The Assassin's Prayer

THE ASSASSIN’S PRAYER

by Mark Allen

Copyright © 2013 by Mark Allen. All rights reserved.

DEDICATION

This one’s for Jud, for keeping the faith. May the
black dog never win.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my father (for getting this whole crazy
thing started), Keith Gardner (for urging me to new heights), and God (for
granting me the talent).

CONTACT

Blog:
www.gunsgutsgod.blogspot.com

Facebook:
www.facebook.com/MarkAllenWriter

Twitter:
www.twitter.com/MarkAllenAuthor

CHAPTER 1

As
he entered Ardee’s Diner & Truck Stop, Travis Kain spotted Silas Kurto
seated in a booth in the back, as far away as possible from the truckers
sitting at the counter working their way through plates of bacon, eggs, and
home fries. It probably annoyed the waitress that she would have to walk all
the way to the back of the diner to wait on them, but judging from the way the
wrinkled uniform stretched across her ample paunch and thighs, she could use
the extra exercise. Didn’t matter to him whether she liked it or not and he was
pretty sure Silas didn’t care either.

He
fought back the conflicting emotions he always felt when he was in Silas’
presence, the wrenching sensation of hate and friendship at war with each other
like a couple of mangy mutts trying to decide who’s going to get the bone. He
clamped down on the feelings, pushing them back down into the shadows where they
belonged. Right now was all about business, pure and simple. The sins of the
past would have to wait.

The
door closed behind him, hinges creaking in metallic protest. The waitress
approached, grease staining her uniform, time staining her rather plain face. “Take
a seat wherever you like, hon,” she said, her voice practically dripping with
that
I-don’t-give-a-crap
drawl used by cynics the world over.

“Thanks.”
Kain made his way through the tables scattered across the floor in no
discernible pattern. He felt the furtive stares of the truckers watching him. A
hard knot of tension prickled between his shoulder blades. But he sensed no
threat, just regular old human curiosity, the natives checking out the stranger
in their midst.

Relax
, he told himself.
Even if someone here tries to go
all apeshit on your ass, you’re more than equipped to deal with it
. There
was a sawed-off shotgun slung under his long black duster, a Colt .45 in
shoulder leather, and a Gerber double-edged dagger tucked into his right boot. Maybe
not quite enough hardware to jumpstart World War III, but more than enough to
turn the diner into a kill-zone if need be.

He
slid into the booth across from Silas and leaned his left arm on the table. He
kept his right hand out of sight under the table within easy reach of his guns.
He didn’t say hello or nod or offer any kind of greeting whatsoever.

Silas
leaned forward, the overhead lights gleaming on his shaved skull. He plucked an
electronic cigarette from between his lips and exhaled a cloud of water vapor. “You
made me wait,” he said. “You know I hate waiting.”

“My
heart bleeds for you,” Kain said. He pointed to the cigarette. “Got another one
of those?”

“It’s
an electronic cigarette. Why would I have more than one? Besides, I thought you
quit.”

“I
did,” Kain replied, “but being around you leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Kind
of like someone rubbed dog shit all over my tongue. So I thought a cigarette
might get rid of it.”

Silas
took another drag and pointedly ignored the jab, instead glancing around the
diner. It wasn’t much; just your typical grease-pit with wallpaper that had
been outdated when Elvis was alive, a souvenir counter crammed full of cheap
gadgets and worthless trinkets, and a floor that, while not exactly filthy, you
wouldn’t want to eat off. He shook his head. “I don’t get it, Kain. Why do you
insist on living up here in cow country? You’re over four hours from the city.
Can’t be too many job opportunities around here for people in your profession.”
He exhaled a plume of fake smoke. “And why are we meeting in this shithole?”

Kain
stared at the smoke, wishing it was real, wishing he could suck in a cloud of
nicotine to wash away the bitterness searing the back of his throat. “I’d
rather gouge my eyes out with a rusty fork than live in the city. And we’re
meeting here because it’s quiet, anonymous, and supposedly makes a killer
western omelet.”

“How
can you hate the Big Apple? People come from all over the world to visit New
York City, but you, just a few hours away, avoid it like leprosy.” Silas shook
his head. “I just don’t get it.”

