The Assassin's Prayer

by Mark Allen

  What the hell? he wanted to say. This was supposed to be lunch with an old friend, not a let’s rip off our scars and bleed all over each other therapy session. But he tamped down on his irritation and gave her an answer, though maybe not the one she wanted to hear. “No. I don’t think I’m capable of it anymore.” He set his silverware down and pushed away his plate, the steak only half eaten, no longer hungry. Why had she felt the need to dredge up the past?

  Larissa fell silent. The easiness they had felt with one another drained away, bled dry by the specters of their past. Regrettable … but also inevitable. Yes, they had been friends once, but then they had become lovers, and Kain knew it was impossible to go from the latter back to the former. Only fools dared to try. Sooner or later the past will resurrect and the friendship will suffer at the cruel hands of love gone cold. That was what had just happened to him and Larissa.

  When she spoke again, her voice trembled. “I loved you, Travis. Even when I was with Todd, I never stopped loving you.”

  “Larissa, don’t do this.”

  “Let me finish.” Kain couldn’t see her eyes, but he sensed there were tears gathered in them. “When we say goodbye here in a few minutes, we’ll probably never see each other again, so I want you to know the truth. And the truth is, I loved you. More than Todd, more than anyone else. You were the only one I wanted to be with and it nearly killed me when you left me for Karen.” A single tear slid out from under the glasses like a diamond emerging from darkness, confirming Kain’s suspicions.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I loved you, but—”

  Larissa waved him off. “Don’t. Just … please … don’t say it. I know you loved me in your own way, but there are two kinds of love: the forever kind and the fleeting kind. What you and I had was, at least for you, fleeting. Your love for Karen, that’s the forever kind.”

  Kain had never felt so self-conscious. He would rather stand naked in Times Square on New Year’s Eve than have this conversation with Larissa. “What about you?” he asked. “Are you telling me you didn’t love Todd?”

  “Of course I loved him,” Larissa answered, the lack of hesitation letting Kain know it wasn’t a lie. “But I only loved him because I could no longer love you.”

  Kain looked down at his hands, trying to compose a response that was honest without being hurtful. He came up with nothing; honesty and hurt all too often went hand in hand. His eyes focused on his ring finger. Even after five years, it felt bare without his wedding band. Maybe that said it all. And maybe it just didn’t need to be said. He looked back up at Larissa. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

  “I don’t want you to say anything,” she replied. “And I also don’t want you to misunderstand me. I miss Todd. I really do. I would give anything to have him back. But he’s gone and I have come to terms with that fact.”

  “You think I haven’t come to terms with Karen’s death?” Kain bristled, his voice colder than he had intended, his words laced with thorns.

  “I think you’re in love with a ghost,” Larissa replied ever so softly as she tread on sacred ground. “I think you need to let her go.”

  Something dark and dangerous tore loose inside Kain like a mad dog snapping its leash. Even Sirius sensed it, abruptly lifting his head and firing off a low, throaty warning growl at Kain. “I think I need to say goodbye,” he said, sliding from the booth, desperate to be somewhere else, anywhere but here.

  She reached out her hand toward him, lightly touching his arm. “Travis, don’t … please … I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged off her hand. “Yeah,” he rasped. “I’m sorry too.” He tossed some money onto the table. “Lunch is on me. It was good to see you, Larissa. Take care of yourself.” He turned and walked away. Some inner voice urged him to turn around, to go back and not let things end this way, but it was shouted down by the anger surging in his veins.

  “Travis!” Larissa called out. “Please…”

  He could hear the pain in her voice.

  He kept walking.

  ******

  By the time Kain got back to his house twenty minutes later, his anger had ebbed, but only slightly. His nerves were on edge, unable to believe Larissa had said those things to him. After five years she just waltzes back into his life and starts making accusations? What gave her the right? Who the hell did she think she was?

  He went inside to find Silas gone and plastic sheeting tacked up over the opening in the wall where his glass doors had been prior to their impromptu removal by autofire. Kain fished a beer out of the fridge and twisted off the cap as Mr. X emerged from the bathroom, a large burlap sack slung over his shoulder. Throw on a red suit and he would look like Santa Claus with a bag full of bones instead of toys. His watery eyes peered at Kain. “Silas left.”

