by Karin Tabke
They were right.
Marcus smiled tightly. Tonight, Blalock would come to an end, and his demise would send a strong message.
He pulled out a pair of black neoprene gloves and slowly put them on, never once breaking his stare from the building. A moment later, a shiny black Escalade skidded to a stop in front of the building. Marcus watched Don “Mageek Wan” Jackson, Blalock’s oversized and over-adorned pimp, drag two girls from the backseat. Like those before them, they were scared and they were young. Marcus’s temper spiked. Nothing pissed him off more than the exploitation of innocence. And they were innocent. Once. Quickly he leashed his anger. No sense getting heated over something he had no control over.
Life was a bitch. And then? He smiled tightly and watched Mageek shove the hesitant girls through the doors. And then Blalock dies.
Marcus watched, and waited. Two ghostlike shadows rose eerily from behind the Dumpster. Marcus knew why they were there. He’d smelled the stench of death clinging to their unwashed bodies like rotten trash the moment he’d taken his position over an hour ago. They were career criminals, and the stench of their many kills still clung to them long after the deeds were done. Like him, they were patient. It was only because he knew they were there for Mageek and not Blalock that he allowed them to live.
Several moments later, the pimp returned empty-handed. Marcus watched the two shadows that had been lurking behind the Dumpster leap from their spot and pounce.
Mageek cursed.
Twap-twap-twap. Twap-twap.
In less then thirty seconds, the shadowed thugs pumped the pimp with lead and took off with his ride. Marcus stood for a long minute watching the motionless heap on the street.
How was that for poetic justice?
A slight impediment to his plans, but one that would play out in his favor. With Mageek now fresh roadkill, Marcus would have to accelerate his game plan. He’d missed his window of opportunity last week when a bunch of dopers had taken over the stairwell leading to the tenth floor, forcing Blalock to change his plans thus preventing Marcus from doing his job. His hits never looked like a hit unless he wanted to send a message. And while tonight’s mark was a message to be sent, he was simply going to cap the guy as he walked out of the apartment and lift his wallet, making it look like a simple mugging, which would set D.C.’s tongues speculating over what a high-profile senator’s chief of staff was doing in the slums of southeast D.C. He still could, but not if someone discovered Mageek first.
Improvise, adapt and overcome. Marcus lived for this kind of shit.
He glanced up at the dimly lit windows of the tenement, watching for looky-loos, but no one had the balls to look out the window. Out of sight . . . out of mind. That was good for him tonight.
Slowly, he pulled the black mask down over his face. He gave the street one more sweep. Then, with a stealth and grace that came as naturally to him as his black hair and blue eyes, Marcus moved across the street to the man on the ground. Beneath the sputtering glow of the streetlight, the asphalt glittered with slow rivulets of blood. The coppery scent hung heavy in the air. Marcus’s nostrils twitched at the blood scent. His adrenaline surged, but he kept his focus on what he was there to do. He grabbed the thug by his four-hundred-dollar Nikes and dragged the lifeless form to the curb. Then tossed him into the Dumpster.
Silently, he walked around to the back of the building and took the stairwell up to the tenth floor.
He had already familiarized himself with the other apartments, all of them empty. Blalock had made sure there would be no witnesses to what he did here every Wednesday night. Another plus for Marcus.
Even before he opened the heavy metal door leading from the stairwell to Blalock’s floor, he heard the shrill screams. Noiselessly he moved down the hall, stopping several feet from Blalock’s apartment door. When the screams escalated in volume, Marcus remained motionless.
He’d watched and listened to Blalock for almost a month. He knew the creep paid a pretty price to rough up the girls. As the minutes dragged on, Marcus continued to stand silent outside the door, the screams only white noise. He’d learned a long time ago to tune out the peripheral shit of his job. It had seeped into his everyday existence as well. Autopilot was safe, no room for emotions to cloud his judgment. In his line of work, there was no room for error, not even a fraction. If he failed, more lives were lost. Failure was never an option.
