Face of the Assassin

by Bill Brewer

“But if it’s not a nice neighborhood and as you say it’s dangerous-”

  “I never said it was dangerous.”

  Stuttering Vince restated, “I mean it could be dangerous and we should ask the police to help us in case there’s trouble. We can’t handle any trouble.”

  “Speak for yourself. I’ve pulled him out of many parties and never had any trouble.”

  “But you said Brixton is a bad part of town.”

  “I didn’t call it bad, and even if it is, I’m not going to call the police so that Michael can be arrested and charged with public intoxication. That’s just not happening.”

  Julie cast the address to the A5’s navigation system while Vince tried to ignore the tension permeating the cabin of the sleek black sedan.

  Brixton was a working class neighborhood with no more work. Poverty, blight, crime and despair were on display for even the casual observer. With the evening turning dark and the address approaching, Vince felt like they were making a huge mistake. “Look when we get there, if it looks unsafe, I say we call the police and let them handle it. If Michael is in real danger then the police should be the ones to help him.”

  Julie’s disappointment came across crystal clear as she shot Vince a hostile glare.

  132 Trumble Street was an abandoned shopping center with a weed festooned parking lot, smashed glass storefronts and unlocked entrance doors. As they approached, a paunchy middle aged man quickly exited the building, doing up his pants. He was followed by an angry young woman, dressed in a ragged negligee, screaming at him, waving a few bills of currency in her hand. Vince parked the glistening automobile among the chest high weeds in the neglected lot. Being there at all seemed to Vince like a bad idea, but Julie was unperturbed.

  “This is not a smart move,” he said.

  “He needs me, I’m going to help him.”

  “Is this the kind of place where you’ve helped him before?”

  Turning to look out the window on the dilapidated storefronts Julie replied, “No, it’s usually a bar or a house party with lots of normal people around.”

  “See, we don’t even know what we could be getting into. Let’s call the police.”

  Indecision lurked in Julie’s eyes but disappeared when her phone rang. The tone was Michael’s. Vince listened to Julie’s side of the conversation.

  “Michael?”

  “Yes, I’m on my way.”

  “Yes I’m going to help you.”

  “I can see where you are on my phone.”

  “Keep the GPS signal on and I will come right to you.”

  “Alone? Yes I can come alone, but why does that matter?” Vince shook his head when she looked at him while speaking.

  “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “Now don’t panic. I’m on my way, I’ll be there shortly. Keep the GPS on.”

  Julie opened the car door and began to climb out. Vince grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?”

  “Let me go,” she commanded, burning Vince with a direct glare.

  “Hey tell me what he said. Why does he want you to go in there alone?”

  “When he has a panic attack, I alone can calm him. Anyone else makes it worse.”

  “That sounds manipulative. You could end up in a dangerous situation.”

  While Vince spoke Julie looked right at him, but he noticed three guys enter the building through the same door that the John and the prostitute used earlier.

  “Well excuse me, but this is my brother. He’s someone I love and trust, He feels the same for me. He would not lead me into danger.”

  “I don’t like it. We should call the police.”

  “We already discussed that. If you call the cops, I will never have anything more to do with you. Now you stay here, I’ll bring him back and we’ll go.”

  Vince watched her make her way through the weeds, which snagged at her knee length dress. She was going into a bombed out drug house wearing a sexy evening dress. Being Vince was hard. As Diegert, he would never have argued with her. He would have simply exited the car, stormed the building and laid waste to whomever got in his way as he searched for Michael. As Vince, he was being thoughtful and deferential, cooperative and supportive in spite of the fact that what she was doing was stupidly ill informed.

  She walked through the same entrance as the others, and disappeared from view. Disappeared, is exactly how it felt. Vince had no information, nothing to know if she was okay. He just looked at the open doorway and could see only darkness. What could be happening to her? Where the hell was Michael? How far had he gone off the rails to end up strung out while having a panic attack in a shithole like this?

