by James Quinn
Frederico Nash, half Italian, half Jewish, was a 'man of respect' and had made his bones for the Capo of the oldest Mafia family in New York when he was a teenager. So far in his career, he had been the button man on twenty-seven different executions and hits. He judged himself to be one of the best gunmen along the East Coast.
So when he had been approached by an intermediary of The Master six weeks ago, he had been intrigued. Nash didn't know much about espionage or spies; he knew about guns and killing people at close range. The intermediary, a lawyer from Manhattan, had whispered in his ear of a game, a mysterious benefactor and the chance to become the acknowledged assassin of his time.
Arrangements had been made and his journey south to Mexico had happened without problem. He had been looking forward to finding out if he was as good as he thought he was. Devlin had been no problem; it had been an easy shot. But that tough-looking Englishman had been an unknown quantity and as for his host, the mysterious Caravaggio, he scared the shit out of Nash. And Freddy Nash was not a man who scared easily.
Now, he wished he had stayed back in the USA. This fucking game was freaking him out.
He had no idea where he was. He thought at one point that he had seen a large cat and he had fired, killing it, he hoped. As for Caravaggio and that guy Gorilla? He had no clue where they were. He stopped once more, the sweat seeping through his shirt and staining his suit, and rested against the trunk of the nearest tree. He needed to think… rest… get his shit together.
He heard nothing from behind him, but, too late, he felt everything.
A long, strong arm wrapped itself around the truck of the tree from behind him. A hand clamped across his forehead, pinning him in place and then, almost instantaneously, he felt a sharp pain just behind his right ear. There was a blinding white light in his brain, excruciating pain in his head, and then his body began to judder and shake.
Then, almost as quickly, the pain was gone and the hands released him. He felt his legs give way and his body slither down to the base of the tree, snagging his suit on the way down. But by that time Nash didn't care. He was already dead.
Caravaggio stood back, wiped the blood off the stiletto knife that he had used on Nash, and admired his handiwork.
He did so enjoy the challenge of silent killing. Oh, he knew that the point of this particular game was to decide who was the best gunman, the best hit man, the best assassin. But… there was something just so addictive about stalking your quarry, getting in close and eliminating them with a knife. Just so… exquisite!
He knew it was against the rules that he had set out for this game. But then again, rules were meant to be broken, as Nash had just discovered. Even the most idiotic assassin knew that. There were no rules when you were carrying out a killing. Anything goes.
He folded away the knife and drew his revolver. He was happy. This was exactly how he would have wanted it – the two best gunmen going against each other. The Master and the Gorilla.
Really, Nash and Devlin had been brought in to make up the numbers; they were nothing more than cannon-fodder. No, what Caravaggio, the Master, wanted was for his perfect scenario to play out as he had envisioned. Two perfect spies, two perfect assassins, the old Master and the young pretender, facing off against each other to the death.
Gorilla had seen Caravaggio move fast in the distance and he had done well to catch up with the bigger man so soon, but jungle warfare was something that Gorilla knew little about. It was an alien environment to him. He was sure that there were a hundred different jungle warfare techniques that he should be using to help him track down Caravaggio, but Gorilla didn't know what he didn't know.
His natural environment was urban warfare, the streets, buildings, even vehicles. But this oppressive darkness, heat and noise was like an attack on his senses.
Up ahead in the distance, he could make out a glimmer of a light through the canopy. The moon. He moved forward cautiously, crouched, the revolver held out in front of him at waist height in what was known as the ¼ hip shooting position, ready to fire.
He moved slowly, aware of his own breathing. In the distance, no more than twenty feet away, he made out a shape against a tree. He brought his revolver up, aligning the barrel on the unmistakable shape of a body. His finger was resting against the trigger as he bent down at a safe distance to inspect it.
He could barely make out the face of Nash as his head was lolling at such an unnatural angle. His throat was covered in blood that shone black in the night. Gorilla could smell it, and so could the bugs and larger predators of the jungle. Soon. Nash's body would be to the focus of a feeding frenzy.
Gorilla stood up and did a scan of his surrounding environment. His survival senses told him something wasn't right. There was nothing around him, he could at least see that, but… it was something above the eye-line. He looked upwards, but in that decisive moment he knew he was already too late.
The large shadow dropped from behind him.
Gorilla's assessment of him had been right – 'cat-like' epitomised Caravaggio's movements precisely. The dark figure dropped onto all fours and then sprang up, lashing out a powerful karate kick to Gorilla's left side, disrupting his aim with the revolver. No sooner had he recovered than Caravaggio kicked out again and again with strong, powerful blows to the body, driving Gorilla further back.
Gorilla tried one last time to bring his gun up to the centre line, desperately trying to steady his aim at the dark figure, but was stopped by a spinning back foot that connected with Gorilla's shoulder, sending him crashing to the jungle floor.
On his back now, Gorilla brought the gun to his hip in a retention position and fired off two instinctive shots. The report of the weapon silenced the jungle… but the dark figure, the large, cat-like man, jumped to the side, the bullets missing him easily, and tucked himself into a forward roll and sprang off into the camouflage of the jungle.
