Herokiller

by Paul Tassi

  Mark closed down the S-lens and began planning the assassination of Cameron Crayton.

  In the morning, Mark woke up for what he knew could be the last time. It wasn’t the first time he’d had that feeling. Over the years there had been many days he thought might be his last. Most of those were in China, but he’d certainly felt it before his last two Crucible fights, even if he wouldn’t admit it. But this one felt different.

  There were two scenarios Mark thought likely. Either Crayton would be sitting in the car alone with him, with Axton up front behind glass. Or Axton would be right next to him. In the first situation, Mark felt like there was a slim chance he could escape with his life. In the second, it didn’t seem likely he’d leave the car alive.

  He thought about killing Crayton with his bare hands, cracking his throat like he’d done to Burton Drescher. It would be twice as easy on an older man like him. But if Axton was there, he needed some kind of weapon to stand a chance. Brooke wasn’t exactly going to be sneaking him in a concealed gun or syringe, so he had to make do. Kitchen knives were too big. Combat knives were too hard to lift from guards in such a short time window. He had a hunch, and followed it into a particular room in the mansion. The old living quarters of Matthew Michael Easton.

  Aria had described the room as all candles and knives. A few candles were still there, but the knives were gone. Mark’s heart sank a bit, but given the crime that had been committed there, it seemed reasonable. Crayton would take no chances when it came to trace evidence. Surely the furniture had been replaced, and it even looked like the flooring had been replaced. But Mark remembered Easton’s case back when it had been on the news. In his remote cabin they found endless secret chambers and stashes of new horrors. At one point, Easton only was being accused of a dozen murders, but eventually investigators knocked down a wall to find a secret trophy room that provided DNA evidence for twenty others. In short, the man knew how to hide things, and that’s what Mark was counting on.

  Mark searched every square inch of the room, top to bottom. He checked the furniture anyway, but found nothing. There were no loose floorboards to pry up, with everything having been replaced.

  What wouldn’t a clean-up crew replace? Mark thought as he scanned the room. His eyes landed on a small picture on the opposite wall. It was a long painting. A simple grayed-out landscape with Chinese characters on top.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  It was a Wang Meng. Rather the Wang Meng, Zhichuan Resettlement. Though the value of Chinese art had plummeted recently, it still had to be worth at least a few million. It wasn’t something you’d just tear off the wall and trash when you were gutting a room. Mark saw no flecks of blood on it, and when he took it off the wall, found it a bit heavier than it should be.

  Mark smiled.

  Gently, Mark peeled the picture out of the frame. Inside, he found two tufts of black hair, and three small, clean knives.

  “I knew you wouldn’t let me down, you fucking lunatic,” Mark said aloud. He took the thinnest knife and put the other two back. He thought about pocketing the hair as well as possible evidence, but whatever poor soul he’d taken it from seemed rather inconsequential in the current scheme of things. The tufts went back in the painting, and the painting went back on the wall.

  Mark slid the knife up his shirt sleeve and was reassured it was small enough to shift properly during a potential pat-down. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. And hell, it would even be a little bit poetic, considering who it belonged to.

  From one monster to another.

  The long walk down to the waiting car felt like a march to his execution. But he forced a smile when Crayton saw him, clad in a snow white suit with crimson shirt underneath. Axton stood inches from him, as ever, and seemed to be wearing even more body armor than usual, and had an extra pistol strapped to his hip.

  “Mark, thank you for allowing me to escort you to the match,” Crayton said. “Arthur assures me your armor and sword are polished and waiting. We’re expecting to break viewing records again. And that beautiful Vegas sunshine is back, so you won’t be slogging through the mud like you were against Mr. Tagami.”

  Chipper as ever.

  “Yeah, should be a good day,” Mark said, smiling.

  “That’s the confidence I like to see,” Crayton said with a wink. “Let’s get moving. We shouldn’t be late for our own show.”

