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

by Jack Cuatt

  Paul manages to get the gauze out and clumsily wrapped around the wound. He doesn't look at his severed pinky lying like a dead caterpillar on the floor. Cradling his injured hand, he stares into his lap.

  Fifteen minutes pass in silence before Paul asks, “Can I light a smoke?” The gauze covering his hand is already solid red. In contrast, his face looks waxy, bloodless.

  “Enjoy it,” Machine replies disinterestedly.

  Paul manhandles a pack of Winstons out of his breast pocket. He shakes a cigarette out and fires it up, dragging greedily, his hands trembling. His hair is down in his face, mustache clumped and snotty.

  “What's the plan, Machine?” he asks.

  Machine stares expressionlessly at Paul for a long moment before replying.

  “We're going to pay Vlad a visit.”

  Paul pulls in a lungful of smoke and shakes his head. “He knows you're still alive, Machine. He's prepared.”

  “How many soldiers?”

  “Most of them are on the street looking for you. There are maybe ten at the house.”

  “If I count eleven, you're dead.”

  Paul gags on a mouthful of smoke. “Around ten,” he chokes. “I'm not positive.” He flicks the ash from his cigarette onto the carpet and takes another shaky drag. “I said I'd help and I meant it. I ain't got no love for Vlad. He had my nephew, Cookie, whacked.”

  “I killed Cookie, Paul,” Machine replies. Cookie was Machine’s first hit, a roll up. Machine had been twelve at the time. Cookie came out of his apartment in his best suit, heading out on a date. Machine was in the back of the Granada with a sawed-off twelve-gauge. Cookie's feet hit the sidewalk and Machine cut him in half.

  “I didn't mean anything. I didn't—”

  “Shut up.”

  Paul tries to start a conversation a couple of times over the next hour. Each time Machine silently stares him down. Time passes slowly. Machine barely notices. He has been trained to wait.

  At 5:40, Machine stands and motions Paul to his feet. The sun should be setting by now. He wants full darkness when he reaches Vlad’s.

  “Downstairs,” he says.

  Paul pockets his cigarettes and lighter and picks up his pinky from the floor. Machine makes no comment. The two men cross the catwalk and head down the stairs, Paul in the lead.

  Paul jumps as Kyokuto steps from the shadows wearing a rumpled black suit and tie taken from Wino and Tic-Tac's pile of castoffs. In White Settlement, it's not wise for a minority to drive a luxury car unless he looks like chauffeur.

  “Ready?” Kyokuto asks.

  Machine nods and Kyokuto disappears again. His footsteps fade and the roller door's chain starts to rattle. The Lincoln is parked beside the Caddy. Kyokuto had retrieved it while Machine and Paul were upstairs.

  Machine points Paul at the Cadillac. The fat man climbs inside, still holding his pinky in his hand. Machine opens the passenger door, glances briefly at the glowing dome light, then chops it with the butt of the .45, cracking the plastic shroud and shattering the light bulb. Paul ducks away from the falling debris but makes no complaint. Machine slides in beside Paul, tucks the .45 between his legs and rests his hand on the grip. Paul starts the engine and backs out of the half-open door, into the foggy gloom of early evening.

  The two men in the Cadillac wait as Kyokuto backs the Lincoln out, parks it and hurries back under the roller door. The door rattles down. Two minutes later, Kyokuto is back behind the wheel of the Lincoln.

  “You know the way.” Machine says.

  Paul puts the Cadillac in gear and heads for the turnpike.

  49

  It's near dark. The setting sun colors the horizon a blood-clot red. Sooty fog mists the Cadillac's windshield. Paul uses the wipers. Machine warns him to leave the headlights off until they're past Shoreline. When Paul does flip them on, his face looks pale, drawn and weary in the green dash lights. His eyes are blood-tinged. His lips twitch, and his stomach growls. Machine checks the side view mirror and spots the Lincoln fifty feet back. He turns his eyes straight ahead, watching Paul in his periphery as the rusty green mile markers click past. It seems like years since his mother was killed, since he saw her for the last time, a shotgun pointed at her face.

  Whenthey reach the turnpike, Kyokuto falls back two hundred yards, but keeps the Cadillac in sight. His intestines are tied in cold knots that seem to slither around inside him. His hands grip the steering wheel in a choke-hold. He hopes Machine knows what he's doing.