Gorilla raised himself to a kneeling position, the revolver held out ready in case Caravaggio came back for another attack. He's toying with me, he thought. He's showing off, showing off his skills and what he's capable of. Unarmed, knife skills, silent killing.
Over to his right, he was aware of something running. Caravaggio. It had to be. The Master was trying to circle around him.
Gorilla flung himself against the nearest tree, partly for cover but also so that he could use the trunk to steady his aim. He pulled the gun up and aimed at the running shadow. He fired twice, aware of the shadow flinching and changing direction. Had he hit him? Damn, he didn't think so.
He was climbing up the incline, his free hand grabbing onto vines and trees to pull him up, when he became aware of something alive and breathing up ahead, no more than six feet away. He almost walked into a giant cat, its eyes shining in the darkness.
The jaguar hissed at him and lowered its back as if ready to pounce. Gorilla didn't even think about it.
He shot it once in the heart and the animal dropped dead.
Caravaggio turned in the direction of the gunshot. It sounded a good distance away.
He laughed to himself. Evidently the jungle environment had put Gorilla Grant on edge. Maybe he wasn't as tough as his reputation made out. Caravaggio knew that the jungle was a great leveller. In all the tournaments that he had held here on his private island, against gunmen, assassins, soldiers and mercenaries, only a handful, probably no more than three, had seemed at home in the jungle. Not that it mattered, he had won anyway. Caravaggio always won.
His original intention was to circle around his opponent and catch him unawares. He wanted Gorilla to think that he was behind him, when instead he would actually be in front of him. He was waiting for the Englishman to almost walk into his gun sights. Sadly, that was not to be the case. Gorilla Grant had obviously become aware of his ruse and fired off a couple of shots in the vain hope that they would hit.
But that was alright. The Master was nothing if not a tactician and he knew when to abandon one strategy in favour of
a new one. Improvisation was the key, and The Master was an expert at taking a failed operation and turning it into a success.
He edged closer and closer, the moon in the background sending a smattering of light into the jungle.
Gorilla had everything in place.
It had been hard work and he had to move fast, but he was trusting that everything would work out, because he knew that he could not carry on the fight like this for much longer. He had to change his tactics if he wanted to survive.
He stood and offered himself up on the edge of the hill, the ambient light from the moon behind him creating a perfect silhouette of a figure standing still, his revolver held in his left hand.
For Caravaggio, it was an irresistible target and one that he couldn't resist. Gorilla could sense The Master moving closer and closer, taking his time, gauging the optimum time to fire the deadly kill shot.
Gorilla Grant was nearly fifty feet away, uphill, and it was at the extreme end of the heavy pistol's range. Caravaggio raised his weapon, centred it on his quarry's head and pulled the trigger. There was the sound of the shot followed by a scream of pain, and Caravaggio saw the head of Gorilla Grant's silhouette disintegrate.
The body spun once and fell over the side of the cliff into the swamp-like river that he knew was below. Anything that landed in there would not survive for very long. The wild crocodiles that lived in this part of the swamp would be brutal, strong and very, very hungry for human flesh. Even from this distance, Caravaggio could hear the desecration of Gorilla Grant in the swamp below and the thrashing of the crocodiles in the water as they feasted.
Caravaggio checked the rounds in the revolver and gave a satisfied smile. He considered it fortunate that Gorilla Grant had made the fatal mistake of pausing on the edge of the cliff. Coming down to a final round to take out an experienced gunman such as this, would have been a risk. He moved slowly up the hill, cautious in case it was a trap, but knowing that his enemy had already been taken. He made his way to the edge of the cliff where Grant had been stood and he looked down. He guessed it was a thirty foot drop at least.
Caravaggio let his eyes adjust in the night and was aware of movement in the murky darkness of the waters below. He could just about make out the elongated shapes of several crocodiles moving in the water, and then, there, he could see a flash of something… blue material, a shirt, and then one of the beasts rolled in the water and there was another flash of colour, the pale biscuit shade of the suit jacket that Grant had been wearing; except this time it was shredded, with only bits of torn flesh and entrails showing.
Then the crocodile completed his death roll once more and the remains of Gorilla Grant were pulled into the inky darkness of the swamp forever.
Caravaggio made his way back through the swamp and into the jungle. In the distance, he could see the lights of the villa.
He walked briskly. Now that he had vanquished his rival, Caravaggio felt a brief moment of elation. Elation that he still remained the best artist of his craft, having eliminated another man who had been a threat to his crown.
He was still THE Master. How many assassins had he lured to his island over the years? Fifteen, certainly, that he could remember, all of whom had come looking to remove him from the great game. All had been found wanting and had been fed to the sharks along the island's coastline.
He knew that his euphoria would be fleeting; it always was. He knew, too, that in time, there would be other challenges that could give him his 'fix'. Would they be as good an opponent as the man he had just killed? He did not know. Soon, the adrenaline dump would hit him and he would sink into the depths of boredom and depression. It was always the way.
Perhaps the woman, the redhead, could take his mind off it for a few days. She was prone to violence, for sure and he was certain that if she had the opportunity, she would try to kill him. But he still had some of the drug that he had spiked the drinks of the party guests with. He could make her more pliable with that and soothe his mind by getting lost in her body. Willingly or unwillingly on her part, he cared not. He would take what he wanted. He always had.
