The Killer Collective

by Barry Eisler

  “Beer?” Horton said.

  Ben nodded. “Pint of whatever.”

  Horton went to the bar and returned a minute later with two foaming-over dewy mugs. He set them down, and before he’d even sat, Ben had picked up one and taken a swallow.

  Not feeling terribly convivial, Horton thought. But that was all right. Just because someone else is rude, his mother had always told him, doesn’t mean you should be.

  He lifted his mug. “Santé.”

  Ben grunted. “Chin-chin.”

  They drank, then were quiet for a moment. Horton said, “You wanted to meet.”

  Another pause. Ben said, “Yeah. For some reason, I was expecting to see the rest of them.”

  Horton nodded. “Everybody’s just being extra cautious.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ben took a swallow of beer, then set down the mug with a sigh. “He’s using me,” he said. “To set you up. It doesn’t make me feel good to admit it, but I don’t want to be a sucker about it, either.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I’m supposed to tell you about a meeting he has, day after tomorrow. Lunch at Le Grand Véfour. Super-fancy restaurant in the first arrondissement. I’m supposed to tell you this like it’s a leak, so you’ll recon the place and try to hit him there. Except it won’t work. He’ll have people waiting for the recon and waiting for the hit. The whole thing is just an ambush.”

  “Why are you telling me this, son?”

  Ben drummed his fingers on the table. “You know, Hort, I’m not really sure. You’ve fucked me. Why shouldn’t I fuck you back? And maybe one day, I will. But right now . . . I’m not going to let Graham make me his patsy. If he wants to kill you, he can. Or you can kill him. All I’ll say is, think twice about Le Grand Véfour.”

  “If we don’t show up there, what happens to you?”

  “Nothing happens to me. Graham figures you all sniffed out the ambush and steered clear. He’s disappointed. He doesn’t give me a pat on the head or another bullshit promise. What difference does it make?”

  Horton hesitated, mindful of the man’s pride, then said, “How’s it going for you over there? I mean, at OGE.”

  Ben looked at him. “Why do you care?”

  “Because it’s partly my fault that you wound up there.”

  “That’s right. So if you care, you’re caring a little late.”

  “Maybe we can find you something better.”

  “Save it, Hort, okay? You’re starting to sound like Graham.”

  “Look, give me something. If Le Grand Véfour won’t work, then where?”

  “I don’t know where. He told me his executive assistant is still working out the details of his schedule. I think that’s bullshit, and that the idea is to give you just the one, shiny, irresistible bit of intel. But either way, I don’t have anything else.”

  “No other meetings? No places he likes to go?”

  “He likes the hotel. The bar especially. But that’s not going to help you. Part of the reason he always stays at the Ritz is because the security is extensive, inside and out. Half their guests are VIPs—celebrities, politicians, Saudi fucking princes, that kind of thing. So they’ve got cameras everywhere. Guards. And on top of the hotel’s own security, the Ministry of Justice is next door, with its own armed contingent. And then there’s Graham’s own detail. I’ve met them. They’re good. Don’t even think about making a run at him there. You’d have better luck inside a bank vault.”

  Delilah said, “We may have a problem.”

  Horton’s heartbeat kicked up a notch. He took a sip of beer as though considering, wanting to pause the conversation so he could focus on the update.

  “I’ve got two large men,” Delilah went on, “dressed for surveillance—gray clothes, everything average, comfortable shoes—and looking like former military or national police to me. Bulky jackets that would be good for concealed carry. I just watched them go into the second restaurant in a row on my street.”

  Larison said, “I’m on my way. Three minutes out.”

  “Same,” Dox said. “Say the word if you want us to come in.”

  “Not yet,” Rain said. “Delilah, how sure are you?”

  “Sure. They’re way too focused to just be trying to find the right spot for dinner.” There was a pause, then she said, “They just went into my restaurant. Hort, you should leave. Turn right onto the street as you leave the bar. And be careful. There might be others closing in from that direction.”

