The Killing Games

by Antony J Woodward

  “How crazy that you ended up here hey?” Sam’s tone was strange, he couldn’t tell if it was threatening or not. “I mean, I knew you was from England, I just didn’t think you’d actually have been one of my brother’s friends… I would‘ve never have figured it out if it hadn‘t have been for Alexis, she told me all about you…”

  Chris bristled a little. Where was this going?

  “He told me about you, when he came home for Christmas” Chris felt a knot of panic rise to his throat, “said you was looking out for him, that you was a good one in a sea of assholes. I guess English kids are dicks…”

  …Ok. Chris relaxed a fraction. Jason had spoke of him to his brother but it had been positive. He slowly let the breath that had snagged in his throat seep out between his lips.

  “…any friend of my brother’s, is a friend of mine.”

  Sam stepped in close and that little sharp smile felt out of place. Chris had to remind himself that of course Sam would have no reason to suspect he’d played any part in Jason’s downfall and death. He reminded himself that he’d never been named, he’d never even be suspected of being involved. The only person who knew was Chris, it was just being paranoid. It didn’t matter if Alexis had drawn them two together, nobody knew anything about Christopher being the cause of Jason’s death. They had been friends.

  Chris now couldn’t deny he had been involved with Jason, no matter how badly he had wanted to distance himself from the Le Bonts.

  “Tell me Chris, why didn’t you say when you met me?” Sam’s probe came as he began to pace around the room again. It felt like he was poking at Chris, seeing if he could gather some sort of reaction. He didn’t understand why.

  “I hardly got chance, you threatened me and took off…” Chris reminded him coolly. It made Sam smile.

  “That’s true I guess. I had to make sure you wasn’t going to hit on my girl, I mean she is pretty fuckable right?”

  “If that floats your boat sure,” Chris shot him a withering glance. Hadn’t they already had this conversation? Why was Sam so interested in whether Chris wanted to sleep with Alexis?

  “Does it not float yours?” Sam stopped at a somewhat homoerotic painting of two cupids kissing.

  “Why are you so interested in who I fuck? Are you trying to hit on me?” Chris returned icily. He felt a bit irritated that Sam was probing his sexuality again, what the fuck was his problem? It made Sam smirk.

  “If I wanted to fuck you, you’d know about it…” Sam answered but it did little to confirm whether Sam played both sides of the fence.

  “Your art is really impressive…” Sam added as he paced around the room some more.

  “Okay, what did you come for? Surely you didn’t come all the way to my house just to talk about how I knew Jason and to remind me not to fuck your girlfriend…?” Chris sighed.

  It made Sam smirk again, he stopped admiring the art and sauntered close again. Damn he liked the balls on this kid.

  “Did you know Jason was fucking his coach?” There was a visible taste of disdain in his questioning.

  “I knew they were very much in love…” Chris answered, if only to see how Sam would react.

  “Love?! The cunt groomed my brother…” Sam snapped angrily. A white-hot rod of rage burnt in his eyes for a split second before it was wrenched back under control. So that was how he felt on the matter… But hadn’t Jason been the one who seduced Jon Clemmons? Or was Samuel not prepared to acknowledge that? It seemed there was a few alternative narratives playing out here.

  “I only know what Jason told me…” Chris shrugged, he decided it might be best to embellish the closeness he’d had with Jason Le Bont. No harm could come from pretending he and Jason were good friends, especially if it kept him in the good graces of his older brother.

  “If I ever find that cunt, he’s dead…” Sam promised bitterly. “So don’t mention him to me unless you know where he is…”

  So Sam didn’t know that Jon was still in town? Interesting… Chris realised he had something of a bargaining chip here, he decided to save it for later. The information might come in handy one day.

  “So has Alexis talked about me?” the change of subject and tone was so abrupt and effortless it made Chris think of Alexis. Sam and Alexis were similar in that way and probably well suited for one another. As Sam paced the room Chris reckoned that perhaps Sam was just as unstable as his girlfriend.