“Nothing
to get. I just prefer the country, that’s all.”

A
waitress approached. Not the large-hipped cynic; this one was younger,
prettier, her face unmarked by time’s passage or cynicism’s bite. Kain tried to
remember back to a time when he had been that fresh-faced and innocent. It was
damn hard. Felt like he had been on the killing fields forever.

“Sorry,
sir,” she said to Silas, “but there’s no smoking in here.”

“It’s
not real.”

“Then
what’s the point?”

Silas
grunted. “I hear that.”

“Coffee?”
The waitress hefted the carafe in her hand.

Her
cheery voice and warm smile pulled Kain back from his dark thoughts. “Sure,” he
said, sliding his cup over to her.

“How
‘bout some breakfast?”

“Just
the coffee for me,” Silas said. “Thanks.”

“Heard
you’re famous for your westerns,” Kain said.

“Famous
might be stretching things a tad,” the waitress said with a grin, “but it’s
better than a kick in the nuts.”

“With
that kind of glowing recommendation, how can I say no?”

She
jotted down the order and whisked away. When she was gone, Kain looked at
Silas. “Let’s get down to business. I don’t want to be around you any longer
than I have to.”

Silas
sighed. “What happened to us, Kain?” His voice was full of regret. “When did it
all change?”

“You
know damn well when it changed.”

Silas
seemed to shrink before Kain’s withering gaze. “I guess forgiveness isn’t on
the agenda, huh?”

Kain
again wished for a cigarette. A real one. Not so he could smoke it, but so he
could put it out on Silas’ eyeball. “I’ll never forgive you, you son of a
bitch,” he rasped. “Now let’s finish our business so you can go back to leaving
me the fuck alone.”

Silas
studied him, trying to decide whether to push further. Kain stared back, eyes viper-cold
and twice as mean. Finally, Silas shrugged and said, “Fine. Suit yourself.” He
reached into his jacket, took out a plain white envelope, and slid it across
the table. “There’s the target info, plus ten grand.”

“Numbers?”

“Five.
Target plus four guards.”

“So
what is this, a dick over? You’re forty grand shy.”

Silas
nodded, sucked on his electronic cigarette again, and let the water vapor
trickle out. It curled around his face like swamp fog. “No problem, Frank will
pay it. Consider this a down payment and you can collect the rest upon
completion of the job. That work for you?”

“I’ll
live with it.”

“Good.”
Silas stood up. “Next time we meet, we do it down in the city, not up here where
sodomizing pigs and strumming banjos are popular pastimes. And we do it at a
decent hour, not the crack of goddamn dawn.” He gestured out the window. “It’s
not even light yet, for god’s sake.”

“Maybe
I like the dark.”

“Of
course you like the dark,” Silas retorted. “It hides your sins.”

“We’re
all sinners.”

Silas
rolled his eyes. “I’m outta here. You start talking like a damn priest, you
make me nervous.”

“What’s
the matter, Silas? You afraid of salvation?”

Silas
lowered his eyes, fiddled with his watch band, then finally looked back up. For
the second time in as many minutes, Kain saw pain in Silas’ eyes and a longing
for something lost. “Kain,” he said, “did you ever stop to consider that maybe you’re
the one in need of salvation, not me?” With that, Silas turned and walked
away.

The
waitress brought his western. Turned out she was right—it was better than a
kick in the nuts, but not by much. Kain polished it off anyway, then nursed his
cup of coffee as he opened the envelope. Inside were several photos of the
target, Peter Perelli, a middle-aged man whose black hair had just begun to
grey. Perelli was a mid-echelon player in New York City’s organized crime
ranks, making a name for himself in drugs and prostitution.

Kain
had been expecting this hit. Kain’s client, Frank Giadello, was an up-and-comer
in the shadow world of organized crime and the best way to rise to the top
quickly was to eliminate the competition. Frank was making a power play, pure
and simple. Of course, this power play also had some personal overtones; last
week Perelli had hijacked a shipment of coke meant for the Giadello
organization. If Frank let such a blatant insult go unchallenged, he was
finished. Perelli had flexed his muscles; Kain had been hired to slap him down
and send a message through the underworld that Frank Giadello was not to be messed
with.

