He glanced up – the sun might even peek out later, at this rate. He felt comfortable in his long duster coat, black pants, and black thermal fleece top. His hair was tucked under a black knit cap. Not a strand of blond escaped.
He looked up and down the street. No pedestrians – a car drove by, though, and he waited until the green minivan disappeared in the distance. Then he popped the trunk of his stolen car and opened the plastic case within. Time to arm up.
He walked two blocks from the place where he parked, past the Laundromat and the closed greengrocer’s grated storefront.
The next door was made of wood. Its red paint was peeling in narrow strips. Flakes littered the snow beneath, their color a vibrant reminder of life in a desolate and frozen world. The establishment’s glass windowpanes were painted white from within, with the paint scratched-up with artless graffiti he could have read backward, had he bothered to spend the time. Strains of old-time rock ’n’ roll leaked through the stained concrete block walls. The sign hanging over the door said The Screwy Eight Ball. He heard its hinge creak in the wind.
Asbjorn checked his pockets and produced a brand-new packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He hunched against the wall, sheltering the flame from the wind as he lit his smoke. He inhaled, struggling not to cough. His lungs finally expanded, his blood stream accepting the nicotine like a long-lost lover. He’d quit four years ago – and he’d never intended to start again – but here he was, playing a tough guy, and tough guys smoked.
He had to look the part.
Asbjorn pushed the red door open with his cigarette hand and entered the long, narrow social hall. He stopped as soon as the door closed behind him, taking a moment to adjust to the gray smoke that hung in the air. The bar was lit up, showing off bottles on shelves and three cheap brands of draught beer.
Puddles of yellow light spilled over the green pool tables and the dart targets, leaving the rest of the room in a dim haze. He bellied up to the small bar with the sort of swagger he knew from his Navy days. Three older guys sat on stools to his left, drinking beer and discussing hockey.
Two young guys leaned against the bar to his right. He kept a weather eye on them because they had that “see what I can do” look in their eyes. He used to sport a look like that once upon a time, and it generally meant broken glassware and barstools crashing against the wall and bleeding lips.
He wasn’t here for that sort of entertainment this time, though, and he just paid for his darts and a beer and leaned his back against the bar. He was scanning the cavernous space for a familiar shape.
A tall redhead caught his attention. Asbjorn had seen his photo before, except he wasn’t looking for him – Redfish – right now.
No, he was looking for the Redfish’s newest associate. There was no guarantee he’d be here, but if Adrian’s gangbangers knew anything about the dynamics of the shifting power currents of Boston’s underworld, and if the speculation around the police department’s water cooler was anything to go by, he’d be either here or at the other place.
The mug shot and physical description had him as shorter than Asbjorn but wider in the shoulders, with a nose that was broad and flat, making his eyes appear as if they were even closer together.
Two tables over. He smiled and sauntered over in that lazy walk of indolent no-good neighborhood men who were bent on escaping the din of their families on Sunday afternoons.
He put a twenty on the side of the pool table. “Next game, darts.”
“You’re on,” Frank Pettel said, not even lifting his head.
KEN DREW HIS BOW. THE point of his arrow quivered ever so slightly, and he forced a calm exhale until the deadly steel steadied and aligned with a dip between the shoulder blades of a midsize doe. Shooting from up top was the fastest, easiest way to score a kill. The deer never looked up into the trees, and as long as the hunter was higher than six feet, the scent didn’t drift down unless he was a careless beginner.
He was about to loose the arrow when Asbjorn’s phone rang in his pocket. The whole herd froze at the unusual sound. His doe turned her head and scanned the area, taking in the air. Her ears pricked up in alarm.
Now or never.
He let the arrow fly, aiming a bit lower than originally intended, knowing the doe would drop her weight into a crouch before she’d spring into a leap. The herd took off at the twang of his bowstring, his intended doe running along with them. The arrow stuck out of her, embedded in her center mass. A rich, red blood-trail appeared in the snow, indicating a solid lung shot.
