Shank

by Robert J. Krog

  Down the way, the old lady with her poodle jumped at the noise and then sighed. The poodle growled. “No one who crosses O’Malley lives long,” she told it.

  On the rooftop across the street, Shaw waited in his tent, savoring the moment as the janitor came up and scanned the roof, walkie-talkie in hand. “No one up here,” he reported after a brief look around. “It must have come from another building, or the guy’s already gone.” Shortly, he was gone, back into the building.

  Inside the tent, Shaw sent a text to Gorley,

  He stepped out and broke his tent down unhurriedly. When everything was stowed away and he looked like a painter again, he went to the roof door and headed back downstairs. It had been a good kill, with a little challenge, a little thrill. He sent a text to Brenda.

 

 

 

 

  Book 4: The Angel of Death

  Chapter 1

  The Cold

  “I’m afraid the instructions were quite specific, Mr. Fellows. You’re to freeze to death naked in sight of your campfire.”

  Shaw was holding one of his Sigs on the elderly Mr. Fellows, who was seated in his camp chair in front of a very warm fire in the failing light of the setting sun.

  “Who?” Mr. Fellows asked. His tone was peremptory and demanding.

  “The client is anonymous,” Shaw lied. He knew the client’s name and that it was one of Mr. Fellows’ children. It was the tone of voice and the attitude he disliked.

  “It’s Victor, isn’t it? What’s he paying you? I can quintuple it. I can put the money in your account in two minutes, even from here. I have a satellite connection.”

  “The client is anonymous, Mr. Fellows, and professionalism requires me to complete the job. Rest assured, you can’t bribe me.”

  “Well, I won’t freeze to death. You’ll just have to shoot me.”

  “Take off your clothes, please, Mr. Fellows.”

  “Or what,” the old man laughed, “you’ll shoot me?”

  “I’d prefer not to have to undress you myself.” Shaw smiled across the fire at him.

  “Come and try it, you cowardly pansy. I was Golden Gloves. Come around this fire and undress me, pansy.”

  Shaw pulled the tranquilizer gun from his coat pocket and shot Fellows with it. The dart seemed to sprout from his shoulder. He lurched back and nearly tipped his chair over, but he recovered.

  “What is this?” he demanded, jerking the dart out of his shoulder with a gasp. “Am I a moose? Is this a tranquilizer?”

  “It is.”

  “You uppity son of a bitch, I’ll kick your young ass.”

  Fellows leapt from his seat and ran around the fire, but he wasn’t as quick as he’d been in his Golden Gloves years. Shaw smiled as he jogged away up the trail. Fellows was following as fast as his old legs could carry him, and Shaw had to add speed to stay ahead. It was a full-on run for about a minute, until Fellows lost steam.

  It wasn’t all the way dark yet, but under the trees, the shadows were deep.

  “You coward!” Fellows shouted. “Face me like a man, not some overly clever woman. Get your pansy ass back down here and go a few rounds. We’ll see who’s a man and who’s not.”

  The chase progressed for two more minutes, getting slower and slower. Fellows had to stop and lean on a tree. “Son of a bitch, was it Victor, or was it Beth? Just tell me. I have to know.”

  Shaw walked toward him. “While going a few rounds with you would surely have been entertaining, Mr. Fellows, the contract requested that you freeze to death. A bullet just wouldn’t have been appropriate. I couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t die from blood loss. What if I hit a major artery? I’m sure you understand.”

  “Just tell me, damn you! Was it Victor or Beth? Or was it June? June’s capable of it, too, but I wouldn’t have thought she’d do it. She has just as much to gain from while I’m alive. Oh, God, was it Fred? Fred only pretends to love me. I know he’s as full of hate as the rest of them. Well, they’ll never profit from it. My will forbids anyone to benefit if I’m assassinated like this.” His eyes widened. “That’s it then. It’s Beth; she never cared much about money anyhow. No, wait, Victor’s business venture must be paying off. He’s been lying to me about it. He doesn’t need me anymore. That’s it.”

  He slid down the tree, his already slow speech slurring. His words degraded further into mumbles. Shaw knelt beside him and lifted him onto his shoulders to carry him back to the camp. Fellows mumbled for another minute before falling completely under the influence of the tranquilizer.

  It was predawn before Fellows woke. Shaw had undressed him but laid him by the fire under a blanket. When he began to stir, Shaw pulled the blanket off. The old man cussed, but he was still groggy from the drug. Shaw pulled him over to a small tree, stood him up, and cuffed his hands behind his back around the trunk.

  “Per the contract, you’re naked, in the cold, in sight of your fire.”

  “Why?” Fellows asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe you can tell me why someone would think such a death was fitting for you.”

  Fellows’ weathered face contorted in thought, trying to shake off the aftereffects of the tranquilizer. He shivered. “It’s so cold,” he said, more of a realization than a complaint.

  “The thermometer on your hiking jacket says it’s 23 degrees Fahrenheit. It gets cold at night up here in the mountains, Mr. Fellows. I expect you’ll be dead in less than hour.” Shaw was making coffee over the fire.

