by Bill Brewer
Twenty bucks got him inside the party, and he began his reconnaissance. Del Fuentes was not hard to find. The big, handsome gentleman sat at a corner booth with a beautiful young woman beside him and several couples surrounding the table. He was gregarious and animated and clearly in control of the evening. The waiter would approach him from behind, speak directly into his ear, and then walk briskly away when Del Fuentes waved his hand. He looked like the king of this court and someone who relished the servitude his money and power was able to buy. His bodyguard stood off to the side, likely with a gun under his summer-weight suit coat.
From his seat at the bar, Diegert was able to observe his target. As the evening progressed, Del Fuentes eventually rose from his seat and forced his considerable bulk out of the booth and down the hall. The bodyguard was instructed to stay put with a wave of the hand. Diegert followed, observing as the big man bypassed the men’s room where all the rest of the guys went and entered a room farther down the hall marked “Private.” The king certainly wasn’t going to piss with the pawns, and Diegert knew he had found his opportunity to stage an accident.
Diegert got a cheap motel room in Overtown for which he paid cash and falsified the registry. He showered and slept, but he was buzzing on adrenaline now that he had a plan to kill Victor Del Fuentes. In the morning, he went to a hardware store and acquired a screwdriver with multiple heads, needle-nose pliers, electrical wire, and an aerosol can of ignition starter fluid. From a consignment shop, he purchased black pants and a black shirt. Combined, the two garments dressed him like all the waitstaff at the Blue Pearl.
After passing the day avoiding being burned by a sun that was almost as hot as Afghanistan, he entered the kitchen of the Blue Pearl looking like a new guy on the waitstaff. Del Fuentes was in his booth with a different young lady and a new set of couples enthralled with the king’s every word.
Diegert stepped out of the kitchen in his waiter’s attire, went straight down the hall, and entered the room labeled “Private.” The toilet was to the right, the sink to the left. The room had soft lighting, which gave the space a gentle glow in which to complete your business. Stepping to the sink activated a sensor that illuminated an overhead unit. The brighter light conveniently lit the sink for the washing of hands. Diegert smiled as his plan had found the perfect situation for execution.
Using his tools and the canister of engine-starting fluid, Diegert turned the overhead sink light into an automatically activated explosive device in a matter of minutes. Stepping out of the room, he heard, “Hey, you’re not supposed to be in there.” The young waitress had a tray of meals in her hands and cast Diegert a scornful look as she continued out to the dining room.
Diegert just looked at her, smiled, and shrugged his shoulders.
For thirty minutes, Diegert blended in with the staff while observing the booth. The young lady with Del Fuentes was very disinterested in the paunchy man and seemed to be much more enamored with the cleavage of the wife sitting next to her. Del Fuentes’s bladder eventually asserted itself, and the big guy exited the booth.
Diegert moved toward the restaurant’s exit. The explosion was immense, blowing the door of the private bathroom right off its hinges and across the hall. Del Fuentes’s dead body lay in the doorway as a grisly decapitated corpse. The crowd grew hushed for a second, contemplating that perhaps there was an accident in the kitchen. The situation turned into a panic when a waitress, seeing Del Fuentes, screamed like a victim in a horror movie. By this time, Diegert had already taken his leave and was walking down the street turning the corner and leaving the scene of his first “accidental” assassination.
The text Blevinsky received from Diegert had only one word: Completed.
Checking the news a few hours later, Diegert read a post from the Miami Herald announcing the death of Victor Del Fuentes in what appeared to be a freak accident in the men’s room of the Blue Pearl. Obviously, Blevinsky had also read it as his reply gave Diegert the address of the Miami Executive Airport southeast of Miami. The text included the tail number of the plane and a boarding code to show the plane’s crew.
