A Quiet Man (Victor Book 9)

by Tom Wood

  Wall shrugged again and nodded as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

  Victor pretended he didn’t notice the driver exchange pointed glances with Wall.

  The driver had a beard and dark hair swept back from his face that reached halfway down his neck. He was tall, like the guy in the back, and so the headrest had been extended.

  Victor’s left hand shot out and thrust through the gap between the headrest and the seat, taking hold of the driver’s long hair in a tight fist and wrenching it down and back.

  The driver’s head pivoted back, his gaze going skyward, eyes off the road. He cried out in surprise and fear.

  Victor wrenched the head back into the rest again and again, which was too soft to inflict much damage but added to the driver’s disorientation.

  Wall fumbled his draw, his big hands sweaty and clumsy. This wasn’t ideal because Victor had to wait to disarm him, holding on to the driver for longer.

  Wall kept fumbling the draw. Limited dexterity. Lack of practice. Fear. Pressure.

  Victor rolled his eyes.

  The gun that eventually emerged from beneath Wall’s jacket was a shiny SIG. He drew it with his right hand and had to lift it up past his own left arm and shoulder to aim. He was already reaching out with his left hand to ward off potential attacks.

  Victor improvised and went for the exposed hand, snapping a grip across the fingers, compressing them together in a savage squeeze, then withdrawing his arm with just as much speed and power, pulling the bald guy off balance and down to the seat.

  Victor struck him on the back of the head with downwards elbows until he heard the gun fall into the footwell as Wall released it to defend himself.

  The driver, his gaze still directed at nothing but the car’s ceiling, continued to cry out, louder now that his erratic driving was being met with responding horns and screeching tyres.

  Without the gun as a threat, Victor was free to loop his right arm around Wall’s throat, but before he could fully establish the choke, Wall managed to slither out enough to clear his neck and the vulnerable carotids. That saved him from the choke but not from pain, because now Victor’s arm was across the guy’s face.

  Victor squeezed.

  The hard bone of his wrist lay over Wall’s cheek. Bone against bone, but there were several hundred more nerve endings in the guy’s cheek than Victor’s wrist.

  He wailed.

  Victor kept squeezing, pulling Wall’s head against his flank, pinning it there with nowhere to go so all the pressure focused on the sensitive cheekbone.

  He wailed and wailed.

  The driver lost control of the vehicle and it careered up a kerb at speed, the sudden jolt enough for Victor to lose his grip on Wall, who scrambled away so fast he threw himself against the back door.

  Victor released his hold on the driver’s hair because Wall, now clear of his reach, went for the gun in the footwell. Victor struck him with an open palm to the side of the head, aiming for the ear where it would inflict more pain, but a hard swerve as the driver sought to regain control of the car threw him off balance and he missed.

  The swerve meant Wall failed to retrieve the weapon, almost falling headfirst into the footwell. He struggled to right himself, his left arm reaching out to find purchase but instead finding Victor, who grabbed the hand and snapped the guy’s thumb.

  Then each of the other four fingers, one at a time.

  Snap, snap, snap, snap.

  Wall cried out with every break, the volume of his cries increasing each time, pitch heightening.

  Victor took the broken fingers into his fist and squeezed.

  Broken bone ground on broken bone.

  Wall whimpered.

  ‘Stop,’ he begged. ‘Please … ’

  Victor said, ‘Tell the driver to stop the car.’

  ‘Stop the car,’ Wall yelled.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ the driver agreed, slowing down and pulling over to the side of the highway.

  ‘Keep your hands on the wheel,’ Victor told him, compressing Wall’s broken fingers to bring forth a cry.

  ‘They’re on the wheel,’ the driver yelled back. ‘Stop hurting him.’

  Victor said, ‘Take the gun out of the footwell and place it on the seat.’

