Last Hit (Hitman) (4 page)

I’d rub my body over hers so that she smelled of me. When she walked this city, other men would stay away, recognizing she was marked as my own. Belonging to Nikolai. Maybe I would tattoo it around her neck like a collar.

I stroke the homemade tattoo over my chest. The words inscribed there still burn, years after they were applied. I scowl at myself. She would run in fear if she saw me—the stars on my knees, the dagger through my neck, the spiderweb on my shoulder. The epaulets on the other. The inscription. I am tempted to throw my scope at the wall. I would never be allowed to touch her pristine skin, not with my dirty fingers or my tongue. I would defile her.

I do not hurl my weapon. An assassin’s tools are his friends; perhaps the only things he owns. But I do leave my seat. She has gone into the kitchen anyway, to eat. We have one thing in common right now. We are both dissatisfied.

The thought of food alerts me to the fact I have not eaten since the morning. This is not good. I must carefully attend to my body as seriously as I treat my SAKO rifle or my HK knife. I slap together a peanut butter sandwich. The protein in the peanut butter and the grain of the wheat bread will provide me enough sustenance to last through a light workout.

I head for the arm bar that I’ve hung in the doorway to my bedroom. Staring at the stark space, I realize that I could not even bring her here in the dark. I curl up and down repeatedly, but my attention is wholly on the blank walls and nearly empty space of the apartment.

Nothing of value is here other than my tools. I could pack up everything in about two minutes and be gone. This is the life I’m trying to put behind me, but old habits still control me. Tomorrow I will buy a real bed to replace the foam cushion I have on the floor. A solid, wooden bed that will not move, even if an elephant fell upon it.

I do eight sets of ten and stop. My biceps and the muscles in my upper back ache pleasantly. I drop to the floor and begin my routine of one handed pushups. Four sets of twenty-five, and then triangle pushups until the sweat is dripping down my forehead and my deltoids, biceps, triceps, and pectoralis muscles are too weak to hold me.

Lying against the wooden floor, I think of her again. Tomorrow, perhaps I will talk to her. I will tell her that she smells of fresh air and wide spaces. That her blue eyes remind me of the sky above the Ural Mountains. I want to drown in them.

The phone rings again, and this time the tone tells me it is Daniel. Daniel is another killer whom I’ve run into now and again. I’ve had only a few communications with him because he is a dangerous man. I do not need to bring myself to the attention of people.

I remind myself to call him Daniel, short vowel sound instead of the long e sound as we would say it in Russian. Once I called him
Danyeel
, and he cautioned me that my mispronunciation revealed too much if we were enemies and not enough if we should be friends. I was unsure whether that was a warning or an opening. No one in this business has friends, so I never called him
Danyeel
again. Only Dan
yil
.

"Hello," I say, adopting my most American accent.

"Nick," Daniel says. We both use voice modulators. It is possible that
Danyeel
and I could stand next to each other on the street corner and not recognize the other. I would know he was a soldier, perhaps, by the watchfulness in his eyes and the careful way he held his body.

"Daniel," I answer. "What is happening?"

Daniel coughs into the phone, as if he is covering a laugh. I wonder what mistake I have made.

"It's
what's
happening. You're too formal."

This is why I do not socialize with others. Accents are fairly easy for me to adopt, but my language is too stilted to pass as native. It is a major flaw, and one Alexsandr said would be my downfall. I have learned to reduce risk by remaining silent. It is this tool I employ now. I wait for Daniel to continue. He is the one, after all, who has contacted me. The quiet between us stretches out as we wait for the other to give in. I look at my watch. I will give Daniel only sixty more seconds before I hang up.

Daniel gives in first. "I have information on the death of Alexsandr."

I shut my eyes. I am relieved but anxious. This is what I’ve been waiting for. It is why the man I have dubbed Mr. Brown still lives.

"You?" I ask. Why should Daniel be offering information regarding Alexsandr? I try to be casual and am grateful that Daniel cannot see me. The tenseness of my muscles would give me away. I try not drum my fingers or pace, worried that Daniel will pick up on my motions even over the telephone.