He
would not have to travel far to do the slapping. Perelli owned a country estate
in Hartford, a small farming community twenty miles to the east, not far from
where Kain had grown up. According to the stats sheet, Perelli was something of
a recluse who preferred the smell of dung and silage to that of exhaust fumes
and factories, the tranquility of wide open spaces to the hustle and bustle of
metropolitan chaos. Kain understood such sentiments completely.

He
drained the last dregs of coffee, put the photo and stats sheet in his pocket, then
pulled the thick bundle of cash out of the envelope. Seemed like a lot of money
… until you considered it was the price of a man’s life.

I’m
not killing innocents. I’m not gunning down babies or popping bullets between
little old ladies’ eyes. All I’m doing is exterminating scum. Peter Perelli is
a piece of trash who deserves to die.

The
same excuses he used every time, an internal ritual of self-justification.

They
were cold comfort.

CHAPTER 2

The
night sky was ash-black but striated with moonlight filtering through the
clouds as Kain turned off Route 40 onto Gordon Hill Road. Eighteen hours had
passed since he had received the target package from Silas. Between preparations
for tonight’s strike, he had spent more time than he cared to admit thinking
about the past, reliving the good times he and Silas had shared growing up. Looking
at them now, nobody would ever know they had once been the best of friends. People
rarely understood the fragility of friendship; all it takes is one little sin to
shatter even the strongest of bonds.

He
parked his Jeep Grand Cherokee in a weed-choked lot that had once been a Post
Office but was now just a remote rendezvous for local kids looking to get
drunk, get high, get laid, or some combination thereof. Evidence of carnality
littered the ground; broken beer bottles, condom wrappers, and even syringes crackled
under his boots.

In
the back of the Jeep was a black duffel bag containing the various items
required to complete his hit. Perelli’s walled estate perched on the crest of
Gordon Hill, overlooking the village of Hartford like the fortress of some
medieval tyrant. Dressed in black fatigues, Kain slung the bag over his
shoulder and ghosted into the woods, flowing like dark water through the
underbrush as he made the steep, half-mile trek to the top of the hill. The
crisp night air cooled the minimal perspiration that dewed his face, which was
striped with black to help him melt into the shadows and prevent moonlight from
reflecting off his cheekbones.

Pine
trees rimmed the northern wall of Perelli’s estate, providing Kain the cover he
needed to get close. But not too close; a drive-by reconnaissance earlier this
afternoon had revealed surveillance cameras mounted along the wall every fifty
yards. Kain rarely operated under assumption—as the saying goes, assumption is
the mother of all fuckups—but in this case he felt fairly confident in assuming
that the cameras fed into a monitor room manned by at least one of Perelli’s
thugs. Which meant he needed to blind one of the cameras before he made his
move.

He
crouched in the deep shadows of the pines, opened the duffel bag, and withdrew
a CO2-powered air rifle and a clip of paintball pellets. With an efficiency
bred by a lifetime of handling weapons, he loaded the gun then moved toward the
edge of the trees. He positioned himself behind the trunk of a large pine and
braced the rifle against his shoulder. Peering through the sights, he aimed at
the nearest camera. As he waited for the camera to pan back in his direction,
Kain took several deep breaths to steady his muscles. It was a relatively close
shot but the air rifle was not a precision weapon.

The
camera swung his way. Kain fired, the sound of the shot nothing more than a
soft pop. The pellet struck the camera lens and splattered it with paint,
blinding the electronic eye. Kain quickly put the gun back in the bag. Anyone manning
the monitors would soon notice one camera was dark. Gunners would be dispatched
to investigate within a minute, two at best. He had no time to waste.

He
peeled away from the cover of the pines and raced to the wall, ten feet of
brick capped with six inches of concrete. When he reached it, he didn’t even
break stride. He executed a flawless parkour move, placing his right foot against
the bricks and surging upward in one fluid motion. His hands hooked the top of
the wall and pulled, increasing his momentum, carrying him up and over. He
landed on the other side, boots sinking into the lush, well-manicured lawn. The
automatic sprinklers had showered the grass recently and moonlight danced on
the droplets.

