Pepper

by Carol Buhler

  Bon thanked his associates, echoed by Laird, and sent them home with, “Court in the morning. Get what sleep you can so you can back me up.” Once they’d left the office, he turned somber eyes on Laird. “What’s wrong with your office?”

  Laird felt himself losing it. His head swam and his knees buckled. He knelt on the floor and sobbed. “Jaycee’s dead on the rug, throat cut. I don’t know what happened. She must have let them in for some reason.”

  Bon dropped to his knees beside his friend and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Oh, no. Poor girl. You’ll have to go to the cops after all.”

  “Yes. But I have no proof.”

  “You know who did this?”

  Laird’s head came up and his eyes blazed. “Santos, of course. Not him—his men. I killed one of his goons and left another tied up by The Dragon’s Palace. They’re going to come looking.” He felt his heart turn to stone. “I’ll be waiting.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Don’t wait. Attack!” Bon said. “They have numbers. You don’t.”

  Chapter 9

  Laird huddled in the dark shadows behind The Dragon’s Palace, deliberating his next moves. In his left hand, he carried the shotgun from the warehouse; in his right, he had his usual pistol. Tucked into his waistband was Byron’s handgun and he wore five knives strapped to various limbs. He was better with knives than guns anytime.

  What he contemplated should be considered suicide, but he figured he had surprise on his side. They’d expect him to continue to hide after their warning. That’s what the cuttings on Byron’s body had to be. His brother would live—but not his mind.

  Byron had come to a couple of hours earlier, groggy. Bon’s doc friend reported the boy didn’t know his own name, or the date, or what had happened to him. Bon had postponed his trial and transported him to the hospital without contacting Laird. He was bleeding from the brain from severe blunt force trauma and according to the surgeon, the prognosis wasn’t good. The surgeon wondered how he was still alive, Bon said. Laird hadn’t seen his brother since he’d left him in the doctor’s care in Bon’s office.

  He shook for a moment in fury, then took deep breaths to steady himself. Only cold determination, not anger, would get him through the next hour.

  Bon had called the police who’d gone to the office and taken Jaycee away. Laird had watched from the hidden tunnel in the back wall as they gathered all the information he and his brother had accumulated, hauling it away in one of the police vans making so much noise out front. They’d find no clue to his current whereabouts although he was sure they’d be hunting him once the night was over. Authorities never took kindly to vigilante justice.

  A noise came from the back door he’d been watching and he snapped back to the present. Two guards came out for a smoke and Laird grinned grimly in anticipation. They think there’s safety in numbers. A knife flew—catching the guard on the left in the eye while Laird swarmed onto the one on the right. Both died without a sound other than thuds as they hit the concrete. He retrieved his knives, wiped the blood off on the suit of one guard, and replaced them into their sheaths. Then, he picked up the shotgun and pistol again.

  Stalking forward, he took a deep breath, readied the shotgun, and pulled open the door. Of course, no one was there. This door should have been guarded by the pair he’d just killed. He ducked quickly left into a dark spot next to a crimson floor-to-ceiling curtain and surveyed the room. As crowded as it had been the last time they’d been there.

  A sudden movement two strides ahead caught his eye. In an instant, he drew the right sleeve knife and embedded it into the back of Derek’s head just above his neck. The body dropped and the woman who’d been talking with him screamed. The noise of the band was so loud, almost no one reacted. Laird slipped further left. Too bad I couldn’t let him know who killed him—the snitch.

  Wearing a brightly colored, patchwork modish jacket that Byron swore distorted the outline of the body when someone looked directly at him, Laird moved with confidence through the crowd toward the front door and its pair of heavies. The shotgun poked out below the jacket but no one seemed to notice as they concentrated on their gambling, their companions, or the dancing. If I can get those two with no fuss, I’ll be halfway there.

  That didn’t happen. One of the guards turned to look at the woman across the way who was still screaming and seemed to figure out something was wrong from the crowd slowly gathering around her, looking down. He waved a hand at his companion, then surged toward the woman, shoving and pushing his way through. Laird allowed himself to be jostled, then quickly made his way to the second bouncer. The man had turned to glance at the third door far to his left when Laird sidled up to him and pulled the trigger of his handgun. The silenced bullet entered the man’s gut and came out the top of his shoulder. He fell sideways. Another scream rang out over the crowd.