  The next thing Vince saw caused him to question everything. Exiting the building was Michael Kellerman. He passed through the same doorway as everyone else, shook out a cigarette, lit it up and walked away. Vince scratched his temples anticipating Julie’s immediate exit. What the fuck was going on? Michael just walked away. He never even looked at the car or acknowledged his ride. Where was Julie?

  Spencer held Michael’s phone. He had moved into the back part of the old store. He was no longer alone. With him were three guys that made up his drug running crew. Harold was the tech guy, good with apps and operating communications. He was skinny, not too tall, someone for whom brains meant a lot more than brawn. He had a tattoo that looked like a microchip board creeping out of his shirt and crawling along his neck. Ian was a big dude, heavy set with thick arms and hands like bear paws. His buzz cut hair was the same length as his trimmed beard. Tomas was African. He wore dark sunglasses inside as well as out, and always wore a leather cap. He had a scar on the right side of this lower lip. An unfortunate mark left by a former associate who believed Tomas had not kept a secret.

  The three thugs joined Spencer up on the second floor in the rear of the store where there was an old break room. The door could be locked which was necessary for what they had planned.

  Julie followed the signal from Michael’s phone. This place definitely gave her the creeps but Michael must be so scared and confused in a place like this. Right now, he really needed her and when they were out of here, she would get him the professional help he needed. She followed the signal to the back of the abandoned store. She walked past empty shelving units, some of which had been tipped over and converted into sleeping spaces by the vagrant denizens. The signal brought her to a staircase. Looking up she saw a door with a window beside it. The window had a shade drawn over it, but light emitted through the thin pale fabric. Julie scampered up the stairs, eager to retrieve Michael and get him home.

  Vince called Julie’s phone, which went to voicemail. “This is Julie’s phone; I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, Bye.” Vince said, “Hey what’s going on? Michael just left the building. Where are you? Call me back.”

  After several minutes during which his tension boiled inside him, Vince waited no longer. He bolted out of the car and moved to the doorway. Inside he could see that the store looked like it had been looted and then reconfigured into a flea market of drugs and cheap sex. Slipshod arrangements of beaten up furniture served as the pleasure emporiums of a variety of illicit drug dealers and pushy prostitutes.

  “Blow jobs, twenty quid,” called out a scrappy lady with a gravel pit voice. When Vince turned in response, she slipped her hand inside her bra and lifted out her pendulous breast.

  Knowing it was useless, Vince had to ask. “Did you see a young lady go by wearing a really nice dress?”

  With a flutter of her eyelids, the woman responded, “I’m the only lady for you tonight honey.”

  Turning away with equal measures of revulsion and pity, Vince noticed a heap of garbage shake and shutter. From the pile materialized a middle-aged woman. She was dressed head to toe in what looked to Vince like six or seven layers of clothing.

  “Hey mister,” she began. “I saw the lady.”

  “Yeah, well where did she go?”

  “Ten quid and I’ll tell ya.”


  Taking the money from his pocket, Vince replied with a David Diegert tone, “And if I don’t find her, I’ll come back and take a lot more than ten quid outta you.”

  Julie knocked softly while turning the knob and opening the door. Inside she saw three tough looking dudes. With her heart leaping into her throat she asked, “Have you seen a guy named Michael?”

  From behind the door, a hand grabbed her arm, pulling her forward as the door slammed shut.

  “Michael, your brother, yeah he was here, but he left,” said Spencer as he now leaned against the door.

  “I... I don’t understand,” stammered Julie. “I was going to meet him here.” Raising her phone, she continued. “I was following the signal from his phone.”

  Spencer, with a lascivious smile, lifted Michael’s phone from his pocket. “You were following the right signal.”

  “Where’s Michael? Why do you have his phone? What did you do to him?” demanded Julie.

  “Whoah, we didn’t do anything to him. He left on his own accord. He left his phone with me so you would find your way here.”

  The shabby, overdressed informant led Vince into the back area of the large retail cavern. “I saw her go back here. People who go back here are the high rolling drug users. You want a nickel or a dime bag, you get it right here, but the more expensive stuff is in the back.”

  None of this impressed Vince. The space was dimly lit by widespread rectangular ceiling panels on way less than half power. The abandoned infrastructure of the old store lay dispersed and disorganized into a haphazard labyrinth covered in dust.

