by Carol Buhler
Sliding the lock pick from his belt, he pressed gently on the window’s latch. It moved and he was inside the dark room, window closed behind him. It was a big room with only one bed. Well furnished, he thought at first, then realized everything he saw was a toy of some sort—not small for a kid but big enough for an adult. He caught his breath in a sob and the figure on the bed sat up.
“Who’s there?” The voice was Byron’s, the inflection that of a child.
Pepper slipped forward silently and took Byron’s hand. “It’s me, Laird. How are you, brother?”
“Who are you?” They were Byron’s eyes staring at him—with no sign of recognition—or intelligence.
“You know me, Byron. I’m your brother, Laird.”
“No!” his brother screeched and the door crashed into the room. A large guard rushed toward him.
The man brandished his gun like an idiot. “Who are you? Get away from him!” he shouted. Pepper came to life in an instant and swung to the right, flinging out his left leg to catch the guard in the chest with the heel of his shoe. Not the boot, he thought in relief. He didn’t want to kill the man. Byron was screaming for help. Laird shot him a sorrowful glance, then raced to the window.
Pepper flung himself over the side of the balcony and landed running toward the park and its shadows half a block away. Gunshots sounded behind him—poor shots. He dropped to his knees and slithered under a gorse bush hedge. Pounding boots were soon coming his way so he tucked his head into the dirt and curled into a dark ball, stifling the sobs trying to escape his tortured heart. Bon tried to tell me. I didn’t believe. That is not my brother anymore.
The next morning, his heart cold from the aching, Pepper dressed for the day in his assassin clothing. He’d decided that his previous attempts at revenge had gone too quickly—his victims hadn’t suffered enough. This time, he would take it slowly. Santos would suffer as he did.
He didn’t approach the club but went instead to Santos’ home. A flirty maid in a blue bonnet opened the door. “I’m here to see Mrs. Julietta—about a job she wants done,” he said with a charming smile.
The maid grinned. “I’ll tell her. Please, wait here.” She sashayed up a stairway, casting quick glances back at him. He smiled at each one.
The woman came down the stairs with the maid trailing her. Chut. I could do without the maid.
“What’s this about a job?” Mrs. Julietta Santos said shrilly. He thought she looked troubled, almost haggard, not nearly as beautiful and sophisticated as she had the day he’d killed her escort.
“Your husband sent me, Mrs. Julietta. I’m to make arrangements for you to visit him later in the day.”
“Couldn’t you have just called with the information?” She turned to the girl. “Get me a drink. My usual.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl turned and bounded toward a doorway to the left. As soon as she disappeared, Pepper struck, slashing Julietta’s right cheek with the card. He flipped it over and slashed the other side before the woman found her voice to shriek. The maid dashed out, her eyes big at the sight of blood flowing from her boss’s face. She turned on Pepper and he slugged her. She dropped like a stone.
He was gone in a moment, but left a card in the pool of blood.
Mrs. Julietta will live. Will she still love?
**
He changed his hair color; cut it and dyed it dark red. Over the course of a week, he’d developed enough stubble to dye the same red. This time he wore a bright-plaid shirt and loose overalls so he’d stand out and hung outside the Dragon’s Palace like a country-hayseed who was on his first visit to town. He questioned passersby excitedly about what went on in the Dragon and exclaimed over their answers. Soon, one of the bouncers came to stop the nonsense outside the front door.
Pepper plunged the long knife into the man’s abdomen and left him on the sidewalk, clutching his belly, screeching in pain. The card read:
One. How many are there?
The red-haired man in the plaid shirt was never found. The bouncer died a slow and painful death. Santos gathered his men around him.
**
At the hiring hall, where those unemployed waited in line to learn about jobs to be had, Pepper, dressed in workman’s coveralls, cleanshaven, and hair dyed black, joined the line and struck up a conversation with the man in front of him. “So, whot’s the word, huh? Who’s hiring today?”
