Made Men (18 page)

Winter, Croatia.

T
he silence was complete—as
was the dark. His eyes stung, but the sensation was familiar.

They always burned in the sensory
deprivation tank.

Osgar
grasped the bottle of saline;
a liberal application to each
set of tear
ducts usually helped. The ten inches of Epsom saltwater he
floated in was 36.67 °C. Numbers flashed at him—conversions—like
the flashes of a strobe.

Degrees Fahrenheit, Kelvin, Rankine,
Rømer, Newton, Delisle, Réaumur.

All
a part of the roaring, blinding galaxy of stimuli Osgar couldn’t escape.

His
hepatic function could no longer tolerate kava. The blunting, calming effects
from kava were marginal, but helped slightly, so he’d begun to do three
sessions a day in the tank to make up for the loss of the agent. During the
third, he took the ketamine. Combined with the sensory deprivation tank, it was
the closest to a truce with the universe he could reach without a name or a
surgery.

He
squirted some of the saline into his mouth.

A known constant.

Tasting
the familiar brine, his tongue joined his ears and eyes in the void.

He
meditated. Osgar’s mantra was always the same. The word, a weapon of
distraction against the tickle of hair on his skin and slight sodium sting in
his urethra. Still, he could smell the slightest dilution of the more metallic
solution in which he floated, so he battled the sensation with the mantra.

Assimilate. Assimilate. Assimilate.

He
added biofeedback to slow his breaths then his heart. It was as if
ten-thousand
minds were inside his own.

Some began to rest.

As
thoughts slid past the mantra, he assigned the symbolic holder of that thought
a job: sending his demons to release his joint tension, to repair recent
cellular damage.

Doctor, heal thyself.

The
bearer of the unwelcome cliché was sent to scratch an itch on his heel. Ketamine
now in full effect, he heard actual voices. Mostly his own, but other times an
amalgam: a compiled utterance comprised of every phonation he had ever heard.
Each new voice, each word in a different language or octave, with novel
emotions, was an assault.

H
e was not a doctor.
Osgar never claimed to be one.

His
reputation was the key: Ryker and Rickard had displayed their genius when they
devised the system allowing him to operate.

Before
he was alerted to a surgery, all logistical details were settled. Temporary
privileges were arranged; his team of handpicked surgeons, assistants,
anesthesiologists, and his specialized equipment were on the jet—before
the green light blinked. His retinue knew the drill and did not visit a surgery
center as much as
occupy
it.

Once
Osgar arrived, he was not bothered with signatures, meetings, or conversations.
Typically the client’s lawyer had a team to deal with any administrator who
smelled a deviance from the norm. None were allowed near him.

He walked in—cut—and walked
out.

The
anticipation of relief was still not enough, despite the ketamine and the tank.
Through his mantra, a deeper part of his brain willed the green alert-light to
blink.

When it did, true relief could begin
.

It
didn’t. He wielded his mantra, his torch against demons.

Assimilate. Assimilate. Assimilate.
Not just green. Red. Blink red.

His
thoughts broke through the line. Osgar begged, bargaining with a greater power
for either color to illuminate the dark tank.

Two
sets of signal lights were installed in the tank. The other diode blinked red,
though not as often. Osgar experienced a different sensation when the crimson
light alerted him. When the blood-colored lens indicated that an
emotional
(a term he’d coined to
categorize those who’d pay to have another person terminated) needed him, the
assassin enjoyed total—albeit temporary—freedom from pain. The
anticipation was the key. Always, in the background, the timer ticked; if he
hadn’t killed his quarry within a week, the pain returned, more excruciating
than his baseline. No amount of ketamine, electro convulsive therapy, or mind
tricks would help.

It
was a race that he’d only lost once.

A loss never to
repeat.

He held his breath
,
thoughts
competed with his mantra
.

Assimilate. Assimilate
.
Flash—come on. Flash. Assimilate.