  Crayton motioned for Mark to enter the car. Axton gave him a pat down, and Mark rolled the slim knife around his forearm to avoid detection. A satisfied but still scowling Axton held the door open. Mark ducked inside the autolimo and Crayton followed. Mark held his breath and felt his insides melt as Axton piled in after him. Two other guards sat in the seats up front.

  Well, I guess this is it then.

  There was a very, very short window for Mark to make his move. The stadium was only a few miles out into the desert, across an empty stretch of sand. If you didn’t mind the heat, you could easily jog from Crayton’s estate to the Colosseum. That didn’t give him much time at all.

  Mark was surprised to see a crowd a few hundred feet from the walls of the compound as they exited. Some were waving Crucible signs, but others were the doomsayers that Mark had seen protesting the event since Chicago. They held signs that said things like KILLING IS NOT A SPORT and THOU SHALT NOT MURDER and were screaming fire and brimstone at the car as they passed.

  “A certain segment of the religious demographic has still not warmed to our little contest here,” Crayton said with a smirk. “We’ve had some threats, but we’ve increased security, so there’s no cause for concern.”

  Indeed their autolimo was flanked by a second limo, a decoy car, and two boxy SUVs in the front and rear. Mark knew it wasn’t religious zealots Crayton was afraid of, however. Mark was already thinking about how he might use one of the other cars as a getaway vehicle, depending on if he could clear them of mercs.

  God I wish I had backup.

  As they passed by the crowds, Crayton launched into his apology about his treatment in the wake of his encounter with Rusakov, and how sorry he was that Aria had met her end. Mark smiled and nodded, but his ears were ringing and he could hear very little of what Crayton was saying. Instead, he was sizing up Axton. The man hadn’t stopped staring at him since he sat down.

  It was too risky to go for Axton first. Crayton was opposite Mark and a seat over from Axton. Going across the cabin to Axton was a death wish. If he was only going to get one opportunity before Axton shot him point blank with one of the various firearms strapped to his body, he was going to have to make sure that knife landed in Crayton’s heart first, no matter what happened next. Mark thought if he was fast enough, he could do them both and actually set foot outside the car again. But there was truly no predicting how things would go down once he made his move.

  Something in the back of Mark’s mind told him not to do it. He wanted answers to the maddening mystery of Crayton, and they would likely die with him if he did this. He knew everything would play better if they could just do this the right way, but with no support from the Agency, time was up. Crayton was better in jail than dead, perhaps, because of his intelligence value, but better dead than free.

  This man was everything Mark despised. A rich charlatan corrupting the masses with a vile product, and a traitor to his country for good measure. He was evil in its purest form.

  The world needs to see what he is. They never will if you kill him.

  Mark almost told the voice in his head to shut up aloud, but restrained himself. Still, Axton narrowed his gaze, and those steel-gray eyes pierced deeper into him.

  It doesn’t matter if the world knows. I know.

  You’ll be dead. And you’ll be remembered as the evil one.

  If I’m dead, I guess I won’t mind.

  They were deep into the desert now, Vegas hazy to the west, the Colosseum coming into view to the north. This was it. Mark rotated his wrist, and dropped the knife into his palm
. His heart was hammering. One straight thrust to Crayton’s chest, then he’d try to turn and catch Axton in the neck.

  I love you, Riko. I love you, Asami. I just might see you soon.

  “Mark, are you alright?” Crayton asked. “You look quite—”

  Mark heard a distant sound. A crack, muffled by the nearly soundproof cabin. He had half a millisecond to consider it before he heard another quick succession of sounds.

  A high caliber slug shattering the bulletproof windshield.

  The sound of a guard’s head exploding up front.

  The whooshing tear of leather as the bullet plowed through the seat, bringing brains and blood and bone with it.

  The gasp of Wyatt Axton as the round slammed straight into his chest.

  Mark and Crayton’s eyes widened at the same time. The car lurched and swerved. An explosion.

  The car flipped, and gravity lost all meaning.

