by Derek Haas
I kick open the basement door, hoping the explosion of sound will draw a shot, but no volleys come my way. The blood trail is thicker now, large splashes of crimson leading from the elevator to the end of the hallway. The smell of shit pervades every pore in my skin. My eyes fog up, and I do my best to blink away tears.
The blood streaks end in a foot-wide puddle-and lying next to the mess is the body of Alexander Coulfret. He has stopped just outside a door marked simply “24,” and I know it is the room he grew up in, the one he lived in for so many years.
And this is how you die in our business. Not gloriously, not surrounded by your loved ones, not in a peaceful bed with a priest giving you your final communion. No, you die on the street with your throat punctured by a stiletto blade. You die humiliated in the bathroom of a fishing-supply store. You die on a rooftop flopping forward, caught in mid-stride. You die on the stinking floor of a stinking basement just a few feet from where you first learned to walk.
Coulfret’s body shudders. He is not dead, not yet. A cough starts from somewhere deep inside his chest and comes out as a gasp. He rolls over as slow as a glacier and turns so I can see his face. Blood covers his lips and I’m reminded of the whore who took the pictures, the one with the lipstick smeared across her teeth. His complexion is the same as hers, and any color he once had is in full retreat. It turns out my bullet found the side of his neck, and he can no longer raise his hand to cover the wound; he’s too weak to even try to keep the blood inside.
I’m shocked he made it this far, lived this long with a wound that severe. It’s a testament to Coulfret’s strength, an additional volume chronicling his force of will. And yet it’s also cause for alarm. When the mortally wounded live this long, it’s usually because they have something left they want to say, some unfinished business they wish to complete. Coulfret still breathes because he has a message to send me.
“You’re Columbus,” he croaks out, spraying blood when he hits the last syllable.
I don’t answer, and his eyes are only focused in my general direction.
Another coughing fit racks his body, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s not coughing. The bastard is laughing. It’s an unnerving sound, a devil’s chortle.
With every bit of his strength, he pounds out his last words. “You think killing me frees you?”
His eyes shift again, this time to the door to his father’s apartment. For a second, I think he is finished, but he has three words left to say.
“The contract pays.”
Footsteps pound the stairwell at the same time as the elevator dings. Coulfret’s men have finally knocked down the front door and infiltrated the building and, despite the smell, seem determined to check on the boss’s health and then hunt me down.
Before the men fill the basement like roaches, I kick open the door marked “24” and disappear inside the janitor’s apartment, Coulfret’s childhood home.
The contract pays. The fucking contract pays. The goddamn fucking contract pays and all this was for naught. I am under it now, choking on it, swimming through shit of my own creation, and it will be impossible for me not to drown.
He must have set up some sort of trust where the contract pays out to the first man who returns with my scalp. That’s what he wanted to tell me, what he wanted me to know before his eyes glazed over. I am Sisyphus with his rock, Tantalus with his grapes, and despite the fact I took the stairs, the elevator still collapsed thirty feet with me inside. I thought there was a chance out of this life with Risina, but that image is a mirage, a cruel trick of the mind. I am never going to break the water’s surface, never going to breathe clean air. Even in death, Alexander Coulfret has made sure of that.
A contract killer has a bullet with my name on it, but not these men and not today. Their footsteps are a stampede outside the door as they congregate around Coulfret’s dead body. In a moment, they’ll be coming through this door and every door in the building, trying to find me.
Inside Coulfret’s kitchen, covered by a throw rug, I find what I’m looking for: an old-style floor drain. I pull the manhole cover tool from my pocket and pop the metal grate, then ready the heel of my boot to knock the copper pipe away. One, two, three kicks and it falls back, hanging limply like a broken arm. I drop through the floor into the sewer, just as the door to Coulfret’s apartment flies open.
I have half of a minute head start. I hope it’ll be enough.
The sewers are pitch-dark, but there is a pinpoint of light fivehundred meters away and I realize it’s from the manhole cover on the neighboring block, the place the pigeons and I first unloaded the manure. We must not have put it back all the way, a mistake I don’t usually make, but occasionally a mistake can be a savior.
Since I’d spent a great portion of the morning in these sewers, I’m slightly familiar with them, another advantage I should have over my pursuers. I know to run at a crouch to avoid overhead piping, and I know the walkway near the walls is relatively flat and so I set out as quickly as I can toward that sliver of light.
It grows sharper, more pronounced as I approach and grip the steel ladder leading up to freedom. I hear voices, amplified off the stone but still far away, screaming about grabbing a flashlight, screaming about the smell, screaming about my escape.
“So this is Italy? Kinda what I thought. Old buildings and old people.”
We’re in Siena, a small town an hour outside Florence. It’s quiet and confined and a bit isolated, and we sit in the tiny dugout basement of a traditional restaurant. There’s only one stairwell descending to this level, and I sit facing it.
Archibald Grant has flown in for the occasion, namely to mollify his newest partner. He looks up from where he’s picking at a bowl of pasta, wipes his mouth with his napkin, then clears his throat.
“So this french fry put paper on you and told you after you popped him that it pays no matter what?”
