Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) (35 page)

Hurrying around to the second assassin, Lenny ‘the fairy’ Beck still sat slumped against the wall with one of the cameras trained on him. Jester searched the dead man’s belongings. A sound interrupted him.

It had come from the stairwell, the sole of a shoe crunching metal. Jester didn’t move; he stood still and listened. Again the footstep sounded. Maloney was walking down the stairs, his strides still methodical. Clearly he was enjoying every second and wanted his audience to enjoy it too.

After hearing the American descend the third step, Jester ran back to his hiding place. When he reached the reception desk, he dropped to his knees and slid the rest of the way under.

Just as Matthew’s head dropped out of sight, the door to the stairwell creaked open and Dennis Maloney emerged, holding the combat knife

***

Sitting with his knees tucked into his body, Jester suddenly realised his own stupidity. He was hidden – that had been the first thing on his mind – but if Maloney were to walk through the staff area and around the back of the reception desk, he was cornered.

His only other escape was to hop over the reception desk itself.

“Wherever you are and whatever you have planned, forget about it,” Maloney called out, his voice filling the room.

Jester smiled. Maloney had watched his tricks on the cameras. He’d watched him hide from and destroy four professional contractors. He would be prepared for whatever he had to throw at him.

“Come out and make yourself a star, Matthew,” Maloney called again. “Kill me and you win the game. It’ll all be over.”

Jester felt like shouting at the man. The game couldn’t be over. Jester couldn’t win; the American had told him that minutes before. Maloney was contradicting himself and hoping that his mixed words would bring a response.

“There is a remote to access the shutters,” Maloney shouted. “And I have it. Defeat me and it will be yours. It’s your ticket to freedom.”

Jester raised his eyebrows in hope after hearing the sentence, but his smile faded quickly, remembering not to trust the words of a man who had put him through hell.

“Come out and fight me, Matthew,” Maloney called again. “Finish this.”

Matthew Jester dropped his head in between his knees and sighed. There wasn’t much he could do. He didn’t have a choice. Scuttling out from underneath the desk, he rose behind the cash register. Dennis Maloney was standing twenty feet away. He turned when Matthew stood, and their eyes locked.

Maloney grinned widely. “Kill me, Matthew, and you’ll be free.”

“You said I can’t win,” Matthew remembered.

“That is true, but I never said you can’t escape. You won’t win the game, Matthew, but you can win your freedom.”

“You talk a lot of bollocks.”

“I’m a fair man, Matthew. If you kill me, you will be free. You’ve earned it.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m not fucking around, Matthew,” Maloney said bluntly. “Kill me and you’re free.”

Matthew hopped over the desk and took two steps forward. The distance between the pair decreased to fifteen feet.

“Fuck freedom,” Matthew spat with venom. “Killing you will be enough.”

Dennis Maloney laughed, a chuckle, a snigger. He closed the gap between the pair to several feet and then stopped. “Why don’t we make this fair?” Maloney said solemnly.

Jester raised his eyebrows.

“No knives, no weapons – just me and you,” Maloney clarified.

Jester nodded, “Fair enough –” he paused to scream. Dennis Maloney had quickly whipped out the black boot knife and tossed it at him with expert precision. The knife embedded itself in his left shoulder, the blade piercing its way through four inches of flesh and lodged in bone.

Jester looked down at the knife and then screamed in agony again. “What the fuck!” he yelled, almost pleading. “
You said no fucking weapons
!” He reached for the knife, gripped the handle and quickly pulled his hand away when the action caused too much pain.

“Liars and murderers are all the same.” Maloney chuckled.

“You fucker!” Matthew screamed, still concentrating on the wound.

Dennis Maloney smiled and advanced, the combat knife held firm in his hand, ready to strike. He paused when he saw Matthew lift his jumper to uncover a pistol shoved down his pants: an old revolver.

Matthew removed the weapon and pointed it straight at Dennis Maloney, holding the majority of the heavy steel in his right hand, taking the pressure from the knife in his left shoulder. “What was it he said …” Matthew looked down at the body of Lenny Beck, an exaggerated look of contemplation on his face. “One shot, one chance,” he repeated the assassin’s words. “Do you fancy your chances?”

Dennis Maloney looked at the gun and then at Jester. He thought about speaking, playing mind games, telling Matthew he didn’t have the guts to pull the trigger, but he
did
have the guts. Maloney had practically given him the guts.

“Drop the knife.” Jester ordered.

Maloney dropped the combat knife, the rubber handle bouncing off the floor and then toppling sideways, the blade still in motion, clinking like a cymbal on a percussion set.

“Is this how you want your vengeance?” Maloney quizzed.

“And the ones inside your jacket,” Jester said, ignoring the question. “Take them all out.”

Maloney sighed and took off his jacket, exposing the knives and the holsters. Jester watched as the American emptied his body of the blades.

“Now walk towards me,” Jester instructed.

Maloney reluctantly walked toward him, stopping when Jester held out his arm.

“Where is the control room?”

Maloney answered the question, handing over a remote to Matthew and telling him the password to bypass the electronic lock. When he had finished explaining, Jester flipped the gun around in his hand and then drove the butt of the pistol across the American’s face. He instantly collapsed in a heap.

When Dennis Maloney next opened his eyes, he did so with great difficulty. Light breached his eyelids as he slowly tried to push them open. The bright lights played with his headache, shouting, screaming, wailing.

He could hear a steady roar, like an engine, but alongside the rattling inside his skull and the throbbing wound at the side of his head, he couldn’t distinguish it. Before his eyes were fully open, before he was aware of his situation, he heard Jester’s voice.