Osgar’s
true respite happened while on the hunt. In those precious hours and minutes of
pursuit, his focus allowed him to feel—what he imagined to
be—human.

Simply a person out
to kill another.

Nothing
more.

Tap. Tap
.

He
quieted his mantra, focusing past the thick haze of ketamine. The relay outside
the tank had tapped. In a moment, the light inside would follow. He lifted an
eyelid to peer at the panel.

Green. A surgery.

“Go
ahead.”

A
computerized woman’s voice filled the tank. “Glioblastoma. Advanced
vascularization. Dubai, United Arab Emirates. Male subject. Age: 15. Condition
one: green. Condition two: green. Condition three: amber. Team one on site.
Action endorsed by team leader.”

“Weather?”
His own voice in the tank was jarring. Osgar wasn’t concerned with morality or
ethics. They mattered not. Weather, however, could hurt him and was worth his
consideration.

“26
°C. Precipitation: 0%. Humidity: 39%. Wind: 8 kilometers per hour.”

Osgar
winced, heartbeat battering his lungs. Now awake, his brain waited for the slam
of his voice and colors swirled to anticipate the pain.

He’d just have to deal with the breeze.

“Refuel
at Cairo International. Meal option: four. Notify upon condition three status
change.”

Osgar
drizzled more saline into his eyes and mouth.

Not yet.
Assimilate. Assim—

Thoughts
broke past the mantra. He switched to
guided
imagery,
trying to roll with the assault.

He stood over the
boy’s head.

It was a … beautiful,
terrible growth.

Deliberate movements.

Each tool,

and
decision.

The movements of his
hands were clear and correct.

T
ap.
Tap.

Had
conditions changed that fast? Osgar opened an eye to consult the panel.

Red.

“Go
ahead.” He slowed his heart, but let his breaths come fast and light.

He needed this.

“Edinburgh.
Emotional: Lochlann Blackshaw, lobbyist. Scottish national.
Net
worth $262,000,000 US dollars.
Subject In Question: Henna Maxwell, age
23. Risk category 9. Payment escrow: green.”

“Weather?”

“6°
C. Precipitation: 2%. Humidity: 80%. Wind, 27 kilometers per hour.”

He’d
averaged nineteen surgeries a year since he’d started. One hunt contained a
larger yield than two years of brains. Not a financial benefit. It wasn’t about
money.

It was about relief.

At
first the twins had arranged the hunts. Vetting each of the doomed worthy of
death. To Osgar, those semantics were irrelevant. He needed to kill.

Who he killed didn’t matter
.

Then
a dry spell had hit. His pains became anguish, second by second, willing him to
just kill one last person—himself.

But he hadn’t.

Osgar generated his own network and created his
own infrastructure. Over a bottle of wine in Las Vegas, when the money was
first pressed into his hand, eight weeks of bliss ensued. Each payment was a
fix; his relief began the moment just before he was paid. For two days after
each kill, Osgar was free from pain. But soon, the Nevadan had run out of
enemies.

But I know people
.
He’d said.

Each wealthy contact had enemies. Osgar
dispatched targets in Frankfurt, Cape Town, Chicago, and Seoul. He earned a
reputation. In Japan he was known as
Shinigami.
In Ghana,
The Snake.

“Stand
down Dubai,” he directed. “Enact red protocol.”

“Precursory
trending enabled,” answered the soulless digital voice. Moments passed as the
computer ran a credit check on Henna Maxwell, searched social media sites and
telephone records, deciphered encryptions, hacked hospital records. In twenty
seconds, Maxwell’s first mammogram was filed into the queue. Outside the tank,
dozens of screens flickered to life. As the clamshell of the tank swung open,
several dozen digital voices spoke at once, at auctioneer speeds and in various
octaves and tones.

Osgar
relaxed. The hunt had begun and each part of him was at peace.

Ah—red.
Such a welcome fix.

