Sicarii 2

by Adrienne Wilder

  The man standing beside the driver’s door watched the sidewalk leading out of the subdivision. Light caught the flow of his shirt. The material gleamed. His pants were white or cream-colored. The toes of the alligator boots he wore jutted out from under the hem.

  Marcel pulled into his driveway, parked the car in the garage, and got out. He carried his cane with him through the back door. Grass made no sound under his feet. He passed beneath windows, through backyards. A dog chained to a tree lifted its head but didn’t bark. It was only a block, and Marcel cleared it in less than half a minute. He stepped into the alley between two houses.

  The man standing by the car shuffled his feet. His expression pinched. Anger made his eyes hard. He took one more drag on the cigarette, then flicked it away. He turned to open the door, and Marcel crossed the yard, slipped around the back of the car.

  Just as the man was about to get in, Marcel said. “You are waiting for someone?”

  The guy whirled around. “Jesus, you…” Recognition flicked across his features. “No, no, I just took a wrong turn.”

  “You are waiting for Jacob.”

  He dropped his hand to his side. The butt of a gun peeked over the edge of his pants.

  “You are Logan.” Marcel leaned on his cane, tipping his head enough so his good ear caught the hitch in Logan’s breath.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Do not go to his motel anymore. Do not follow him. Do not talk to him.”

  “Fuck you, old man.” Logan started to get into his car.

  Marcel slipped along the length of the vehicle to the door and shoved it, trapping Logan in the gap. The guy pushed back, flailing his free arm.

  “I’m gonna fuck you up…” He kicked, but the position offered no clear shot. Trapped with his hand on the edge, he couldn’t even reach the gun. Logan shoved at the door.

  Marcel applied more pressure.

  Logan’s face reddened. “I’m gonna…” Spit flecked Logan’s lips. “I’m gonna…” He gasped. His grip on the door slipped, and his head lolled back. Air wheezed from his lungs.

  Marcel let the door go, and Logan dropped to the ground. His eyes rolled, and slowly the purple left his cheeks and the color filled back into his lips. He brought his gaze up then kicked at the ground until he was back on his feet and dumped himself into the driver’s side seat.

  Fast food wrappers on the floorboard. A can of soda in the cupholder. Matches on the dashboard had the logo of a motel across town.

  Marcel pulled the door all the way open. Logan’s chest rose and fell. His breathing wheezed.

  “You will leave Jacob alone now.”

  Hate seethed from Logan.

  “You will, Logan. If you do not, I will kill you.” Marcel shut the door. He walked away, leaning on his cane. By the time he reached the sidewalk, Logan had started the caddy. Rear lights flashed white, then red. He cut a U-turn in the street. The tire rode up on the curve, and the bumper scraped the post of a mailbox. Logan revved the engine, and the caddy’s wheels chirped as he took the corner.

  2

  Ben got out of the car with a bag of groceries. Jacob walked down the sidewalk. For a moment, he looked up, then turned away, and disappeared inside his room.

  Fine. It wasn’t Ben’s problem. If the guy wanted to snub him, he had the right. The horrible things Ben had said guaranteed it.

  He shut the car door and turned.

  A black Lexus pulled into the parking lot. The driver wore a nice suit, white shirt, gloves, and had hard cold eyes. Ben had seen that man before, but his tired brain fumbled with the pieces.

  Of course, his pulse had been beating so fast his vision flickered, and all his attention had been on the beautiful blonde.

  Ben ran to his room and slammed the door shut. His heart inched up his throat with the taste of bile. He left the groceries on the small table and opened the duffle bag.

  The gun was on top of the contents. He checked the clip. Turned off the safety. He had no idea what he was going to do. But if they came to get him, there was only one choice. Could he do it? Could he pull the trigger and kill someone even in self-defense?

  Ben stared at the door. The sounds of the motel continued. A soft sliding scraped, and a piece of paper appeared under the door. The air in the room thinned out. But it was just a piece of paper, carefully folded. The light tan color suggested it was stationary. Ben went to the window.

