Marked (Callum Doyle 3)

by Jackson, David

  The killer puts an end to that with a single shot that takes out the prone man’s left eye and explodes the back of his head across the pillar.

  Then the gun is turned toward Doyle.

  Doyle takes his first good look at this man who has just wordlessly slaughtered three others. He is tall and dark-haired, with thick eyebrows and a pall of stubble that is so uniform and black it almost looks painted on. There is no emotion in his eyes. No trace of the after-effects of adrenalin or exertion. It is clear that he excels at his profession, and his profession is killing. The question in Doyle’s mind is: has he just been saved, or is he about to become the fourth victim?

  Doyle stays sitting on the concrete floor as the man slowly walks around him. When he is out of sight behind him, Doyle closes his eyes and waits for his brains to be evacuated. But then the man appears in front of him again, and Doyle lets out a long silent sigh.

  The man crouches down, a few paces in front of Doyle.

  ‘Who are you?’ the man asks.

  ‘I could ask you the same question,’ says Doyle.

  ‘Yeah, but I asked first. And I’m the one with the gun.’

  ‘Fair point well made,’ says Doyle. ‘My name’s O’Dowd. I’m a private investigator.’

  ‘Who are you working for?’

  ‘Can’t tell you that. Client confidentiality is the cornerstone of my business.’

  The killer raises his gun and points it at Doyle’s face.

  Says Doyle, ‘But then my business is going down the tubes anyway. I’m working for a man named Lucas Bartok.’

  The killer nods. He doesn’t seem surprised. But then Doyle isn’t sure that this man knows how to register surprise on those stony features of his.

  ‘And you were following Ramone here because . . .?’

  Doyle considers lying. Looks at the gun. Rejects lying.

  ‘Because he works for – worked for – someone called Anton Ruger.’

  ‘What business do you have with Ruger?’

  ‘Me? None. I’m paid to find him, end of story.’

  More nods. Nothing more on the emotion front, though. The man gestures vaguely behind him with the gun.

  ‘They would have killed you. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Actually, I was hoping to get away with a wedgie or two. But now that you mention it, they did seem a tad annoyed about something.’

  ‘These guys are what happens when you go looking for a man like Anton Ruger.’

  ‘And you? When do you happen?’

  ‘I happen when somebody is stupid enough to go around shooting his mouth off about how he works for Mr Ruger.’

  ‘So . . . this was their punishment? You’re not my knight in shining armour?’

  ‘Uh-uh. Sorry to disappoint. I’m more like the plumber or the mechanic. Here to fix things. To put them right again.’

  ‘Just so you know, I had a medical last week. I’m in perfect working order. No fixing required.’

  The man considers this. ‘I think you could still be useful. You could take a message back to Lucas Bartok. Let him know what happens to people who go against Mr Ruger.’

  ‘I could do that. I delivered newspapers when I was a kid. Never messed up once.’

  ‘The question is, would the message be stronger if I sent you back alive . . . or dead?’

  ‘If there’s a choice, I’d say alive. I can be a lot more persuasive when I have a pulse.’

  The man stands up again. A sudden jump to his feet that startles Doyle. For all Doyle’s facetiousness, he is filled with fear. The joking around is his way of trying to hide it.

  Doyle’s dread increases as the killer slowly starts to circle him again. He suspects that this time the man will not complete the circle.

  He’s right. The footsteps halt behind Doyle. He feels the hard tip of the silencer as it is pressed into the nape of his neck. He doesn’t dare move – not even a fraction of an inch.

  ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.’

  Doyle’s mind races. He thinks of his wife, his child, but decides that all the things that mean everything to him will not penetrate the cold heart of this killer.

  ‘I can’t think of one,’ he says.

  The man chuckles then. Something of which Doyle thought he was incapable. But the laugh carries no humor. It carries only the promise of evil.

  ‘You’re the first person who’s ever given that answer,’ the man says, and Doyle knows it is the case that he has done this many times before.

  And then, in an instant, all that Doyle knows and feels is snatched away from him.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  He’s not sure how long he’s been out. He stares at his watch and waits for the face to come back into focus. Figures it must have been only a couple of minutes.

  Long enough for the killer to make his getaway.

  Doyle sits up and puts tentative fingers to the back of his head. Winces at the stab of pain. That was one hell of a whack. And that’s on top of the previous blows from Ramone’s goons.

  Speaking of which . . .

  They’re still here. It wasn’t a dream. Three dead bodies, plus a cop who should be sound asleep in bed right now.

  Jesus, how did I get into this mess?

  Doyle gets to his feet slowly. His head swims, and it takes him a minute before he feels steady enough to walk. He meanders over to Zack’s partner – the one who had the gun on him. He stares back at Doyle with his remaining eye. On the other side of his nose is just a glistening red hole. Doyle pulls the man’s jacket open. Finds the Beretta tucked into his waistband. He takes it back, then searches the man’s pockets. Nothing of interest.

  He heads back toward the staircase. Toward the bodies lying at its foot. Zack’s head is like a Swiss cheese. Doyle searches him too and comes up with zilch. Then he flips Ramone’s body over. Sees that there are several bullet holes in his chest.

  I think one of you is gonna end up dead tonight, the stripper had said. Bang on the money.

  Once again, Doyle goes through the pockets. If he can’t find anything, his mission will be at an end. He won’t be able to meet Bartok’s deadline, and then everything will depend on what Bartok decides to do. Will he throw Doyle to the wolves? Extend the deadline? Give him another task? There are too many possibilities, none of which Doyle finds attractive.