But tonight the screams set his nerves and ultraheightened senses on edge. The scent of fear blasting from the apartment was so thick that it clogged his nostrils. The hard, fast staccato of heartbeats and the thick swish of blood as the heart pumped at capacity reverberated against his chest. Yes, he felt the fear, smelled it as if it had been something tangible. But he did not allow it to sway him from his course. He moved closer to the door, itching to get in and get out. His plan had been to wait for Blalock to come out after the girls had been collected, but Mageek wasn’t coming back for his girls, and if his body was discovered, someone might call the cops.
He glanced at his Swiss-made chronometer. The screams coming from the apartment changed.
A little girl’s scream for her life. Her life force cried out for help, then, like a candle being snuffed, it was gone.
He felt a pull to the apartment that had nothing to do with his mark. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, shutting out the fragmented images of a girl, naked and dirty, being pulled off her dead mother, who had just been raped by soldiers. American soldiers. As the images flashed in his brain like a slideshow on fast forward, he continued toward the stairwell. This was not his battle, damn it! His war was with the boss of the man inside the apartment. A long wail made the hair on his arms stand straight up.
“Fuck!” He whirled around. As he strode to the door he grabbed the doorknob and twisted it so hard that the tumblers snapped. He pushed open the door and stepped in. The dim apartment smelled of sweat, sex and fear. The wailing had turned to a low whimper.
“You killed her!” a girl’s voice gasped. “You killed Amy!”
A sharp slap followed by a low moan of pain prefaced Blalock’s denial. “That wasn’t supposed to happen! She didn’t do what I told her.”
“B-but she’s dead,” the girl whimpered.
“Shut up and let me think!” Blalock’s voice edged on hysteria.
“If you let me go, I won’t tell anyone. I swear!” the girl pleaded.
“I said, shut up!” Blalock hissed.
Marcus cleared the rusty, mold-infested bathroom to his immediate left, then proceeded to the end of the short hall to the only other room in the closet-sized flat. There the ugly scene played out before him. In the right corner, beneath a broken lamp and on a stained threadbare mattress, lay the limp, naked body of a girl not more than twelve or thirteen. Marcus knew from the unnatural angle of her head that her neck was broken. Her life finished.
To the left, near the cutout kitchen and the sliding glass door, there was another girl, about the same age, half dressed. A very naked Blalock towered over her with his hands wrapped around her neck.
Marcus’s gaze narrowed on Blalock. His instinct was to take the piece of shit out at that precise moment and let the girl live, but another part of him knew that to do so would expose him.
“Plu—eezz,” the girl begged, barely able to breathe. Her small hands clutched her attacker’s. Blalock laughed and shoved her down to her knees. He grabbed the cord from the floor lamp next to him, yanked it from the socket, then wound it around her neck.
Anger galvanized in Marcus’s heart. His own heart rate escalated, he could hear his blood swish hot and harsh through his veins. His body warmed, his neck corded, his teeth . . . He forced himself to focus.
“No—” the girl gasped. Blalock grasped the cord with both hands, then twisted and pulled. He watched her eyes close and her body still, then lose consciousness.
Something inside Marcus snapped. He roared furiously. In two long strides, he moved into the room and grabbed
Blalock around the neck from behind, catching him in a carotid choke hold. He applied pressure—not enough to choke Blalock out, but enough for it to hurt. Marcus wanted the prick fully conscious. He wanted him to feel the same terror he’d exacted on the girls. Marcus hauled him off the girl, who crumpled to the floor.
“What the hell?” Blalock choked, taking a swing at Marcus.
Marcus did not break the cadence of his step. He shoved open the sliding glass door, dragging Blalock with him onto the small patio. The chill of the night air hit him like a glass wall.
“What the hell?” Blalock cried again, continuing to try to wrestle free. Marcus didn’t stop. One step away from the edge of the balcony, he shoved the pedophile over it, his pasty white ass up in the air, his eyes staring straight down to the concrete alley ten floors below.