Shouts
of alarm sounded from the house. He froze for a moment, crouched like a
predator in the shadow of the wall. His heart pumped adrenalin hot and fast
through his veins as he realized they had discovered the crippled camera sooner
than he had anticipated. Time to throw stealth out the window and get ready to
play rough, because this strike was about to go hard.

He
drew his silenced Colt .45 from its shoulder holster and waited. The stats
sheets had warned that Perelli’s grounds were guarded by a pair of
attack-trained Dobermans. They would be the first to arrive and Kain would have
no choice but to put them down.

They
came barreling out of the shadows a few seconds later, fangs bared, triangular
ears pasted flat to their skulls, throats brimming with angry snarls. They
began to bark furiously, letting their handlers know they had cornered the
intruder.

Kain
leveled the Colt and pulled the trigger, the suppressor reducing the report to
a muffled whisper. The .45 slug hammered the first dog dead into the ground.

He
swung his gun toward the second Doberman. But before he could fire, a spotlight
blazed to life, pinning him in its harsh white glare. He heard someone shout,
“Over there! By the wall!”

He
rolled to the left as gunfire rocked the night. Bullets blistered the space he
had occupied a heartbeat before. He could hear the sizzling whine of ricochets
pocking the wall.

“Get
the light on him!”

The
second Doberman slammed into Kain’s chest. They went down in a tangled heap. The
dog snapped at his face like it was a tasty delicacy he wanted to tear off and
gobble down, splattering him with hot drool. Kain grabbed the animal’s throat
with his left hand, keeping the sharp teeth momentarily at bay.

“Over
there! I think the dogs got him!”

The
sphere of light from the spot-lamp swept across the grass, hunting, probing, seeking.
Kain knew he only had a few seconds to get clear of the Doberman. If the light
found him while he was still wrestling with the dog, he was finished.

His
left hand still locked like a vise on the animal’s throat, Kain used his right
to jam the muzzle of the .45 under the dog’s front leg. The Doberman shuddered
as the bullet blew through its heart.

Kain
threw the canine corpse aside and regained his feet as the spotlight swept
inexorably toward him. He slid the .45 back into shoulder leather and drew a
short-barreled SPAS-12 semi-auto combat shotgun from his duffel bag.

The
spotlight nailed him a second later; a microsecond after that Kain fired a
blast of buckshot that blew the light out in a sparking spray of glass.
Darkness rushed back in to fill the void where the light had been and Kain
welcomed it. In this deadly game of hunter and prey, light was the enemy,
darkness an ally. His years of training had conditioned Kain to maneuver better
at night than most men did at high noon.

As
the shattered spot-lamp winked out, Kain saw three shadows crouched beside the
wrecked machine. Two of the figures detached themselves from the other and
circled around back of the house.

Kain
moved, silent and ghost-like. He made a wide arc around the remaining guard,
wanting to take him from behind. The thick grass hushed his footsteps as he edged
toward the man like a shark on a blood scent. He was close enough to smell the
guard’s cologne and hear his raspy breathing when the radio on the man’s belt
crackled to life.

“Patrol
One, this is Johnson. Come in. Over.”

As
the guard reached for the radio, Kain mentally pulled up the information on
Johnson, Perelli’s chief of security. Johnson was a black man who tipped the
scales at about two-sixty and judging from the photos Kain had viewed, all of it
was solid muscle. He bragged twenty years experience in executive body guarding
and had spent the last five employed by Peter Perelli, acquiring substantial
wealth in the process. Kain hoped it was enough to die for; with this strike screwed
seven ways from Sunday, there was no doubt that he would have to go through
Johnson to get to Perelli.

The
guard thumbed his radio, oblivious to Kain’s lethal presence right behind him.
“This is Patrol One. Go ahead, boss.”

“Give
me a sit-rep.” Johnson’s voice crackled with radio static.

“We
lost the target when he took out the light. Guy’s packing some serious heat.”

“Where
are Patrols Two and Three?”

“Out
back looking for this asshole.”

“I
don’t want to hear
looking
, I want to hear
found
. Got it?”

“Ten-four,
boss. We’ll keep looking.”

Kain
nudged the nape of the guard’s neck with the shotgun. “You can stop looking.
You found me.”