He took the main path out of the jungle and made his way to the Arena. When he arrived, Chang was still on guard in his position. When Eunice saw him step into the clearing, her face was aghast.
“Your man is dead, Miss Brown. If it is any consolation, he was the opponent that I expected him to be,” said Caravaggio solemnly.
Eunice Brown's face turned from despair to anger. “Where is he? I want to see him one last time, you bastard!” she said, through gritted teeth.
Caravaggio shrugged. “The crocodiles have taken him down into the swamp. It is doubtful that we will ever find his remains. I'm sorry for your loss.”
The screams that came from her were of pain, sorrow and anger. Caravaggio turned to his apprentice. ”Chang, let Miss Brown recover here and then bring her up to the villa within the hour. I require some time for peaceful reflection and I do not wish to be disturbed by a wailing woman.”
Chang nodded to his Master and then sharply slapped Eunice once across the face. The blow silenced her instantly. Caravaggio nodded to his apprentice and then strode out of the clearing, taking a circular route to avoid what was left of the orgy in his garden, and made his way up into the rear entrance of the villa and to peace.
Chang stood like a monolith. Silent, uncommitted to emotion, listening to the mewling and tears of the woman tied up behind him. He would give her another twenty minutes and then he would take her up for his Master's pleasure.
Chang reflected on his good joss to have been chosen to be the apprentice to such a man. He himself had never been with a woman or a man; such matters did not interest Chang. He cared not for the pleasures of the flesh, and certainly not with an ugly gwaih lo like this red-headed troll that had been sent to kidnap his Master.
Chang's only pleasures came from his teachings at the feet of Caravaggio; to revel in the art of the assassin, to serve his Master and, in the fullness of time, to achieve his own perfection as a professional assassin… and one day even be superior to Caravaggio himself.
He owed The Master everything.
He had been an eight-year-old street rat on the streets of Shanghai when Caravaggio had found him. His parents had abandoned him to the hell-hole of the streets in his sixth year and he had to endure the brutality of beatings, rape, starvation and violence. Chang had survived through stealing and pick-pocketing.
Then one day he had picked the wrong pocket. An iron hand had grabbed at his stick-thin wrist and he knew that he had been caught. Normally in such situations, he would expect a beating. But this time the fearsome Westerner had simply looked at him and said, in perfect Cantonese, “Are you hungry, boy? Let me feed you.”
It had started with a simple meal of rice. Chang had never known such kindness. While he ate, the Westerner asked him about his life. Where was his family? How did he survive on the streets? Satisfied with the Chinese boy's answers, the tall Westerner simply nodded and beckoned him to carry on eating his rice.
The rest had been a frenzy of activity for Chang. He had been taken to the Westerner's house, fitted out with new clothes, and had then travelled through the streets in a vehicle to an airport and then away, never to return to that life on the streets of Shanghai. His Master had told him that he was now under his protection and that he would be expected, in exchange for a life and a future, to study and learn what he was taught.
“I expect great things from you, Chang. You will be my greatest and only student. You will be my apprentice,” said The Master.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to learn his master's skills. In The Master's dojo, they would train five days a week, studying the arts of Karate, Kung-Fu, and Judo and a host of weapons skills such as the knife, the garrotte, the sword, the flail, the metal fan, the staff and the stick.
“But Master,” asked Chang once in his eighteenth year, “when shall I learn about gwaih lo guns and firearms?”
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Caravaggio had scolded him for his insolence. “Never! There is no need for such bluntness. Guns are unsubtle and are for the stupid and the untrained.”
“Then Master, what shall I be against an enemy with a gun?” Chang had asked, confused.
The Master had smiled. “You shall be a silent killer. They will not see you, they will not hear you, but you will snuff out their lives like a whisper snuffing out the flame of a candle.”
After that, The Master had taught Chang about poisons, disguises, false passports, forgery and surveillance, all the skills that he would need to move stealthily from one country to the next and, on his twenty-first birthday, Chang travelled to Hong Kong under a false name to carry out and complete his first assassination for his Master. By his thirties, he had travelled to virtually every continent in the world as his Master's factotum, bodyguard and, when required, silent assassin.
Chang turned around to look at the woman, the one they called Nikita. She looked exhausted and it was only the restraints at her wrists that were holding her upright. Looking at her, Chang thought that he may have to carry her up to the villa. It was not a problem for him for, though he was only small-framed and frail-looking, he was remarkably strong.
He walked over to her and examined her like a chef examines a piece of meat – interested but detached. The woman seemed to have passed out, either due to the physical exhaustion of being tied up and suspended, or due to shock. He slapped her gently on the cheek, heard her moan, so he did it again, harder; again, the same pitiful moan.
These American women, they were all so brash and vulgar, thought Chang dismissively as he began to undo the special knots he had tied at her wrists. One arm flopped down and he caught the weight of her body as it sagged; then, with his free arm, he reached up and expertly undid the second restraint and felt the remaining arm flop free from its bonds.
