by Nick Thacker
But the buildings were there. The same two dilapidated structures, one large, one small copy, straddled the driveway in the same configuration. Both built a century ago, both falling apart, cheaply made with poor materials and immediately forgotten once completed.
Gareth noticed the buildings first. The way they loomed over the smaller house, dark and ominous in an otherwise picturesque setting. This area of the country was less flat, and this estate, even though it was smaller and not as grandiose, seemed to be in a better location. It sat atop a hill, but the hill itself was set into a wide, deep valley, like a single scoop of ice cream in the bottom of a bowl. The house and buildings were the postcard-worthy center of attention, but the land itself was awe-inspiring.
Again, if it wasn’t for the two dilapidated buildings, the scene would have been quite nice.
“That is where we stay,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“That large building. We stay there. Boys and girls together, each in a bed.”
“You lived there?’
“Not here, but in a building like it. There are many, all owned by Likur Holdings. They keep us there, until someone order us.”
“Order you?”
“Yes. Like a package. We stay there, then we go to client. Then we come back. Every day. Every night.”
My God, he thought again. He was nearly in tears just thinking about it, and this poor girl had lived it.
“What about the other building? The smaller one that looks just like the other one?”
“Manager.”
“I see. And no one came to help? No police?”
She looked at him with a look that screamed, you know how that would go down, then said, “no, no police. Some police order us. Other police do not care, and the rest do not know.”
“I see. And this was going on for how long?”
“I do not know. Long time, before I get there. Five years after I leave.”
“It was shut down?”
She nodded.
“How?”
“We shut it down.”
“You and your sister? How did you manage that?”
She took a deep breath, preparing for the explanation. “We learn quickly. Very good at business, my sister. We set up business — prostitution, again. Only thing we can do.”
Gareth nodded. Sad, but probably true at the time. It was the only thing they knew.
“We build business, outside the major cities. This way we keep from becoming known too well and trapped once again. They find us, they kill us. Or they enslave us once again.”
“You didn’t want the Likur people to find you.”
She nodded. “Or anyone else. We very careful, only work for clients we know personally, and we pay for background check on everyone.”
“Wow.”
She nodded again. “This way we build our business, for many years. Finally we have enough money to begin to demand more and more. To tell client they have not enough money.”
“Pricing yourself out of the market, good call,” Gareth said.
“Well, we did not price out. We got more business. More money.”
Gareth nodded along. He’d heard of this phenomenon. He knew a few contractors, one a web designer and two in the coaching field, and all three had mentioned something of this sort. Keep pricing higher and you’ll weed out the clients who aren’t serious enough while making more money doing less.
He could imagine this to be true for the girls. They knew their business well, and Latia’s sister did sound savvy.
“Was this before or after your training? Your shooting and flying lessons in the PLAAF?”
“After. We needed money, so we escape again and come to Moscow. Then we start business.”
“And then you start killing the clients.”
She shook her head. “No, these clients were better. Nicer. We made sure of that, and we had no one to work for. No Likur Holdings. We work for ourself.”
“I see. So you got to choose to ‘work with’ only the best clients, and you dumped the rest. But at some point you decided enough was enough, right? That you’d both had it with that life and you were in a position to do something about it?”
“Yes, exactly,” Latia said. “We have the money, we have the training, we needed the plan.”
“What was the plan?”
Latia pulled the car off the road about a half-mile from the house. She had waited until the road pointed down into a small ravine, allowing them to be hidden from the house just over the other side of it. She stopped, put the car in park, and got out.
“Here?” Gareth said. “Won't someone see the car?”
“Does not matter. They know I am coming.”
“They?”
“Yes.”
Gareth sighed. It seemed the conversation was over, and while he had much more information now than he had before, he still had unanswered questions.
“What do you need from me?” he asked. “I can shoot.”
She looked him over. “You can shoot?”
“Army sniper. Currently on leave, or assignment, I’m not really sure. But active duty, yeah. United States.”
She seemed mildly impressed, but he could tell she wasn’t convinced. “Or just let me sit here next to you, play eyes, watch your back.”
Again, she wasn’t convinced. She was used to working alone, that was clear, and she obviously had thought ahead to her own mission and how Gareth might fit into it.
“You help,” she said.
“Great,” he answered. “How?”
“Stay out of my way.”
She crouched and began working her way through the woods, crunching over old dirty snow at a diagonal from the road but toward the top of the gentle rise. The slope grew steeper the higher it went, and she stopped behind a tree about twenty paces from the car and about three from the top of the hill.
Gareth had followed along behind her, watching her lithe shape move gracefully through the trees, her weapon stowed and hanging over her shoulder in its carry case. When she stopped, she immediately slung the weapon back over to her front and began assembling it.
He watched her work. She had a rhythm, an order to it, just like any of the best snipers he’d worked with. He had a rhythm himself, and hers was remarkably similar in order and speed. It was therapeutic to assemble a weapon you knew and trusted, one that had saved your hide more than once. You knew it like a child. A simple, delicate, child that could do only one thing.