  “Not much,” Chris answered truthfully. He felt a little apprehensive suddenly, Sam was erratic and it didn’t bode well. He felt like he was in danger of giving out the wrong answer.

  “So she hasn’t told you who I am?”

  “You’re Samuel Le Bont aren’t you?”

  It made Sam laugh like it had been a joke, but Chris hadn’t tried to be funny. If anything he’d assumed his quip was a little cutting and sarcastic.

  “I’m more than that kid, I’m a businessman. And if you ever need some product, you should give me a call…”

  “Product? As in drugs?” So he was a drug dealer?

  Sam unzipped his coat, he dug inside and then removed a small bag of white powder. He placed it on the nearby stool, “A welcome gift…”

  “Thanks but no thanks, I prefer teetotal…” Chris answered.

  Sam looked like Chris had just taken a shit on his designer trainers, his face twisted in surprise and horror. “Why not try? You might like it?”

  “Coke? I’d rather snort bleach… I’m not interested Sam, I’m not going to be one of your regulars so this little gift of yours isn’t going to work.”

  Sam smirked but he didn’t pick up the powder. “I don’t believe you,”

  “If you leave it I’ll only flush it down the sink, you might as well take it and at least you can cut some profit…” Chris turned away and walked to the corner of his room. He began to rearrange the drying canvases.

  When he turned around Sam and the coke was gone.

  What a very curious man, Chris thought to himself. Sam Le Bont was as hell bent on pushing buttons as his girlfriend, and he assumed that was the point of tonight’s show. Announce his presence and prompt reactions. Chris could only assume that Alexis and Sam were drawn to one another because like sometimes attracts like…

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  Another dead fucking body. This time in the woods and the crime scene was a complete shit-show. Not a fucking single shred of evidence, or anything useful. The guy had been impaled in the eye by something wooden and relatively blunt. If this was some shitty CSI show then some expert would find out what type of wood had been used, then create a lead out of thin air and within a few hours the case would be solved. But this wasn’t CSI, this was reality and nobody had a fucking clue. Not a clue about what had happened to this new John Doe, except that he was dead.

  Another nameless goon and another cold crime-scene.

  Jean climbed into his car, sparked up a cigarette and sulked with himself. Through the windscreen he watched Arron talking to the tree-surgeon, god what a pretentious fucking job. He was so angrily and tightly wound he could easily have stormed over to the surgeon and beat the shit out of him. Not for any other reason than being some pretentious fuck.

  The surgeon had found the body, but it looked like it had been there for a couple of days at least. Fucking Jesus… what a joke! He could picture the Commissioner chewing up his office right now; the second serial killer had struck again! Thankfully the story hadn’t leaked, yet.

  But it was only a matter of time before it did, then the press would have a field day with not one but two serial killers terrorising the gentle town of Melun!

  What would they call this one; the “John Doe Killer”?

  Fuck… Damn, he really wanted a lead.

  He finished his cigarette, then started the car. He was pulling out of the investigation’s barrier when Arron realised his partner was leaving. He went to stop him but Jean was already turning and driving away. He would have to make
his own way home.

  Jean turned on the radio as he hurtled down the country road, but within a few moments switched it back off. He couldn’t abide the pop music of today, it was shit. What was wrong with the old classics like Def Leppard, or Kiss. A little hair rock never killed anyone, if anything it was better for the brain cells than the current trend of musical bleeps and soulless production.

  He drove in silence all the way up to the deserted warehouse. It wasn’t actually deserted, but it certainly looked that way. Rundown and abandoned, it had been a prime base for running operations. The fact it was nestled high on the Hollyvine Hills always made Jean think of comparisons to Olympus. Perhaps Le Bont chose this place because it made him feel like a God? As Jean climbed out of the car he could look down the hill and see the town of Melun below him.

  If this John Doe killer wasn’t going to quieten down, then he was going to have to usher along the little fight and bring it to its climax. Appease the powers-that-be, feed the press with one caught Fairy Killer while he tried to solve the other case. He sparked up a cigarette.