The
man stiffened, but made no attempt to turn around. He was smart enough to know
he had just been checkmated.

“Toss
your weapon,” Kain commanded.

The
guard complied.

“Now
call the others back here.”

The
guard asked, “Who are you?”

Kain
caught the quiver in the man’s voice. Hard to be a tough guy when you’re riding
the wrong end of a twelve-gauge. “Just do what you’re told.”

“Okay.”
The guard raised the radio to his lips. “Patrols Two and Three, this is One.
Come in. Over.”

A
burst of static, then: “This is Two. Three’s standing by.”

“Return
to my position ASAP.”

“Ten-four,
we’re en route.”

The
guard lowered the radio. “I just helped you kill two of my friends.”

“Friends
are overrated,” Kain replied. “All they do is fuck you over.”

“Sounds
like you need a therapist.”

“And
you need a coroner.” Kain triggered the shotgun. The guard’s skull exploded.
The headless corpse flopped face down on the grass in a twitching heap. Working
fast, Kain knelt beside the body, plucked a fragmentation grenade from his bag
of tricks, and pulled the pin. He carefully lodged the fragger underneath the
corpse so the dead weight kept the arming spoon from popping up. He then
snatched up the dead guard’s radio and ducked around the corner of the house
just as the two other gunmen rounded the opposite corner. He watched and
listened from the shadows as they crouched down beside their deceased comrade.

“Crap,
man, he’s dead!” one of them said. “The bastard killed him!”

“That’s
an understatement,” the other replied. “His whole damn head’s gone!” He grabbed
one of the dead man’s arms. “Help me roll him over.”

Neither
of them saw the grenade in time. Kain watched as they vanished in a volcano of
smoke and fire, shredded by shrapnel from soles to scalps. The concussive blast
imploded the large bay window nearby, spraying glass into Perelli’s living
room.

The
radio Kain had taken suddenly squawked to life. “Patrol One, this is Johnson. Someone
want to tell me what the hell is going on out there?”

Kain
pressed the radio to his lips and thumbed the transmit key. “Death,” he said
quietly. Sure, it was overdramatic and cheesy as a Chuck Norris movie, but messing
with the enemy’s mind never hurt. A little psychological warfare could yield a
critical edge when the bullets were bouncing all over the place.

There
was only silence from the other end. A full fifteen seconds ticked by before
the radio crackled again. “Who is this?” Johnson demanded. “And what do you
want?”

“I’ve
got a white rose to give to your boss.” The white rose was Kain’s signature, a
ritual he started five years ago, following the death of his wife. Anyone
involved in the criminal underworld would recognize his calling card.

And
apparently Johnson did, for after another long pause he said,
“Kain?”

Kain
dropped the radio to the ground and stomped it to pieces. The time to talk was
over. Now it was time to kill.

Kain
stepped over the three shredded sacks of blood and guts sprawled lifelessly in
front of the house and climbed in through the shattered bay window. He found
himself standing in a large family room. Plush wall-to-wall carpet covered the
floor beneath the mess of broken glass. A marble coffee table provided the
room’s centerpiece around which was arranged black leather furniture with
chrome trim. To his right, Kain saw a large entertainment center recessed into
the oak-paneled wall, complete with a flat-screen plasma TV so massive it could
have doubled as the movie screen at a drive-in theater. Overhead dangled a
large ceiling fan, the bamboo blades hanging motionless.

He
tensed as a sudden yowl sounded from somewhere nearby. He heard a young girl
cry out, “Purry! No!” followed by the telltale patter of someone running on
bare feet. Whoever it was, they were coming his way. Kain dropped to one knee
and aimed the SPAS-12 at the living room’s only entrance. A woman, voice raw
with terror, screamed someone’s name. “
AMYYYYYY!!!”

Kain’s
combat senses were redlining as the footsteps came closer.

Closer…

His
finger curled around the trigger, taking up the slack.

Closer…

A
black and white streak rocketed through the doorway. Amped up on adrenalin,
Kain almost blew the cat into a red smear, but restrained himself at the last
moment. The feline raced along the back of the leather sofa and vanished
beneath the antique piano in the far corner of the room.