He snapped out of his mesmerized state and knelt down next to her.
“Latia, you don’t have to do this.”
She turned and glared at him, either out of anger that he’d mentioned it or out of anger that he’d interrupted her routine.
“I mean it. Listen to me. It’s not going to change —”
“This is the mission. We are close. Almost finished.”
“Yeah, and then what?” he asked. “What next? Back to your old career?”
For a second he thought she was going to turn the gun on him and end his life, but she refrained.
“No,” she said. “Never.”
“Then… what?”
She stared at the house, sitting peacefully on its own tiny hill, just a hundred feet higher than theirs. He couldn't see anything alive in the house, but he knew with her scope she’d be able to get a perfect read on the interior goings-on. He longed for his own rifle, something he could set up next to hers, if only to see what she was seeing. But his was in the back of Roderick’s Chrysler.
She fiddled with the scope and then got comfortable on the patch of grass beneath the tree she’d chosen, then crept up over the rise so there was just enough of her poking up to see the house but leaving very little for anyone opposite to spot her.
She is good, he thought. Very good.
He stayed back, not wanting to break her cover. He still hadn’t decided what his own actions would be, whether he could let this woman go through with her self-assigne
d mission or not, but he knew it was only minutes until there would be no more choice left.
“How long?” he asked, whispering.
“Five minute,” she answered. “9:32.”
“What’s with the times?” Gareth asked. “All of the murders — shots — happened at very specific times. And the clients knew about them. Hell, they welcomed them. Why? Why are they all so content to die?”
“They make peace with their sins.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Before she could answer, Gareth heard the unmistakable sound of the Chrysler’s engine heading their way.
“It’s Roderick,” he said. “He’s coming here.”
Latia nodded. “He will try to stop me. You must help.”
Gareth watched the woman, still prone on the ground, her rifle at the ready and her finger just below the trigger. She wanted the shot, more than anything she wanted the feeling of it. The characteristic satisfaction it brought with it.
He wanted to help her. Not this way, and not here, but there was nothing else he could do.
“I need a gun,” he said.
She shook her head. “I am sorry.”
31
HE REACHED HER COMPACT JUST as Roderick passed them. Apparently the man hadn’t seen them, or he wasn’t even focusing on them, but he flew up and into the dip in the road and smacked down hard on the other side, then continued up and over the ridge and down toward the house.
If he saw Gareth, he didn’t let him know. The Chrysler sped up, aiming for the house.
The client’s house, he thought. The last client. The woman from the bank.
She was in there now, Gareth realized. There was a woman aiming at her, a man barreling toward her in a large sedan, and Gareth.
And he had no idea what he was going to do.
He threw himself into the car, banging his knee on the dashboard and then realizing the seat was far too close to the steering wheel, adjusted it, then turned the key in the ignition. He had his foot on the gas even before the engine started, and the tiny car lurched up and out of the ditch and back onto the road, the Chrysler’s dust still settling back down.
What the hell is the plan here, Red? he wondered. What do I do when I catch up to Roderick?
He wondered if Roderick had, in fact, seen them, but then thought it was stupid. Of course he’d seen them. Latia’s rental was right there on the side of the road, and Gareth was standing next to it when he’d driven by.
Why didn’t he stop? He just ignored me.
He flew over the top of the rise, the car’s suspension straining and popping when it landed on the opposite side.
He knew there was no other weapon in the vehicle. He had been with Latia when she’d rented it, and she hadn’t stopped anywhere after. Before that they had been on a commercial flight, and she hadn’t brought any checked bags besides the duffel, where she’d kept her rifle, and he had watched her pack that. The duffel was in the back seat and he grabbed it, checking inside anyway. Couldn’t hurt to check, but he was not surprised when he found nothing but a change of clothes, a passport, and more ammunition for the rifle.
Roderick stopped up ahead, quickly and throwing up a cloud of dust from the gravel driveway. Aside from the color scheme and style, the estate was remarkably similar to the one outside Vladivostok. The fountain, the circular driveway that wrapped around it, and the two buildings straddling the road.
Clearly this was a preferred layout for Likur Holdings, and in a strange, twisted way, it made sense. The land was owned by Likur Holdings, the buildings and roads built first as the company expanded to new territories, each area the same. Then the houses had been built, intended for the owners themselves. For their comfort as they watched over their empires.
Sick, twisted, and unbelievable.
But it was right here, right in front of him.
Unfortunately, so was Roderick.
He’d gotten out of the car but was reaching back inside for something, his tall form bending at the waist as he leaned inside.
Gareth eased up on the gas pedal, but the car was on a hill as it coasted between the two buildings and toward the Chrysler.
Roderick popped back out. Holding the assault rifle.
Shit.
He turned the gun toward Gareth and started firing, even before he had a steady aim.