  Now, I have to move fast!

  Levering the shotgun upward, he fired two quick blasts into the ceiling. Chaos erupted around the club as people tried to hide or run. Only the bouncers were armed, Laird was sure, so he dodged and slipped his way toward the third door. Those two had drawn their guns and were scanning the crowd for the shotgun bearer. He’d left it at the front door and was creeping among the people fighting each other to get away. He knew he blended in—no more garishly dressed than half the men and women scrambling or crawling around him. But it was taking too long.

  And where is that third guard? Are there more in the back? Byron hadn’t seen any when he’d visited Santos in his office. Laird figured there were at least two others somewhere. Santos himself would be armed.

  A tall man dressed very like him stood abruptly in front of him and shoved his way toward the door. Laird slipped in behind him and straight-armed people trying to stop the leader as if they were together just trying to get out. Both guards focused on his guide, then looked past him. Ah, a regular. Such luck. When they came level to the guards, Laird bent down and punched his pseudo-friend in the back of the knee with a closed fist. The knee buckled and he went down, leaving Laird face-to-face with one of the guards. One shot went directly between the eyes and the second entered the other guard behind the ear. Laird dropped to the floor and quickly crawled away, shedding his jacket as he went.

  He reloaded as he moved toward the bar. The bartenders are probably part of Santos’ kill team, he thought. We’ll see.

  Three young men and a girl were huddled behind the bar, unarmed and shaking with fear Laird decided with a glance. He left them there and began a crouched search for the front-door man who’d gone off toward the first screaming woman and Derek. Chut! There were just too many people jumbled in a clump in that direction and an alarm had started squealing. A quick glance showed him the musicians had dropped their instruments and scrambled out the back; he saw the shoulders of the heavyset drummer with the long black braid disappear out the far door. Where he’ll stumble over the two dead men.

  Police sirens soared over the building alarm. I’ve done all I can for now. He clouted a man about his size and pulled off his jacket, then grabbed the screeching woman next to him and hurried her toward the door, now guarded only by the two dead men. When she realized he was getting her free of the chaos, she shut up and helped him sneak past the incoming police. Once outside, he dropped her arm and streaked away into the darkness.

  Coming to rest in the tunnel at the back of S&P offices, he stretched on the floor using his stolen jacket as a pillow. Sick with self-loathing, he wondered where the coldness had come from that had allowed him to simply kill the guards in the club. No trial, no jury. Just his decision. He shuddered with revulsion.

  Sound came from inside the building. He sat up, alert, and felt the chill wash over him again.

  Bon’s voice drifted through the tiny crack. “I told you he wouldn’t come back here. You can see nothing’s been touched since we were here before.”

  “I guess you’re right,” another voice said. Probably a cop. “Not that I don’t think
Santos deserves what he’s gotten, but we can’t let citizens take the law into their own hands. You’ll let us know if you hear from him, right?”

  “Of course, officer.” The voices faded as Bon evidently led the way to the front door.

  At least two hours passed. Laird had fallen asleep, cold and huddled but exhausted. A voice calling his name, echoing down his tunnel, woke him abruptly. It was Bon—at the far end, under the warehouse.

  “Laird. I don’t fit in there anymore so I can’t come any closer. I’m sure you’re there. They’re looking for you everywhere, and I can’t help. Not after what you did at the Dragon. Santos still has enough influence with the dirty politicians to keep the cops on your tail. Get out of town—that’s the safest thing to do. I’ll take care of Byron. Don’t go see him. I’m afraid he won’t know you and it’s just too risky.”

  He paused and the silence crept over Laird’s heart. He had nothing now. No brother. No friend. Just his rage.

  “Laird, let me know if you heard. Say something.”

  He didn’t answer. Bon doesn’t need my troubles. Eventually, he thought he heard Bon making his way back out the far end. He lay back down on his stolen jacket and cried.