  “I don’t see why high rollers are going to come back here.”

  With her scrawny digit extending from her fingerless glove, the heavily bundled tour guide pointed to the rear of the space. “There’s an office in the back on the second floor.”

  Vince ducked down to her height. He could see below and beyond the ceiling that the back of the building rose to a second floor. There was a stairway and an illuminated, curtained window.

  “Look darl’n,” said Spencer. “Your brother owes us a lot of money and we saw your sexy picture, so he offered you to us for relief of his debt.”

  Julie backed away wishing she was wearing something more substantial than her spaghetti strap dress. Her plunging neckline, which had the exact effect on Vince she intended, left her feeling dangerously exposed. “If you guys touch me you will be committing a crime.”

  Spencer smiled and laughed while looking at the amused expressions of his three compatriots. “It won’t be our first.”

  The room was furnished with random cast offs. There were two couches, one floral the other beige. The table had metal legs and a Formica top. It was surrounded by four mismatched chairs. A small kitchenette featured a sink flanked by drawers with cabinets above and beside it. The fridge was normal size, which seemed too big for this kind of space.

  All four of the men were standing.

  It was Spencer who continued to speak. “Your body is just as beautiful as the pictures. This is going to be great.” He shrugged off his long black jacket revealing muscular arms. “Harold, Ian,” he said as he nodded his head to the two men. They each moved forward quickly, grabbing Julie’s arms. Spencer stepped up to her and pulled down the top of her dress.

  Vince picked up the pace as he approached the stairway, but he broke into a sprint when he heard Julie screaming from within the upstairs break room.

  Julie struggled against the hands that held her arms, but their combined strength easily surpassed her best effort. The force of the movement made her bare breasts sway and bounce, which further entertained Spencer, whose hideous smile broadened as he stared at her exposed chest.

  Bounding up the stairs two at a time Vince crested the walkway and strode toward the solid door. It was locked. A closed curtain covered the adjacent window denying Vince a look inside. He could hear voices and see shadows moving. Farther down the walkway was a metal chair with a torn upholstered seat and backrest. Vince grabbed the rigid metal structure and returned to the window.

  Spencer tore the rest of Julie’s dress off her. As he stood there glaring at her panties, she kicked out at him with both legs. Using the strength of the two men holding her, she was able to land a kick at his groin and another on his face as he leaned forward. Harold and Ian, surprised by the sudden increase in weight, struggled and stumbled, eventually dropping Julie to the floor.

  Vince smashed the chair through the window. Bashing the glass several times and pulling the curtain to the side, he cleared the way for him to vault into the room. Julie sat on the floor wearing only panties. Four dudes were in the room, one of them, with long black hair, was down on his hands and knees, blood oozing from his lips. Julie’s eyes locked on Vince as she sprang to her feet, scurrying over to him. Still wearing her two inches heels, her feet were spared from the lacerating shards of broken window glass.

  Keeping her behind him, Vince now faced all four men as Spencer slowly rose to his feet.

  As Vince Kronig, Diegert wanted to be a nice guy. A thoughtful, gentle person, who was generous, kind and fun loving, but those traits were not going to save Julie in this situation. So Vince’s handsome pretty boy face took on the hard edged determination of David Diegert’s fight face.

  Assessing the enemies, Diegert realized the biggest, strongest guy, Ian, appeared slow. The small, skinny guy, Harold, looked like he’d be quick but wouldn’t pack much of a punch. The guy with the sunglasses and cap, Tomas, was between the two in size. The lip scar gave him a battle damaged look, but without seeing his eyes Diegert was unable to assess his lethality. The tall guy with the long hair and muscular arms, Spencer, stood warily recovering from the painful kicks. In spite of bleeding from his mouth and ventilating like a blacksmith’s bellows, the guy impressed Diegert as the leader of the group. Diegert assessed him as a substantial adversary who was gratefully, temporarily, at less than full capacity.

  “The girl leaves,” shouted Diegert.

  “Fuck you,” replied Spencer through heavy puffs of labored breath.