Bullets ricocheted off the top of the vehicle, but a few hit their mark at the top of the windshield. Miraculously the glass didn’t shatter, but the two holes were right at head-level on the passenger side of the car.
A bit too close for comfort.
Roderick spread his feet apart a bit, one slightly in front of the other, then prepared to aim again.
Fat chance. Gareth floored it, then felt the forces push him back deeper into the chair. He was surprised at the small car’s power, but then again it had no weight to it and was traveling light.
He turned left, hoping to hit Roderick, but at the last moment, just before firing, Roderick changed his mind. He dove to the side, and Gareth’s car smashed through the open door of the Chrysler. Glass and metal flew everywhere, and a giant, spiderwebbed crack formed immediately on his own windshield.
Gareth slammed hard on the brakes and the car came to a stop, and he threw his door open and looked around.
Pieces of blue glass lay sprinkled among the orange gravel, making an ugly design on the driveway. Pieces of the door were strewn about as well. Roderick was running up the stairs, heading for the front door.
Gareth followed him up, hoping the man wouldn’t turn around and shoot. From this distance, both men on foot, he couldn’t miss.
What am I doing?
It was a suicide mission if he’d ever seen one.
Roderick turned around. Gareth realized the man had been waiting for him. Hoping to catch him off guard.
Or hoping to catch him directly between cover. Between the vehicle and the house, and that was exactly where Gareth was, running up the bottom step, heading toward the door as well.
He stopped. Put his hands up.
“You were supposed to run inside, Rod.”
“And let you follow?”
“Maybe lock the door. I don’t know. What’s the rush, anyway?”
Roderick clenched his jaw, then tightened his finger over the trigger. From this distance, a man with a decent shot could rip off three rounds before Gareth could start moving, and two bursts before he could get safely away. And from this angle, a man with a half-decent shot could land just about all of them.
One would do it. Two would seal the deal. Any more than that and Gareth would be ground meat. He knew his predicament, and so did Roderick.
“No sense drawing it out, Rod,” Gareth said. “Take the shot. Unless you’re not all bad. You know I’m a good guy, you saw my file.”
Roderick shook his head. “No. I was told you were right for the job. That you knew what had to be done, and that you could do it. I was told about your training, and a bit about your past.”
So that’s why he never told me exactly what he knew, he thought. He’d only been told why I was supposed to be tagging along.
“Why not go it alone, then? Why not just dump me somewhere, or just kill me on the plane, when we first met?”
Roderick smiled. “You were good. I knew this mission was going to prove challenging, and I did need the help.”
“So I’m no longer useful to you, then? Is that it?” Gareth knew he was pushing his luck, but he had no other options. Buy time or die, he thought. That was pretty much it.
“Correct. I can finish the job myself.”
Gareth cocked his head sideways, his own smile forming on his lips. It grew, wider and wider, until it stretched ear to ear.
“Wh — why are you smiling?” Roderick asked.
“It’s just… I just realized something,” he said.
“You’re waiting for the right shot, aren’t you? You know the timeline, and we’ve got, what? Two minutes?”
Roderick, to his credit, didn’t drop the gun and fall for it, but he answered anyway. “Something like that, yes. Probably less.”
“So you’re going to shoot me, but you can’t risk missing. There would be time to get inside, to help the last client. Get them to safety.”
He could see Roderick tense, just slightly in the shoulders, but it was enough.
I’m right. Good.
He smiled, somehow even wider. The smile felt good, it felt genuine. He wanted to do it more often. Maybe even make it a more common thing — it seemed to throw off Roderick just a bit, buying him even more time, and it made him feel better about the situation.
But that wasn’t the only reason he felt better about the situation.
“Correct,” Roderick said.
“That’s what I thought. Well, listen. I’m not going anywhere with that thing pointed at you. But you should probably consider moving around a bit yourself, you know, uh…” he cleared his throat. “Because I know there’s someone else waiting for the right shot, too.”
Roderick realized it before Gareth had even finished speaking, but it was too late.
The shot came in, arced upward from below Roderick, measured and marked perfectly. It hit him in the jaw, and his head just simply disappeared in a cloud. The sound came next, barely after the shot, and it was loud.
Gareth ducked out of instinct and reaction to the blast, but he kept his eyes on Roderick as he crumpled downward and onto the porch, the assault rifle rattling around on the steps before coming to a rest halfway down.
He strode over to it, picked it up, and flashed his new grin toward the tree line.
32
THE INSIDE OF THE HOUSE was dingy, humid even. It was an odd feeling, as everything in the house gave him the impression that the home would have been dry, stale. It was old, worn, but like it hadn’t been used in a decade or more. The paintings on the walls were of landscapes, not people, unrecognizable locations but generically painted to look like every place. One of a mountain, any mountain. Could have been the one behind the house or one in Colorado. Another of a desert with a cactus in the foreground and a river running through it.