  **

  The young man, ragged and smelling like he hadn’t had a bath in a long time, slipped into the bar. He’d spent days in Mont searching for this particular person and had finally tracked him to this back-street bar. He had a sketchy description that could have fit any number of men, but his quarry had one distinguishing feature—he was missing his left hand. The man he sought slumped over a tankard in a far corner, his back to the wall, his long hair practically dropping into his drink. His left arm was shoved under the table.

  The strange youth silently took the seat across the table. The assassin looked up with a frown that should have sent the intruder away but didn’t.

  “Name’s Pepper,” the boy said. “I’ve come to learn whatever you can teach me about killing. I’ll pay.”

  “Ha!” The older man blew out a stream of whatever he was drinking with the exclamation. “You ain’t got a nickel to your name, boy.”

  “I do. I’ll pay. And I’ll learn quick. You won’t have to work hard.”

  The assassin tilted his head and studied the boy. “Why?” he asked.

  “That ain’t your need to know. Will you teach me?”

  The man leaned back and stared into Pepper’s dark, hard-as-flint eyes. Finally, he said, “Why not?”

  **

  Three months later, Pepper followed one of Santos’ men away from the Dragon’s Palace to his home—a two-room flat in a better sort of neighborhood. Santos must be paying better, he thought as he slipped the garrote around the man’s neck and twisted it before he could draw a breath. He dropped a note on the body.

  Santos is coming down. Work for him at your peril.

  The next night, another of Santos’ goons was found dead, dangling by the wrists from an open beam in an empty building not far from the Dragon. He was naked, his body covered with tiny cuts. Police determined that his neck had been broken before the cutting began but they couldn’t determine how it had been done; the man was huge and his neck thick as a small tree trunk. Tucked into the rope binding his wrists they found a note, the same as the previous one, not written but pasted together with letters cut from the newspaper.

  Santos became frantic as his men and the police searched for Laird. It had to be him, gossip said, but no one had seen him anywhere in town. Bon denied knowledge of his former friend’s whereabouts and since he was becoming an increasingly well-known, influential lawyer, neither Santos nor his crooked police pals could harass him. Pepper, now blond with short curly hair, a scar running from edge of lip to eyebrow, weighing thirty pounds more than he had, and moving with a decided limp, grinned to himself as he heard the whispers from his seat in an out-of-the-way tavern.

  On a weekday, a man escorting Santos’s well-known beautiful wife died at her feet, his wrists slashed and both knees and ankles broken. The wife, totally untouched, was so traumatized she remembered nothing of who or what had happened. The police found the note in her purse. She had no idea how it got there.

  On the weekend, a boy threw a rock through one of the front windows of Santos’ home. Two guards took off chasing the running boy and died with knives in their throats. No one saw the knife thrower. No one caught the child. The note around the rock was different this time.

  Quit hiring them. They will die.

  Santos barricaded himself in the Dragon’s Palace and surrounded himself with armed men. Three pipe bombs exploded taking out the back of the building, killing three of the guards. During the subsequent chaos as Santos and his men choked and scrambled through the debris and smoke, three more died to knives in their throats, just like the previous two had in front of Santos’ house. Police found no note. The assassin evidently felt the warning didn’t need to be made again. Neither the police nor hired bodyguards had succeeded in stopping the killer from getting close enough to do his misdeeds.

  Santos despaired. The Dragon lost business as citizens fearfully, but avidly, devoured the grisly details of every death.

  Chapter 10

  Then came a break. Not one of Santos’ hired muscle was assaulted for over two weeks and they began to think the ghostly Laird had been stopped by one of their own. No one claimed the deed, but most relaxed their vigilance. The public cautiously returned to gambling at the Dragon’s Palace while newspaper headlines and TV news anchors speculated about the upcoming trial of a different famous murderer who had hired the rising legal prodigy, Bonami Jeffs. The attorney’s prior association with Laird was buried under more exciting news.