When Diegert arrived, the sleek design of the Gulfstream G650 made him feel out of his element yet eager to move forward. As he boarded, his initial impressions were surpassed by the luxury appointments of the interior.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Diegert,” came the voice through the cabin speakers. “I am your captain, Edward James, and your co-captain for this flight is Robert Allen. We are ready for departure as soon as you’re comfortable. Our flight time to Paris is seven hours and forty-three minutes. Amber, your cabin attendant, will be serving you as soon as we reach our cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet. Please press the green button on your armrest when you are ready to fly. Thank you.”
Sitting in the broad, soft leather seat, Diegert’s smile revealed his pleasure to be receiving such service and respect. Amber was a gorgeous young woman whose continuous smile told him she was ready to please. After one last satisfying breath and a look at the cherry wood trim of the cabin, Diegert pressed the green button and left America behind.
The comfortable seats, the serene sky, and the sense of secure quiet, lulled Diegert into contemplation. His reaction to killing Sam and Peotor was so intense he realized that the time he felt most powerful was when he was fighting. In high school, the only place he felt competent and confident was on the wrestling mat. The intensity of the matches had cleared his thoughts, allowing him to detach from his regular life and use his skills on the mat to gain a sense of power. The success of thrashing guys into submission filled a void in his day-to-day life. The minute practice was over, returning to the hallways or the bus, and pretty much everywhere else, he was filled with doubt and self-conscious judgment.
In the Army at Fort Benning, he’d felt good when training. The full-pack marches, low crawling through the dirt and practicing Modern Army Combatives had given him a sense of accomplishment. He was able to detach from the pain of the struggle and push through whatever was asked of him. But in the barracks, the mess hall, or the PX, he’d felt empty, hollow, and without purpose. These recollections came back to him with unsettling clarity. He had just killed three men while emotionally detached from the experience.
To kill was a powerful catharsis, a forceful expression of his anger, and frustration finding a release in a spasm of violence, but he did it out of a necessity to survive. He experienced an adrenaline rush during the action, but it was followed by a deep crash, and soon Diegert felt like shit. He was doing the work of others, who, through their power and money, were forcing him to comply with their demands or suffer the consequences. In spite of the luxurious surroundings, Diegert realized he was in a cylindrical jail cell financed by those who were ordering him to kill. How far was he willing to go to fulfill his employer’s requests for death?
He willed himself to hold on to the feelings of guilt and recrimination that surfaced after killing. He didn’t want to become someone addicted to violence, a junkie seeking a kill to get a thrill. He held the guilt in and nurtured it, swallowing its poison. He would crush any kill thrill with the guilt of having killed. Caught between the power of taking a life and the emotional consequence of having committed the ultimate sin, Diegert hurtled forward at six hundred miles per hour into an uncertain future.
11
The stairway of the Gulfstream opened at Le Bourget, a private airport in Paris. David Diegert descended to the tarmac, where he was met by a chauffeur who did not introduce himself before ushering the American into the rear compartment of a Renault. A smartphone, on the seat beside David, chirped when the car door closed. Instructions on the phone indicated the target was named Gunther Mibuku. There were no other details about the man, but in his photo, he looked biracial. Diegert was to meet one of Mibuku’s female consorts, whose cooperation was making this mission possible. Next to him was a gray fedora, which he was to wear while sitting at a table in a street-side café. The nameless chauffeur dropped D
iegert at the sidewalk.
Wearing the hat, drinking coffee, and seated at a sidewalk table, Diegert took in the view of Paris. The lively movement of people and the strange lack of tall buildings seemed a bit incongruous for a large urban city, not at all like Minneapolis and definitely not like the small town of Broward, Minnesota. “May I join you?” asked a strikingly attractive Asian woman. “Certainly,” said Diegert as he looked up at the surprisingly tall, dark-haired beauty.
As she sat down, she placed her smartphone on the table. The screen displayed an alphanumeric code, “A12B14C18,” and the pretty woman said, “Please confirm.”
Diegert was confused for a moment and sat still just looking at her. “With your phone,” the lady urged.
