The Intern's Handbook: A Thriller

by Shane Kuhn

  As predicted, Bendini himself calls the next morning to check on me and encourage me to right the universe by gutting the jackass that hit me—even though most homeless people live in nicer cars than my Honda. He also plays into my hands when he inquires about a very important case I’ve been working on that he was expecting to review today. It’s a massive estate mess that some associate fucked up royally before he was summarily shit-canned. If I can unfuck it, the firm will make nearly a million dollars in uncollected commissions and fees. Bendini’s been waiting for it because he probably wants to hide the money from his partners and launder it through some offshore banana boat account so he can buy more condos, white slaves, Cuban cigars, whatever. Of course Bob’s people finished it a week ago and I’ve been keeping that little ace in the hole for a rainy day—which is now.

  I roll the dice and tell him I am happy to bring it to his house that night. He agrees, and as the white men say when they are attempting to play basketball at health clubs all over the country, “It’s on.” So I spend the day gearing up at HR, Inc., avoiding Bob so I don’t have to come up with some world-class bullshit to explain my face. Our weapons guys load a couple of duffel bags with a small arsenal of weapons and explosives that are typical drug cartel fare. You’re going to love these fuckers. They are very creative, and no request is too difficult. Once I had them make me an armor-piercing RPG launcher out of what looked like a tennis ball can. Worked like a charm, and I just tossed the launcher into the garbage after I blew the target’s bulletproof limo to kingdom come.

  After gearing up and devising an infiltration strategy based on my photos and schematics of Bendini’s property, Bob asks me to meet him in his office. When I arrive, I am relieved, and somewhat suspicious, that Bob is in good spirits. After we review the Bendini plan, Bob attempts to make me an offer I can’t refuse.

  “So this is it,” he says, waxing nostalgic.

  “Yeah. Hard to believe I’m out of here after tonight.”

  “Any interest in being reassigned?”

  “No. Want to try my hand at something else. Mix it up a bit.”

  “What could you do that could possibly measure up?”

  “That’s just it, Bob. I’m ready to have a normal life. I don’t want my new thing to measure up to this. If it did, I might as well just do this.”

  He smiles like he knows something I don’t.

  “Sell life insurance. It’s easy, very boring, and recession proof.”

  “Not to mention ironic.”

  “You’re needed in this capacity, John.”

  “Bob, I understand that there is no limit to the number of people other people want dead. But I have limits. Right now, I feel like I can transition into something else without carrying too much baggage into the new thing. If I don’t quit now, I’ll never quit.”

  Bob knows I’m basically saying I don’t want to be like him.

  “I thought about quitting once. Even walked away from the job for three weeks.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive, Bob.”

  “Yeah, but they knew I’d be back. It’s what I know. It’s all I know.”

  “How do you think I’ll do out there, Bob? Outside HR and the life?”

  “I’ve never bullshitted you, John, so I won’t start now. I don’t think you’ll last five minutes in that fucking anthill down there. Your mind is not wired or programmed to do anything else.”

  “Of course, that’s what I’m afraid of, Bob. But I have to try.”

  “Why? What’s the point? Do this a little while longer. Retire at forty.”

  “And then what? Live alone on my tropical island? Shoot myself at forty-one because my head is full of things I want to blow out and examine on the wall?”

  “Is that what you think I’m going to do? I’m forty-three.”

  “No, Bob. This is all normal to you. And I’m envious of that. The work comes naturally to me, but it will never feel normal to kill people. I know it’s a service that has always existed and will always exist. And I know the people we kill are human garbage. I’m not all that concerned about what we’re taking from them. I’m more concerned about what they’re taking from me. Does that make sense?”

  “Not to me. But to each his own. All I ask is that you at least think about something that I want to offer you.”

  Bob hands me a dossier packet.

  “Another target? My birthday was last week.”