  “I love camping. I tell stories about it. They hate listening to my stories. They never took to camping, though I tried when they were young.”

  “Yes, I see why this was chosen, then,” Shaw said.

  “They hate me.”

  “Apparently,” he said, observing the steam rising from Fellows’ coffee pot.

  “What did I ever do to them? I taught them self-discipline and self-reliance. I taught them the value of hard work, and they hate me, but anything they have worth having came from me. They can’t change that.”

  “Um hm,” Shaw murmured, filling a thermos with coffee.

  “Which one, sir?” Fellows demanded. He was shivering uncontrollably already.

  “The contract was anonymous,” Shaw said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Coward.” Fellows spat. “Couldn’t even give their name to an assassin. I always taught them to be proud of their name and live up to it boldly.”

  “Commendable,” Shaw said, settling into the camp chair and sipping his coffee.

  “Might I have a last cup of coffee, Mr. Assassin?”

  “My regrets, Mr. Fellows, but that wouldn’t be in the spirit of the contract.”

  “Do you enjoy this?”

  “I’m a professional. I take pride in my work.”

  “But does it give you pleasure to see men die in agony?”

  “In your case, it’ll be the sign of a job done per the specifications of the contract, but that’s all. I don’t go in for torture. It’s not part of my personal aesthetic.”

  “How can you watch me die like this without pity in your heart? Have you no compassion?”

  “I have a job to do. It isn’t always pleasant, but it’s necessary, and I’m very good at, so it has its consolations.”

  “I’ll pay you 10 times your fee to let me live.”

  “I always honor my contracts.”

  “I’ll pay you 10 times your current fee to kill the one who hired you.”

  “As you wish. I’ll contact LEI and set it up. How will you pay?”

  “Satellite phone, Mr. Assassin. I’ll wire the money.”

  Shaw picked up the phone and checked the signal. It was good.

  “You don’t have much time left before you pass out, Mr. Fellows. Use it
well.”

  “I shall.”

  He had Brenda on the satellite phone in moments.

  Late that afternoon, Shaw crossed the bridge back into Memphis and headed toward the Fellows’ residence in Chickasaw Gardens. He called the client.

  “Yes,” a man’s voice answered over the speaker.

  “This is Shaw. The job is done. I’ll send the pictures you requested shortly. I’m driving now. Do you want to meet, or will a phone conversation do for the other information you requested?”

  “We don’t have to meet, Shank. Just tell me the old bastard froze to death like I requested.”

  “He did.”

  “Did you tell him it was me and that I paid you out of the money I stole from his own safe?”

  “No. You didn’t request it, and I didn’t like his attitude when he asked. I didn’t know about the safe, anyway.”

  “Oh,” the man said sounding perplexed, then he continued, “by George, you’re right. I didn’t remember to ask you to tell him. Well, it’s no matter. He died frustrated then, did he?”

  “In that regard, yes, he did.”

  He glanced at the screen on his phone where it was mounted on the dash. LEI was tracing the call for him.

  “That’s perfect, Shank. Did he cry? I always thought he would weep and beg for his life when it came down to it.”

  “I’m sorry. He remained stoic, you might say, and rather self-satisfied, frankly.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “He is, however, quite dead. You may take satisfaction in that.”

  “That does satisfy me, actually. I’ll be employing you again. I need to thank Anastasia for recommending you.”

  “Certainly. Just put in the request with LEI and ask for me like before.”

  “Send those pictures. I want to frame one of them.”

  “I will.”

  The trace showed the other end of the call was on the move, heading down Madison Avenue toward Cooper. The dot stopped in the parking lot of a microbrewery and restaurant on the square. Shaw headed that way. He arrived a bit later, pulling into the parking lot. He dutifully used his phone to send the pictures via text messaging to the client. He waited, and it took a good ten minutes for the client to message him back.

 

  Obligations fulfilled, Shaw exited his vehicle and went into the restaurant.

  “Eating in? How many in your party?” asked a trim young lady clad in a black uniform.

  “Yes. I’ll be joining a table. I see him over there,” he said, pointing across the dim interior to a table close to the brick ovens.

  “Go ahead.” She smiled.

  Shaw weaved through the tables of the mostly empty restaurant and stopped in front of the young Mr. Fellows.

  “May I help you?” the young man asked, looking up, perplexed.

  “I’m Shaw, the man you hired.”

  “I…um, I don’t need to meet you, Shank. I’ll let you know when I need you again.”

  “You won’t. Your father saw to that, and I told you before, I prefer to be called Shaw,” Shaw said, putting in ear plugs.

  “I don’t understand why you’re here,” Fellows said.

  Shaw explained it by showing his former client one of his Sigs.

  “Mr. Shaw,” the young man repeated with a gulp, his bulging eyes trained on the 9mm pistol.

  The shot was deafening, followed by the screams of the trim, young hostess and the few patrons present. Shaw walked out, whistling. Twofers like that were a rarity, and a kind of pleasure he didn’t often get. He texted Brenda that it was done and asked for more like it.

  , she suggested.