  “I’ll head that way,” Dox said. “In case you run into a problem.”

  “That’s where I’m coming from, too,” Larison said.

  Horton shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  Ben looked at him. “What doesn’t?”

  Horton set down his beer, his heart kicking harder now. “Did you bring anyone with you tonight, son?”

  “No.”

  “I need the truth.”

  “That’s funny, coming from you.”

  “Goddamn it, tell me if you did. And tell me why. Things are going to go sideways otherwise.”

  “Why do you think I brought someone? Is someone coming?”

  “Yeah, someone’s coming. But I don’t know why. Are they after you, or me? Or both?”

  Ben turned and started scanning the room, his right hand drifting over to the edge of the table.

  “They’re leaving my restaurant,” Delilah said. “Turning onto Rue Laplace.”

  “I see them,” Livia said. “I’m pulling back for a minute so they don’t make me.”

  “Hort, stay put,” Delilah said. “If you leave now, you’ll walk right into them.”

  “Did Treven have a beacon?” Larison said.

  “I don’t think so,” Delilah said. “If it were a beacon, they wouldn’t be checking other places. They’d head straight in. My guess is, they had mobile surveillance in a wide grid—keeping way back, and falling in or turning off so that no one was ever on Treven for more than a single city block. Now he’s been gone for ten minutes, so they assume he’s stopped. They’re closing the net and going place by place to determine where he is.”

  Rain said, “Horton, what do you want us to do? Your call.”

  “Stay outside,” Horton said. “Ben and I can handle this.”

  “Handle what?” Ben said, still scanning the room. “Who are you talking to? Is that Rain?”

  “They’re looking in the window now,” Delilah said. “Just like they did in the last three places. I’d say you’ve got thirty seconds before they come in.”

  “I see them,” Larison said. “I’m coming down the other side of the street. And it looks like . . . yeah, pretty sure those are two more ahead of me, closing in on the bar.”

  Horton looked at Ben. “If you came here to kill me, you can do it now. It’ll be a lot less messy than if you wait.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Ben said, still scanning. “If I’d come here to kill you, I would have dropped you in the dark in front of the Pantheon. Or the second you told me no one else was coming.”

  Horton believed him. Maybe it made sense, but still, on some level, he knew it was an act of faith. He didn’t care.

  “I believe you,” Horton said. “Now listen, son. I’m armed. I assume you are, too. In a second, my hand is going to disappear under the table. Once it’s down there, it’s going to have a gun in it. That gun is not for you. It’s for the two men who just came through those doors, if they show any hostile intent.”

  Ben had already made them, and his hand had already vanished under the table, same as Horton’s.

  “What the fuck are you up to?” Ben said, glancing back and forth from Horton to the two men.

  “I’m not up to anything. Think about what you just told me. If I wanted you dead, why would I do it this way?”

  The two men reached the connection between the two rooms. They made Horton and Ben. One of the men started forward, his hand moving toward the opening of his
jacket. But the other guy stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and a few words in his ear. Followed by a few words into his lapel.

  “Do you know them?” Horton said.

  Ben shook his head. “No. They’re not part of Graham’s security detail, anyway. Maybe local auxiliaries.”

  “They made us,” Horton said. “For the moment, it’s a standoff. I think they’re waiting for reinforcements.”

  Through the earpiece, Horton heard two pistol shots. Then Larison: “The reinforcements are going to be late.”

  The man who’d spoken into his lapel a moment earlier did so again. His brow furrowed. He spoke again. A pause, and then he spoke urgently. Much more urgently. He and his partner slipped back behind the support column. Maybe they were being generally cautious; maybe they’d been briefed on what kind of a shooter Ben was. Either way, Horton realized the table he and Ben had chosen was a mistake. He hadn’t envisioned a standoff like this one, and had been focused less on cover and more on spotting a threat before it got too close.