  “No. It’s a new placement. Paris. Best fucking city in the world. Incredible setup. Apartment. Country house. Cars. Access to a jet when you need it. You’d get one, maybe two assignments a year. Granted, they are more complicated on the planning side, but nothing you can’t handle. Please look it over as a personal favor to me. I won’t be offended if you say no. Bewildered, but not offended.”

  He gives me a real smile. Holy shit, I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before. The reason I know is, because he looks like a different person all of a sudden. Like when a guy has a beard forever and shaves it off. You might pass him on the street and not recognize him.

  “John, I know I’ve been a hard-ass. But, pardon the cliché, I did it for your own good. I knew you would last. Talent is talent, and you’ve got so much of it, it kind of pisses me off sometimes. But I want you to know that I consider us friends, even if you don’t.”

  “I consider us friends.”

  I lie because “friends” is too weird a name for my relationship with Bob. I feel a connection with him, but I can’t define it.

  “Here’s another cliché, but sometimes I even feel a little like you’re the son I never had. A lot of kids come through here, but you remind me most of myself when I was your age.”

  “You must have been a real asshole.”

  “Goddamnit, John. Cut the smart-ass routine. I’m trying to be something other than your boss for once. I play the Sergeant Slaughter role, but that’s just to keep you aboveground.”

  “My apologies, Bob.”

  “I just wanted to say that before you leave HR. That’s all, John. For whatever it’s worth.”

  “I’ll miss you too, Bob. And I’ll think about your offer.”

  “I appreciate it, John. Let’s have a drink.”

  He pulls a bottle from his desk drawer. I recognize it immediately. Glen Garioch, 1958, forty-six-year-old bourbon made in, of all places, Scotland—a glaring contradiction, just like me. Also very rare. Something like three hundred bottles were released. One of my targets of about five years ago had twenty-five of them—at around $3,000 a pop. Ironically, he felt the same way about me that Bob just proclaimed. The difference was that the day he poured me a glass of the Garioch was the day I killed him. As we sipped it, he told me his own son was a terrible fuck-up, hemorrhaging money on cocaine, strippers, and destroyed sports cars. He joked about cutting the kid out of his will and putting me there in his place. We were alone in his office. I told him the reason his son was such an asshole was because his father was spoiling the shit out of him. Guys like that never become men, they stay boys forever. He asked me what to do. I told him the best thing that could happen to his son was to lose his father at a young age.

  Then I shot and beheaded him. He worked for Homeland Security and was using his security clearance to run drugs and guns up from South and Central America—unwelcome competition for the cartels. So, as far as anyone knows, they killed him and left his head on the scales in the executive health club locker room.

  As I sip the same whiskey with Bob, I almost mention this, but think better of it. That’s the kind of story that will ruin the moment and send Bob into a tailspin trying to figure out if I am delivering a thinly veiled threat. Instead we toast to our successes and have a few drinks. When I leave, I see Bob putting his whiskey away, and I know that he will never take that bottle out for anyone other than himself again.

  * * *

  Two hours later, my paranoia is up to DEFCON 1. I’m convinced that Bob’s Paris offer was actually a test. Bob knows that I am very dec
isive. So even though I took his reassignment packet with me, I have no intention of accepting, and he knows it. And his offer was as juicy as they come. Who wouldn’t want to be set up in Paris with money to burn, killer homes, and a fucking jet? Someone who definitely wants out, that’s who. So, unless I accept his offer, I have to assume that Bob will send a team to bag me as soon as I bag Bendini. If I’m not going to remain in the game, then I will probably be viewed as a loose end that needs to be . . . you guessed it, a faceless, fingerless corpse divided into six trash bags and dissolved in a vat of sulphuric acid in some nameless New Jersey chemical plant. Makes sense right?