Pulling out his phone, he saw the same code and showed it to her: “A12B14C18.”
“Chateau Lambert Room 316. I will be meeting him at seven p.m. You’ll receive a text from me when the time is right. The guard in the hall is your problem.”
“OK.”
She got up and left, and David’s eyes were not the only ones gazing at her lovely feminine form as she walked away. Before he could take another sip of coffee, the chauffeur in the Renault pulled up, and Diegert was whisked away.
As they drove, the nameless chauffeur pointed out the Chateau Lambert and took Diegert to an apartment that he referred to as a safe house. In the apartment, Diegert found the equipment he would need. A hotel photo ID, which was also a room keycard, an MK 23 pistol with a suppressor and two extra clips of ammunition, latex gloves, and a rubber mask. He put the mask on and looked in the mirror. The rubber panels covered his cheeks, forehead, chin, and nose. He still had good visibility, and the thing was not uncomfortable, and it would fulfill its role of distorting his face for the surveillance cameras. There was also a paper map of the neighborhood with indicated routes to the hotel, one to walk there and a different one for coming back. Diegert put both on his phone. In the kitchen, there was bread and cheese, and on the television, a soccer game.
As seven p.m. approached, Diegert took the longer route to the hotel. Dressed in black so he would blend in with the service staff, he attracted no attention on the street. At the hotel, he found a linen closet and acquired a set of towels.
Diegert walked the halls and rode the elevators, carrying his towels and looking like he belonged. One British chap on the elevator, heading to the pool, took one of the towels and gave Diegert a polite nod. At seven forty-five p.m. he received the Asian woman’s text.
Withdrawing his pistol and attaching the suppressor, he placed it between the first and second towel. As he walked down the hall approaching Room 316, he stopped perpendicular to the guard, pressed the barrel into the man’s chest, and fired a muffled shot. The failed protector slumped forward with Diegert breaking his fall. Using his keycard, Diegert opened the room, dragged the man inside, and laid him on the floor. A second bullet to the head assured the guard would no longer be an obstacle.
Locking the door behind him, Diegert saw the Asian beauty getting dressed and pointing the way into the suite’s bedroom. The target was on the bed. A magnificent specimen of a man, very fit looking, all muscle covered in smooth skin. He was sexually spent and contently stretched out on the king-size sheets. Diegert stepped to the side of the bed, and the slightest look of confusion crossed the man’s face as he opened his sleepy eyes before two bullets entered into his head. Aside from the slight moment of surprise, it seemed to Diegert like he died a happy man having just had sex. As instructed by his employer, Diegert used his smartphone to send video confirmation of the hit. He received an immediate reply, which acknowledged the completion of the mission, but the message had an additional component, stating: $100,000 has just been placed in your account, for an additional 5%, take out the girl.
Checking his account, he could see the money was there. Diegert thought of helping his mom, and even though five thousand dollars wasn’t much, every dollar he earned got her closer to paying off the house.
The girl was throwing the last of her belongings in a shoulder bag and beckoning him to hurry so they could leave together.
He didn’t know this woman. Maybe she wasn’t an accomplice but a criminal like Mibuku. Maybe she was going to turn him in as soon as they stepped out of the room. Why would the employer want her dead? Was she an ally or an adversary? As she approached him, Diegert raised his MK 23, placing the laser sight on her chest. She stopped in her tracks and looked him squarely in the eye.
“Really, you’re gonna shoot me?”
Waving his phone in his hand, he said, “Our employer is asking me to. Why would he do that?”
“Fucking cheap bastard.”
“Or maybe I’m being warned not to trust you.”
“Oh, come on. I’m just a girl with habits in a town full of customers. I’m no threat to you.”
Gesturing toward the dead body on the bed, Diegert asked, “What’s the story with this guy?”
“We don’t have time to play kill and tell. Let’s get out of here.”