  No one on the walkway and the Lexus was gone.

  The piece of paper glowed against the dark carpet. It had a smudge near the edge where it had passed under the door and one slightly bent corner.

  It was just a piece of paper. What could it do? But Yvette had sent a text message using Ben’s phone without it in her possession.

  Ben flipped the safety back on the gun, then went over and picked it up.

  Elegant cursive dipped with looping curves, the lines going from thick to thin. It would have been beautiful, but the words rendered it hideous. “Time’s up.”

  Ben clenched his eyes shut. The note was still there when he opened them. This was not a nightmare. This was his reality. He would die. If he killed Marcel or not.

  Yvette would destroy him.

  If Ben wanted to survive, he only had one choice. He picked up the duffle bag. The drive to Marcel’s was just a couple miles, but by the time he got there, he’d convinced himself he could buy Marcel off. The guy was a killer. Surely he’d take cash for a job.

  Who cares if Marcel claimed he didn’t want money. Everyone had a price.

  But was fifty-thousand enough? Ben didn’t know, and if it wasn’t, he had no idea how he would get the rest.

  Ben parked on the street between houses and carried the duffle bag up the steps. He tightened his grip on the handle. He could do this. He had to do this. Because if he didn’t? The image of Shelly’s terrified face drowning in plumes of fire played through Ben’s mind. He walked up the porch, opened the screen.

  The front door opened. Marcel stepped aside. Ben willed his feet to move. He crossed the small foyer.

  “Your shoes,” Marcel said.

  Ben slid his feet out of his sneakers. Marcel followed him to the coffee table but stopped at the end. Ben laid the duffle bag on the spindly-legged table. “There’s fifty grand in there. Plus all the information on you.” Surely that had monetary value.

  Marcel tilted his head. Watching Ben.

  “I brought it to you. You know, to pay you. Pay you to kill…” Ben’s throat closed up.

  “She burned her.” Marcel moved to his recliner. “Your friend.”

  Ben closed his eyes then opened them. He didn’t want to see Shelly’s face again. But it seemed to be all he could see.

  “You could not have saved her. It was too hot. The accelerant Yvette uses has been used by her family for generations. It makes the fire stick to the skin. Eat through the flesh.”

  Ben sat on the sofa. His breath wheezed out. “She left me a note. Yvette. This morning. Put it under my door.”

  “Do you have it?”

  “No. No. I threw it away.”

  “What kind of paper did she write on?”

  Who cared? Why should anyone care? But under Marcel’s scrutiny, Ben was compelled to answer. “Thick paper. Stationary.”

  “Color.”

  “White, no, it was almost white. Softer.”

  Marcel nodded. “What did she say?”

  “Time’s…” Ben’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Time’s up.” His bottom lip trembled.

  Marcel leaned forward. He pointed to the duffle bag with his cane. “You brought money. The money she gave you.”

  “Yes.” He pushed the bag to the edge of the coffee table. “You can take it. All of it.”

  “Tell me about your meeting with Yvette.” Marcel planted his cane between his knees.

  His meeting. Then it dawned on Ben what Marcel wanted. “I can’t. I can’t talk about it.”

  “You do not have a choice.”
r />   Because this man. This monster. This killer—held all the cards.

  “Yvette called me.”

  “When?”

  “When I left here the other day. On my phone. She told me to drive to this abandoned road.”

  Marcel’s cane hit the floor with a firm thump. “No. That is not what she said. Tell me what she said, Ben. Her words. How she sounded. Tell me, or I will make you.”

  Ben opened his mouth, closed it. He set his elbows on his knees and pressed the steeple of his fingers to his lips.

  “I spoke to Shelly first. She didn’t know where she was. When she got to the restaurant, some people stopped her. They told her…” Shelly had been concerned about him. “They…they told her I was in trouble. I had their money but wouldn’t do what they wanted.”

  Nothing about Marcel’s expression changed.