Marcus dug his elbow into Blalock’s back, keeping his right arm locked around his neck. He could feel the thick cord of his jugular. The hot stream of blood as it flowed to his brain. Marcus fought the urge to show Blalock the monster he was. Maybe after he had the information he needed, he would. Though he sometimes hated what he was, there were times when he enjoyed the shock value of it just before he killed. It was the little things.
He leaned closer, and in the chief of staff’s ear softly asked, “Does Senator Rowland know what you do here every Wednesday night, you sick fuck?”
Vehemently, Blalock shook his head. Though Marcus could not out and out read a person’s thoughts, he was highly intuitive. He knew when someone was lying, when they were telling the truth, and with the ladies? He could smell their need before they realized they wanted him.
Marcus ground his elbow into Blalock’s kidney. “Don’t lie to me. Does he look the other way?”
“No!” Blalock screamed. “No one knows except me and my pimp.”
Marcus growled. “I guess the dead girl won’t be telling anyone.”
“That was an accident, I didn’t mean to . . . I—it wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Word on the street has it that isn’t the first girl to fall victim to your rough play.” Marcus dug his elbow in harder. “Now, before I toss your sick ass over this railing, tell me where Senator Rowland keeps The Solution’s intel.”
“The S-Solution? I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Marcus tipped him forward. Blalock flayed trying to grasp at the concrete patio wall to keep from falling.
“Yes, you do. Tell me now, or I’m tossing you.”
“Senator Rowland doesn’t discuss The Solution. He doesn’t tell me anything!”
“Then how do you know it exists?”
“I—I just do the necessary paperwork to keep it on the preferred contractor list. But he instructed me three weeks ago to remove it. He said The Solution went belly up.”
Marcus laughed. “My dear Mr. Blalock, I assure you, The Solution is alive and well. Who do you think sent me?”
When Blalock shoved back, Marcus dug his elbow deeper into his back and tightened his choke hold. Blalock gagged and Marcus felt his body go limp. Like a pressure valve, he let up on his choke hold, and Blalock immediately revived. He coughed but hung limply over the railing. Gasping for several breaths he finally admitted, “The senator told me The Solution went rogue. He was adamant we shut it down.”
Marcus kept a firm hold on the naked man. “Negative. We still clean up what the CIA can’t. It’s your boy Rowland who has gone rogue.” He dug his elbow deeper. “Where’s the file.”
There was a long hesitation before Blalock said, “His district office. But—”
“Where in his district office?”
“If you let me go, I’ll get it for you,” Blalock mewled.
Marcus slowly shook his head. “I work alone. Now tell me exactly where the file is.”
“Please! Let me go, I’ll get it for you!” Blalock screamed as he struggled to free himself.
“Last chance, Blalock.” Marcus tipped him forward so that he had to stretch his long arms to keep him from falling completely over the rail.
“Fuck you and that crazy bastard you work for!” Blalock screeched.
Marcus smiled and pulled the black mask from his head before standing back, bringing Blalock with him.
He turned the naked chief of staff around. Clasping his neck with one hand, Marcus lifted him a foot off the patio floor. Blalock screamed harshly as he stared at Marcus. “What the fuck are you?”
“Your worst nightmare.”
With one harsh shove, he sent Blalock flying over the rail, the chief of staff’s fading screams just more white noise. Marcus didn’t look to see where he landed. He was dead. Mission accomplished.
Pulling his mask back over his head, Marcus strode back into the apartment, and quickly evaluated situation. There was nothing anyone could do for the girl in the corner. On the plus side, there was one less witness. Scowling he bent over the other girl, as he did, she gasped, then coughed, fighting for air. Her eyes flew open and she screamed.
Marcus slammed his hand over her mouth and shook his head. With his free hand, he put his finger to his lips, hidden behind the mask. The terrorized girl immediatly quieted.
“I won’t hurt you,” Marcus roughly whispered and cursed himself for the words. Despite his personal code not to 86 children, he was a ghost, and if he was to remain a ghost, there could be no witnesses to his existence.