The man turned and looked Pepper up and down. “Official says Santos needs more guards. He’s paying better than others. But, you ain’t gonna get that job.”
Pepper pulled himself upright and stuck out his chest. “Whot you saying, mate? I ain’t good enough for Santos?”
The man laughed. “No, boy. You ain’t big enough. You have to have muscle to work for that man.”
Pepper deflated, making his face show his chagrin. “Well. I wouldn’t want to anyway. They say someone’s killing Santos’ guards, again. Like a couple of months ago.”
“Yeah.” The man’s face became thoughtful. “I heard that, too.” He turned and shouted to a big man in another line. “What’s you heard, Harry? Is someone knocking off Santos’ men, again?”
“Yeah. I ain’t taking no job like that.” Harry nodded his big head and soon the men up and down the lines were muttering about Santos not offering enough to get killed over.
Keeping his grin to himself, Pepper drifted away.
**
Over the next six months, Pepper took down one of Santos’ men every two weeks. They’d figured out his pattern, but no one had been able to guess where or how the hit would happen. Each man he left alive and suffering, with a numbered card:
Two—Who’s next?
Three—Quit or die
...
Twelve—Santos soon
He continued appearing at the hiring hall to keep the rumors flowing and to take odd jobs that helped pay rent and food. From the gossip, he felt confident that Santos was finding it harder and harder to hire.
Chapter 11
One morning, he was strolling toward the city along a side street in a rough neighborhood, whistling like he had not a care in the world. He noticed what he thought strange activity in a filling station to his right. Three men were loading several large cans of what had to be gasoline into the back of a pickup truck. One seemed very familiar, but Pepper couldn’t remember from where.
Instinct took over and he slipped out his tiny camera. That man’s identity will come to me sooner or later. Can‘t remember him now ‘cause he’s out of context. He shouldn’t be here, with those two losers. He got himself lunch, stopped by the market to pick up some sugar and tea, flirted with the stall girl over the apples, and came to a dead stop in front of the newspaper stand. From the front page, Bon stared at him. Pepper bought the paper and went to the park to read about Bon’s newest high-profile case.
“What for does he want that Sutherland brat as co-counsel?” Pepper mumbled to himself. He remembered the socialite from earlier surveillance. She was another of the spoiled rich girls, “but I guess she managed to get a law degree somehow.” He read through the article and turned to the next page. At the bottom, a large picture showed Lawrence Sutherland, the debutant’s very wealthy father, standing before his limousine addressing the public at the capitol building. Almost out of the picture, the man from the gas station waited stiffly, wearing a chauffeur’s hat and uniform. What is Sutherland’s so snooty driver doing loading cans of gas into a dirty pickup?
He hurried home and printed out his pictures. It was definitely Sutherland’s chauffeur he’d seen.
The next day, as he passed the newsstand, he saw the front page sporting a picture of a house on fire. He grabbed the paper and read the caption. The house belonged to one of Bonami’s partners, Jack Whitman. And it had burned to the ground. Fortunately, no one had been home.
“That does it,” he said loud enough to make the vendor stare at him. He tossed the man a coin and walked away, determined to find a way to deliver the pic
tures he had to Bonami, and maybe talk to him.
**
The man was late leaving his office and Pepper was getting cold lying under Bon’s car in the parking garage. Then, he heard footsteps that sounded like Bon’sf. Feet stopped by the door above Pepper’s head and hands fumbled with keys.
“Bon,” Pepper hissed.
The feet didn’t move, the keys continued to rustle. “Laird?”
“Laird’s dead—just like Byron,” Pepper said harshly. “Why’d you hire that Sutherland broad?”
“Her father threatened the firm and my co-workers.” Bon’s voice was quiet but steady.
“Should I take care of her—and him?”
“No. No. Not like that.” His voice rose.
“Didn’t think you’d want that. I got pictures of Sutherland’s chauffeur loading gas cans into a pickup truck two days ago. Thought you could use them.”
Bon gasped. “I can. Not right now, but later, after this case is over. Do you have other info on Sutherland? And maybe old man Brubacker?”