  Kyokuto closes the gap as the Cadillac nears the exit for White Settlement. He follows it off the turnpike, then north on the two-lane blacktop. Away from the factories, the night is cloudless, the moon a pale, sideways leer. The Lincoln’s headlights throw shadows from the naked trees across the lifeless fields.

  “Flip the lights off and on,” Machine says to Paul as they near the gates to Kukov’s estate.

  Paul obeys without question.

  At the flash, Kyokuto pulls off on the gravel shoulder, kills the Lincoln and steps out. The Cadillac's taillights crest the hill and disappear. Silence settles, broken only by the ticking of the Lincoln's cooling engine. Kyokuto glances at his watch, noting the time, then steps around to the front of the car. He pops the hood and leans under it for a moment, touching nothing, then steps away from the Lincoln. He looks up and down the road, across the fields, into the woods, listening to the unfamiliar clatter and hum of nature. The rustle of the wind and night creatures makes him nervous. He breathes evenly, thinking of what he must do. It's not much, but it could be the difference between life and death for Machine.

  In fifteen minutes, Kyokuto is to secure Kukov's front gate. By that time Machine should be inside the house. In twenty minutes it will be over. Kukov will be dead and Machine will have the location of the Ghost. Or Machine himself will be dead.

  Kyokuto looks at his watch again, then down the road, back toward the turnpike. Headlights crest a low hill a mile away then disappear, heading his way.

  Kyokuto bends under the hood again, his hand on the Browning.

  In the rearview mirror, Paul watches the Lincoln pull over then puts his eyes back on the road. Five minutes later, Kukov’s gate appears on the right. Paul slows, makes the turn and stops in front of the wrought-iron barricade. The Cadillac's headlights pick out Santo ‘Three Fingers’ Conti, wearing a dark overcoat and hat, not obviously carrying but definitely armed. Fingers is leaning against the gatepost smoking a cigarette. Another guard stands inside the gate, an assault rifle strapped over his shoulder.

  Fingers flicks his cigarette into the grass and steps from the shadows with his hands empty. He recognizes the luxury auto; he just needs a face for confirmation. Inside the gate, the other guard takes a step closer to the road, shielding his eyes with his right hand against the glare of the headlights, but his rifle stays slung over his shoulder.

  Fingers stops beside Paul’s door, four feet out. Cautious.

  “Lower the window a couple of inches and get him in close,” Machine tells Paul. “When he bends down, lower the window the rest of the way.”

  Paul nods, licks his lips and presses the button. The window whispers down a few inches.

  “Fingers,” Paul calls and motions Conti in.

  Fingers steps over and stoops down. As his swarthy face fills the center of the glass, Paul lowers the window all the way and a gust of cold, damp air rushes into the car, carrying the smell of leaves and wood-smoke. Fingers spots the pink-haired stranger and the silenced .45 aimed at his face. He flinches and goes for his gun, but he’s too old and slow. Machine squeezes the trigger and a bullet snaps Fingers' head back. The sound of the silenced round is huge inside the confines of the Cadillac. Fingers jackknifes away from the window and heads for the pavement as Machine pivots his aim and fires three times through the windshield at the guard with the assault rifle.

  The first hollow-point veers sharply upon impacting the safety glass and slams into one of the gate's iron spikes. The windshield spider-web
s and sags around the bullet hole, opening a gap for the next two shredders. The rounds punch the guard high in the chest, sliver his ribs and stop his heart. He spins in a complete circle and drops to the center of the drive, his rifle clattering to the pavement beside him. But he’s not the only guard posted inside the gate. Another goon charges out of the darkness, aiming a compact assault rifle from the hip. He only makes three steps before Machine pumps three rounds into his chest that knock him back into the darkness and knock the rest of the windshield out of its frame.

  Machine turns the smoking Colt on Paul, who’s staring through the empty windshield, glass glittering in his hair, his jaw sagging.

  “Get out. Get the card key and Fingers' jacket and hat. Use the card to open the gate then leave it on the ground by the gate. Bring the hat and coat to me.” Kyokuto will clean up the mess when he arrives. The bodies will be moved into the shadows of the wall and Kyokuto will don one of the dead soldier's coats. An almost normal scene will be presented to any of Kukov’s crew who arrive at the gate, right up until the moment Kyokuto kills them.