Ken checked his watch. He’d give her fifteen minutes, then he’d follow. Going after the wounded doe would alarm her and make her run faster and farther. Right now, she was in flight mode and likely didn’t feel her wound. He’d give her some time for the adrenaline to burn off.
He’d give her time to bed down somewhere and rest. The blood loss would make her tired and weary. Sleepy – just like blood loss had made Ken sleepy all those years ago – and when he found her, she’d either be dead already or he would give her the coup de grâce.
Asbjorn’s phone sounded again, and Ken set his bow down and fished the offending device out of his pocket.
Sean: I love you Bjorn.
Aww. How sweet. He thought about ignoring the text. Then it occurred to him that Asbjorn might get in trouble not texting back. Ken thought, and thought. He didn’t want to sound dismissive, because that might piss Sean off and land Asbjorn in hot water. He didn’t want to sound too effusive either. What did guys in love say to one another, anyway? He thought back to the little messages he and Margaret occasionally exchanged. Those were raunchy and filled with promise, however, and there was no way he was texting that to a guy.
The wind died down a bit, and so did the doe off in the woods. He glanced at his watch. What were the risks of not replying? Sending a text would establish Asbjorn’s alibi via GPS, though, so Ken took a deep breath, drew his prominent eyebrows together, and tapped out a few words.
I love you too.
He pressed the send button with his thick and clumsy fingers and decided to hope for the best. He put Asbjorn’s phone in his pocket, then tied the lanyard to his bow and lowered the instrument of death to the forest floor. Climbing down with a sharp weapon in your hand would have been dangerous. He tossed the wind screen and his pillow down, and his backpack full of food and drink and various supplies.
Just as he moved the anchor strap of his harness farther down the trunk of the tree and wrapped his feet around the foot-rest so he could start climbing down with the tree-stand, Asbjorn’s phone chimed again.
“Fuck!” Ken braced his feet on the bottom gripper bar and leaned his butt against the armrest. He fished the phone out of his pocket again. “What fucking stupid thing does he wanna say now?” He didn’t bother to control his volume. There was nobody around the hear him.
Asbjorn will you marry me?
Ken’s arms twitched uncontrollably and he waved them around, trying to regain his balance. Asbjorn’s phone slipped out of his gloved hand and fell into the deep snow below.
“Fuck. Fuck!” Ken took a few moments to breathe.
Just breathe.
Of all the times, Sean had to ask that now. Couldn’t he have popped the question in person? On his fucking bended knee? Must he text it to his lover while his lover is out hunting?
Hunting.
Ken frowned, wondering how Asbjorn’s own hunt was coming along. He slowly shimmied down the trunk of the tree with his climbing tree stand, lowering the anchor strap of his four-point harness. Once his boots sank into the deep snow, he stepped out of the contraption and unclipped himself. He picked up Asbjorn’s phone, then started to fold his gear into a tidy package. Every step and every task was a part of an efficient rhythm he had perfected over many years of filling his family’s freezer with quality venison. His heart rate settled and his breath stopped rasping its way in and out. Dealing with Sean’s marriage proposal was harder on him than a bar fight.
He’d never told anyone, but aside from marriage proposals, Ken Swift was terrified of heights.
“SHIT, MAN, YER GOOD.” Asbjorn watched Frank Pettel pocket his second hundred-dollar bill off the small table. “A reg’lr dart shark.” He let his sharp teeth gleam in the dim light.
Pettel flashed a victorious smile. “Wanna a beer?” he asked.
Asbjorn was not going to break bread or spill drink with his sworn enemy. It just wasn’t done. And sticking around in a smoky pool hall over bad beer wasn’t part of the plan. Tiger’s old words popped up in his mind.
Plan your hunt and hunt your plan.
“I’d rather catch a smoke outside.” Asbjorn nodded to the rear exit, fishing two exquisite, imported cigars out of his breast pocket. A cigarette might not have lured the man, but a flash of recognition gleamed in Pettel’s eyes. He grinned in appreciation.