“Yeah. I’ll get it to you soon.”
“Laird, you’ve got to stop.” Bon’s voice rose in pleading.
Pepper knew exactly what he meant. “Not ‘til Santos is finished. Don’t look for me. I’ll get the stuff to you.”
“Laird. Listen to me.” Bon’s voice grew louder as Pepper slipped away, crawling under car after car. Luckily, no one else was in the garage.
He reached his current apartment building to find an urchin of about six puttering nervously about before it. The lad, a towhead who reminded him forcefully of Byron at that age, jumped when he noticed Pepper approaching, then scuttled toward him. “Message for ya, be ya Pepper,” the boy mumbled.
Pepper glanced around, saw no one looking his way. “What?” He dropped to one knee and offered the kid an apple as if being generous to a street rat. Softening his voice, he asked, “From whom?”
“Didn’t say. I’m to tell ya, ‘He tried to hire me to get you.’ Said you’d understand.”
“I do. Thanks.” Pepper slipped the boy a coin. “Tell no one.”
“Already warned,” the boy whispered before he ran away.
Pepper mounted the stairs to his room quickly, bundled everything he owned into a pack, and slid out the window onto the roof of the next building. Within ten minutes he was dealing with yet another landlady for another room for rent blocks away. How the old assassin had found him, he didn’t know, but he took the warning seriously and laid out plans for the night.
**
Entering the Dragon’s Palace at five in the morning, Pepper found it expectedly empty. Rumor said Santos had been living in his office after the disfigurement of his wife, his divorce during which she took the house, and the ritual slaughter of his hired men. The nightclub tipped on the brink of ruin as patrons abandoned it in droves, although, after that first melee, the assassin had never harmed a Dragon client—only its employees.
Rumor also said Santos only had two men left loyal to him—the rest would run at the sight of the slim body striding confidently through the lounge area. For once, rumor was right. Pepper only saw the backs of a couple of men slipping out doors as he crossed the vast room. When he reached the back hallway, two men stood solidly before the entrance Byron had described as the office door. Each held a gun pointed his way; their shoulders touched in mutual bravado.
“Now, guys,” Pepper said softly. “You don’t want to die for that scum. Why don’t you just leave me to my justice and walk away whole and sound?”
The one on the left growled and fired. Pepper had moved the instant he saw the lines around the shooter’s eyes crinkle, and a thrown knife embedded itself in the man’s throat. The other threw up his hands and dropped to his knees. The gun clattered away.
Pepper waved with the second knife and the would-be guard shuffled quickly by him on the way out the door. Pepper watched to make sure he left, then ran to the exit to lock it. Back in front of the office, he shoved the dead man aside, listened intently, and reached for the knob. A shotgun blast shredded the wood panels of both the door and the hallway to his right. He barely flinched as he felt the pellets whiz through his hair and the loose shirt at his shoulder and side. Waiting a moment for the next shot he expected, he was surprised it didn’t come.
Silently he moved to the right where the last blast had struck. Then, he flung the door open and dove to his right, rolling into a crouch next to a sturdy bookcase filled with what looked like file boxes. The shotgun remained silent as he scanned the room in an instant. Santos was alone, his face drained of color, the shotgun in his hand split open for a reload. He’s aged sixty years in the last six months!
Pepper rose to his feet and boldly walked toward the gangster.
“Ironic.” The man’s voice rasped as if it came from someone ancient. “I can’t shoot you as I see you. Through the door—that would have been okay. But now you’re here, I can’t do it. Someone else has always done my killing.” He placed the still open shotgun on the desk with care and laid his hands one on either side. “I’m sorry about your brother. Those men exceeded my directions. They were supposed to kill him—not leave him a vegetable. Or so I hear about his state.”
“Your being sorry doesn’t matter.” Pepper allowed his rage free rein in his icy tone.
“I know.”