  39

  MARK WOKE UP IN a fit of coughing. Something was burning. Smoke stung his eyes and filled his lungs. He could hear the whine of autocycle engines nearby. More than one. Gunfire. Automatic, semi-auto. Close. Right outside.

  He blinked blood out of his eyes. It was spilling down his forehead from an unseen cut in his scalp somewhere. As his sight returned, he saw the limo was upside down, and its seatbelt-less passengers were strewn everywhere. Axton was in front of him, face down on shredded leather and broken glass. Crayton was to his right, laying on his back, face contorted in pain. He was still alive.

  Mark had clearly hit his head, but searching himself for other injuries, he couldn’t find any.

  What the fuck is—

  More gunfire. A cycle whipped by and someone screamed outside. A muffled yell.

  “Zhè chē!”

  Mandarin.

  “This car!”

  China. They’ve come at last.

  Two more gunshots rang out and Mark heard a body drop to the asphalt close by. Two legs came into view through the crunched window frame. They wore cycle boots and leathers. Not Glasshammer leg armor.

  Before Mark could even think of what to do next. The figure crouched and a gloved hand threw a round object through the window. It skipped across the roof, which was now the floor, with metallic clinks. It rolled right in between him and Crayton.

  “Shit!” Mark cried out as he grabbed the grenade and flung it backward out the opposite window. A split second later, an explosion rang out and Mark winced as tiny slivers of shrapnel peppered his right leg.

  There wasn’t time to even process the pain. Mark immediately lunged forward from his position on his stomach and grabbed Axton’s Desert Eagle from his hip. The figure outside started to bend down again, but Mark ripped a shot into his kneecap. With a shriek, the figure collapse and Mark now had a full view of the leather-clad assassin wearing a tinted helmet. He unloaded the rest of the clip into the visor without hesitating, and blood started pouring out from the bottom of the helmet once the man lay still. More bike engines and gunfire told Mark there were still more assailants lurking. He pulled another magazine from Axton’s belt and reloaded the pistol.

  Crayton looked terrified. His suit was stained with soot and blood.

  “I didn’t think—” he said before trailing off.

  Mark grabbed Easton’s knife, which had also landed nearby. He looked at Crayton, and realized the choice that lay before him.

  In this moment, he could kill the man no questions asked. China would have simply hit their target.

  Or, he could capture one of the assassins and get what the case desperately needed. The reason why this insanity was happening in the first place.

  As if an answer to his prayer, Mark heard shots ring out and saw an autocycle go tumbling past the window, its driver flying over the handlebars. Mark poked his head out and saw the man holding a wounded arm. Ahead of them, one SUV was fully aflame, a skeleton of metal and fire. Around it were the bodies of dead Glasshammer guards, leaking blood onto the pavement. But behind them, the other SUV seemed to be intact and drivable. Mark’s decision was made.

  He crawled out of the car and looked around. The smoke was drifting over from the second limo, which was in far worse shape than theirs. He drew his head back into the cabin and saw a stunned-looking Crayton still trying to process what was happening.

  “Stay there,” Mark barked. Glasshammer security was pushing up past the intact SUV toward their position, driving another four helmeted assailants on bikes backward, as they zipped around the road and surrounding desert. But some were making wide arcs and coming around from behind. Two more guards fell with armor-piercing rounds shredding their kevlar like paper.

  “But—” Crayton said.

  “If you want to survive this, stay in the goddamn limo!” Mark yelled. Crayton seemed content to obey, pawing at Axton’s submachine gun. The man hadn’t moved, as tended to happen when you took a .50 cal slug to the chest.

  Mark turned toward the injured assailant on the downed bike. Immediately, a line of bullets tore into the man, and he lay still.

  “Motherfucker!” Mark said aloud, turning back to see that CMI security had put him down for good.

  A bullet whizzed by his ear as an autocycle blew by him. Autocycle was wrong, actually, these were full-on manual motorcycles, he realized. Mark fired several shots at the bike as it passed and hit the rear wheel. The bike pitched left and dumped the man into the flaming carcass of the lead SUV, and Mark heard him screaming as his body caught flame and he became a fused mass of skin and leather.

