crew. If you don't finish it, I will.” Kyokuto will not be swayed.

  Machine shrugs. Kyokuto will do what he feels he must.

  “I'll be back,” he says, ending the conversation. He opens the door, circles the Lincoln's hood and crosses the street, carrying the empty briefcase which had once contained nerve gas. Kyokuto watches from behind the steering wheel, his hand on the Browning under his jacket.