Wide-eyed, she stared up at him. Her fear tugged at his gut. When the cops questioned her, the only detail she’d be able to give was an estimate of his six-foot-four-inch height and his two-hundred-and-forty-five-pound body. He was dressed completely in black, his skin obscured by gloves and mask, and his unusual blue eyes camouflaged behind brown contacts. He was sure she hadn’t heard anything that had been said on the balcony, or even that Blalock was splatter. Hell, until this moment she hadn’t known of his existence in the apartment.
Marcus carefully unwound the cord from around her neck, then grabbed her shirt from the floor and placed what little there was left of it over her bare chest. He growled when he picked her up. She didn’t weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet. He stepped into the bathroom on the way out, grabbed a grimy towel, then wrapped her in it. Once she was secured, he yanked open the door and headed for the stairwell.
She shivered hard in his arms. He didn’t want to look down at her, but he couldn’t help himself. Wide-eyed, blinking back tears, she stared at him. He felt like someone had kicked him in the balls.
“Wh-where are you taking me?” she croaked.
“Someplace safe,” he said, knowing he would regret it.
Eight
Minutes later
“Senator Rowland.”
At the deep, arrogant voice, the senator stopped in his tracks. The colonel stood behind him, so close that he could feel the warmth of the man’s breath brush along his neck. Rowland’s skin chilled, every hair on his body stood straight up.
“That’s it,” the colonel murmured. “Keep still and keep quiet. What I have to say will only take a moment of your valuable time.”
Sliding his fisted hands into his trouser pockets, Rowland held his breath. His gaze darted around the lightly populated private dining room in the ultraexclusive D.C. gentleman’s club, Partisan.
“How did you get in here?” Rowland quietly demanded as he made to turn.
The hard nose of a pistol dug into his back. “Ah, ah, follow orders, soldier, or pay the price.”
Rowland stiffened but remained still.
“Now, listen to me very carefully if you want to survive this election cycle.”
“What?”
“Compliance becomes you, Senator.” The colonel chuckled. “In the not-too-distant future, you’re going to get a call from DCPD informing you that your chief of staff jumped out of a ghetto apartment building because he couldn’t live with himself after he killed the twelve-year-old prostitute he had delivered earlier tonight.”
Icy foreboding dug into the senator’s gut. In
that instant, he saw his illustrious career go down the proverbial drain. He turned to confront the devil face to face.“What did you do to Blalock?”
The barrel of the gun dug deeper into his back. “Ah, ah.” When Rowland stilled, the colonel continued. “The reality is, Blalock was thrown from the window. And the girl?” The colonel tsked tsked. “Unfortunate collateral damage.”
“You don’t know who you’re up against, Colonel,” the senator bit out.
“No, my friend, it’s you who has no clue who you’re up against.” To accentuate his point, the colonel shoved the pistol harder into Rowland’s back.
Rowland moved to turn around again, but the colonel dug the barrel deeper.
“Don’t turn around. I’m here to give you a friendly heads-up so that when the cops call, you have the real facts. And you know how those vultures at the Post like to twist everyone’s dirty laundry into a shit pile. It’s going to be very interesting to see how your PR team spins this little, ah, sexcapade slash suicide. Especially since you’re running such a tight race against that incompetent Democrat.”
Rowland remained still, too angry, too terrified to breathe. This would topple him. It didn’t matter that Blalock liked young whores. Rowland was a California conservative, a virtual unheard-of in that great state. His opponent would pull out all the stops when they got wind of this. “What good am I to The Solution if I lose my seat?”
The colonel laughed low. “I like the way you’re thinking now, Senator.” Colonel Lazarus relieved the pressure at his back. “It’s simple, really. Reinstate our preferred contractor status, we go back to business as usual, and I’ll make sure you not only retain your senate seat but you’ll be hailed a hero as well.”
Rowland spun around and faced his nemesis. The pacemaker in his chest was working overtime to keep his erratic heart rate from fibrillating. His gut gnarled in such a severe contortion that the Maryland crab cakes he’d eaten an hour ago rose in his throat. He was damned either way. Unless—unless he found a way to eliminate The Solution from the face of the earth.