  Double fuck.

  Mark saw three Glasshammer guards taken down by another biker, who looped around through the desert holding a machine pistol in his right hand. He shifted his aim to Mark, who dove over the top of the upturned limo as the bullets ripped into the undercarriage. The man brought his bike to a skidding halt next to the limo and leapt off it, continuing to fire as Mark spun over the other side. He started to bend down again, looking for his true target, Crayton, who Mark knew was just feet away. Mark fired at the top of the man’s head, but the gun clicked, out of ammo.

  Suddenly, Wyatt Axton exploded out of the window of the overturned limo, spearing the helmeted assassin with the force of a freight train. He and the man slammed into the pavement, and Mark could only see Axton on top of the man, ripping his helmet off and pummeling his head into the pavement with his bare hands. He stood up, unslung his submachine gun from his back, and turned toward Mark. He was covered in blood, and had a crater the size of a salad bowl in his chest armor, but the sniper round hadn’t pierced the plating after all. An engine whining turned his attention away from Mark, and he put a half dozen rounds into another passing attacker who spiraled off his bike into the brush.

  Mark realized the attack was starting to collapse, and he was running out of time to secure a survivor.

  As Glasshammer mercs swarmed the limo to cover Crayton, Mark leapt back over the undercarriage and dipped down to pick up the dropped machine pistol from the assailant Axton had practically decapitated.

  “What are you—” Axton said, but Mark was still sprinting. He scooped up a submachine gun from a dead CMI guard and slung it over his shoulder. He also grabbed two pairs of metal cuffs from the man’s belt. He righted the downed bike from the first attacker he saw crash, which didn’t appear to have suffered any major damage, despite the dead rider crumpled underneath it. Ahead, the last two cyclists were starting to retreat. Mark gunned the engine and took off after them, watching Axton sprint to the lone remaining SUV, which lurched to life as soon as he got inside.

  Mark was doing eighty in about three seconds, trying to remember the last time he’d manually driven a motorcycle. College? Thankfully, it was literally like riding a bike.

  One rider was way out in front, the other lingering a touch behind. He started firing blind shots back at Mark with a subcompact of some kind, but they dug into the asphalt wide right. Mark fired back, trying to only hit the bike itself, or the man’s leg at worst, but cont
rolling the bike and firing was tough, and he missed completely, despite emptying half the machine pistol.

  Axton’s SUV had a monster engine and was keeping pace with the bikes. He was leaning out of the window firing at the rear bike as well, though also not finding his mark.

  Realizing the SUV was also in pursuit, the biker emptied a clip into the windshield, but the bulletproof glass held against the smaller-caliber rounds and they only served to obscure Axton’s vision. He hung out of the window and kept firing.

  Mark saw the lead bike toss something over his shoulder, which bounced high on the pavement and rocketed past him. The explosion of the grenade caused Axton to lurch right, but he kept his wheels on the road and Mark could hear him yelling even through the deafening wind swirling around him.

  It was clear Axton was making this entire situation even more difficult. Catching one of these assassins was going to be hard enough, but downright impossible with Axton on his tail as well. Mark pushed the bike to its redline and pulled even with the second bike. The attacker turned his attention back toward Mark, but before he could fire, Mark fired the last machine pistol shot into his front tire. At 130 mph, the result was catastrophic.

  The bike flipped up into the air, the rider with it, and smashed back into the ground, immediately getting sucked under Axton’s SUV, trailing too close behind it. Mark heard a sickening groan of metal, a muffled explosion, and watched the SUV’s front axle snap. The truck pitched hard left and dove off the road completely. It crashed into the base of a towering billboard, dragging a streak of wet gasoline and blood behind it, the bike and its rider now no more than pulp. As Mark accelerated away from the crash, he heard Axton trying to restart the engine to no avail.

  Now, it was just Mark and the lead biker.

  Who had now disappeared.