by Jack Parker
The days to follow numbed him. Thompson put a crew of men under him. Butcher, a Scotsman with a limp. Riggs, a mean-faced, balding brute. Collins, a ruthless but smart youth. A few others. Kurt was not used to being in command, but the men seemed to take to him regardless. He tolerated nothing, made his orders clipped and clear, and refused any modicum of camaraderie with them. They respected him and he couldn't care less. In some senses it wasn't hard to revive his old persona. He could be just as terse and serious as he'd always been with people he didn't care for. In other ways it was impossible. Crushing. He saw the world through eyes that had learned to be loving and gentle and the return to crime brought on a severe depression. He could part with Emery physically, but spiritually he was bound for eternity and he had to stamp down the guilt he felt at every turn thinking of how Emery would disapprove of what he was doing. How had this life ever held meaning to him?
Time alone had never been so hard…He was glad to be ordering his new crew around during the day because he could at least focus on the distraction, but he was crumbling on his own. A few nights later he found himself sitting on his bed chewing mint after mint in a daze until he realized he'd eaten a good six packages in a row and felt horrendously sick. He went to the toilet and it all came up. He sat there on the tiles afterwards with his hands in his lap and shook his head as he realized with finality that the old Kurt was dead. He could no longer detach. He could no longer cease to care. He could no longer endure the cold. All he wanted was to be touched again. To be warm again. He rubbed his bad hand over the scars on his chest and silently mourned—not for the Kurt that was already dead, but for the Kurt that was currently dying.
* * *
Kurt couldn't help but notice that he received far fewer odd looks and gestures since his disposal of Keller. Men now averted their eyes in the hallways of the hotel and he hadn't received so much as a whiff of defiance from his new underlings. He knew word had spread. He had essentially absorbed all of Keller's responsibilities since dispatching him and the message was clear: Kurt had achieved a superior rank. He thought about this as he waited outside of Thompson's office, staring at a door guard who refused to meet his gaze. A moment later a man stepped out of the office. He was sharply dressed and carried what looked like a medical bag. He turned to Kurt as he exited and gave a head toss in the room's direction. Kurt made his way in.
Thompson was just pulling on his shirt as he did so. Kurt briefly noted his emaciated figure. His wrinkled skin sagged a bit from his long bones, his chest concaved and bisected by what he surmised to be a surgery scar. He looked to Kurt with pale eyes and gestured him in with an elongated hand. "Come in, Mr. Gabler."
Kurt shut the door and went to the center of the room to stand before him.
Thompson began to refasten his tie as he observed him. "I'd like a status update on the crew I've given you. Are they up to your standards?"
"They'll suffice."
"That's good. Very good."
"I'd like to make a request for a status update of my own," Kurt challenged, meeting his eyes.
Thompson's gaze dulled as he slipped on his tailored suit jacket. "On your young lover, no doubt."
Kurt kept his features straight.
"You know our bargain, Mr. Gabler. Let's not sour what remains an otherwise pleasant friendship with distrust."
Kurt looked down with a short nod. He didn't know what he'd expected from that question, but the answer was of course no comfort to him.
Thompson continued. "You've done very well taking over Keller's work. What you lack in his enthusiasm you make up for in discretion. I've always preferred an underhanded approach to a flagrant display of barbarism myself, and you've certainly proven your underhandedness."
Kurt held back any sort of telling reaction, but he felt a small sense of trepidation as he again met Thompson's eyes.