  “Then…then Yvette took the phone. She gave me the location of a closed road. Highway 308. She told me to meet her at mile marker twenty-six.” Ben dropped his hands and slumped.

  “But she told you something before that. Perhaps something about your mother. Or was it your father?”

  Could Marcel read his mind? “She said I must take after my dad. That my mother was a whore. That my father…my father was your whore.” Ben hadn’t really thought about the words until he had to repeat them. Now they festered.

  “And when you got to where she told you to go?”

  “Huh?”

  “When you got there, what did you see?”

  “Yvette was there with some men.”

  Marcel banged the end of his cane against the floor again. The hard, heavy sound rode up through the soles of Ben’s feet.

  He startled. “She was there with some men. They wore suits.” Ben’s voice cracked. “What more do you want to know?”

  Marcel lunged forward, from sitting to standing. The coffee table was shoved to the side hard enough to knock the duffle bag onto the floor where it puked its contents.

  Before Ben could even protest, the man had him by the head of hair and jerked off the sofa on his knees.

  “What are you…” Ben clawed at Marcel’s hand, but Marcel ended it with one hard shake, scrambling Ben’s thoughts, breaking off his protest.

  Marcel dropped his hand to Ben’s throat, pressing his thumb against the soft spot under Ben’s jaw. “I want you to tell me what you saw, Ben. What you smelled. What you tasted. Every detail.”

  “I…I can’t…I…”

  “And you no longer have that choice. You will tell me because I will you to.”

  “You can’t—”

  Marcel squeezed, sending a sharp jab up through Ben’s skull. He cried out.

  “The car was black…” Ben screamed the words. “Black, a Lexus. Shiny like it was new. There was a driver.”

  “What did he look like?” Marcel loosened his grip, and the pain stopped.

  “Why does that—”

  The pain returned with Marcel’s grip. Ben’s voice sharpened. “He was wearing a jacket. Had gloves on his hands. He held the steering wheel. He was white. Brown eyes.” Again the pain receded.

  “Keep going.”

  “Yvette got out of the car. She told me to bring her the bag. I put it…I put it at her feet. She told me to open it.”

  “And what did she look like?”

  “What…”

  “Describe her to me, Ben. What she wore. How she looked. How she smelled.”

  “She wore a pants suit. Her hair was blonde. Her eyes light…blue, grey, I think.” Ben tried to picture the woman in his mind. “Blue. She wore earrings. Small. Her hair was pulled up. She was pretty. She held a gun in her hand. Her nails, they were painted, I think, but the color wasn’t bright.”

  “And?”

  Ben tried to shake his head.

  “How did she look at you?”

  Cold eyes stared down at Ben, framed by a beautiful face. “Like I was nothing.”

  “How did she smell?”

  “I…” The image of Yvette formed in Ben’s mind. Details fell into place. The small scar on her chin, how loose strands of hair curled over her ears and against her cheek. “Like flowers.”

  “Jasmine and roses.”

  “I think I’m not sure, yes.”

  “How many men did she have?”

  “Two.” Ben tried to picture them. “They were white, big. They wore dark suits. Their hair was black. I didn’t really look at them.”

  “And what did Yvette say?”

  Ben swallowed.

  Marcel’s grip turned almost gentle. His voice softened. “What did she say to you, Ben?”

  “She told me Shelly was okay. She was right up the road. I went to get her. They’d tied her to the steering wheel. With those…those plastic ties. Before I could get very close, the fire…” Oil, petrol, plastic, the scents returned. And something sweet like…barbeque. Bile rode up Ben’s throat. “Oh, God, I could smell her burning.”

  Ben tried to pull away, and Marcel held him where he was. Sobs fractured Ben’s voice.

  Marcel tightened his hold just enough for Ben to feel the promise of pain. “No more tears, Ben. They do nothing.”

  How could Marcel stand there, face blank? Could he even feel? “I can’t change how I feel.”

  “Then I forbid it.”