“Sure.” Maybe he thought he could take this rich sucker for a few more C’s before the day was done.
They exited through the steel door into a dead-end alley. A Dumpster anchored the open end, its odor of decay muted by the cold weather. The area around the back door was shoveled free of snow and littered with cigarette butts.
Asbjorn leaned against the worn, concrete block wall. He produced his own cigar with due ceremony, cut its end with a pocketknife, and lit it. He let it hang out of the corner of his mouth as he cut Frank’s cigar and handed it to him. He closed his pocket knife with metallic click and put it away, then offered his lighter.
Pettel leaned in to light up and inhaled. His face relaxed, as though there was a sudden sense of camaraderie. “Ya could be good if ya worked to be more consistent,” he drawled, inhaling the smoke all the way down.
“Maybe. Don’t have the time, though. Too much business.”
“Business?” Pettel slid beady eyes his way.
“I’m having some trouble with some real estate property. Word on the street is, maybe you could help.”
Pettel’s body tensed with sudden caution. “Who told ya that?”
“Word gets around. Yer famous now.” Asbjorn smirked. He might have been leaning his shoulder against the wall in a casual pose, but his heart was beating so hard, he thought it would burst out of his chest.
“Since when?”
“Since Christmas,” Asbjorn said, all innocent, alluding to his well-publicized escape.
Pettel’s emotions – mistrust and pride – warred openly on his face, but having taken this tough-looking sucker for six hundred bucks, pride won. “So what d’ ya need?”
“Two warehouses in Roxbury. Bad neighborhood, no rental income. What would you charge?”
“Ten grand upfront, ten percent of your insurance policy.”
Asbjorn’s eyebrows rose. “That’s more than I expected. Your rates went up.”
“I’m famous now. And I have partners. They gimme protection, I give ’em a cut.” Pettel sounded pleased with himself. He was moving up in the world.
“Well, as long as you make it look accidental.”
“If you heard so much about me, you’d know I’ll need a solid down payment,” Pettel said. His face was flushed with excitement and his piggy eyes gleamed with greed.
“I’ve got five grand right now, five after, ten percent of the insurance after they pay. You fuck up, make it look bad, they won’t pay, you get ten percent of that too. Here’s the address.”
This was the big moment. A misstep would make him as good as dead.
Asbjorn unbuttoned his leather duster and made a show of patting his inside breast pocket. “Shit, where did I put it.” His left hand moved to his left trouser pocket, moving the generous folds of his duster coat to the side. “Okay. Here we go.” He steadied his breath and dropped his weight.
Just like in practice.
He gave Pettel a feral grin as he slid the sheath of his sword forward, grasping the hilt with his right hand.
He drew the razor-sharp blade out of its lacquered scabbard and flicked the tip forward in one smooth, practiced motion.
FRANK PETTEL STOOD three feet away from the door, unable to speak. The sharp point of a samurai sword had just passed through his vocal cords.
He gasped. Air gurgled and squeaked around the tip of the blade.
“You’re too mean to deserve a quick death, Joe Green,” Asbjorn said, pulling the knit hat off his head and revealing his blond hair.
Sudden recognition sparked in Pettel’s eyes. “Uuuuu! Uuuu assshooouuu!” He reached behind his back. A 9mm Glock appeared, its barrel pointed at Asbjorn.
Asbjorn canted his hips to the right, no longer presenting a large target. The minute movement freed the embedded blade from his opponent’s flesh. His hands flicked up, the upturned edge of his blade but a caress across Pettel’s forearm.
The Glock clattered to the frozen ground. Blood spurted forth from the severed artery, painting the snow a rich crimson.
Asbjorn’s sword described a delicate elliptical path. He stepped forward, falling into the cut. His sword entered the vulnerable place between the base of Pettel’s neck and shoulder, its razor-sharp edge aimed toward his vital core. Asbjorn’s right foot met the pavement as he grounded his cut, the sheer speed and mass shattering Pettel’s clavicle. The sword cleaved the torso diagonally, almost reaching the other side of Pettel’s ribcage.