  I guess I never really thought about it that much because I never thought I would be alive to find out. But I am, and now I’m pissed that, on top of the Bendini hit, I’m going to have to plan an even more complicated exit strategy. I can almost hear Bob now, phoning up his death squad with the same emotionless tone he would use to order a pizza. The whiskey confessional was just Bob getting things off his chest because he knows I am a dead man and he wants to be able to sleep at night. I’ve never felt so fucking alone. In the past, I’ve always had Bob and the HR team. They’ve been my family. Not anymore. Sometime tonight they could become my worst enemies. Duality. Have you looked it up yet? If not, what are you waiting for?

  19

  * * *

  MAN BITES DOG

  The last time I stole a car was three years ago, and I did it to get my ass away from the security detail trying to put as many bullets in me as they possibly could. It was a Ford something or other. Not cool but easy to steal. Tonight I am looking for something with a little style—and a big-ass engine. It also has to be roomy enough to transport my small arsenal. Sports cars suck for that. They don’t even give you enough room for a set of golf clubs. Then I see it. The perfect ride. Cadillac CTS-V Coupe. Six-hundred horsepower V8. Manual transmission for some serious g-forces on takeoff. Race tires and suspension. Recaro seats that hold you tight as a monkey’s fist in the corners. This one is black. Looks like the Batmobile. I saw the owner pull up in it in front of a restaurant. Valet took it into the back of a dark parking lot. Easy pickings. The owner was a douche bag, by the way. One of those fifty-something guys who tries to dress like he’s nineteen. Thinks he looks hip with love handles hanging over his skinny jeans.

  Stealing a car is fairly simple because there are cars that simply can’t be stolen and there are cars that practically beg you to steal them. Cadillac is a little in between. Totally doable. Problem is, getting in the door is a bitch on wheels. But this is my last gig, and I will need some horses to get me the hell out of Dodge if they send a posse. Plus, this car will be less suspicious in Scarsdale, where everyone has a license to print money.

  So I slim jim the door and hit the security system transformer above the pedals with a Taser. While I’m down there, I cut the ignition wires, but no, I’m not going to miraculously touch them together to start the car. That worked up until the mid 1990s and then pretty much every car rolled off the line with a kill switch that can only be deactivated by, you guessed it, cutting the ignition cables. One kill switch, killed. To start her up, I need to tell the computer that I have the keyless entry chip. I do that with a wireless transmitter similar to the one OnStar uses. It throws a few thousand common signals up against the wall to see what sticks. After about fifteen seconds, the car sees a signal it likes and starts up. The engine sounds and smells like victory.

  The drive up to Scarsdale puts me into an introspective mood. Living in Manhattan, I don’t get to drive much, and I really miss the insular nature of it. Cars, especially ones with beautifully appointed cockpits like this one, create a kind of silence that allows your thoughts to come out of hiding. My plan to whack Bendini is firmly ingrained in my mind so I allow myself to drift off to other topics.

  Like Alice for instance. The music on the radio starts tugging at my emotional shreds, and I realize I’m actually disappointed I’ll never see her again. We had a few laughs. What will she think when Bendini is murdered? Will she somehow have a feeling that I did it? If she suspects me, will she come after me? Part of me hopes that she does. Maybe she and I can be like George Clooney and Jennifer Lopez in Out of Sight. She’s the street-tough federal agent that falls in love with the smooth criminal. Maybe her father is a cop like Dennis Farina in that film. He’ll help her to work it out without ever really telling her to do anything illegal because sometimes love is more important than duty or the rule of law or whatever the message was that Elmore Leonard was trying to send. Or maybe she’ll just go to the ends of the earth to bring me in. Either way, it would be nice to see her again, even if it’s in my riflescope.

  Speaking of the devil, Alice sends me a text message while I’m driving. Wants to know if I can “come over for a booty call.” Damn girl, I wish I could. I text back “Working. Can’t break away.” She replies “pussy.” I can see her lying on her bed in that awful pink robe she kept since college, thinking of outrageous things to text me, like calling me a pussy. Fuck, I’m going to miss her. I text “good night xxoo” and see the lights of Scarsdale in the distance.

