Sicarii 3

by Adrienne Wilder

  The sedan sat silent. Robert took out his flashlight and swept the beam over the hood. The driver’s head lay against the headrest. A gaping smile sliced his throat. Blood splatter fanned over part of the windshield and soaked his shirt.

  “Fuck.” Phillip moved close enough that the heat of his body pushed against Yvette.

  Robert tried the handle, but it wouldn’t release. “Guard your eyes.”

  Yvette did.

  A harsh pop echoed through the garage, followed by a rain of glass fragments.

  Robert hit the lock button, opened the car door, and dragged out the driver, leaving him crumpled on the ground. “Get in.”

  Yvette could deal with bloodstains if it meant she lived through this. She went around to the passenger side.

  Robert hadn’t moved.

  “What’s wrong?” Yvette said.

  “The keys are gone.”

  “Then we’ll take the SUV.” Charles had needed a larger vehicle for the other men.

  “Charles drove.” Which meant those keys now lay in the pocket of a dead man somewhere in the darkness of the unfinished building.

  “Hotwire it.” She looked at Phillip.

  “These vehicles are too new. I’d need equipment to bypass the computer. Otherwise, it will lock down the engine, and it won’t start even with the keys.”

  “Then find another way to start the goddamned car.” Yvette shoved him.

  “He can’t, Ms. Yvette.” Robert took her by the arm. “He would if he could.”

  Yvette pushed back a tangle of hair. Blood coated her fingers, but she wasn’t sure where she’d gotten it.

  “C’mon, we’ll have to walk.” Robert gave her a gentle push.

  Walk. They’d walk. Millions of dollars and two fresh off the lot vehicles and she’d walk like a commoner.

  Fine.

  Marcel had killed eight men.

  But wasn’t that what he did. Or at least said he did?

  Even with a man bleeding out on the floor, Sam could barely digest the reality of it.

  One of the men in suits yanked Sam from the chair and shoved him in the direction of a storage unit. A line of the metal units stretched the length of the floor.

  Of course, the guy manhandling him pushed him into one of the few with walls and a door. He hit the ground, and the door rattled shut, plunging the small space into darkness broken by squares of light.

  “Hey.” The blond helped Sam up.

  What had Yvette called him? Ben. And the dark-haired man was Jacob.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, fine.” Except for the perpetual ache in his hip, shoulder, and arm. It couldn’t be good if his casted arm hurt.

  Outside, panicked voices rose up.

  Jacob stood close to the roll-door, bits of light escaping small gaps striped his face.

  “Is it him?” Ben said.

  If it was Marcel, why did Jacob look so afraid?

  A gun went off. Jacob whirled away and Ben ducked with Sam.

  Curses, shouts, seconds of fear-fueled chaos. Had they turned on each other? Or had Marcel cut them down like he had the men on the lower floor?

  The shooting stopped, and another rustle of movement, feet against concrete, then a door slammed.

  Jacob went back to the front of the unit. “I don’t see him anymore.” He beat his fist on the metal, each impact rattling the roll-door. “Marcel!”

  Sam walked over with Ben.

  Jacob moved side to side before looking at them with an almost broken expression. “He’s gone.”

  Ben snorted. “Opening the door probably breaks his Rules.”

  “Why would he come here to help us, then leave?” It made no sense to Sam.

  “Because he’s a son-of-a-bitch—”

  “Ben.” Jacob shook his head.

  Ben turned away.

  Jacob gave his attention to Sam. “Sam, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m—”

  “Jacob, and he’s Ben.”

  Both of them gave Sam a questioning look.

  “I heard that crazy lady, Yvette say it.” Sam nodded at Jacob. “And I’ve seen you walk to and from Marcel’s house, but never knew your name.” Even in slaps of gray, the man had the kind of beauty seen in rare animals or hidden paradises. “Did she take you too?”

  Ben cleared his throat and glanced at Jacob.

  “No,” Jacob said. “We were…we were sort of trying to rescue you.”