"You know that I'm not a fool, Gabler," Thompson tsked. "Keller was a sycophant. He may have had interesting methods by which he accomplished his orders at times, but he followed them without fail. I'm well aware that he was innocent of the transgression in which you implicated him. If you so value the life of the young Mr. Eaton, I might advise you to tread more carefully. I've gotten rid of men for less, and taking matters into one's own hands is a very serious offense in my operation, as I'm sure Peters and Helmsley would confirm for you were they able." He paused, slowly forming a smile, "But…I was very impressed by your efforts. Your brutality. The way you seek to so neatly sew up corners. It was wonderfully reminiscent of the old days. It's made me decide on something that I hope I will not come to regret." Thompson went to his desk and produced a red file folder from a drawer, which he came back to offer to Kurt. "This was handed down to me from a friend who greatly values the sort of inconspicuousness you've proven yourself capable of. I've been alerted that the man in this file has recently become a meddler in certain affairs and he's to be removed from the situation before he can do any harm. It's to be quick and quiet."
Kurt took the file that was handed to him and stared expressionlessly at the picture that greeted him once he opened the folder. After a moment of scanning the information within he closed it and tucked the folder into the long inner pocket of his coat. "Consider it done."
"Very good," Thompson approved with a nod. "But that'll have to wait, because I've got something far more pressing that needs your immediate attention. It involves our man Hennessey…"
* * *
It was the biggest of the operations he'd been ordered to do. Hennessey clearly anticipated contention between his organization and Thompson's, as he had amassed a recent weapon's cache with enough firepower to be detrimental if utilized. Thompson naturally caught wind of this instantly and instructed Kurt to steal the contents of the warehouse out from under him. It was a stealth mission of relative ease. Collins, whose brains had lifted him to the status of Kurt's chosen second, took a portion of the crew to case the location before the others arrived. He sat in the back of a supply truck with three of his others and listened to them jabber.
"What's this prick think he's doing, anyway?" one demanded, puffing on a cigarette. "The Dutchman offers him a truce and his first reaction is war? He doesn't know who he's fucking with."
"Probably does," argued another. "I've met Hennessey before. Man's a bulldog. Dumb and angry and won't let nothin' go once he's gripped it in his jowls. Stubborn."
The first shrugged. "What do you think, Gabler?"
Kurt didn't look at him, staring ahead. "I think speculation is a fool's pastime."
This successfully created an awkward silence.
Kurt eyed his men indifferently. "Remember your positions."
The three of them quickly turned inward and began dutifully relaying their plan to one another in preparation.
Collins had given the go ahead not long after they arrived. They filed into the warehouse carefully, having posed as maintenance men to get past security. Kurt could immediately see that Thompson's concerns were valid as he observed the inside of the facility. This kind of stockpiling was immune to misinterpretation. He motioned for his men to follow and began sifting through crates, stacking them aside in designated areas to await the second loading truck. They could clear the place in less than an hour if they worked smart enough and Hennessey would be rendered impotent. A job well done. Kurt huffed and shoved the lid off of a crate to find a box of ammunition.
When the first shot rang out, Kurt was the first to react, sliding back, gun out, motioning to his men and getting them to scatter efficiently. Apparently Hennessey hadn't left his weapons as unguarded as initially thought. He began to drift, trying to find the source. It was difficult to tell how many men they were dealing with from the shot pattern, but he'd pinpointed the source near the center of the warehouse. He began to make his way towards it when a figure skirted out before him. Kurt quickly hung back, gun aimed, but as soon as it was raised he jerked it back down. Either he'd finally gone mad or he was looking at Victor Scott.
Kurt's mind went blank. Then it was filled with images. Blood. Pain. Exhaustion. A bearded face leaning over him and cracking wise while deft fingers wrapped gauze around his bleeding chest. A hand in his with a firm shake. Good luck, you fuckin' cunts.
Another shot sounded and Kurt burst forward, throwing his arms around the man before him and dragging him back, struggling to subdue him, smacking a hand over his mouth desperately and forcing him away from the fray. Victor thrashed, nearly striking him, but he tightened his hold and snapped into his ear, "Stop. Keep bloody quiet."
Victor's form went rigid. Kurt slowly released him and he turned fast, pushing his arm away. "Holy fuck…Kurt."
The gunshots were getting closer. He grabbed Victor's arm. "I don't know what in the hell you're doing here, Vic, but I'm only giving you this one very brief chance to retreat." Take it. Take it, you bloody idiot, you don't know what you're involved in.