"You are not the only who cared about Alexsandr." Daniel’s curtness surprises me. He’s never exhibited anything but a laconic attitude, even when carrying out a hit. I once overheard him tell a target that he’d have killed him earlier but that he’d had to stop for his morning coffee. Sip. Bang.

"I apologize, Daniel. My selfishness is unbecoming." I say. "How much?"

Daniel sighs. The hiss of breath is irritating with the voice modulator; I pull the phone away from my ear and wait again for Daniel to speak. "This is a freebie, buddy, because I didn't like what happened either."

"I do not accept." Never owe anyone, anything. Lesson number one from Alexsandr.

"Fine, then I'll accept your SAKO rifle," Daniel tells me.

"You are gathering my bullets?" The only way Daniel could know of my kill piece is through examination of the bullet casings and extensive knowledge of barrel markings. Once again, Daniel has shown himself to be a formidable opponent. I clench the phone tighter. If Daniel becomes a problem, then I will use the knowledge I have acquired about him to eliminate the threat. I know that Daniel uses a Barrett M98 bolt action rifle, and his bullets—.388 Lapua Magnum—contain gun powder primarily manufactured in the southern United States, likely Texas or Arizona.

It would not take long to listen to all the taped conversations I have of Daniel, examine the trace routes of the phone calls, and track down the manufacturer of the gunpowder. But I have done none of these things because Daniel has been no threat to me in the past. I feel an affinity for him. Perhaps he is a terrible person who has killed thousands of innocents. Perhaps, like me, he was groomed to this career because no other options were available to him. Perhaps his earlier statement was not a warning but an open hand of greeting that I turned away.

"Only a few, man. I didn't want to leave them for the Rambaudis to find." He’s returned to his easy manner and now he taunts me.

"Understood. So now I owe you for more than one thing." I say grimly.

"I'll just mark it in my ledger."

I think he is making a joke, but my plan is fixed. I will pinpoint Daniel's location just in case. Insurance, nothing else.

"Thanks, man," I say, trying to adopt a more American slang. I should study some of my neighbors. Many are very young, like puppies, but if I spoke like them, I could be less noticeable. Likely, people would assume I was dumb simply by my usage of their common vernacular.

"Nice try." There is humor in Daniel's voice. Again the thought niggles that perhaps Daniel's overtures are invitations to a shared confidence, but I push it away.

"The information?"

"The revolution can’t go forward without an army’s backing."

Chills seize me. Alexsandr was the weapon of the Petrovich
Bratva
, one of the most powerful organizations in Russia. He trained many boys to ensure that the
Bratva’s
business was carried out all over the world without interference. Some boys, like me, he pushed out of the nest to stand on our own. Our blood wasn’t pure enough for him, unlike Vasily, who stood at his right hand, or our skills weren’t sharp enough, unlike Yury, who stood at his left.

Even though I could take Yury when I was fourteen, and even though I carried out every task asked of me—even ones I did not like—it was not enough in the end. One time I deviate from the orders by allowing the little ones to wreak their vengeance on the art curator. The end was messy but, for those boys, necessary so that they could finally rest, knowing that the monster that haunted them during the day and night was gone and would never return

For that, Alexsandr dismissed me from the ranks and sent me off on my own. At fifteen, all I knew how to do was kill. And so that is what I do. I am man who kills for money. "Alexsandr would never betray the
Bratva.
"

"Maybe not betray. But withdraw support? Make known his disappointment?" Daniel countered. I envisioned him sitting on a chair, leaning back on only two wooden legs, at ease and unconcerned. For a moment, I considered Daniel’s words. They weren’t what I’d expected. I didn’t know what had led to Sergei’s actions—but sedition? Alexsandr believed the brotherhood to be more important than anything, which is why I, his brightest protégé, was let go. I had placed my own feelings above the needs of the
Bratva.

I tell none of this to Daniel. “That’s all?" I ask.

"That’s it for now," Daniel replies and hangs up.

I wonder why Daniel offers this. His motives are mysterious to me, and it makes him a danger. Did Daniel feel some tender emotion for a master killer? A man who took boys off the street and turned them into machines for hire deserved respect, perhaps, but tender emotion? Love? I did not love Alexsandr. Respect, yes; love, no. But then, I do not know what love is. I know lust and anger. Despair and satisfaction. But love? No. That is not for me.