The
executioner blotted his face with a small towel. Payment was the same, to save
the boy or kill the woman, but the relief was not.

For
Osgar, to kill provided the greatest relief.

Crow Agency, Montana.

T
he little girl
strapped into the shopping cart stared, unflinching. She was two, perhaps. Bonn
smiled back. He had been driving for hours. He liked to walk the aisles of
grocery stores in places like this, judging the local economy by cuts of meat,
stealing glances at the faces of people as they picked out birthday cards or
chose peanut butter.

Crunchy or smooth?

He
liked small places that sold a variety of things.
Like
general stores.
Places where you could buy oil for your car, cheap
furniture, and a small Styrofoam tub of night crawlers as well as meat and
produce.

“Don’t
stare, Bunny.” The girl’s mother held a tattered envelope, counting out food
vouchers. Bunny ignored her, eyebrows bouncing, feet pedaling through the leg
holes in the cart.

So quiet.

Without
the growling old rattles of the aged Mercury, Bonn could hear so much. An old
woman rang up Bunny’s mother’s groceries.

“Your
eye,” said the checker.

“It’s
nothing,” the toddler’s mom promised. “I’m fine—”

“It’s
not,” the checker said with concern. “It looks bad. You should leave him.
He still working at the gas station?
Only cares about
himself, you know.” A box in her hand, scanner waiting, the line behind him
grew.

The checker didn’t give a damn about the
line.

“You
need to go.”

Bunny’s
battered mother leaned over the counter, throwing an apologetic glance at him.
“Where CAN I go?” The checker didn’t have an answer and shrugged, running the
box of generic macaroni and cheese across the scanner, counting up the others
and tapping the quantity into the machine.

Eight.

Bunny’s
mother clutched her coupons tightly and watched the total on the monitor climb,
nervous. The cashier spoke, perhaps just to break the tension.

“Mike
is no good.”

Bunny
chimed in, arms flailing and sudden. “Daddy—PUNCH!”

“Shush,
Bunny. That’s enough.” Bunny swung her legs, nonplussed. She stared at Bonn,
stuffed a finger into her nose, and repeated the fact just for him. “Daddy
punch.”

There
weren’t enough vouchers. Bunny’s mother shook her head and teared up. “Excuse
me.” Disgraced, she edged past him with three of her items. “I need to put some
things back.”

Put some things back? She only had boxes
of noodles! Bruised bananas, day-old bread—

B
onn left his items on
the belt, ignoring the checker’s stare. He wheeled a squeaking shopping cart
down each aisle, filling it.
Cans of chili.
Fresh fruit and vegetables.
Steaks.
Whole
frozen chickens, a turkey.
Canned ham and ice cream.
Cheese, milk, eggs. Crayons. A doll. The checker didn’t speak as she rang up
the purchases, but raised her eyebrows as she scanned the shampoo and nail
polish.

Bonn
craned his neck to see over the bags of rice and dog food, out the front.
Bunny’s mother was still visible, walking slowly east with her scant
purchases—Bunny on one hip—down a gravel road.

Piling
the groceries in the backseat of the Mercury, he followed, at a distance, on
foot. They stopped at a mobile home with a rusted, tireless truck rooted in
front; its axles were buried in mud. Turning on his heel, Bonn jogged back to
the car, popped the trunk, and slid a few bills free from the pile of money
inside, stuffing them into his jeans, then pressed the lid closed thoughtfully,
leaving the rest.

With
a turn of the key, the oxidized yet faithful engine chugged to life. He leaned
to pull the wad of money back out, chose a crisp banknote, and scribbled a
message on it in pen. The old car’s tires spit up rocks, clanging against the
exhaust and the frame as he made his way down the gravel. Parking next to the
disabled truck, he tucked the bill—the note—under the windshield.
Bunny’s mother peered out from behind a curtain, and he waved, starting for the
interstate on foot.