  Diegert’s first action was against Ian. The big guy could definitely do some damage, so Diegert attacked with a vicious shin strike and stomp on the guy’s left leg and foot. Closing the distance and using a fractional moment of surprise, Diegert clocked the guy’s jaw with a palm heel strike that caught him with his mouth open. The strike produced a crushing force on the guy’s teeth. Chunks of broken enamel flew out as the pulp of the broken teeth pumped dark blood, upon which the big man gagged.

  Diegert went next for the low hanging fruit. Harold seemed unprepared for violence, but he was even quicker than Diegert thought as he stepped to avoid the spinning backhand fist strike Diegert shot at him. Continuing the spin, Diegert lashed out with his left leg connecting with Harold’s right knee, kicking it into hyperextension. The ligaments snapped, forcing the thigh forward over the lower leg, the knee bent in the opposite direction from which it was designed and Harold fell to the floor screaming with a leg that was no longer able to bear weight.

  Tomas pulled his right hand out of his pocket to reveal a solid cylindrical handle. With his thumb, he pressed a button, releasing a six inch blade which shot out of the front end. From the back end of the handle, a razor sharp spike, shaped like the head of a hunting arrow, protruded two inches. A flick of his wrist made a metallic snap when both the blade and the spike locked into position. With his sunglasses still in place, the man squared off against Diegert.

  From his coat, Spencer drew a 9mm Beretta. Diegert saw the weapon in his peripheral vision and reacted immediately. Striking sideways, he surprised Spencer by clamping his wrist and bashing the bony joint against the wall. The gun went off as Spencer dropped it. Diegert punched Spencer in the gut and whipped him around into the bull rush charge of Tomas. The two drug dealers collided, sprawling Spencer to the floor while Tomas stumbled forward over the body of his boss. Diegert kicked Tomas in the hip, toppling him over. As he fell, his knife dr
ove into Spencer’s thigh.

  The groan from Spencer bellowed throughout the room. Tomas, from his seated position, instinctively withdrew the blade, releasing pulses of arterial blood, which sprayed up into Spencer’s face. Diegert side kicked Tomas in the head as he reacted to the fountain of blood erupting from Spencer’s thigh. The kick knocked the cap off the black man’s head as it laid him out on the floor. The pistol lay between Diegert and Spencer. Through his blood-splattered vision, Spencer made a move for the gun. The distance had Diegert a few seconds behind. Spencer got the grip in his hand and pulled the trigger just as Diegert hit the barrel, redirecting the bullet. The projectile went high and behind striking Ian in the throat. A whoosh of air turned into a frothy bubbling as blood spilled from the wound into the big guy’s lungs. Grabbing the length of the barrel Diegert torqued the gun out of Spencer’s grasp. With the grip in his hand, Diegert stepped back, pointing the gun at Spencer. Tomas rose from the floor and groggily made his way to his feet.

  “Grab the bitch,” ordered Spencer.

  Diegert moved to shield her. Tomas held his knife in front of him and moved to a flanking position. Spencer used both hands to put pressure on his hemorrhaging leg.

  “Shoot him,” screamed Julie.

  Diegert pointed the gun at Tomas and then back at Spencer. Harold had scooted into a corner, moaning as he clutched his deformed knee. His lower leg stood straight up in the air, toes pointing at his face. Ian was dead, asphyxiated from the GSW to his throat.

  “Which one?”

  “The one with the knife.”

  Diegert spun to face Tomas, pointing the Beretta at the knife wielder. Tomas was not buying it. “Drop the knife or die,” said Diegert. Tomas looked at the pretty boy taking direction from his naked girlfriend. His smirk was accompanied by a chuckle of disrespect. Flipping the blade into an underhand position, he was not disarming.

  “Or die,” said Diegert raising the weapon, placing the forehead of the black man in the iron sights. The 9 mm round, moving at one thousand feet per second, ripped through his cerebral tissue, splattering blood and gray matter like ground beef in tomato sauce across the floral couch. His heavy body fell over the arm of the couch, rotated sideways and flopped face down on the floor.