Victor somehow didn't seem to register the seriousness of the situation. "Jesus Christ am I glad to see you."
Kurt balked. "Did you not hear me?" Another shot. Kurt snatched him and forced them both down. He scanned the area nervously with Victor's shirt clenched in his grip. "It's imperative that you make your exit. The men I'm with will not spare you. Around that way. The west side. Go quickly."
"I can't do that, man. You're the whole reason I'm here. You've gotta—"
Kurt tried to give the most meaningful look he could. Victor had to leave. He had to. Kurt couldn't let him die, but at the same time couldn't save him if it meant endangering Emery. There was precious little time. "Two years ago you saved my life, Victor, and I'm attempting to return that favor. I don't know who you're working for, but trust me when I say you're in over your head. You haven't the slightest idea what I'm risking to remove you from this situation so sod the job and run."
"Man I can't, Emery's gonna flip his—"
"Emery?" Kurt's gut twisted. Emery. Emery? Emery what?
Victor gave him a frustrated look. "That's who I'm working for. He hired me to help him fucking find you."
Oh god, no. Kurt didn't know how that could possibly be, but his suddenly panicking brain fixated on the fact that Emery might be nearing danger and sought no further explanation. "He cannot find me. You will not report back to him that I was here."
"I might not get the chance to, man, because your fucking goons are currently shooting at him!"
Sirens blared in Kurt's head. Voices screamed, his heart stopped, his vision spotted. He ran.
Killing them meant nothing. He'd sat with them, planned with them, eaten with them for weeks but it felt like nothing at all. They were a means to an end once, but now they were threats. Obstacles. To hell with them. He only vaguely noted Victor's pursuit but he refused to slow. They all had to die. The whole fucking earth could die, and it would if it stood between him and his vow. He scaled the nearby scaffolding where some of his men had stationed themselves to get a better view of the warehouse and its attackers. Butcher saw him and opened his mouth while pointing down, but Kurt lunged for him, hefting him up and depositing him over the railing with a yelp. He could hear the crunch and the screams. Then a shot followed and they stopped. Kurt looked back over to see his other man staring back at him in complete shock. Kurt shot him twice. One more. There was just one more.
When he reloaded his weapon and made it back down he spotted him. Just there, gun raised, holding it to the head of a familiar man and it made Kurt see red like he'd never known. The gunman became Kurt's singular focus. He fired three rapid shots and his enemy fell, his gun spraying bullets. Then all was quiet, and Kurt was suddenly face to face with his reason for living…
…along with said reason's would-be killer.
Chapter 20
The mood was terribly tense as the three men faced off with their savior turned captive. Georgie sat in a chair in their midst, looking up at them calmly with her arm covered in blood. Her eyes met Kurt's now and then with a hint of fear, but her expression was otherwise resigned.
Emery stood off to the side, biting his thumb as a whirlwind of emotions fluttered within him. Confusion. Anger. Sadness. Having to accept that this woman was not who she claimed to be was almost too difficult to manage. He made his anger known when she looked to him with those big green doe eyes and she quickly cast them down. "Why?" Emery demanded. "Why did you lie to us?"
Georgie looked up, but not at him. "It's complicated."
"I'll fucking say," Victor chimed in.
Kurt said nothing, staring down at her with murder. His explanation of her villainy had been brief but damning, and while Emery was dying to know the rest of the details, this matter seemed of more immediate importance.
"Jesus Christ, Faraday. Who the fuck are you?" Victor continued.
Georgie gave a slight nod to Kurt. "I'm who he says I am."
"So you're the Dutchman's assassin. All the while you've been…well what the fuck?" Victor scratched his head. "How does Ludkov factor into this?"
"I suppose it would be best to start from the beginning," Georgie said. "If I'm allowed that. I've said I can explain myself and I can. I'm here to help you. Truly, I am."