“Kesa-giri. Now this cut’s made to exploit a weakness in samurai armor. Ye can split a body in half if you do it right.”
Arterial blood gushed in violent spurts, a fountain powered by Pettel’s faltering heart. Their eyes met as Asbjorn’s sword remained embedded between the other man’s ribs.
“Nobody fucks with my sunshine.” Asbjorn’s voice was but a growl as he pulled the sword out with great care before the dying man fell.
“If yer blade gets stuck in the ribs and ye twist it, ye’ll break yer sword.”
Ken’s words resonated in his head.
The sword floated free.
Globules of skin and fat particles bound in blood stuck to its perfect, antique steel surface, just like he’d been told they would. A metallic tang of blood spray filled the air, drowning out the smell of the half-full Dumpster and the reek of the forgotten cigars whose fire sputtered out in the snow. Asbjorn had the taste of blood on his tongue as he snapped the sword in the air the way he’d been taught, making the debris fly off. He wiped the sword on Pettel’s jeans. Then he produced a stack of bar napkins to wipe the blade clean before he sheathed it. He would clean it free of all stains later.
He was pulling his black cap back on his head when the tall redhead stuck his head out the door.
“Hey, Frank, the boss wants to talk to you.” His accent was heavy, reminiscent of exotic places Asbjorn had never seen. Redfish looked around. “Hey! Man! Sukky syn!”
He met Asbjorn’s eyes through his shades. Asbjorn hoped his hair was safely hidden under his cap.
“You. I know of you.” His voice bore a Russian accent.
Asbjorn gave the man an assessing look. “I’m just settling a personal debt. You don’t have to be involved.”
Redfish looked at the blood still pulsing from Frank Pettel’s carotid. His eyes skipped to the dead man’s gun on the ground. “He drawed first?”
“No.”
“You have gun?”
“Used to. Before my place got torched.”
“Torched?” The redhead raised his eyebrows in a question.
“Burned in a fire,” Asbjorn clarified.
“Ah. Now I see.” Redfish nodded. “Crazy fuck.” He seemed fascinated with the way Pettel’s blood melted the snow on the ground. “You killed my new servant. I do not like it.”
“This started before he got you outta jail, Redfish.”
He startled at the nickname.
“There is no need for bad blood between us.”
Redfish ran his finger
s through his short, red hair. “That was a good cut. Not easy to cut with a sword,” Redfish commented, inspecting Asbjorn’s handiwork without emotion. “Quiet. No bullets left behind, no police.”
“So we’re good, then?” Asbjorn bit off, suppressing his eagerness to get away. “No hard feelings?”
“I have not say that,” Redfish said. “I... appreciate... your style. Very direct. Lots of force. But you are not allowed to destroy my servants anymore. Understand?” A playful expression crossed his freckled face, as though this had been just a bad prank. As though the blood in the snow was just discharge from a paintball game. “I need a man with your nature. With lots of force.”
Asbjorn shook his head. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me.”
Their eyes met, hard and unyielding. Not betraying any emotion, Redfish opened the steel door and disappeared into the cavernous space.
With a last look at Pettel’s corpse, Asbjorn was compelled by an overwhelming urge for speed. He backed out of the alley.
Walk.
Don’t run.
He didn’t remember getting to the car. It was still there, parked by the fire hydrant. He tore the parking ticket from behind the windshield wiper and fished in his pocket for the keys.
He found none.
His heart was beating fast and he still had the reek of spilled blood in the back of his throat. It took a few quick heartbeats to remember he stole the car.
He opened the door, slid his sword into the foot well of the passenger side, and got behind the wheel. This time, his fingers remembered which wires should kiss, and he had the engine running within a minute. He pulled out slowly, deliberately, like a man on an errand for his wife, and disappeared down a dark alley. There was an order to these things, and he was going to follow all the steps.
Tiger’s words resonated in his head once more.
“Plan your hunt, and hunt your plan.”
Swordfall (The Fall Trilogy, #2) Page 9