  Chapter 2

  The Jealous Author

  Shaw was seated in an East Memphis coffee shop near the intersection of Perkins and Poplar, awaiting a client. He sipped from his mug and tried to ignore the TV that was airing the news. It was politics. He barely knew who the president was and had never voted in his entire life. Sports were interesting, but politics was not. He’d taken care of the city councilman not long ago. He’d shot a senator once, and he kept himself up to date on Secret Service procedures and tactics when he could, but that was the extent of it.

  Senators almost always had shooters on contract to avenge themselves in case of assassination, so it was a riskier business. He’d actually been involved in one such contract himself, though he’d taken it years ago, and it hadn’t come up. The senator was bound to retire before long. He’d taken it early in his career, and regretted it, but it would probably never happen, and, given the secrecy around contracts, it was a virtually impossible contract to fulfill. If it did come up, maybe it could be assigned to someone else.

  He sipped from his mug and looked out the window. His client, in sunglasses and a trench coat, was in the parking lot; Deadrick Granger was his name. He was 62, according to the file from LEI, a children’s book author, married, with five children, successful, and still making handsome royalties on the sales of a series of books about a curious dolphin, and another in the style of Margaret Wise Brown and Clement Hurd. Shaw didn’t know who those two were, but it didn’t matter. Apparently there had been popular movies made of one or two of his books, back in the day.

  He wondered again who a middle-aged to elderly children’s book author would want killed. Was it his publisher or editor? Was it his wife? That was a common one. Was it one of his children? That would be ironic.

  He texted Brenda.

 

  Granger entered and looked around uncertainly. Shaw raised a hand, caught his eye, and beckoned him over. Granger blinked then headed that way, his eyes on Shaw until he bumped into a chair and had to apologize to the lady sitting in it. Shaw chuckled. Clients were often Nervous Nellies.

  “Have a seat,” he instructed Granger, gesturing to the one across from him.

  “Thank you for meeting me so early,” Granger said, taking the seat he’d indicated.

  “I’m an early riser myself. Mornings are peaceful.”

  “Right.” He shifted in his seat, then looked around for a moment before saying, “Mrs. Anastasia Clawson recommended you.”

  “She’s been great about that. What may I do for you?” Shaw asked after a long sip of his coffee.

  Granger leaned in and whispered across the table, “I want you to kill a man.” He trembled eagerly and hatefully when he said it.

  Shaw smiled. “Obviously, but could you be more specific?”

  Aware of how unnecessary the preliminary statement had been, Granger sat back, blushing, which widened Shaw’s grin. A middle-aged lady came and took his order.

  “Of course, of course.” He leaned and whispered again when she was gone, “Methodius Charn. I want you to kill that arrogant, condescending upstart, Methodius Charn.”

  “I can do that. Who is he?”

  Granger blinked in surprise and said, “He’s a hack who writes children’s books. Pirate Pensees, and other such crap.”

  “So he’s a celebrity?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. He should be a nobody, but his marketing is vastly superior to his work.”

  “Celebrities come at a premium, of course.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “There may be expenses. We expect them to be paid separately.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Does he have bodyguards?”

  “No, not that I’m aware of.”

  “The typical starting fee, before expenses, set by LEI for a celebrity is usually $1,000,000, Mr. Granger.”

  Granger winced and shuddered, then nodded. “It’ll be worth it. I’m a shoo-in to write the screenplays for his work. I’m assisting on one for his insipid little book, Sprin
g Legs, right now. They’re in preproduction on it and won’t stop just because he kicks the bucket. I’ll be chosen to do the main work and make it all back with interest. They make others, and I’ll be the guy who carries on his legacy.”

  “It’s always worth it, in some way,” Shaw observed. “Money is the easiest way to keep track, of course. They’ll need you to front half the money now, and submit to a credit and asset check, of course. It’ll take a few minutes.” He produced a tablet from his briefcase and set it on the table, sliding it across to Granger, who looked at it blankly.

  “You’re on secure chat with Brenda at LEI,” Shaw told him quietly.

  “Is this secure?” he asked Shaw, looking nervously around the coffee shop.

  “It’s on a VPN, and I’m not using the shop’s Wi-Fi.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” he said with relief.

  Shaw thought quietly, eyeing his client speculatively, If I were to kill him, I think I’d shoot him in the heart rather than between the eyes.

  “The public is fickle and stupid, Mr. Shank.”

  “Call me Shaw. Shank is a nickname I don’t like.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Shaw, the public is fickle and stupid and doesn’t know what’s good for it. The children don’t need nonsense and frenetic, distorted images. They need instructive literature that edifies them. My book sales, and the sales of other good children’s book authors, have been suffering due to the flashy crap Charn writes, and his marketing strategy sells so well.”

  “I see,” Shaw said politely.

  “I hate to use your…brutal services, but I don’t see any choice but to eliminate the competition—for the good of the consumer, if you understand. The public is fickle and stupid and doesn’t know what’s good for it,” he repeated, as if it was a mantra.

  He slid the tablet back to Shaw, who glanced at it. The approval was pending. He waited and pretended to listen while Granger went on about what was good for parents to read to their children.