  * * *

  Rule #10: Speed.

  One thing I learned very early on is that being a predator means having the heightened senses of a predator. As humans, we don’t have them anymore. Television, processed food, toxic water and air, and the apathy that comes with an automated, emotionally disconnected society have dulled our edge to that of a Denny’s butter knife. Now, in order to get it back, we need pharmaceuticals. Speed to be exact. Let’s be clear about something. Speed is not just a drug that gets you all jittery and makes you clench your teeth until they break. Amphetamine, also known as a(lpha) + m(ethyl) + ph(en) + et(hyl) + -amine, is a stimulant of the central nervous system—the nervous system of things you control like motor movement—and the sympathetic nervous system—the nervous system of things you don’t control, like heart rate. This stimulation triggers the release of norepinephrine (energy), dopamine (cognition), and serotonin (mood) from presynaptic neurons. In some ways, it is a reminder of your former glory as a dirty cave dweller intoxicated by violence and the taste of blood. That is why it’s addictive. It’s fight and flight in one convenient pill and I just took five.

  The grounds at Bendini’s estate back up against a few thousand acres of Forest Service land. I make my way through the forest primeval in full black ops gear. When I reach the eight-foot wall topped with razor wire at the perimeter of Bendini’s house, I do not think of it as an obstacle, but a way in. Up the wall, Kevlar poncho over the razor wire, on the other side, in less than thirty seconds. I land noiselessly on the ground and crouch, unmoving. I am the predator, smelling the breeze for signs of fresh meat.

  A guard dog trots along the wall, quickly approaching. Interesting. Akita Inu—the Japanese version of the Akita and one of four breeds closest to the wolf. Like the wolf, and like me, these dogs hunt silently. Barking gives away your position. Barking is what a stupid dog that does not know how to hunt does. He has scented me and now he’s running full speed in my direction. With his black fur (rare for this breed), he is almost impossible to see. But I can see his white teeth and the whites of his eyes as he bears down and prepares to unload all of his power on my throat. For a split second, I entertain the thought of counterattacking with my knife. You know, give the son of a bitch a sporting chance. But I think better of it when I see his full silhouette against the hazy moonlight. He is easily 120 pounds. His massive paws are tearing six-inch divots out of the earth as his sprint clocks in at almost 30 mph. Remember The Pig? I pull it and dial in a strong nighty night cocktail. I don’t kill dogs. This guy is definitely not a “defenseless animal,” but he’s also just doing the job he’s been bred to do for hundreds of years. I wait until he actually leaps at me to jump to the side. It’s kind of hard to switch directions in midair, but he tries, whipping his head back and snapping the air a foot from my face.

  I fire The Pig into his belly. He yelp
s and hits the ground like a sack of potatoes. After a few seconds of drunken staggering, he curls up and passes out like the family dog in front of the fireplace.

  There will be more, so I sprint through the forest to the edge of the lawn that skirts the house, planting black cats—multistaged explosives loaded with 9-mm rounds—in the trees all around the house. When you set them off, it sounds like you’re being ambushed by the entire Bolivian Army and guards start dropping like flies as they get hit with the random trajectory bullets. Black cats are the very definition of diversion, and I plant enough of them around the house to really light it up. I hear more dogs coming through the trees, so I sprint, fueled by a high-octane mix of speed and adrenaline. I don’t stop to breathe until I am over the wall and back to the Caddy. Then I collapse, my chest heaving and my heart about to explode out of my chest.

  I finally catch my breath and look at my watch. Fifteen minutes late for my prearranged meeting with Bendini. He will be extremely annoyed by now and, by the time I get my shit together and make it to his front door, he may even refuse to see me. I head back to the car to quickly change my clothes, and drive through the front gate. Next thing I know, I’m knocking at Bendini’s door, briefcase in hand. Two corn-fed security monsters, sweating through their pinstripe suits, answer the door.