  “Good.” Kain tossed the beer cap in the trash can.

  “Wants you to meet him down in the city tomorrow morning. Said he got tired of waiting for you.”

  Kain nodded and took a drink. The cold beer felt great going down and went a long way toward soothing his simmering anger. Another six-pack or two and he might even start to regret not getting Larissa’s number so he could call her up and apologize.

  He watched as Mr. X hefted the sack, redistributing the weight more evenly across his shoulder. “I cleaned out your tub. Made sure none of the flesh had clogged your drain. Plugged the bullet holes in the wall and floor.” Mr. X calmly rattled off the items as if they were a grocery list. “If you want new wallpaper or linoleum, that’s your problem. The glass doors have to be ordered, so that’s also out of my hands. The plastic will have to suffice for now. Anything else you think needs doing?”

  Kain shook his head.

  “Should I assume Mr. Giadello will be taking care of the bill?”

  “You can assume that I’m not.”

  Mr. X nodded. “Then I’ll be leaving now.” And just like that the strange little man vanished out the front door.

  Kain finished his beer, then went into his bedroom. A quick power-nap and then he would drive down to the city to meet with Frank and collect his fee for the Perelli hit. Silas had said tomorrow morning, but Kain didn’t care. With any luck, by the time tomorrow morning rolled around, he would be back home with a little more coin in his coffers.

  He placed the .45 on the bed-stand within easy reach. He then loaded the new SPAS-12 and leaned it against the wall, also within easy reach. For one flickering moment, like a jump frame in a movie reel, he remembered how good it had felt to be with Larissa. For a brief, stolen period of time he had been just an ordinary guy, not some cold-blooded killer who needed to have an arsenal within arm’s reach just to catch a few minutes of shuteye. But the moment was gone as quickly as it came and reality rushed back in. He was who he was. You could damn destiny if you wanted, but denying it was pointless.

  Fully clothed, boots and all, he laid down and closed his eyes against the afternoon sunlight spearing through the partially-shut blinds. He was asleep within minutes. In his final moment of consciousness, he wondered what he would dream about.

  Nothing, as it turned out. Thank God for small mercies.

  CHAPTER 6

  He awoke an hour later. A glance at his alarm clock told him it was 4:33 p.m. Perfect. By the time he reached NYC, the rush hour traffic would be thinning out, the madhouse of cars and trucks that clogged every road, street, and avenue finally clearing up. Every time Kain suffered through the crush of traffic on the city’s highways, he was convinced he was trapped on one of Dante’s circles of Hell. He wondered what allure the city held for the honking, cursing, finger-giving fools in the vehicles clustered around him so tightly that the term “sardines in a can” seemed spacious by comparison. That anyone would voluntarily choose to live in such a traffic-jammed hellhole boggled his mind.

  Not that Frank Giadello actually lived in the city. Like so many of the wealthy and powerful before him, he owned a luxurious ten-acre beachside estate on Long Island, in the hamlet of Mon
tauk. The acreage was ringed with a ten-foot brick wall to ensure privacy. There were only three ways to get a glimpse inside Frank Giadello’s estate: by invitation, by air, or by climbing to the top of the Montauk Point Lighthouse three-quarters of a mile away and using high-powered binoculars. The only means of access was a large steel gate controlled from within a bulletproof shack manned twenty-four seven by an armed sentry. Not your typical run of the mill security guards either that would fill their pants if someone so much as farted in their direction. No, Frank Giadello only employed serious hardasses.

  One of those hardasses, a cold-eyed sentry with a face that looked chiseled from granite, gave Kain a steely once-over when he pulled up to the gate, then let him through. Kain navigated his Jeep up the drive, paying no attention to the lawn so manicured it made PGA golf courses look like rough-mown hay fields by comparison or the immaculately-clipped shrubs illuminated by soft, landscaped lighting. He had seen it all before. He wasn’t impressed then and he wasn’t impressed now. Because right now all he wanted to do was get his money and go home.