Killing Mibuku was easy, it was intended, it was the plan. Killing her was not. His employer had given him no explanation, and she didn’t feel like a threat. Diegert definitely did not want to kill a woman. He hadn’t really thought it through, but facing the issue right in front of him, he could not bring himself to shoot her.
“Alright, but you’re coming with me.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Stupid is not controlling the situation, and until I feel it’s right, you’re staying with me.”
Diegert put on his facial distortion mask and a black baseball cap.
“What, no disguise for me?”
“Sorry, you’re leading the way.”
They exited the back of the hotel and took the short route to the apartment.
The streets were not too busy, and with a fast pace, they made quick progress on the sidewalks. Rounding a corner, they came upon the scene of a car accident. A Peugeot driven by a mom with two small children had rear-ended a Fiat that belonged to a middle-aged couple. The man yelled at the police officer as he pointed at the damage to his car while gesturing about the mom’s distracted driving. Diegert kept his head down for fear the distortion mask might attract attention. The tall prostitute put a little more sway in her hips, exaggerating her stride, drawing glances from both the cop and the irate motorist. Diegert placed a tight grip on her arm as they continued down the street, turning the corner onto the final lane and into the apartment building. Climbing the stairs, Diegert kept looking behind him, fearing that the cop might follow them into the building. He knew it was paranoia but killing someone can bring that out in a person.
The apartment was small, but Diegert realized just how cramped it was when the prostitute had to sit on the bed while he occupied the one kitchen chair.
“How did you get this job?” asked Diegert.
“Through an e-mail, I never spoke to anyone. All instructions…electronic,” she said, cocking her head to the side and drawing out her last word.
“So tell me about Mibuku.”
“Aren’t killers supposed to do their homework before they pull the trigger?”
“It was a short-order contract, and I was given very little information.”
“And now you’re questioning your actions. I do that all the time after I fuck somebody I probably shouldn’t have.”
“What about Mibuku?”
“What about him? He was a drug dealer and always had the best stuff. The kind I like. He had a big, hard cock and an arrogant personality. He liked Asian women because he thought our cunts were smaller…tighter. What a narrow-minded fool.”
“You had a regular thing with him?”
“We had an occasional recurring thing, but as you can see, I sold him out for a big payday. Your employer has promised me good money for helping you.”
They sat quietly contemplating their places in life. Diegert thought about how they were both hired to provide a service. She p
rovided the pleasure of the flesh, associated with the creation of new life, and he deliberately and violently brought lives to an end. Their occupations cast them outside of society, their work, unacceptable. Yet there was no shortage of demand for their services. Realizing that a prostitute was his closest ally made Diegert shake his head. The woman broke his reverie.
“If you want to fuck me, it's five hundred, otherwise I’ll be leaving.”
He could see her hands twitching in a soft but constant tremor; she needed a fix.
“Where are you meeting for your payoff?”
“We’re not meeting. The money is going into an account.”
Diegert nodded knowingly, but his long pause brought an I’m out of here look to her face. Diegert abruptly commanded her. “Dump your purse on the bed.”
“What?”
“Dump it all out or I will.”
She grabbed the bottom of her large bag and raised her long, slender arm over her head. The contents spilled onto the bed. All sorts of typical items were in the pile, but Diegert’s eyebrows rose when he saw the strap-on dildo and three types of vibrators. He grabbed her wallet and extracted her driver’s license. Crossing to the kitchen table, he placed it on the surface and took a picture with his phone. Handing it back to her and returning to the chair, he changed his tone, asking her, “Where around here could a guy go for some nightlife, Miss Shei Leun Wong?”
Returning her belongings to the bag, she replied, “A guy like you, looking for some free sex, I’d tell you to go to Luna-Sea on Rue Chea Remiur. They party hard there and hook up pretty easily.”
Holding the dildo up in the air with the straps dangling around her wrist, she twirled the plastic cock and teased, “You sure you wouldn’t like to try something a little different? My treat.”