  With both hands on the door frame, Paul heaves his bulk out of the Cadillac. He doesn’t bother to brush the safety glass off his shoulders or out of his hair. He squats over Fingers and rifles the dead man's pockets for the magnetic card that operates the gate. He finds it, puts it in his shirt pocket and clumsily wiggles Conti out of his coat then collects the dead man’s hat and hurries to the stone gatepost, moving at a fast waddle. He swipes the card across the magnetic plate, places it carefully on the pavement and returns to the Cadillac with the blood splattered coat and hat. The gate starts to open as he flops behind the wheel.

  Paul looks down at the front of his suit, there’s blood on his tie and something clotted on the sleeve of his jacket. His chest heaves and his giant stomach groans. His lips compress too late and he vomits over his chest, He hacks and gags, sobs in two breaths, and does it again.

  Paul isn't much for wetwork. Machine slips out of his own ratty black overcoat and into Fingers' blood-speckled, camel-hair, one arm at a time, keeping the .45 aimed across the seat at Paul’s belly.

  “Drive, Paul, or I’ll chop you and drive myself,” Machine says as he puts Conti's hat on and tucks his pink hair under it. “Right up to the front door.”

  Paul puts the Cadillac in gear and presses the accelerator as the gate reaches the end of its track. He drives fast, anxious to be free of the car and the murderous teenager beside him.

  The wind rushing through the windshield is a cold blessing. It alleviates the smell of vomit wafting off the fat man.

  Paul parks at the bottom of the front steps. The mansion is brightly lit. Downstairs and upstairs windows glow. Floodlights set in the hedges reflect blindingly off the pale stucco.

  “Out,” Machine says without looking at Paul.

  “Machine, I—”

  “Out.”

  Reluctantly, Paul exits the car, keeping his chin up and his nose angled at the sky so he won't see the mess covering the front of his suit.

  “Over here.” Machine slips the Colt into the bloody jacket’s pocket as Paul waddles over. Machine doesn't look at the Paul; his eyes are moving over the dark landscape, looking for Kukov’s crew. Inky rows of hedges, lighter pools of flowerbeds, and trees. Nothing moves.

  “Up the steps,” Machine's voice is low.

  Machine shadows Paul up the stairs, keeping far enough back to see around the fat man, but close enough to use him as a human shield if anyone starts blasting. At the door Paul knocks and reaches for the knob without waiting for a reply.

  “Any of the crew inside?” Machine asks. He knows there aren't normally; Mrs. Kukov doesn't like gangsters in the house, but this situation isn't normal. Kukov knows Machine is still alive.

  “No,” Paul says with evident sarcasm, coming back to himself a little when confronted with a familiar issue. “Mrs. Kukov won't allow it. Stuck up bitch.”

  Machine has a sudden thought that makes his heart skip a beat. “Is Marie here?”

  Paul eyes Machine curiously, but shakes his head. “She hasn’t come here in months. What’s she got to do with it?”

  Machine doesn’t answer. “Inside,” is all he says.

  They step through the door, into the wide, tiled foyer. There's no one in sight. They continue down the hall, Paul growing more nervous by the step, stumbling and hesitating as his performance before the king approaches.

  They're passing the dining room's iron-banded door when the butler steps out, blocking the hall. The elderly Mexican looks up, calm and unruffled, nose wrinkling on sight and smell of Paul's suit front.

  “Mr. Fielder. Mr. Kukov is in the study.” Under his sparse mustache, the butler's lips curl with distaste. Dandruff flecks his lapels, his hands are dirty and his finger nails are chewed to the quick. He looks at Machine, but doesn't recognize him. He gives the young killer the eye, sending a telepathic message, ‘You're not supposed to be here.’ No sense of alarm, just a warning stare.

  Machine keeps his head down, the hat brim low. He won't kill the butler. No straights, no kids.

  “All right, Ed,” Paul replies unsteadily.

  The butler disappears seamlessly into the dining room.

  With a nudge from Machine, Paul continues down the hallway until they’re standing in front of the study's door. Paul raps twice before opening it and stepping through. Machine follows, pulling the Colt from his pocket as he steps inside. He closes the door behind him and locks it.