Emery slowly shook his head. "All of this time…you knew where Kurt was. You let me agonize for weeks and the whole time, you knew."
Georgie glanced at him almost timidly. "Yes, I did. I was trying to remedy the situation, Emery. I was doing everything in my power."
Emery chose not to respond, but he knew his face broadcasted the betrayal he felt.
Georgie cleared her throat, shifting in the chair. "If I may?"
"Keep your epitaph brief," Kurt said.
She looked down for a long moment before straightening up, every bit as prim and proper as always. "I had a problematic past. I'm sure none of us would be here if we didn't share that trait. …The house that I grew up in was small. Rather isolated. I didn't have many friends apart from my sister, and I think our seclusion just made it that much easier for things to go terribly awry without anyone knowing it. I was five years old when I first met my father. He'd been imprisoned since my birth and I'd never so much as seen his face. He was a selfish degenerate. Didn't care much for children underfoot and liked better to chase after teenage girls around the neighborhood while our mother worked."
"Spare us the sob story," Victor demanded. "What does this have to do with anything?"
"Everything," Georgie snapped in return. "May I?"
Victor held up his hand dismissively.
Georgie sighed. "Things only got worse as the years went on. He went from a degenerate to an abuser. He always honed in on me. I was more vocal about my distaste for him than my sister and he'd be sure that every insult I had for him was matched by a mark on my body. I don't think he hit me because he was angry, though. He pretended to be angry but it was a front. I think he very much liked it. When I cried from the pain, he would always get this look…this look of contentment. The way someone looks when they let out a breath held in too long. I liked to be at school to get away from him. I made friends there—children who smiled and laughed and…gave me hope that somewhere down the line I'd be one of them. I met the best friend I'd ever have at age eight."
She paused for a minute, gathering her thoughts. "For a while there it seemed like my mother was finally going to have the courage to get the man removed. He hit her badly one night over a wrinkled pair of slacks and she got fed up. She told me that it was finally time for it to stop. For the first time I felt optimistic. But it never happened. He caught her packing suitcases and went mental. Hit her. Threw out her clothes. Pulled the phone out of the wall and took her car keys. She locked herself into her room for days and refused to come out. A few mornings later I was headed off to school, hungry and afraid, and he pulled me aside to slap me in the face and tell me to cut off my hair before I came back so I didn't look so bloody like my wretched mother. If I refused to do it, I wasn't to return. I was a wreck the whole day through. I just remember…I remember
sitting on the playground alone, wondering if my mother would ever get up again, if anyone was going to feed us, if the beatings would ever stop. How much I wanted to tell someone but how afraid I was. Another younger girl saw me looking sad and decided that a kiss would make me feel better, so she planted one on my cheek. And it did, actually. For a moment. Then this other horrible boy came into it. Started calling me names, laughing at me for getting kissed by a girl, saying I was dirty and I absolutely lost it. I'd never felt so universally despised. And then…and then my good friend stepped in. And he hit that blathering little twat right in the face. Just for calling me names."
Emery's lips parted slightly.
Georgie continued. "I should have thanked him, but I think I just yelled at him instead. I didn't want him to get in trouble for fighting, which he did. It was the first time in my life that anyone had ever stood up for me. That anyone ever had my back. And I never forgot that day. …I think my heart broke when he moved away."
Her eyes met Emery's and he swallowed.
"And that's the story of Marian Georgiana Faraday."
Emery blinked repeatedly and took a step back. "Mary…" He was caught up for a moment. He could still see that day now that he looked at it. That poor little girl crying her eyes out and that great stupid bully laughing at her. He remembered the pain of an elbow hitting him in the nose as he tackled the boy to the ground. Sitting in an office waiting for his mother to come get him. How she wasn't even angry and how he loved her so much for understanding. Emery looked blankly at Victor and Kurt, who were staring him with confusion. He snapped out of it and turned back to Georgie in awe. "I…I didn't…"