  And neither of the two men looked like the hero type. If anything, they seemed as scared as him.

  “Why?” Sam said.

  “Because Marcel wouldn’t. Bastard doesn’t blink at slitting—”

  Jacob hissed in a way that reminded Sam of how parents communicate the limits of a conversation.

  “Marcel couldn’t help you,” Jacob said.

  “But he’s out there.”

  “Because we’re here.”

  And what did that mean? “I don’t get it.”

  “Marcel has to follow certain Rules because of the people he used to work for.”

  Ben barked a laugh.

  “You mean the people who told him who to kill?” Both men stared at Sam hard enough to make him shuffle his feet. “He told me.”

  “He told you?” Ben’s expression folded. He mumbled under his breath and rubbed his forehead.

  Jacob gave Sam a slow nod. “Yeah. The people who told him who to kill.”

  “But he can come because you’re here?”

  Ben rubbed the bright pink scar on the webbing of his hand. Jacob also had a scar, but it was long healed.

  “When we get out of here, I’ll explain, okay?” Jacob said.

  Sam nodded.

  Ben cleared his throat. “Okay, now that we got that out of the way. We need to figure a way out of here.” He walked to the middle of the storage unit where the light leaked through narrow gaps in the frame.

  “I don’t think either one of us is going to fit through there.”

  Jacob joined Ben. “I can try.”

  “Your shoulders are wider than mine.”

  And neither one of them was going to suggest the obvious? Sam waved a hand. “Are you two purposely pretending I’m not here?”

  “You can’t go out there,” Ben said.

  Sam tried to cross his arms but gave up. “Well, it’s not like either of you can fit through that opening.”

  “He’s right,” Jacob said.

  “He’s a kid.” Ben almost sounded insulted.

  “Yeah, I am. But unless you’re looking forward to the idea of being roasted alive, I’m the only chance you’ve got.”

  Ben shook his head.

  “We’ve got to let him try,” Jacob said.

  “No we don’t.” Ben eyed the opening. With each passing second his concrete expression withered.

  “Ben…” Jacob touched Ben’s arm and he dropped his head back. “Yeah, okay. Fine.”

  “It’s our only option.”

  “I know. I still don’t like it.”

  “Can we argue later?” Sam pushed between them. “Just give me a boost.”

  Ben started to crouch.

  Jacob bumped his shoulder. “Let me. I’m taller. And he’s going to need every inch.”

  Wasn’t Sam’s fault he was short.

  “Think you can stand on my shoulders?” Jacob said.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Jacob crouched. “Help him up. When he’s balanced, I’ll stand.”

  “You sure you can lift him?”

  “I back squat almost three hundred pounds at the gym, I’m pretty sure I can manage ninety.”

  “I’m one-o-two.” Jesus, Sam wasn’t that small.

  “Okay, one-o-two. Now c’mon.”

  Ben helped Sam onto Jacob’s shoulders. Sam had no idea how Jacob kept his back so straight, especially when he had to fight to keep his balance on his shoulders. Ben held Sam’s waist.

  “Thanks.” Sam steadied himself.

  �
��Ready?” Jacob said.

  “Yeah.”

  Jacob gripped Sam’s ankles and pushed upward. Ben’s grip inched down Sam’s legs until he had no support above his knees.

  “Can you stand all the way?” Jacob said.

  “Yeah.” Sam teetered, and Jacob grunted.

  “What happened to lifting three hundred pounds at the gym?” Ben adjusted his grip on Sam’s legs.

  “Free weights don’t wiggle around on your shoulders.”

  Sam poked his head out of the opening and braced his arms on the outside edge, putting most of his weight on his good arm. He strained to lift himself up. Jacob moved, and Sam yelled in surprise. Hands gripped the bottoms of his feet and took the weight off his arms.

  “Can you make it?” Ben said.

  Sam had to. He grabbed for the metal stud of the container frame running across in front of him. The edge bit into his palm with the sting of aluminum splinters. He levered himself higher, and the sheet metal edging the opening threatened to cut through his jacket.