  The end of the driveway expanded into a large circle of pavement which served as a parking lot of sorts. In the center of this circle grew a rose garden, the flowers now gone, plucked by the frozen fingers of fall. Only bare, thorny branches remained, winding their serpentine way around a thick marble pillar erected in the midst of the roses. Atop this pillar perched a stone gargoyle and Kain imagined the creature’s lifeless eyes were glaring at him as he drove the Jeep around the circle and parked in front of the main entrance.

  A wide stairway led up to the porch, which stretched across the entire front of the mansion, its roof supported by six marble columns that lent the place a Southern air. Kain took the steps two at a time and at the front door was greeted by a guard he actually knew, a towering mass of rock hard muscle named Jean-Luc. He was dressed in black jeans and a windbreaker that did nothing to conceal his thick chest and bulging biceps. Kain had seen him in action and knew there was nobody better in a brawl. Blows that would knock most men senseless just bounced off Jean-Luc’s six-foot-four frame like tennis balls thrown at a steel wall. Kain gave him a nod. “How’s it going, Jean-Luc?”

  Jean-Luc had immigrated to New York from Quebec and his accent was still thick. “Business as usual,” he replied. “You here to see the boss?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He expecting you?”

  “He better be. He owes me money.”

  “Right. The Perelli job. Heard that went down smooth.”

  “It went down. Don’t know about smooth.” Kain’s voice betrayed nothing, but in his mind he could hear the heartbroken sobs of a little girl.

  “Hold on a second.” Jean-Luc turned to the intercom next to the front door and pressed a button. There was an electronic buzz, followed by Frank Giadello’s voice. “What is it, Jean-Luc?”

  “Kain’s here to see you, boss.”

  “Send him in.” Frank’s usually strong, authoritative voice sounded tinny and distorted through the small speaker.

  Jean-Luc motioned for Kain to go in. As Kain stepped past him, Jean-Luc said, “Maybe I’ll see you later. Been a while since we did a job together, eh?”

  “That’s because I prefer to work alone. Nothing personal.”

  Jean-Luc gave him a grin. “Don’t worry, no offense taken.”

  Kain headed down the hall toward Frank’s office. Despite his declaration that he liked to work solo, he had to admit that Jean-Luc was one of the few people he could stand. They weren’t exactly friends but Kain found the Canadian’s constant cheerfulness and sense of humor refreshing. But he also knew how to be serious when the time came; that the only kind of cutting up that should be done in the midst of combat was the kind that involved a sharp blade and an enemy’s throat.

  To Kain’s left, portraits of various Giadello family members adorned the walls, hung in perfectly symmetrical rows. Frank referred to it as the Wall of History and the last portrait on the wall was his. Kain had been regaled with the tale of Frank Giadello’s rise to power so often that he sometimes felt as if he knew it better than his own life story.

  Frank had inherited the shadowy empire from his father, Vinnie Giadello. Vinnie had sown the seeds that Frank would later reap, laying the groundwork, building contacts, establishing suppliers, all the things necessary for a successful illicit business venture. But while Vinnie’s efforts had garnered moderate success and wealth, it was not until Frank took the reins that the name Giadello became a force to be reckoned with in the NYC organized crime food chain.

  Frank had embraced the role of crime lord with near-religious zeal, his utter ruthlessness quickly rising to myth-like proportions as he climbed to the top through sheer balls and brutal amounts of bloodshed. He had carved his niche by out-gunning his competitors and showing his enemies no mercy. Silas now had command of the day-to-day operations but he was just a puppet. Nobody, including Silas himself, thought he was in charge. Frank was still the master, a puppeteer pulling the strings behind the scenes, making Silas and the rest of his criminal clan dance to his own cutthroat tune.

  The hall ended at a set of solid oak double doors that led into Frank’s office. Two more bodyguards bracketed either side of the entrance. Kain nodded at each of them as he approached. “Pierre,” he greeted. “Andy.” Pierre was the brother of Jean-Luc and though the two bickered like cats and dogs, the animosity was a façade; in reality, the two were inseparable. Of the two brothers, Jean-Luc was the better gunman, but Pierre was the more dangerous, possessing a cruel, sadistic streak.