  Contorted and bent over, half in the footwell and one arm outstretched and immobile, Wall had a hard time trying to locate the gun. He breathed in rapid, shallow inhales and exhales, trying to fight the pain from his fingers that Victor kept constant but not debilitating.

  ‘Tell me once you have it.’

  Wall said, ‘Okay.’ Then a moment later: ‘Got it.’

  ‘Grip it by the muzzle,’ Victor told him, grabbing the driver’s hair again.

  ‘Okay.’ Wall did as he was told.

  ‘Now hit your friend with it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hit the driver with the gun,’ Victor explained.

  Wall’s eyebrows moved closer together in confusion.

  Victor said, ‘I want you to pistol whip the driver.’

  Wall said, ‘Why?’

  ‘You don’t need to know why I want you to do it, but why you should do it is because if I have to do it I’ll first break the fingers of your other hand.’

  Wall looked from the driver to Victor and back again.

  The driver said, ‘Don’t do it.’

  Wall said, ‘I have to.’

  ‘Please,’ the driver said.

  ‘Don’t judge him,’ Victor said. ‘He has no choice.’

  Wall shifted in his seat so he could lean through the gap between the seats. He raised the pistol.

  Victor kept a tight hold on the driver’s hair. ‘Hit him on the top of the skull. You hit him on the forehead and all you’re going to do is cause him a tremendous amount of pain and then you’ll have to hit him again.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ the driver whimpered.

  ‘I assure you this is an entirely rational course of action.’

  ‘I’m sorry, dude,’ Wall said.

  ‘Don’t,’ the driver begged.

  Wall struck him on the top of the skull with the bottom of the handgun’s grip. A good, hard hit.

  The driver went slack.

  Victor released his hair. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  Wall hesitated.

  Victor said, ‘If you don’t want to tell me I can shoot you and ask the driver when he wakes up.’

  ‘You can’t shoot me,’ Wall said in a sheepish tone. ‘The gun’s not real. It’s a replica.’

  ‘You’re kidding. Then why did you bother going for it?’

  ‘You know,’ Wall said. ‘Try and scare you off.’

  ‘Okay,’ Victor said. ‘If it’s just a replica then you can still tell me where you were planning to take me because if you don’t I’ll beat you to death with it and then ask the driver when he wakes up.’

  Wall exhaled. ‘Just some place on the edge of town.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Victor said. ‘Industrial. No nearby residents.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Give me the address.’

  Wall did.

  ‘How many are waiting there?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Just one?’

  Wall nodded.

  ‘You’re not very good at this, are you?’

  Wall looked away.

  Victor gestured to the driver. ‘You’d better check his pulse.’

  Wall said, ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re stronger than you look and that was a solid pistol whip. You might have killed him.’

  ‘Wait, what? Seriously? Ah, shit. Shit. No, no … ’

  Victor decided there was no point talking to Wall about his use of bad language. Any lesson would fail to be heeded given imminent unconsciousness.

  Wall pushed himself through the gap between the seats to take the driver’s wrist, which wasn’t easy with only one hand. He had to lead through with his good hand and tense and brace to maintain his
balance. He also had to give his back to Victor.

  Who hit Wall on the back of the head with the replica handgun.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  It was only a short drive to the address Wall had given him. It took almost as long to get the unconscious driver out of the driver’s seat and into the passenger seat. A big, uncompliant guy.

  The neighbourhood was quiet and dark. Small industrial units for a small town. Some operational throughout the night. Others silent. On the periphery of the larger units was a derelict building. The chain-link fence surrounding it was rusted and warped and absent entirely in places. The gate was open.

  Trash had piled up where the wind had pushed it and nature had begun reclaiming the strip of asphalt that had once been a parking lot. No vehicles – all three must have travelled in the black SUV – but faint light glimmered from inside the derelict building, refracting through broken glass that formed teeth in smashed-out window frames.

  Victor drove the SUV right up to the front of the building because that’s what an incompetent would do.