  ------------------------------------

  Samuel Le Bont had fashioned something of a peculiar crib here in the hills, the disused warehouse had been made over. Or under, depending on how you looked at it.

  Sam, like always, was residing in his office that was towards the back of the building. To get there he had to pass through the main floor where several of his men were sorting out their latest shipment of drugs. Nobody batted an eyelid that a police detective was weaving through them, they all assumed that he was in Sam’s pocket. It’d surprise them to learn it was Sam who was in Jean’s pocket. He passed a collection of black men who were cutting mounds of cocaine with other products, namely wash powder. They glanced up but returned to their work disinterested. He climbed the metal stairs and went for the office. Inside he found Sam stood watching over his workers, his hands on his hips like king of the castle. He was dressed in a black tracksuit but had chosen a lime green baseball cap to rest upon his head.

  “Jean come on in…” he greeted in French, not bothering to turn around. Jean smirked, sometimes he just wanted to punch the kid. Too arrogant for his own good. How satisfying it would be to punch his face into mulch…

  “What can I do for you?” Sam turned around as Jean took a seat at his desk. His question wasn’t immediately answered, Jean instead took the moment to put a cigarette to his lips. He sparked it up and took a long drag, before he finally settled a challenging glare upon Sam. Sam hated him smoking, especially in the office.

  “I’ve come to pick your brains… Heard anything about hitmen coming to town?”

  “Nothing more than usual Jackal business…” Sam shrugged. He begrudgingly took a seat on the desk, batting smoke from his face as he did so.

  “Just somebody is killing hitmen…” Jean added, he purposefully blew a cloud of smoke at Sam. Just to piss him off, of course. “A serial killer of sorts,”

  Sam’s curiosity flashed briefly beneath the tough guy façade. “Another serial killer? You must be busy…”

  “Very. Now, none of your boys have heard anything on the street have they?”

  “About this hitman killer?”

  “Both… One of your boys might have caught wind of something about the ‘Fairy Killer’…” Jean offered.

  “Nope,” Sam lied.

  “Well… should they hear anything…”

  “I promise they’ll be first to tell you,” Sam quipped sarcastically.

  Jean’s look darkened. “Don’t forget you little shit, that I’m the one who’s keeping your head above water…”

  “Oh how long are you going to hold it over me?” Sam snapped.

  “Exactly as long as I need to. You were the stupid fuck who left DNA at a crime scene…” Jean hissed.

  Sam resented deeply that he was in the detective’s pocket, it was like he’d been caged and the older man was the cage master. He resisted the urge to tell Jean to go fuck himself. Last time he’d exploded, he’d found himself in worse state than he had previously.

  “With respect, I think I’ve proved myself a little more capable than the sixteen year old boy who fucked up…”

  “Perhaps so Samuel, but it doesn’t change the fact I’ve got evidence that’ll directly link you to the death of your former boss Sharptooth…” Sharptooth had been a greatly unpleasant wannabe gangster that had pissed off all sorts of wrong people. Samuel Le Bont had been the final person he’d ripped off, but sixteen year old Samuel wasn’t so smart about it. He left the murder weapon with his fingerprints all over it. “So, be a good boy and do as you’re told.”

  Sam glowered hotly, he rolled his tongue over his teeth and he had to look away. He hated it. Absolutely fucking hated it.

  “The top brass are looking for some fresh meat…” Jean stubbed his cigarette out.

  “-Boss, our special guest has arrived,” a man appeared at the doorway. Jean recognised him as Dominique, or Dom, for short. He didn’t know the guy’s last name, but had never been interested to know it. The short, portly bald man was nothing more than Sam’s bodyguards and hired muscle. It was clear he was talking in code, but Jean didn’t care to know the truth. The comings and goings of the drug business never interested him, as long as he got his slice of the profit he couldn’t give any less fucks about it.

  “Then bring in our other special guest Dom,” Sam instructed firmly.

  Dom disappeared from the door.

  “…The top brass want fresh meat? Well I’m ready…” Sam turned back to Jean. His dark wounded expression had shifted back to something more pleasant.