  The spoiled twenty-five-year-old daughter of billionaire Piers Jameson, Paris Jameson, who often skirted the boundaries of legal and social lines with her exploits, was currently being held in luxury at the Bonn jail. Accused of murdering her fiancé, equally wealthy Jarl Edwards, after a heated quarrel witnessed by everyone at the country club, her presence pulled in reporters and society gossips from across the continent. Her plight garnered more interest than the actions of known thugs. Everyone but Santos and his men forgot their fear of a deadly assassin seemingly moving freely in their city.

  Mr. Jeffs himself continuously declared the woman’s innocence and promised spectacular proof at trial. The public anticipated an exciting day.

  The night after the explosion at the Dragon’s Palace, someone broke into the evidence room at the police station. After a thorough inventory, no one could say exactly what had been taken. The very next night, Pepper picked the lock to Bonami’s office and carefully placed a packet of pictures and notes on his desk. Locking the door as he left, he climbed into his battered pickup and headed out of town until the Jameson trial was over. He didn’t like being upstaged by someone else and would be patient in continuing his revenge. Besides, he’d learned from his teacher in Mont that everything didn’t have to be done in a hurry. Sometimes, it was better to savor the kill.

  **

  A month after Paris Jamison was acquitted and released from jail—her fiancée had been killed by someone he’d foolishly gone into underworld business with trafficking drugs and then betrayed—and Bonami Jeffs was being fêted as the brilliant lawyer he truly was, in Pepper’s opinion, Pepper let himself into the tiny apartment he’d rented among the ramshackle apartment buildings of his youthful haunts in Bonn City. No one would connect him with the pair of boys who’d thieved and begged in the region twenty years earlier, although he’d let his hair grow and return to his natural brown. Tomorrow will be soon enough. I need to rest.

  The next morning, he paused at the door. He wore a simple money belt that held tiny packets of explosives instead of cash and his loose-necked shirt was laced with a deceptively thin cord-wrapped wire. He checked his pockets. In the left hid the tiny dart gun loaded with poison that killed between one heartbeat and the next; his teacher harvested the venom from some plant in the swamps of Delt. In th
e right rested a slim metal card sharpened to a guillotine edge that he could slash across a throat while it remained hidden in the palm of his hand. Both of his leather boots now contained two-sided blades, deployed from the toe by a quick stomp of his heel. With his usual knives strapped to his limbs, his gun fastened to his belt with an easy-to-break tie, and a passel of sharp pins he could stab into eyes, he was ready.

  Letting himself out, he strolled down the stairs confident that no one could divine his purpose. His landlady welcomed him back to town; he caught the bus on the corner; and he descended at the downtown library. From there, he walked quickly toward the Dragon’s Palace like a man with a place to be who wanted to arrive on time but wasn’t anxious or worried.

  Five in the afternoon. The Dragon should be relatively empty.

  It wasn’t. Bright signs festooned the usually dark outside proclaiming a celebration of the acquittal of his daughter hosted by Piers Jameson. Limousines lined the nearby streets, their chauffeurs slumped behind wheels with hats tipped over their eyes as they awaited their patrons’ return. Others were just dropping off their charges at the front door, queued up like a bunch of children in front of an ice cream truck. Too many people!

  Cussing under his breath, Pepper strolled by gawking like a tourist at the fancy-dressed ladies being handed out of their car doors by gentlemen in tuxedos. Bon’s probably there. Can’t risk it. By the time he’d returned to his shabby apartment, his mood had gone black with depression. He sank into the sofa and stared at the floor until the sunlight had totally gone.

  Finally, he got up, fixed himself a sandwich and grabbed a beer. I hate waiting.

  It occurred, then, that if Bon was at the celebration, maybe he could sneak in to visit Byron. He knew Bon had a guard on the boy’s room, but he should be able to get in through a window. He stripped all the death-dealing paraphernalia from his body and donned a dark sweater and pants, exchanging rubber-soled running shoes for the clunky boots. Within a few minutes he was perched on the balcony of the second-story room that held his brother, not captive, but safe. Bon should have known these walls wouldn’t stop me. But then, it has been several months and I haven’t broken in before. Maybe he thinks I wouldn’t after his warning.