  The room is dark, the bookcases and art work lost in shadow. A green shaded lamp on the corner of the desk offers the room's only illumination. Kukov is seated behind the desk. The crime boss’ face looks yellow in the meager light. He has a ledger open in front of him, a pen in his right hand and reading glasses perched on his nose. A highball sits on the desk blotter beside the book. A cigar smolders in the ashtray. He holds a finger up at Paul without lifting his head.

  “One second,” he says and continues reading.

  Machine gives Paul another nudge.

  As Paul moves reluctantly toward the desk, Machine steps to the left, into the shadows.

  Kukov doesn't look up until Paul stops in front of his desk. Vlad drops the pen, closes the book and picks up his glass and cigar. He leans back in his chair, observing Paul in the same way he would a mildly pleasant Cocker Spaniel.

  “Is it done?” he asks around the cigar.

  “Not quite,” Paul stammers.

  Kukov takes in Paul's shirt front and holds the cigar out in a warding off gesture. He leans forward, eyes narrowed. “What the fuck do you mean not quite?”

  “He means I'm not dead,” Machine replies as he steps into the light, the silenced .45 at his side.

  Vlad's eyes snap to Machine. His first reaction is a flinch but it is almost instantly replaced by a grim smile.

  “Well, hello Alex. I'm glad you've come,” he says as he leans back in his chair. His eyes belie the words; they are hard and bitter. He smiles, but it doesn't soften his gaze any. He takes the cigar from his mouth, brings his glass to his lips and takes a swallow.

  Machine moves closer, to the corner of the desk. “Glad to be here,” he replies, as he raises the .45 and aims it at the center of Vlad’s forehead. “I was wondering if you found my mother's killer yet?”

  Vlad blinks slowly then sighs through his nose. “Put the gun down Alex.”

  “The Ghost, Vlad,” Machine replies.

  Kukov sighs again. “The Ghost, or whatever he called his fucking self, was killed the day after the hit on your parents. The cops found him in a gutter near Easter Industries. Somebody chopped him with a blade. His body disappeared from the Morgue before they could get a positive ID, so nobody knows who he really was. And nobody knows who paid him for the job. Nobody.” There's a new edge to the old gangster's voice. Fear? Anger?

  “It was you that ordered the hit, Vlad. No point in lying now.”

  Vlad’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?” he barks, flush
ing, showing emotion for the first time. “Red Sleeves was my right hand! We were like brothers. He was the only family I had.”

  “You can have a little family reunion in about five minutes.” Machine ignores the denial. He expected nothing less.

  “Alex,” Kukov says with a sad shake of the head, looking hurt, sounding disappointed. He takes another drink before saying, “If you kill me, what does that solve? Where are you then? The cops are after you. My boys will be after you. You're fucked.” Kukov leans back and takes a long draw off the cigar. He sips his drink, looking coolly over the rim of the glass at Machine. When he continues it is in a more upbeat tone. “On the other hand,” he says, “we can let the past be the past and start over fresh.” He crosses his legs and places his hands on his knee. The move is not lost on Machine. “I'm sorry about your mother; she deserved better. But I had nothing to do with it. Moses had more enemies than the devil.” Vlad smiles, as cool as an ice sculpture, acting like everything is settled. He turns his head and fixes Paul with an unfriendly glare. “Fix me another drink, you fat bastard,” he says, trying to reclaim the situation.

  “Stay where you are, Paul,” Machine says without taking his eyes off Vlad. To Vlad he says, “You ordered the work.” But he isn’t so sure of that anymore. He halfway believes Vlad. Maybe it was the Militia? Or a dope dealer? Only God and the Ghost knew for sure. The thought makes him incredibly weary.

  Vlad frowns deeply. “No I didn't. You can point that gun at me, but my answer ain't gonna change. I didn't order the fucking hit. I wish they were alive as much as you do.”

  “What was your deal with the Militia?” Machine asks. “Thirty million dollars worth.”

  Vlad’s eyes narrow. He lifts his shoulders and lets them fall. “We buy guns from them, sell them to other people. You know the business, Alex.”

  Machine's jaw aches. He isn't getting anywhere and the danger of discovery is increasing by the moment. “You and the Militia. You’ve got three seconds to tell me the truth. Count them down yourself.” Machine raises the pistol and lines the Colt's foresight up on Vlad’s right eye.