At 2095 I log in and wait for the private chatroom to be created. At 2100, I type the information in, and my contact from the Watchmakers is there. The mark is revealed along with several other details. I copy and paste it into a text document without reading. Before I log out, I see one last message after the cursor.

If you complete this task, the information you seek regarding your compatriot, Alexsandr Krinkov, will be revealed as a bonus.

Gotcha,
I reply as if I were Daniel rather than Nikolai. The offer of extra information seems like a trap, as do all the little bonuses these people offer in order to bind you into their families or organizations. But a house hitman has no power, and I've worked only for myself since I left the Petrovich
Bratva
at the age of fifteen.

I was raised by the
Bratva
. Outside of Russia, maybe only a few know what it is although the name still has power. Inside, everyone fears it. The drug lords on the street, they answer to the
Bratva
. The men and women who peddle their flesh, the grifters, the thieves, the politicians, they all answer to the
Bratva
. No one takes a piss in the criminal underworld without the Petrovich
Bratva
knowing and granting approval.

You want something illegal, dangerous, illicit? The
Bratva
will deliver it to your door, but then they own you. It is the same for all these people who hire me. They want to own me, but I belong to no one now. Only myself. Alexsandr, the man who’d picked me up off the street and trained me to be a killer, decided that I had lost my love for the Petrovich family and kicked me out. To Alexsandr, loyalty to the Petrovich
Bratva
came first. It was a good trait for the general of the Petrovich army to have. Admirable even. For Sergei to decide Alexsandr should die was inconceivable. And as no one in the
Bratva
would avenge Alexsandr and cross Sergei, the task fell to me.

And since everyone on the outside seems to be aware that I’m seeking redress for Alexsandr’s death, then so does everyone inside, including Sergei, the new head of the Petrovich family. The new king of the
Bratva
. His silence on this issue is telling. Sergei is as much a threat to me as I am to him. But for now, I pretend I am undisturbed that Sergei has killed my mentor.

The information provided to me by the Watchmakers about the new mark seems innocuous. One man, a doctor, living in Seattle. His name, social security number, and date of birth are given, along with the type of death requested. No need for discretion. The means of delivery are simple, then, and on my terms. It’s just the way I prefer it, but something about this makes me anxious.

A quick Internet search reveals that the doctor in Seattle is a transplant surgeon. I wonder if he deals with black market organs, selling them or facilitating the purchase for rich patrons. The internet only reveals that he has a toothsome smile, a full head of hair, and a plastic-looking wife. Perfect, pretty, but empty. The idea of running up to Seattle to research the mark displeases me. I don't want to be away from the girl in 224.

I return to the bathroom and look at the video tape of Mr. John Brown, my current mark. Sergei contracted me three months ago to find Mr. Brown and return him to Moscow. Mr. Brown's real name is George Franklin; he is an accountant from Chicago. He was caught skimming money from the
Bratva
transactions, and instead of running to Mexico or Singapore or somewhere else, he's trying to hide in plain sight. It is a rather inspired idea, but he's only tried to hide once.

I've hunted people all my life. Everyone leaves a trail. Mr. Brown's mistake was his dog, a tiny yippy thing. Rather than leaving it behind, Mr. Brown has carted that dog with him everywhere, zig-zagging from Chicago up to small towns in Wisconsin. Now he’s back in Minneapolis, Minnesota, not a few hundred kilometers from his home city, He’s been buying the dog specialty food wherever he went.

I can fairly predict where he'd go next based on the availability of the food. I’m not to kill Mr. Brown. Simply find him and return him. But plans change. I haven't killed Mr. Brown yet because he has information. The video feed shows Mr. Brown spreading peanut butter on himself for his dog to lap up. Disgusting. I'll be doing everyone a favor by getting rid of Mr. Brown.

Swinging my scope over to room 224, I flip on my night vision goggles. I can only see the outline of her body. She is leaving the apartment, and she appears to have a basket with her. I track her down to the basement laundry. When I first walked the building, I noted the basement laundry facility. It was dank and musty, with only a few lights and disgusting floor.