by Glenn Meade
“We’ll get to them.”
Carla spread her hands at the assortment of guns. “Why so many?”
“Your weapon may jam, or misfire. If you can’t clear it and reload it you may have to use another, whatever’s at hand.”
“You mean one I’m not familiar with?”
“Right. So you’ll need to get to know more than one gun. Know what Vivaldi once said?”
“The Vivaldi?”
He smiled. “Yeah, the composer. Not some hillbilly marksman in these parts by the same name.”
“Tell me.”
“Everything’s down to balance. Everything—music, physics, math, life, the universe, relationships, you name it. The same applies with shooting—it’s all down to balance, the right stance. And to grip, which is really the same thing. Get both of those right and hitting the target is just about practice.”
“So what are the four cardinal rules?”
He held up four fingers, touched each in turn as he made his point.
“One, treat all guns as if they’re always loaded. Two, never point the gun barrel at anything you’re not willing to kill. Three, keep your finger off the trigger until your sights are on the target and you’re ready to shoot. Four, always be sure of your target and your backstop.”
He pointed to the ridge of earth at the end of the range. “That’s why the berm is there as a backstop. We don’t want stray shots or ricochets. Likewise, in a shoot-out, you don’t want to kill innocent bystanders in the background.”
He picked up a worn-looking black pistol, removed the magazine, and began to load it with a handful of cartridges from one of the ammunition boxes.
“We’ll go over the rules again and again, until they’re etched into your brain. I presume you’ve never fired a gun before?”
“Never.”
“First, we’ll start you off with a small-caliber pistol.”
“Why?”
“It’ll have less recoil, and won’t scare the life out of you when it goes bang.”
He laid the weapon and magazine down again. “Pick up each of the guns, handle them, get a feel for them. Then let’s get to work turning you into a crack shot.”
51
* * *
Carla felt each of the guns, one at a time. The fear, the revulsion was still there, but there was no denying the feeling of raw power the weapons imparted. But it was a power that felt obscene. Guns simply reminded her of death.
Ronnie unzipped the range bag and removed a couple of pairs of shooter’s protective earmuffs.
“We’ll use these from time to time when we’re training so that you don’t damage your hearing. But for now, you need to get familiar with the sound of gunfire, up close, with no ear protection.” He picked up the black pistol again and slapped the magazine into the butt.
“I’ve heard gunfire before.”
“This time you’ll need to get used to it being directed toward you—and that’s a whole different ball game.”
He checked the pistol. “You need to learn to remain calm and focused even when someone’s trying to shoot you. We’ll be doing some drills to get you familiar with that. It means I’ll be firing live ammunition right next to you while you’re shooting at your target.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No, I’m not. You’ll also need to get used to using a good, powerful tac light fitted to the rails of the handgun.”
“Tac light?”
“A tactical flashlight. If you’re operating in the dark, it’s vital to help you aim at the target. Wear dark clothes, too. A hoodie, dark jeans or stretch pants, and running shoes. A dark wool hat to cover your hair. No heels, unless you want to get yourself killed trying to escape.”
“I’ll take your fashion advice.”
“One more thing. For now, don’t cover your ears when I fire—even if you’re tempted to. I want you to get used to the sound of gunfire. We can’t have you jumping six feet off the ground each time you hear a gun pop.”
He held up the black pistol in one hand. “This here’s a Sig 226, in nine-millimeter caliber, with a fifteen-round magazine. One of the best handguns around. Navy SEALs use them, and Homeland Security. They are ultrareliable, and accurate.”
He laid his trigger finger alongside the trigger guard, but not on the trigger. “Something else you need to remember. Muscle memory.”
“What’s that?”
“It means you keep your finger off the darned trigger until you’re ready to fire. That way you don’t kill someone by accident or shoot your own toe off. Now, watch my body stance. I want you to do the same when you shoot, you hear?”
It happened so fast, Carla had no time to react.
In one fluid movement, Ronnie changed his stance, turning sideways, leaning slightly forward. His right hand snapped up, gripping the pistol, his left hand layered over the fingers of his right for support. He fired four rapid shots.
Fifty feet away, four round white-painted metal plates collapsed as rounds slammed into them with a metallic clink.
From so close to him, the gunfire sounded like huge explosions going off in Carla’s ears. Startled, she hunched her shoulders but resisted the urge to cover her ears.
When the detonations echoed and died, he said, “You okay?”
“Apart from feeling like my eardrums have just burst.”
He smiled, nodded to the metal plates. “With any luck, another week and I’ll have you shooting like that.”
“You’re not kidding?”
“If you’ve got the willpower, anything’s possible.”
He removed the pistol magazine, checked the chamber was empty, left the slide open, and placed the weapon and magazine on the table.
“You do the same each time you fire while we’re on the range, okay? Lay the gun down, magazine out and the slide open. That way we know it’s empty.”
“Okay.”
He pointed to a lighter handgun and magazine.