  “Oh, hell,” Dox said. “We’ve got three motorcycles, each a tandem, all turning onto Rue Laplace from the Bibliothèque side. I think somebody just called in an emergency or something. Larison, best find some concealment beaucoup quick.”

  “They had two backup on the way,” Horton said to Ben. “Larison just capped them. But six more will be here any second.”

  “I’m at Delilah’s position,” Rain said. “Livia, you ready?”

  “Eyes on the front entrance.”

  “Merde,” Delilah said. “Three more motorcycles, all tandem. So twelve incoming.”

  “Here I come,” Dox said, the rev of the motorcycle engine audible through the earpiece. “Feeling stupid and deadly on this damn contraption. Larison, I don’t know where you ghosted to, but you’ll see me in a second.”

  “I’m right here,” Larison said. “Pick me up.”

  Ben must have realized the same thing Horton had about their position, because he said, “They have cover, but they’re clustered. I’m going to slide left. You go right. But be ready. As soon as they spot the pincer, they’re going to run, or fight.”

  “Go,” Horton said. They both moved out. The men, apparently having failed to anticipate the move, waited a second too long. Then the one on the right yelled, “Tout de suite!” And brought up a pistol from behind the column.

  He hadn’t even finished fully extending it before Ben put two rounds in his face. The buzz of background conversation stopped so abruptly it was as though someone had hit a giant “Stop” button, and for a moment there was no sound but the music from the stereo. Then someone screamed, and there was another scream, and people started scrambling from their tables. The guy on Horton’s side moved left to clear his gun hand from behind the column. Horton kept moving laterally and put three rounds into the man’s torso. The guy got off two wild shots anyway and Horton kept moving in, his gun up, walking up his shots until he’d put two in the guy’s face and he was down.

  It was pandemonium now. Everybody out of their seats, screaming, running in panic for the exit. It didn’t look like the stray shots had hit anyone, but Horton wasn’t sure.

  “I think they’re wearing body armor,” he shouted. The lapel mic would have picked it up without the extra volume, but he was juiced with adrenaline. “You need headshots. Headshots.”

  “Is there another kind?” Larison said, and Horton heard two reports through the earpiece. Then an eruption of gunfire just outside the restaurant.

  “Come on,” Horton said, hustling toward the exit. “There are twelve more out front. Or ten, anyway. Sounds like Larison just dropped two.”

  They got closer, and then had to stop—the crush in front of the door was too much. The people in back were trying to stampede out, while the people in front, trying to escape the gunfight in the street, were fighting to get back in.

  A girl about his daughter’s age tripped and stumbled into Horton’s arms, crying hysterically. Ben shouted, “Hort!” and fired two rounds. Horton looked up and saw someone in a full-face helmet and riding leathers who had made it through the door. The man staggered, but the crush behind him kept him from falling. Horton pushed the girl away and fired. He was no longer the shot he’d once been, and with all the people and tumult he was afraid to go for the head. But he hit center mass. Once. Again. Ben put two rounds through the facemask of the helmet and the inside of it erupted in red.

  There was more gunfire outside, but the people who’d made it out of the bar must have been dispersing left and right now, because the crush was suddenly gone, with maybe a dozen shaking stragglers hiding under tables and quaking in terror. Reflexively, Horton and Ben swiveled from one of them to the next, their pistols up, causing sobs and moans of terror. Horton looked through the door and saw another rider, his pistol up, apparently engaging Livia. He heard her shots through both the door and the earpiece, and the man went down.

  “Go,” Ben said, turning to check their six. “Help the others. I’ll make sure—”

  Another rider popped up from behind the bar. He must have slithered under it during the commotion and then waited until he sensed his moment.

  “Ben!” Horton screamed, bringing his gun around. He fired at the man. He hit him, center mass. A second time. A headshot. And another to be sure. The man went down.