  “You know that’s not the way it works…” Jean reminded.

  “So what do I have to do?” Sam asked a little exasperated. He’d done exactly whatever he’d been asked to do, why wasn’t that enough?

  “Wipe out the opposition…”

  “You mean Xander…”

  “The powers-that-be want a fresh slate…” what Samuel didn’t know was that the top brass were also equally as invested in Xander as they were Sam. Sam’s delusion he was the golden child and the rising star in the ranks was simply that, a delusion. Melun was the breeding ground for the next generation of Parisian gangsters, the place where the recruits earned their stripes. “So the opposition must be entirely eliminated,”

  “Then it’ll be done,” Sam promised.

  “Don’t fuck it up Samuel, this is your shot at the big game…”

  “And then am I out of your pocket?” Sam sneered.

  Jean laughed a little.

  “Perhaps, but don’t forget you’ve been sucking my dick for the last few years. I don’t think that’ll go down too well with the top-brass…” Jean threatened. It was bullshit, the Parisian mafia weren’t interested in who you were fucking, they were only interested in family and business. You could fuck dogs and nobody would object. But for the naïve Samuel it was a credible threat.

  Sam visibly recoiled but said nothing. It turned Jean on to know this spunky little prick was under his thumb. “Talking of which…” he smirked.

  Sam’s eyes bulged as the prospect of having to blow Jean right here in his office, with the potential of any of his workers walking in at any moment, hit him. For a moment he wasn’t sure if Jean was being sincere, he hesitated before reluctantly sliding off the desk.

  “Wouldn’t it be a shame if you was arrested and thrown in jail now, now that you’re big promotion is on the horizon…”

  Jean looked triumphant as he leant back in the office chair and let the young man open his fly. Reluctantly, but obediently, Sam retrieved Jean’s dick from his underpants and cupped his mouth around it. Beneath them, utterly oblivious, all of his workers carried on playing their part in his drug empire.

  “Good boy…” Jean closed his eyes and patted Sam on the back of the head. That tight little knot in his chest, the aggravating problem of the hitman killer, slipped away. Instead he could concentrate on the warm wet sensation
of Sam’s mouth sliding up and down his dick.

  Sometimes when you couldn’t fight, you just needed to fuck. And he might’ve fucked Sam right here in his office, but he didn’t have the time.

  So he was quite happy for his young fighter to swallow his seed instead.

  CHAPTER EIGHT:

  “Put this on,” it was a blindfold, and much like this trip itself it seemed he couldn’t refuse.

  The two burly men who had accompanied Sam on his intrusion before, were now stood before Chris. There was no Sam to be seen, which was curious. At least they’d had the polite decorum to knock on the studio door instead of just barging in. “You need to come with us,” they had said.

  “Said who?” he’d said.

  “Sam,” and that was the extent of their answer. He’d asked them why, but they’d ignored him. Now he was being frogmarched into a waiting car. This was not the golden little sporty number that Sam usually drove around in. No, this was a large and bulky civilian car. Something for a larger family perhaps. It wasn’t quite what he expected.

  One of the men climbed into the front of the car, while the other waited for Chris to put on the blindfold. Perturbed, but sensing that refusing was a hopeless exercise, he climbed into the car and then put on his blindfold. He could only wonder what the neighbours would think. The engine started and then they were off.

  “Don’t take it off.” was the strict command. The other man had chosen to sit beside him. After a little while Chris became accustomed to the peculiar sensation of travelling and being blind. He became acutely aware of every bump in the road, of every slight change of weight distribution as they turned corners. He could smell his companion’s cologne, he could hear his slightly laboured breathing. It was a strange, but yet somewhat novel, experience. The drive stretched on and on, Chris completely unaware how long they’d been driving. It had felt like an age, but he wasn’t so sure his judgement could be trusted.

  After another little while he heard the texture of the ground change, smooth tarmac gave away to gravel. He was rocked and buoyed in the backseat, even falling against his rotund companion briefly. After a brief moment of more bouncing, the car came to a halt.