At
the gas station he pulled his hood up and walked the aisles, took a bottle of
water from the cooler, and placed a large bag of salted peanuts on the counter.
The cashier’s nametag read:
Ed.

“Have
you got a restroom?”

Ed
regarded him stoically. “Around back.” Hooking a thumb to indicate the rear of
the store. “Mike is cleaning it.” Frowning. “Couple-a minutes, he should be
done.”

“Thanks.”
Bonn pushed open the glass door and unscrewed the
cap from the water. He took a sip.

Ed
turned to straighten some cartons of cigarettes. Bunny’s benefactor rounded the
shop. In the back, a mop bucket propped open a metal door marked
Men
. Hot and brown, the dirty water
steamed in the crisp air.

Bonn
edged the bucket aside with his toe. He stood quietly in the doorway, watching
Mike work. A cigarette dangled from the man’s brown teeth, surrounded by uneven
patches of beard and acne, as he halfheartedly scrubbed a urinal. His knuckles
were bruised and uneven.

“You
Mike?”

H
itchhiking was
liberating. The activity led Bonn to ponder philosophical theories. The first
truth of hitchhiking seemed to be the less a man appeared to need a ride, the
more often he was offered one.

Walking
along the interstate without his thumb up yielded surprising results. It helped
that he wore Brioni and was shaped like Charles Atlas, but to this particular
vigilante it seemed simpler than that.

He didn’t appear in need
.

Trying
to imagine the thoughts of the college-aged kid that picked him up, Bonn
watched as the world sped by.

I’m clean. How dangerous could I be?

Marveling,
Bonn studied signs as the Volkswagen covered mile after mile. The second truth
of hitchhiking was don’t have a destination in mind, and you won’t be
disappointed. He’d stood in groves of giant redwoods, meandered south to
Galveston. He’d slept on beaches. He took a job washing dishes. By February and
happenstance, he landed in New Orleans for
Mardi
Gras
. He swam through the riotous crowds, through
the sweat and vomit and urine of the revelers to watch for predators. Police
found more corpses than usual, each morning, for a week. Still, he managed to
stay clean.

Hygiene mattered.

I
n the spring the
killer bought an old bicycle and worked his way north. He slept in a small
tent, growing lean but felt more alive than he ever had.

On
the Greenbrier River Trail in West Virginia, a black widow bit him while
brushing through leaf litter to stake out his shelter. Maddox knew the shiny
black marble of a spider had bit him, but the pinprick sensation and burning
was easy to discount. The spider was so small, he was so big, and he’d heard of
people getting bit who never sought treatment and turned out fine. By morning
he was burning, nauseated, and delirious. Shaking, moaning fitfully, Maddox
lost track of time. He awoke drenched, drank all the water he had, and felt
unable to go find more. It had been nearly two days before he heard a sound. By
that time, mice shared his tent, gnawing holes in his backpack to get at the
salt deposits his sweat had left behind. He sensed things crawling on him but
was too weak to brush off his new neighbors, or even to wonder what they were.

Squeaking.

He
awoke strapped to a contrivance, balanced on a pair of little red wagons. One
wheel squeaked with each revolution, which reminded him of the grocery cart in
Montana.

Was Bunny happy now? Was she safe?

A
woman whistled, pulling the odd ambulance along. Hair piled loosely on top of
her head, she swung her free arm in joyous, wide arcs. They squeaked along for
a while, and Bonn watched the tree branches caress the sky. She noticed that he
was awake. A summer dress came into view. She smelled like fresh herbs. His
vision wasn’t clear, but when she leaned close to give him water, he saw more.

Beautiful.

Full
lips.
Even, white teeth.
Her eyes reflected the colors
of fossilized wood and Baltic amber. She smoothed hair from his face with a
warm, dry hand and smiled. An accent made her sound like a gypsy from a black
and white movie. Her eyelashes reminded him of a giraffe—

“Don’t
die, strongman. I’ve only just found you.”