  He gained an inch or two before the one arm doing all the work began to tremble. Sam gripped the beam with his other hand. The bones in his forearm screamed white-hot.

  Tears blurred the room. One more push against the bottoms of his shoes, and he was able to get his chest up onto the top of the container.

  Sam kicked, using the momentum to gain more ground until he had his elbows hooked over the beam.

  He collapsed panting. His arm continued to throb.

  “You good up there?”

  “Yeah.” Somehow Sam managed to keep the pain out of his voice. He got to his knees. The neighboring unit offered a bare frame with reinforced crossbeams on the outer wall like a ladder. Sam picked his way over to the edge of the storage unit.

  On the inside of the incomplete storage bay, a couple of red lights blinked. Sam squinted, but the shadows concealed everything but the LEDs. A tangle of wires emerged from the darkness and crawled up a support beam to a rafter. Several bays down, another set of lights blinked on an exterior support beam.

  Sam climbed down the unfinished frame.

  The body of one of Yvette’s men lay folded by the elevator shaft. Blood spread out in a puddle around his head where a clean slice across his neck had opened his jugular.

  Marcel had told him he killed people. And while Sam believed him, it still hadn’t been real. Not until then. Not until he actually witnessed death in brutal form.

  Sam whirled away. And the man who’d come to warn Yvette sat propped up beside the stairwell door. His head hung forward and his slack mouth rested against his chest.

  A forgotten toy left to rot.

  Sam concentrated on the locked storage unit. That’s what was important. Getting Ben and Jacob free, so they could all get out before those explosives Yvette wired up went off.

  Two levers on either side of the roll-door secured it in place. At least there were no padlocks in the eyebolts. Sam disengaged both sides, and the metal door jumped a few inches off the floor before rolling up into the roof.

  Ben dusted off his hands.

  “I think I found the receiver for the bombs.” Sam pointed.

  “I don’t suppose either of you knows how to disarm that thing?” Jacob cocked his mouth to the side. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

  “Can it be that hard?” Ben said. “I mean, there has to be an off switch or something, right?”

  Possibly, but Sam was sure there was a more likely scenario. “If she’s experienced, she’s probably wired it to go off if anyone tries to tamper with it.”

  Ben paled. “She’s experienced.”

  “Then we better just get out of here.” Jacob headed toward the door leading to the stairwell.

  Marcel stood on the back side of the concrete pillar while one of Yvette’s men pulled the body of the driver out of the car.

  When they discovered the missing keys, they moved in the direction of the desolate parking attendant box where the rows of cars ended, and the aisle between them sloped downward into the street.

  Once outside, once out of harm’s way, Yvette would set off her bombs. But she wouldn’t just destroy the building in a glory of crumbling concrete, she’d do what all her family did. She’d burn it, the concoction in those metal tanks would transform an ordinary fire into molten heat.

  But those were unimportant details Marcel pushed aside in very much the same way he buried the pain. Unfortunately, he could not redirect biology.

  His once steady heartbeat quickened, his breaths shortened. He’d tied two more makeshift bandages around the holes in his arm and other leg, but it couldn’t put back the blood he’d already lost.

  It had been a while since he’d experienced the feeling, but he’d never forgotten.

  Teacher left them to the dark.

  An hour after sunset, when the stars blazed through the violet darkness and ribbons of color trickled from the horizon, he was sure he would freeze to death. All the Students would freeze to death. No matter how close they huddled, how many prickly branches they piled on their bodies, cut from the trees with the finger length blades they’d been given, the cold found a way in.

  Sleep pulled at the Students, their eyes growing heavy. Each of them taking turns to try and keep the others awake.

  But death did not sweep in on an icy breath.

  The first scream cut through the air, sending them in different directions. A dark shape highlighted in starlight dragged the oldest of them into the brush. Then another wolf lunged, and another Student vanished in a flash of teeth and snapping bones.