  In similar fashion, the third guy appeared, pushing open a fire exit. He was smiling, pleased the other two had arrived, maybe excited by what would commence now everyone was here.

  With the headlights still on, he couldn’t see that it was Victor behind the wheel until he was too close.

  Victor had already released the catch and slammed the heavy SUV driver’s door into the guy, who jolted backwards and fell to the ground.

  Victor was out of the vehicle by the time the guy had recovered; he had a passing resemblance to Wall, he saw. Cousins, maybe.

  He had no gun, real or replica, because there was nothing in his hands.

  He was hurt, unsteady on his feet. He had fallen hard, hitting his head on the cracked and rutted asphalt, splitting the skin of his forehead in a jagged gash above his eyebrows. Blood flooded his eyes.

  The guy was far from done.

  Trying to blink the blood from his eyes, he came at Victor, staggering more than walking, swiping with his hands more than punching because he was dazed and could hardly see.

  Victor stepped back, not needing to parry or dodge the slow, telegraphed attacks. He let the head wound do its job – each second meant more blood leaking from the guy’s forehead, further blinding him, further slowing him.

  ‘Fight me,’ the guy barked in a slurred voice full of strain and frustration. He beckoned with his fists for Victor to come closer.

  ‘Why?’

  The guy growled in response and tried to rush Victor.

  A quick side-step put the guy off balance and he stumbled forward, correcting himself before falling only because he bumped into the wall of the building. He pushed himself away from it with a considerable effort, leaving behind a smear of blood, and used that momentum to turn around to face Victor again.

  Victor said, ‘Give it up. All you’re doing is embarrassing yourself.’

  ‘Coward,’ the man hissed.

  Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘Just one of many character flaws I have to live with.’

  The guy charged one last time.

  He made it three steps before he tripped and fell on the uneven ground.

  He was too tired to get back up again.

  Victor kicked him in the side of the head to make sure he stayed down.

  Inside, the derelict building had one room with lighting via a free-standing halogen work lamp. The kind used in construction. That room had a metal chair in the centre that had been newly bolted to the floor. The chair was too clean to have been here already, so they had brought it with them. Along with several rolls of duct tape. Snacks and drinks were in a bag in a corner because they had planned to be here a long time. A crooked table had been dragged in from somewhere else, judging by the marks in the dust on the floor. Another bag lay on the table, its contents already removed and laid out in a neat line.

  A curled length of hose, box cutter, hammer, pliers, bolt croppers, and a cordless drill. The last had several attachments including sanding and grinding heads.

  Wall – the guy claiming to be him, at least – came to first. He groaned and shuddered and then his eyes snapped open and he struggled against his restraints. Victor had used their duct tape to secure wrists together, knees together, and ankles together.

  The three were next to one another on the floor, backs up against a wall.

  Victor waited in the metal chair, facing them.

  Wall went to speak but instead grimaced, eyes pinched shut tight. He had been hit on the back of the head, after all.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘I swear I don’t know,’ Wall said once the moment of pain had passed.

  ‘You need to tell me something.’

  ‘We got a call this afternoon from people we’ve worked with before. They were passed a job from someone who called someone who called someone. You know how it is.’

  ‘Shy client,’ Victor said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Wall said. ‘You’re causing them a problem. They wanted you run out of town.’

  ‘They want me dead?’

  ‘No, no,’ Wall replied, fast. ‘But hurt real bad so you never even dreamed of coming back.’

  ‘Not a single gun between the three of you suggests I should believe that. Especially given the selection of toys on the table.’

  Wall waited. He started to sweat.

  ‘This presents a quandary, doesn’t it?’ Victor said. ‘You’re just doing a job, I get that. I don’t take these kinds of things personally. Usually, it’s to do with work. So this is the same, but different. Any other time I deal with it. I move on. Never think of it again. Yet a permanent solution is going to generate more attention for me, and I already have more than enough of that to deal with.’

  Wall, sweating, listened.