  Ben choked a laugh. Marcel’s grip shifted to the column of Ben’s neck, and his air was cut off. Ben grabbed Marcel’s wrist and strained to lift to his feet. Marcel pushed, and Ben was on his knees again. He twisted to get away. Marcel pulled and forced Ben to return to the place at Marcel’s feet. His scarred face didn’t change, his breathing remained slow, and his arm didn’t even tremble with the effort to keep Ben where he was.

  “Let go of your grief. It will do nothing for you.”

  A strangled sound bubbled out of Ben.

  “You will let it go, or I will tear it out of you.”

  And Ben believed him. As impossible as it seemed, this man, this murderer, would reach into his chest and rip everything out.

  Marcel opened his hand, and Ben collapsed gasping. Spit dripped from his bottom lip to the hardwood floor.

  Marcel stepped back.

  Ben stayed there until the heat cooled from his skin, and the spots in his vision cleared. “Will you…” Ben sat on the floor with his back pressed against the sofa. “Will you help me?”

  Marcel nudged the duffle bag with the end of his cane. “For the money?”

  “Yes. Yes. All of it.”

  “And you think a life is only worth fifty thousand dollars.”

  “What?”

  “Is your life only worth fifty thousand dollars?”

  Ben raked a hand through his hair then made a fist. “This woman is trying to kill me!” She wouldn’t just try, she would succeed. “She killed my girlfriend, my ex-girlfriend.”

  “That does not answer my question, Ben Corbin.”

  Ben squinted at the monster in front of him.

  “A life. How much is it worth?”

  Ben stared at the floor. “I don’t have any more than that.”

  “Fifty thousand, a hundred, a million. Can you put a price on a human being’s soul?”

  Ben laughed again. “There’s a list in that bag with at least fifty names on it. People you killed. Lives you ended. Did you care about what they were worth?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much? How much were you paid?”

  “I was not paid.”

  Ben replayed what Marcel had said. He wasn’t paid. The contents of the duffle bag lay where it had spilled by the leg of the coffee table. “So, you just kill people for no reason?”

  “I decide nothing. My House decides.” Marcel went back to his chair and sat. He leaned his cane against the table next to it.

  Not that he needed it. Ben was beginning to doubt anything about Marcel was what it seemed.

  “And these Houses are some sort of secret society.”

  “It is far more complex than that. And thei
r existence is not very secret.”

  Ben huffed. “If they’re not very secret how come I haven’t ever heard about them before?”

  Marcel leaned back in the chair. “How hard have you listened?”

  The idea had never even occurred to Ben that such a thing could exist, let alone did. Still… “I should have seen something, right? On TV or in the newspaper. I don’t even know anyone in a mafia family but I’ve read about them.”

  “Perhaps you did see them.” Marcel tapped the scar on the webbing between his thumb and first finger. Jacob had an identical mark in the exact same place.

  But where else had Ben seen a mark like that? “The banker.” Hadn’t Marcel said something about him?

  Marcel nodded. “He was of the Ouroboros.”

  “He had a mark on his hand.”

  “A snake swallowing its tail.”

  It’s just a scar. Ben furrowed his brow.

  “But still, that is not the first time you have seen such a mark, Ben Corbin.”

  “My uncle.” Ben had to have looked at it a thousand times but it never really dawned on him to see it as anything but a knot of tissue. Even though it had looked like something. “I think it was an eye.”

  “Yes. He was of the House of Knowledge and Truth.”

  “Did he kill people?”

  “I told you. Your uncle was not a killer. He existed to protect. First history, then you.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me any of this?”

  “He was instructed to never tell you anything.”

  It didn’t matter. Uncle Greg should have said something. All those years of Ben not knowing, begging, pleading for answers about his mother only to be brushed aside. “Was he really my uncle?” The idea hadn’t occurred to Ben before.

  “He was your Mother’s brother, yes. But they did not have the same father. That is why she gave you his surname and not Alexander’s. Few knew Lorelle had family.”

  “My mother? Was she…did she belong to a House?”

  “She was just a woman who married into a powerful family who had ties to other Houses.”