  Blood slapped Marcel across the face, fire to the ice. Offal and fear choked the air. He scrambled to his feet, toes numb, limbs filled with lead, the air he inhaled glass shards in his lungs.

  A girl climbed one of the trees out of reach. Three more Students followed, the fourth was snatched on his way up.

  But high off the ground, separated, the cold grew claws.

  Marcel found himself near the cliff. The one they’d climbed so many times to where Teacher waited. Only this time, when they made it to the top, there was no one with a wagon to take them back.

  A year before, he’d watched the girl on the cot above him fall to her death. He’d seen the moment she regretted every choice she failed to make.

  And that night, Marcel had two: survive or die.

  He took the knife from his belt and waited. Cold blanketed him, numbing his fear as much as it numbed his skin. His heart slowed; his breathing evened out.

  The young wolf dragged the remains of another Student from the frenzy of violence between its packmates as they fought over the scraps left behind by the adults.

  It lay in the snow, grinding its jaws, pulverizing bone.

  Marcel walked closer.

  They would not outrun these animals. They would never survive the cold. And the wolves would wait until hypothermia toppled them from trees.

  They were patient like that. No telling how long they’d hidden in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  Waiting for them to lose focus.

  To become vulnerable.

  He calculated every bend of his ankles, the pressure to his toes, shifting his weight just like he’d been taught. Only here, there was no room for mistakes. Failing didn’t mean slivers of glass in the bottoms of his feet, it meant his throat would be torn out.

  Marcel stopped beside the wolf, motionless.

  A statue.

  Then the wind shifted, carrying his scent to its nose, and it stood.

  The blade was small but sharp, and it penetrated the wolf’s neck, plunging into the vertebrae just below its skull. By the time it made the turn, its body had gone limp.

  It wasn’t enough to kill it, just to leave it unable to move, forced to be aware, forced to know Marcel would now take what he was owed.

  He dragged the wolf into the brush, cut it open and let its insides pour out. There was just enough room in the cavity of its body for him to curl up, escaping
both the vicious winter and its furred children.

  The lesson learned that night showed Marcel how revenge, hate, and fear guaranteed failure. They were weak stones in the foundation of who he would become.

  Weakness in the ones he hunted.

  Marcel paced Yvette and her men. Moving from pillar to pillar, shadow to shadow, stepping the moment their gazes drifted away. Pausing when they squinted into the darkness. Once they believed there was nothing there to be seen, they would never see him.

  The shorter of the two men motioned for Yvette to stop. He walked ahead, scanning the other side of the guard shack, around the dip in the drive, all the way to the edge of the building where orange halogen light blanketed the ground.

  The two men who stayed with Yvette flanked her. One kept his attention ahead of them, the one on the right watched Yvette’s back.

  He adjusted his grip on his gun as he scanned the open space behind them. When he completed the turn, Marcel slipped from the shadows. Half-a-dozen feet from Yvette, a few extra from the other gunman, more than enough space for Marcel to maneuver.

  Sweat soaked the man’s collar. Blood stained the sleeves of his shirt. He had a scar on the back of his neck, another under his ear leading to a zig-zag line along his jaw….

  His gaze struck Marcel. First confusion, then disbelief, before recognition. Marcel swept his blade across the man’s throat, riding the movement and letting the momentum carry him to the man’s back, using him as a shield against the other gunman’s peripheral. In that precious second, where the first spray of blood hit Yvette’s back, Marcel melted back into the opaque grays cast by walls and weak light.

  Yvette bellowed a curse and snatched the handgun from the dying man. Muzzle flashes ripped through the shadows, cutting out shapes in bursts of yellow-white. Marcel stood with his back against the pillar. Bits of concrete pelted his shoulder. Another series of gunshots joined the first, skipping off metal I beams, gouging out ruts in the ground.

  “Where the fuck is he?” Yvette’s voice wavered.

  Did she feel how close death stood to her?

  Did she understand now?

  Perhaps.

  “Where the fuck is he, Robert? Where the fuck? Tell me. Tell me where he is.”