  Andy Torlini was a newcomer, some wet behind the ears street punk that Frank had plucked out of the gutter. Kain had no idea what Frank saw in the kid; it was obvious that Andy was too soft for this line of work. There was more to being a gunslinger than just packing a gun. Andy was too eager to please, too eager to make his mark. Out on a strike, eagerness often led to mistakes, the kind of mistakes that got people killed. Kain had seen it happen all too often and hoped he wasn’t along when Andy went out on his first job. He would rather lick a public toilet seat that hadn’t been cleaned in three weeks than babysit a rookie.

  Pierre returned Kain’s nod, then pushed the doors open and stepped aside. “The boss is waiting for you.”

  Kain stepped past the two guards and into the inner sanctum of Frank Giadello. A large bulletproof bay window offered a view of a pair of cherry trees, the branches stark and skeletal in the moonlight that was just beginning to seep through the clouds that cloaked the sky. Off in the distance the lighthouse beacon could be seen sweeping the sky with metronomic regularity. Behind a huge oak desk in front of the window sat Frank. Two plush leather chairs sat in front of the desk. Much to Kain’s disgust, one of them was occupied by Silas.

  Frank gestured toward the remaining chair. “Have a seat, Kain.” He then motioned toward the fully-stocked wet bar in the corner of the office. “Care for a drink?”

  “No, thanks,” Kain said, pointedly moving the chair away from Silas before sitting down.

  Frank wore a black-on-gray Italian suit that hung on him with the precise lines that only an expert tailor can provide. He leaned forward and folded his hands on the glass-topped desk. His hands were flawless, professionally-manicured, and truth be told, looked rather feminine. But looks can be deceiving. Kain knew that Frank’s hands, so soft and fragile in appearance, in reality were strong as iron and brutally unforgiving.

  A few years ago Kain had watched those hands literally beat a man to a pulp. The victim had been identified as a traitor within the organization and Frank had used those manicured hands to relentlessly smash the man’s body, again and again and again, the meaty thuds echoing off the walls of the shed-cum-torture chamber. The blows had rained down like the wrath of God until the flesh split and bones broke and the traitor’s face had been reduced to a mess of quivering jelly, horrible moans creaking from the cavity of mangled meat and shattered teeth that had been the man’s mouth. Only when the man no
longer resembled a man—a slab of beef in a slaughterhouse looked more humanoid—had Frank wrapped his seemingly soft, weak hands around the traitor’s neck and crushed the life out of him. Kain distinctly remembered the wet crackle of cartilage as the man’s throat collapsed.

  Frank buckled right down to business. “Kain, I have to tell you, nice work on the Perelli job. You earned this.” He flipped a plain white envelope across the desk as if dealing a card. It slid across the glass surface and into Kain’s waiting hand. “It’s all there.”

  Kain slipped the cash into his pocket. “Heard you had another job for me.”

  “You heard correctly,” Frank said. “Tomorrow night I have a yacht bringing in a load of guns. My sources tell me the Perelli family is going to try to hijack the load when it reaches the marina. Naturally I’ll have men on the yacht itself, but I want you at the marina, on the ground, running interference if anything goes down.”

  Kain wasn’t sure he had heard right. “Did you say the Perelli family?”

  Frank nodded. “You know how it is … you stomp on one motherfucker, another one pops up to take his place. They’re like damn weeds.”

  “So who’s running the show now?”

  “The wife,” Frank replied. “Rene Perelli.”

  “And she’s making a play already? Have they even buried Perelli yet?”

  “Just put him in the ground this morning.”

  Kain shook his head, recalling how Rene had cowered on the couch while he executed her husband. “It doesn’t make sense. The Rene Perelli I saw does not have what it takes to pull a retaliation together this fast.”

  Silas joined the conversation. “Maybe you misjudged her. Or maybe watching her husband get snuffed helped her grow some balls.”

  Kain sent him a withering, shut-the-hell-up look.