“That’s it.”
“Yeah . . . I’ve heard about something like this before. It’s rare and it’s tricky, but there’s a way around it.”
“I’m listening.”
“This Cole-Frett . . . he got family?”
“All dead.”
“Wife, spouse, nieces, nephews?”
“No.”
“Loyalists in the organization?”
“I don’t know. I know of one I heard about. A guy who helped him with his original coup. Martin Feller.”
Archibald writes the name down in another one of those coil-wire notebooks.
A shuffle by the stairs draws our attention and Ruby descends into the room, smiling. Even with her arm in a sling, she has her bounce back. As she takes a seat at the table, Archibald flashes her his grin.
“What’s shakin’, baby girl?”
“Ready to eat a goddamn burger at Blackie’s.“
“I hear that. I been out of the country for all of twenty-four hours, and already I feel a bit wobbly. Why the fuck can’t they cook up a regular burger and fries here, man?”
I just shrug.
“Goddamn. Okay, anyway, what’d you hear about fallout from Paris, Ruby?”
“The organization’s in complete disarray. That whole neighborhood’s locked down tighter than Leavenworth. Not only did you kill the boss . . . a French cop was killed there too. Shot down in the street just outside the building.”
This is news to me. I wonder if Detective Gerard tried to interfere or, just as likely, caught a stray bullet intended for me. I liked that fat man; listening to him on the street talking to Bowler Hat, I realized the chatty, dim personality was an act, a weapon to uncover whatever he was trying to dig up. Underestimating him was my mistake, but I guess it doesn’t matter now. If he suspected I was anything more than the writer I pretended to be—the more I think about it, the more likely it must be—well, I guess that suspicion died with him.
Archibald breaks my reverie, still addressing his sister. “You know who filled the power vacuum?”
Ruby shakes
her head. “No, but I get the strong sense Coulfret wasn’t all that well liked by his men.”
Archibald turns to me. “Okay, you see? This might not be as desperate as it seems. He may have extended the contract even after he’s down in a box, but he still has to have someone physically pay out the transaction. Could be his lawyer, could be a fence . . . or could be this Feller you mentioned. Whoever it is . . . that’s the person we need to negotiate with. Not the way you do it, with that Glock of yours. The way I do it . . . ”
Ruby finishes his sentence. “. . . with that silver tongue.”
“You know it.”
“I’m not much on sitting and waiting. I’ve been running around with paper on me for too long and I have to admit, I don’t like the feeling.”
“Give me three days. I’ll hit Paris and shake the bushes.”
“And me?” Ruby asks.
“Bite into a burger at Blackie’s.”
“Say no more. I’m out of here.” She stands, smiling again. Any residual effects of what she told me about her fear of dying seem to be forgotten. She is her old cavalier self, and if it’s an act, like Detective Gerard’s dummy bit, it’s a good one. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she’ll come through this after all. She certainly doesn’t seem bitter that I excluded her from storming Coulfret’s building on the Rue de Maur. She wouldn’t have been much help with that bum arm anyway.
I stand, and she looks disappointed when I offer her only my hand.
“I’ll see you back in the forty-eight, Columbus.”
“Yeah. Thanks for everything.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She heads across the room and ascends the stairs.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, Archibald whispers conspiratorially. “What d’ya think?”
“Of Ruby?”
“Yeah, of Ruby. Who the fuck else would I be talking about?”
“I like her.”
“You think she’s gonna make it as a professional?”
I keep my voice even, walking the line between telling him what he wants to hear and what he doesn’t. “How the hell should I know? She worked through some tight spots— ”
Archibald holds up his palms and stands. “Say no more.”
Maybe I should try to placate him, reassure him about his sister. Maybe I should voice my concerns, let him know about the fear I saw gripping her back in Paris. Maybe I should say a lot of things, but I can’t seem to muster the energy.
“All right, then, three days.”
“I’ll be here.”
The circle in Siena contains a single tower that sticks up from its center like a middle finger. I stand at the top of it, staring out over the town and the neighboring Tuscan countryside. I feel at once both exposed and safe, a paradox that is somehow comforting. This is the place I reside, straddling the line between vulnerability and security. It is the world I have lived in for as long as I can remember. If my fate is to spend the rest of my life hunted, I won’t do it in the shadows: I’ll stand at the top of the tower and dare the bastards to come.
And I’ll do it alone.
The wind picks up and chases gray clouds across a gray sky. The horizon seems close and blurred at the edges, claustrophobic. Only a smattering of pedestrians are on the sidewalks below, grouped in twos and threes. The wind provides the only sound, a low whistle like a dirge.
More than anything, the aftermath of this mission has made one truth clear: the next time I see Risina will have to be the last. She deserves better than me, better than what I can give her.
A knock at the door and Archibald enters, flashing his broadest smile, though this one’s not part of his act. He’s genuinely happy with himself.
“What’d I tell you, Columbus?”
“What’d you tell me?”
“I said to let me take care of it. So I took care of it.”
“Come on. Get to it.”