They stayed frozen for several moments, the old, obviously exhausted gangster behind his desk, the younger assassin almost shaking with fury. Then, slowly, Pepper pulled his favorite throwing knife from behind his head. Santos closed his eyes. The knife implanted deep in the old man’s brain right between them.
Moving quickly, although feeling like he struggled with a cloying fog, Pepper left the building, picked up his pack, gathered the documents and photos to send to Bon, and drove out of town. His destination, he didn’t know. Nothing real existed for him anymore. Santos was dead, Byron avenged. What now?
Chapter 12
The next year passed in a haze. Pepper took a job in the rice paddies of Delt and spent his paycheck on booze in the nearby town’s disreputable bars. With his small, but strong body, he was an asset to the rice farmer, being able to plant, weed, and harvest faster even than the women he worked with. He slept on a pallet in the bunkhouse of the farm, sharing a room with ten other men, most of whom worked in the harvesting and packing of Lareina fruit. Each of them, he knew, thought they could break him in half with a single blow. They teased him regularly. He never contradicted them and laughed at their snide remarks.
He’d lost count of the days. He made no friends, flirted with no girls, and never gambled—another point of contention with his mocking roommates. He felt himself shut off from any sort of human emotion, although at night he often woke from nightmares of the men he’d killed coming for their revenge. It was a miserable existence. He knew it but had no motivation to change.
A particular Fesday was a holiday and all laborers on the farm got half a day off with pay. He climbed into the back of the truck that would haul them into town for their usual celebration and was the last to leave as the truck stopped before the Snake’s Den. It was the dingiest of his haunts, filled usually with serious drinkers like himself. No one ever bothered him there.
As he entered, he scanned the crowd. Same old bums. Barry, the bartender, was already popping the cap off his favorite beer. He moved past the bar and swiped it away. He’d pay at the end of the night. Barry knew that, but this time he stopped Pepper with a slight wiggle of an eyebrow.
“Bloke’s been asking about someone that might look like you,” Barry said out of the side of his mouth as he focused his eyes on the rag he was using to polish the bar. “Back corner table, heavy set, in his 40’s, I’d say. Smooth.”
Pepper allowed his gaze to wander in the stranger’s direction and noted him at once. Barry was right. This was not the typical bruiser or bum he usually shared his drinking with. This man was well-dressed, although subtle, not flashy. His dark hair was professionally
cut, his nails probably clean and polished. Their eyes locked and Pepper decided on the bold approach.
He tossed Barry a coin in case he didn’t make it back later to pay up, then strode confidently toward the stranger.
“Barkeep tells me you’ve been asking around. Mind if I join you?” He stood easy, confident in his ability to get away quickly if necessary.
“Please do, Pepper. I’ve been looking for you for several weeks. Pull up a chair.”
As Pepper sank into a seat, he studied the man. “I don’t recall ever seeing you before—and I have a good eye for faces. How do you know my name?”
The older man leaned forward with a slight smile. He was in no way threatening, but Pepper felt a cold chill run up his back. The man’s eyes were dark and didn’t echo the supposed friendliness of his smile.
“I know much more about you than a mere name, Laird.”
Pepper stiffened and made to rise.
“Wait. Hear me out.” The man didn’t move but his voice commanded obedience. Pepper sank back. “I mean you no harm and I’m not with the police of any city-state. Nor am I a bounty hunter. On the contrary, I want to hire a man of your skills to be my aide as I build my business.”
“What sort of business? And which of my skills are you meaning to hire?”
“I’ll start at the beginning, if you don’t mind. Go ahead. Enjoy your drink. I’ll order you another if you like.”
Pepper took a tentative swallow, then nodded for the man to continue.
“My name is Remé Firth. I come from Zron originally but consider myself a man of the world. I have several homes scattered across the continent and expect to expand my holdings considerably over the next ten years. Currently, I’m in steel, but want to expand that, also. As to your skills, I need your information gathering experience, your intelligence and cleverness in problem solving, and perhaps, your more...ah...physical, shall I say...expertise.”