“This here’s a Browning twenty-two. A good pistol to get you started with. We’ll shoot it for a while then move on to the guns with a bigger bang and recoil.”
“Like the one you just used?”
“That’s right.”
He picked up the Sig again, placed it in her palm.
“This is the same gun you’re going to use to carry out the kills, so you better get used to it. There’ll be just one difference.”
Holding the hefty pistol sent an anxious tremor down Carla’s spine.
“What?”
“It’ll have a silencer fitted, so it won’t make a bang when it’s fired. The gun’s untraceable, by the way.”
“What do you mean?”
“The police won’t be able to trace it back to us, unless you’re caught red-handed.”
“How’s that possible?”
“It was bought years ago at a gun show.”
“So?”
“There’s no paperwork trail, and I’ll have the serial numbers filed off. Before you use it I’ll clean it completely, the same with the ammo. Use a silicone cloth to wipe it down and there’s a not a trace of a print or DNA anywhere on the weapon or ammunition.”
“You’re sure?”
“Take my word for it.”
He took a pair of black shooter’s gloves from the Pelican box. “You’ll wear these when you execute Shavik and Arkov. They’ll help you get a good grip. After the job’s done we’ll get rid of the gun. Try on the gloves and use them from now on.”
Carla slipped them on. The gloves were a tight fit.
“Get rid of the gun how?”
“Throw it into a deep lake somewhere.”
Her cell phone chirped a text.
Carla read it. Newark Airport. Arrivals bar. 1 p.m. Wednesday. Okay? A.
Ronnie said, “Important?”
“It’s from Angel. She wants me to meet her the day after tomorrow at Newark Airport. I could fly up there and be back here by evening.”
Carla texted back: Newark at 1
it is.
“You want me to ride shotgun?”
“It’s too risky. If she spots someone watching her, she may leave. I don’t fully trust her but I don’t think she’d try anything in public.”
“I wouldn’t count on that. What if she’s suckering you, playing a double game? Let me come with you.”
“No, Ronnie. I’ll be okay. If I get a feeling there’s something not right, I’ll backpedal like crazy.”
“You be very careful, you hear?”
She stared down at the Sig, still in her hand.
“What’s wrong, Carla?”
“You know, it’s ironic.”
“What is?”
“My mother wrote a journal that she hoped would change the world. But instead, the only person it’s changed is me.”
“How?”
“I never thought I’d see the day I planned on taking a life.”
She looked up at him. “What you said—about me executing Shavik and Arkov. It sounds so unreal.”
“That’s what it amounts to. And it’ll be up close and bloody, make no mistake.”
He stared into her face. “Maybe I need to remind you—it’s never too late to change your mind.”
52
* * *
NEWARK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
NEW JERSEY
1 P.M.
Carla saw Angel walk into the bar, every male eye following her.
She wore her dark glasses, the same bangles, and a navy pantsuit that did nothing to hide her combustible figure.
Carla arrived early, feeling anxious, and was skimming a newspaper she’d bought in Knoxville.
Angel left on her shades and ordered a margarita. “Did you take a cab, or drive?”
Carla’s dislike toward her hadn’t melted. “Neither, I flew.”
“Flew?”
“I’ve been away.”
Angel glanced down, her painted nail tapping the Knoxville News Sentinel in front of Carla. “Knoxville, Tennessee?”
“Tell me the truth about you and Jan.”
“That seems pretty important to you.”
“I just can’t get my head around Jan being—”
“With someone like me? Some of us can’t help being what we are, Mrs. Lane. But trust me, we’re alike. Jan saw in me a lot of what he saw in you.”
“I somehow doubt that.”
When the waitress brought her drink, Angel took a sip. “Jan told me you were at the Devil’s Hill.”
“Why—why would he tell you that?”
Angel held out both her hands, and her bangles slid down. On each wrist were angry ribbons of faded pink scars.
“When I was thirteen, I was at the Merviak camp.”
“I . . . I’m sorry.”
“I tried to cut my wrists afterward. The guards used to hold me down and take turns raping me. My mother, my sister, and me. Emotionally, I’m a screwup.”
Carla said nothing.
Angel slid the bangles back on her wrists.
“My mother lasted seven weeks there. My sister half that. She was fifteen.”
“How . . . how did you survive?”
“The guards were drunk one night. I took my chances and fled.”
“So this is personal?”
“You can say that again. Boris Arkov oversaw the Merviak camp before he moved to the Devil’s Hill to join Shavik. Arkov was one of the men who killed my sister and mother.”
Angel’s face tensed with a livid anger. “At first I wanted to kill him. But I realized that wasn’t punishment enough, and it wasn’t justice.”
Carla waited.
“I want to see them all suffer. Arkov, Shavik, all the vermin who ruined so many lives before scurrying away to hide.”
“How did you end up in America?”
“Lots of women are brought here by the Russian and Balkan mafias. They bring you into the country illegally and in return you work for your freedom, paying back your debt. It took me seven years. I’ve been free for five.”