“Wake up,” he demanded softly. “I have a game for you.” Jester’s words sent a chill down Maloney’s spine, and he immediately opened his eyes, blocking out the pain from the headache and the light so he could grasp the situation.

He couldn’t move his arms or legs, and when he did, he felt a niggling, uncomfortable pain around his wrists and ankles. Tilting his head as much as he could, he looked down at his feet and then to his hands. Both were bound tight, but not to each other. What horrified Maloney was the fact that his body had been laid out like The Vitruvian man, his legs and arms spread.

His legs had been individually tied to the table in the room, the very table at which Fadel had been sitting. His left leg was tied to one table leg, his right leg tied to another. His arms, spread out over his head, had also been individually tied, both to two separate chair legs which had been placed at the back of the room to stretch him out as much as possible.

The chairs were not rooted to the floor but had been heavily weighted down by stacks and stacks of books and magazines, the books taken from a small library on the first floor, the magazines from the many foyers and lounge areas. The literature was stacked high and heavy; Maloney had no chance to move.

“Nice to see you’re back with us,” Matthew grinned.

Maloney opened his mouth to question the comment, but he quickly snapped it shut. Shock riddled through his body. Over a dozen wireless cameras had been stripped from their hiding places around the hotel, all of them placed neatly around the control room, circling Dennis Maloney.

Lifting his head, Maloney looked at the large screens in the control room. Matthew Jester was no longer the star –
he
was. His pale, petrified face was enlarged and covered from four angles. The rest of the cameras circled around his body.

“What is this?” Maloney screamed.

“You can play games, but I can’t?” Jester asked.

“Games?”

Jester nodded, grinning widely, insanity in his eyes.

“What are you going to do to me?” Maloney begged.

“Nothing much. This is not my game, remember?” Jester got down on his hind legs and grinned madly into Maloney’s face. “Thousands of punters all over the world ... it’s your audience, Maloney, and they’re bloodthirsty.” Matthew rose to his feet, and again Maloney saw the revolver.

Jester aimed the gun at Maloney’s head. “You’ve put me through hell,” he declared. “You killed my girlfriend, you destroyed my life, but you didn’t win.” He moved his aim further down from Maloney’s face, aiming the gun at his crotch. Jester looked into the American’s horrified eyes. “My last words to you …” He paused, gritted his teeth and pulled back on the trigger. “Fuck you.”

Maloney’s scream was sickly enough to curdle the thickest of bloods. His repeated cries of torture were relentless, horrendous and agonising. Matthew Jester looked down at the American with a smile.

“Fuck you, fucking bastard!” Maloney screamed, his words harsh and filled with fear and hate. He continued to scream obscenities at Jester until his mind could no longer string a sentence together, and then his cries of pain turned into inaudible mumbles.

Blood was rapidly leaking from his groin, his lower body practically swimming in the crimson fluid.

Matthew left the room via the hallway, leaving Maloney to cry and bleed his life away in front of thousands of viewers.

Striding through the musky hallway, a smile slowly spread across his face. Then the smile turned into a grin, the grin into a laugh. When he reached the end of the corridor, Jester was practically hysterical. He had had his vengeance; he had succeeded.

***

Opening the fire door, Matthew embraced the light of day like a new-born. He felt the soft caress of the gentle breeze, the warm skin-tingling sun, the calls of the birds, the smell of nature.

Standing with his eyes closed and his arms reaching for the sky, Jester stretched. Finally, he felt the relief he had needed. Grinning madly, he lowered his head and opened his eyes.

In front of him, lined up in battle formation, were over a dozen police cars. Seven armed officers pointed automatic weapons at him. Others stood in wait, hiding behind their cars. Another spoke through megaphone. “Lower your weapons,” he ordered. Instantly all the police officers lowered their weapons.

The man with the megaphone, a broad-shouldered, bald, chubby forty-year-old, walked toward him. Jester immediately backed off but the officer reassured him.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice soft and relaxing. “We’re here to help.”

Matthew looked at the vast array of police cars and then turned to look over his shoulder, back through the corridor. “But … back there, they tried to fucking kill me, they have a system–” Matthew’s words were quickly spoken and offered little guidance, but the officer stepped in to his aid.

“We know,” he said. “Don’t worry – it’s all over now.”

“You know?”

“A kid hacked the site. He didn’t know what it was. He just figured it was too secure for it
not
to be worthwhile, I guess.” The policeman paused to ponder. “We saw some of the footage and came as soon as we figured out which hotel it was.”

Matthew nodded, content. He didn’t care; he was just happy it was over. Now he could rest. “What now?” he asked.

“I guess that’s for the courts to decide,” the policeman said, turning. “Follow me,” he instructed. “We need to take you back to the station, just for some questioning.”

Matthew shrugged. Since leaving the hotel, the sedation that hadn’t hit him before now piled on top of him. He followed the policeman to a large van and climbed into the back. Within seconds he had fallen asleep.

***

He awoke to the sound of slamming doors, with his head still resting on the uncomfortable seats in the back of the van. Matthew watched as the police officer slid open the doors to the van. “You can come out now,” he instructed.

Matthew sneered at the officer. He wanted to rest, he wanted peace, but nevertheless, he slowly rose to his feet and climbed out of the van. When he looked up, he expected to see a large police building over the horizon of a panda-packed car park. Instead, he saw the barrel of a handgun. They were in an old, abandoned industrial district.

The smile remained on his face nonetheless. He looked over the barrel of the gun and caught the gaze of the officer. His face was stern and passionless. There was a hard top laptop sitting on one of the seats, and with a press of a button, Matthew Jester came face-to-face with Ahmad Fadel.

“So, you are the luckiest man alive,” Fadel noted, his voice resonating through the computer speakers.

“You are,” Matthew countered, “because I haven’t killed you yet.”