  In his imagination, in the reality he expected and still clung to, that was all that happened.

  But burned into his retinas was a different sequence. The man had fired before Horton hit him. Ben had staggered back.

  Horton looked. Ben’s back was to the support column. His left hand was pressed to his chest, his gun hand covering it.

  Blood was coursing through his fingers.

  “Ah, fuck!” Horton said. “Fuck!” He raced over and got an arm out just before Ben starting sliding down. He tried to hold him up, but the angle was too awkward, and Ben’s legs had given out. All he could do was keep him from sliding past the column on one side or the other, and stabilize him in a sitting position at the bottom of it.

  “Ben’s hit!” he yelled, not even caring if one of the people cowering under the tables heard the name. He scanned the bar and, seeing no threats, fumbled for his burner with shaking fingers. The damn thing was off, a security precaution. He pressed the “On” button, and waited while the screen gradually brightened . . .

  Come on, come on, come fucking ON

  “I’m coming in,” he heard Rain say.

  “Negative,” Horton shouted back. “Just get everyone out. I’m calling a friend. A medic.”

  Jesus, was it possible for a phone to take this long? He looked down. Ben’s color was bad, very bad. The floor was soaked with as much blood as Horton had ever seen. And Horton had seen his share of blood.

  “Hold on, son, hold on,” he said, and he realized he was crying. “Do you hear me? I have a friend, he’s right here in Paris. A former medic. Legionnaire. I’ve seen him patch up wounds way worse than this. Way worse. You’re going to be fine, do you hear me?”

  Ben groaned. He said, “You used to be a better liar.”

  “It’s no lie. Come on, you fucking phone!”

  “I’m coming in,” Rain said. “Don’t shoot.”

  And a moment later, Rain was kneeling alongside Ben. He glanced at Horton, but Horton wouldn’t look at him. He didn’t want to see what was in Rain’s eyes.

  Ben’s breathing was getting extremely shallow.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Horton said again, a battlefield reflex.

  Ben groaned. “How stupid do you think I am?”

  There was nothing more to say. Horton took Ben’s hand and held it tightly. Shot in the chest, and this much blood . . . it was a matter of seconds now.

  “What can we do?” Rain said.

  “Just go,” Ben said, his speech slurring now. “Maybe you’ll believe me now.”

  “I do believe you,” Rain said. “And for what it’s worth, Hort always has.”

 
“Yeah?” Ben said.

  Horton squeezed his hand. “Always,” he said.

  Ben’s skin had gone dangerously white. He murmured, “Fuck.”

  “Is there anyone at home?” Rain said. “Anything you want anyone to know? Tell me. I’ll make sure it gets done.”

  Ben looked at him. “My brother. Alex.”

  “What about him?”

  “Tell him . . . I’m going to be with Katie. And that . . . I’m sorry I was always such an asshole. Shit. I can’t believe—”

  Then his eyes closed and his head lolled to the side.

  “Oh, no,” Horton said. “No, no, no.”

  He felt Rain’s hand under his arm, the grip like a steel hook. “Come on,” he said. “We need to go. Now.”

  chapter

  forty-two

  RAIN

  An hour later, the six of us were clustered in a tight circle on chairs and cushions around the living room in Delilah’s Marais apartment. The curtains were drawn, the lights low, and though there was a thick rug underfoot, we were speaking softly to take no chances on disturbing the people in the apartment below.

  Per the plan, we had met at the bug-out point, a dim and graffiti-covered underpass at the intersection of Rue Jean Calvin and Rue Mouffetard. Dox and Livia had gotten away on Dox’s motorcycle. Delilah and Larison ghosted away on foot. Horton and I requisitioned one of the dead riders’ bikes and, being the last to leave, were chased by two police cars. Horton laid down suppressive fire, and I lost them by gunning the bike through a series of alleys. Eventually, we ditched it near a park farther north on Rue Mouffetard and walked the rest of the way.