  ‘Still, there has to be a consequence. You have to understand the error of your ways.’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘You might,’ Victor said, standing up from the metal chair. ‘The other two might not.’

  ‘I’ll make sure. I swear it.’

  ‘Words are cheap, sadly for you.’ Victor perused the selection of tools on the table. ‘And time is not on your side. We have to sort this fast. And if we are to avoid a permanent solution then you need a permanent reminder never to repeat your mistake.’

  Wall, sweating hard, watched.

  Victor settled on the bolt croppers.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Derek was looking forward to getting home because Wifey was on the sofa drinking wine and when she drank wine all on her lonesome Derek’s head hit the pillow with a smile on his face. She had cooked too, but while she made a mighty fine lasagne with five different kinds of cheese, Derek was only hungry for one thing.

  He checked his watch. Three whole minutes had gone by since he’d last checked it. This shift was taking for ever. One of those days when the earth spun in slow motion, when his boots were loaded with lead, when every asshole in North America decided to pass by his booth thinking he was a punchbag for their attitude.

  Which was why he didn’t return the smile at first.

  When you’re in a bad mood a smile is the last thing you want to see.

  Took him a moment to remember the face behind the wheel.

  ‘You again,’ Jennifer Welch said. ‘What are the odds?’

  Derek’s face lit up now. He returned Welch’s magnificent smile. ‘Of all the border booths in all the world … ’

  ‘How have you been?’

  ‘Same shit, different day. You?’

  ‘Different day, same shit.’

  ‘Isn’t it always the way?’

  He leaned down so he could peer into the vehicle and give himself a legitimate excuse for getting a little closer to Welch. He didn’t remember the faces of the three guys from last time but he was pretty sure they were the same three. They behaved the same, certainly. They left all the talking to the boss, to Welch.

  She reached for the glovebox and Derek waved a hand.
/>
  ‘You sure?’ she said.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve taken up a false identity since last time I saw you.’

  ‘Who says the one you saw last time was genuine?’

  Derek chuckled. ‘Where have you been all my day?’

  ‘For a moment I thought you said “Where have you been all my life?”’

  ‘That too,’ Derek said.

  Damn it, he was flirting. Better get back to business.

  ‘What brings you to Canada … again?’ he asked. ‘Unfinished business?’

  Welch said, ‘Broken promises.’

  Derek said, ‘Make ’em pay,’ and waved her through, thinking of Wifey’s five-cheese lasagne and what would follow.

  Welch gave him one final, beautiful smile.

  ‘Oh, they’ll pay.’

  FIFTY-SIX

  McAllan slept like a baby. When his big head hit the down-stuffed pillow it was a fast train to slumber town. The first few years after Janine passed had been rough on him and his sleep. McAllan had taken to sleeping with the bedside lamp on most nights because sometimes he would wake up in the dark and in his drowsiness reach out to her. Then he didn’t so much sleep like a baby as sob like one.

  That was a long time ago now. He had fixed his sleep over many months of trial and error that he had approached like a big city contract for which he was bidding. He worked hard and took the setbacks on the chin and kept at it until it worked.

  He had never felt better.

  Once his cholesterol was in check, he would be bulletproof again. Rebuilt. Or remade? He wasn’t sure which was the more accurate description.

  The diet and exercise routines were painfully dull and boring, but like his sleep, he would crack them too. He just needed to find what suited him. With sleep, he had learned many tricks that in combination worked a charm: no electronics two hours before bed, a cold bedroom, no lights on at all, not even the standby LED on the wall-mounted television. He went to bed on an empty stomach. He didn’t have coffee after dark. He took herbal remedies that promoted relaxation. He meditated. He went to bed at the exact same time every single day without exception. Circadian rhythms had become his bitch.

  It also helped to know that two of his crew were always present in the house as security and that the best alarm system money could buy provided additional protection, while a big, ferocious Rottweiler that wasn’t fed until the morning stalked the grounds.