“All right, all right. Here’s the straight word. The killer I told ya ’bout what calls himself Svoboda? He’s still after you, and he’s not gonna stop till he’s dead or you’re dead.”
That sounds like nothing to smile about, but before I can say anything, Archibald keeps going. “Something to do with the kill fee being promised already and no one wanting to deal with the ramifications of canceling on the motherfucker. But . . . and here’s the big but . . . come to find out a lot of people are glad Cole-Frett is ten toes up and six feet under.
“Power vacuums don’t take long to fill, no matter what language you speak. The name you gave me, the one who was loyal to him? Feller?”
Archibald draws his finger across his throat. “Dead. Found bobbing up and down in the river they got there with his wrists cut and bled out. Authorities called it a suicide, but you and I know better than that. These boys want to wipe their hands clean of all things Cole-Frett. They sure don’t want to pay no more kill fees. As far as they’re concerned, you did them a favor. What’s done is done and bygones be bygones and let’s sweep it all under the rug. They got enough to deal with concerning the dead cop. If Svoboda winds up plugged, more power to ya is the message they gave me.”
I nod, digesting the information. “So then Svoboda and that’s it?”
“You get him before he gets you, slate’s clean.”
“So let’s get him.”
“How you want to handle it?”
“Turn the boat around and meet him head-on.”
Archibald smirks and points his finger at me. “I like the way you think.”
“You gotta dig deep, Archibald. I want the file to end all files on this guy. I want to know anything and everything about him.”
“Ain’t gonna be a walk in the park. I’m pretty good in the States, but over here’s like walkin’ around with my hands tied behind my back.”
“Do whatever you can, and do it quickly.”
“All right, Columbus. Where you want me to be?”
I say it without thinking. “Rome. Piazza Navona. One week.”
He looks at me long and hard, but I keep my face unreadable. If he knows I have a girl there, he’s keeping the information to himself.
Finally, he nods. “I’ll be there.”
When I approach my motorcycle, Ruby is waiting for me. “I haven’t left yet.”
“I noticed.”
She looks like she has something she wants to get off her chest. She rubs her fingers over her knuckles, then takes a long breath.
“I got about twenty minutes before I head to Florence. Listen, I just thought I’d—”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“I do, though. I do. So let me do this.” She looks down at her feet and toes the pavement rubble. There’s no hint of pretense in her voice, only earnestness. “It’s that . . . when you told me before that you were thinking about getting out of the game, I know you meant it.”
“Nahhh. Like I said, I was just yammering. Forget I brought it up.”
“No, you weren’t. You saw something in me that told you it was okay to drop all the barricades we build around ourselves. You showed me your real face.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. . . . ”
“It’s why I trusted you enough to tell you about me, my first time. I like the bond we share, Columbus. It’s a hell of a lonely job.”
I nod, knowing she has more.
“So, who is she?”
My throat starts to constrict and I cough into my fist, just . . . what? Attempting to hide from the truth? Am I that conspicuous? That easy to read?
“What d’you mean?”
“There’s a girl out there who has you thinking of ditching this life, checking out of this world.”
Something inside me that I thought was further from the surface rears its head. “Yeah, there’s someone . . . ”
“Well, then, here’s what I’m trying to say, so I’ll just say it. This girl wherever she is, whoever she is. . . . ”
“I know. I know. You don’t have to tell me. I need to. . . .
”
“You need to go to her and leave this game and never look back.”
I guess surprise registers on my face, because Ruby pounces on it like a cat.
“I told you I read your file. I’ve read a lot of files on a lot of hired killers. And the one thing they all have in common is that they have nothing and nobody and no reason to leave this gig. Every one of them is alone. They’re all like condemned prisoners waiting for the executioner to lead them to the noose. I’m included in that. I thought that made me better, somehow above it, like I was a wolf standing on a mountain looking down at the sheep. But you know what I finally figured out? The people, the civilians . . . they’re the ones with the power. They’re living, man. Really living. We’re just the ghosts they pass in the street.”
Her voice is filled with emotion, raw and electric, like a lightning storm.
“So you go to her, Columbus. You got a chance to shake off these chains and live. If you don’t take it, you’re a fool.”
It takes a moment for me to realize she’s finished. My ears ring, her words chasing away the fog. The fear I pinpointed in her is equally rooted in me, but only now do I realize the depth of it. It’s not a fear of dying anonymously, of dying painfully. The fear is that I’ll die without having lived. Without really having lived.
When I speak, it’s little more than a whisper.
“And if the life catches up to me? Or her?”
“Outrun it, Columbus. Make ’em think you’re already dead.”
For the first time, maybe for the first real time, I can see it. Not a mirage, not a vaporizing dream, but a tangible, reachable image. I can take a cue from Coulfret, get our names on a list of dead travelers and disappear. Vanish to a place in the country, a place away from the trappings of the professional life. A place devoid of contracts and violence and death.
And why did Ruby tell me this? Does she see a strength in me she doesn’t possess herself? Does she want to walk away but can’t get her feet to move? Or is it because she hasn’t found someone to walk away with?
“You got a suitcase somewhere you need for your flight?”