“Doing what?”
“Working in clubs and brothels. You know, for years I prayed I’d find the men who killed my mother and sister. I never believed I would. But a year ago I started working in a club in New Jersey. That’s where I saw them.”
“Who?”
“Arkov first. He looked older, different, his face tighter, as if he’d had plastic surgery. But it was him. I could never forget that animal.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“He was drunk so often in the camp, I doubt he’d have recognized his own mother. Another time, I saw Shavik and him drinking together at the club. It’s one of many bars and clubs they control.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing at first. I had to be careful.”
“Go on.”
“I could see that Shavik enjoyed women’s company. He often slept with the club’s dancers. If he liked them they’d share his bed for a while. So I went out of my way to make sure he liked me.”
“And?”
“I pleased him enough that he eventually asked me to move in with him.”
“You live with him?”
“You could say that. I come and go as it suits Shavik. Don’t look so horrified. It was a tactic, to get close to him, to learn all I could about his operation.”
“Where’s his home?”
“A big beach house in Jersey. Sometimes I stay for weeks on end. Other times if he’s talking business and doesn’t want me around, I go back to my apartment.”
“How could you sleep with a man like Shavik?”
“Hate can carry you a long way. It can keep you alive, waiting for the right moment to take your revenge.”
“On Arkov?”
“Especially Arkov. He’s straightforward—a coldhearted, brutal animal without a shred of human feeling. The kind who’d snap your neck in a heartbeat, and feel nothing.”
“And Shavik?”
“I don’t know what to make of him.”
“Why?”
“At times he can be cold and distant. Other times he can be tender and caring.”
“I could never imagine Shavik as tender or caring.”
“Neither could I have. But believe me, he sometimes is.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if we’re talking about the same man.”
“It’s as if there are two people fighting inside him. Like Jekyll and Hyde. I’ve known times when he’s been cold and aloof. Others when he’s shown me such kindness.”
“Tell me.”
“Some nights I’ve broken down. I have flashbacks to those terrible moments in the camp when Arkov brutalized my mother and sister.”
“And?”
“Shavik asked me what was wrong.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. How could I? But he sensed my distress.”
Angel paused. “Not that I wanted him to, but often he’d hold me close and stroke my hair until I fell asleep. He didn’t use me for sex as most men would. It seemed so absurd, being comforted by a man whose comrades killed my mother and sister.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I don’t think Shavik likes himself. I don’t think he’s a happy person. But don’t ask me to explain. It’s too deep for me to understand.”
“Try to.”
“I can’t. He’s never talked about his personal life. But I get the impression there’s a mile-wide scar somewhere deep inside him. I know he’s a bad man. But somewhere inside, I sense there was once a good man.”
“He killed my mother. And maybe my father and brother.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lane.”
“Do you have feelings for him?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Call it a woman’s instinct.”
Angel looked away, then back again. “You’ve heard of Stockholm syndrome?”
“Yes. It’s when hostages identify with their captors. Some hostages can feel sympathy for the people who have harmed them
or kept them prisoner.”
“I sometimes wonder if I feel that way for Shavik, after he’s been tender or kind, or thoughtful. In my line of business, I haven’t met many men like that.”
“I sense a but?”
“I’m still determined to see them all pay for their crimes.”
“What did you plan to do?”
“At first I intended to kill them. I even bought a gun and learned to shoot. Not that I was very good.”
“What happened?”
“I came close to shooting Arkov once, when he was in the house, playing cards with Shavik and their bodyguards. I hid the gun in my purse.”
“But?”
“Arkov and Shavik are always armed and have at least one bodyguard each. I realized it would have been suicide.” Angel toyed with her glass. “Then one night I went to see Jan in concert.”
“Why?”
“We came from the same town. My mother taught him music. I hadn’t seen him since we were kids. I sent him a note, asking him to meet me afterward.”
“And?”
“He was glad to see me. When I told him my ordeal and what happened to my family, Jan was horrified.”
Angel looked away, then back again.
“When I mentioned Shavik and Arkov, his eyes lit up.”
“Why?”
“It was personal for Jan, too. He learned that Boris Arkov led the paramilitaries who shelled our hometown, killing Jan’s parents.”
“He told you that?”
Angel nodded. “Yes. Jan also told me about some of the justice groups hunting down war criminals. And that you were a lawyer.”
“You told him everything?”
“Yes. We’d meet discreetly after that. Jan wanted to come to the club a few times to try to see Arkov and Shavik for himself. He wanted to be certain.”
“Did he go?”
“Yes. And to a few bars in New Jersey I told him about, where the Serb mafia hang out. He started to ask questions. I begged him to be careful. But he asked too many questions, and it got noticed. That’s why they killed him, I’m pretty sure of it.”
Angel removed her dark glasses, and wiped her eyes with a paper tissue.
Carla felt a stab in her heart. She reached over, touched Angel’s hand.
“Keep going, please.”