  And then he finds Ramone’s wallet. And in the wallet he finds a card from an Italian restaurant. And on the back of the card he finds a brief, hand-scrawled message:

  A.R. Anton Ruger.

  It looks like Doyle’s night isn’t over just yet.

  Corbin Place is in South Brooklyn. It runs down the eastern edge of Brighton Beach. Home to a large Jewish community, the neighborhood was once renowned for its connections with the Russian Mafia – not for nothing did it earn the nickname Little Odessa. Doyle hopes he doesn’t encounter any Russian mafiosi tonight. Or any members of the criminal fraternity other than Ruger, for that matter. He especially doesn’t want to meet up with Mr Stubble again – the guy who can dispatch three men in the space of several minutes without even stepping up his pulse rate. He’s hoping that the killer will have reported back to Ruger that the man searching for him is no longer a threat. He’s hoping that Ruger will have relaxed at that news, and will now be sound asleep in bed, cuddling into his favorite teddy bear. He’s also hoping that Ruger will have taken off Bartok’s garish ring and placed it somewhere obvious, like next to the glass with his false teeth or something, and that Doyle can just sneak in, pick up the ring, and tippy-toe out again.

  That’s what he hopes. But he’s also painfully aware – witness the lumps on the back of his head – that life often likes to challenge him a little more than that.

  The street is pleasant enough, containing mostly tidy detached houses with tidy front yards. The south end is a cul-de-sac, cut off by the esplanade that stretches to the beach. There’s no reason to drive down this street unless you live here. Or unless – like Doy
le – you’re up to no good.

  Doyle parks where he can’t be seen from Ruger’s windows, turns his lights off, and waits for a few minutes. In this weather, and at this time of night, he thinks it unlikely that anyone will have noticed him arrive. Even less chance that someone will walk by. But he plays it safe.

  He pulls on a pair of gloves and gets out of the car. Tries not to look suspicious as he leans against the wind to get to Ruger’s house. He doesn’t hesitate. Just walks straight up the driveway, past the SUV that’s parked there, and down the side of the house. When he gets to the rear door, he slips the jimmy out from underneath his jacket. Seconds later, he’s in the house.

  He takes out his ski mask – the same one he used when he frightened the crap out of Lorenze Wheaton and Cubo – and pulls it over his head, then switches on his Mini-Maglite. He finds he’s in a small kitchen, which he would have known anyway from the lingering aroma of fried fish. He waits and listens for a moment. There’s a lot of noise, but it’s all of the right kind. The hums and burbles of the refrigerator. The rain battering against the door and windows. The howling wind. A clap of thunder. It’ll all help to keep his presence here undetected.

  He steps out into the hallway, then starts up the stairs. Chooses the door most likely to lead to the master bedroom.

  He turns off the Maglite and transfers it to his left hand, then pulls out his gun. He stands there for a few minutes, willing his breathing to calm down a little, while his eyes adjust to the darkness. He tries not to think about how absurd this situation is. Him, a cop, acting like the very burglars he’s supposed to catch.

  Then he opens the door.

  Eases it open, as slowly and as quietly as he can. Praying that it doesn’t squeak on its hinges.

  He steps into the room. The noises from outside seem even louder in here. He blinks. The thin curtains admit a small amount of the street lighting from outside. Just enough to show him vague shapes. He maps out the room and its furniture. Peers down at the bed and makes out the outline of a head against a pillow. A sudden flash of lightning through the curtains, followed almost immediately by a window-rattling thunderclap, causes the bed’s occupant to stir and mutter something in his sleep.

  Doyle holds his breath and counts to twenty.

  He moves closer to the nightstand, knowing that it won’t be that easy. The ring won’t be there. It’ll be on the sonofabitch’s hand. Or locked away somewhere else in the house. Things are never that easy. He’ll have to wake this bastard up and he’ll have to wave a gun in his face and . . .

  There it is.

  What, Doyle? Are you seeing things?

  But it’s there, all right. On the nightstand. In plain view. Practically begging to be taken. No false teeth, but hey, you can’t predict everything, right?

  Doyle wants to yell in triumph. He wants to jump up and click his heels together. For once, things are going his way.

  And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

  The screaming begins just after the light goes on. A high-pitched shriek, like something out of Psycho.

  Only, instead of Janet Leigh – instead of someone who could at least be pleasing on the eye at a pants-exploding moment such as this – Doyle gets a guy. A naked guy. A young streak of white skin and bone who has his hands pressed to his cheeks as he emits sonic waves that threaten to bust Doyle’s eardrums.

  Doyle whirls back to Ruger, who is already scrabbling out from under his covers. The man has a shaven head and a flat nose, and is wearing an expression that could kill most men at ten paces. He looks exactly like the mean son of a bitch he’s reputed to be, happy to exterminate anyone who gets in his way, and so Doyle points the Beretta at Ruger’s face to keep him where he is. The problem is, it doesn’t keep the naked guy where he is.

  The young man leaps onto Doyle’s back, his fingers tearing at Doyle’s mask, trying to rip through to the soft flesh beneath. Doyle pushes backwards, driving his attacker into a dresser. He hears a clatter and a cry of pain. Ruger seizes his chance and jumps out of bed, and now Doyle has two butt-naked guys attacking him. Doyle continues to lean back into the young guy, then raises his leg and kicks hard into Ruger’s chest, sending him flying back onto the bed. He drives his elbow hard into the solar plexus of the kid. He hears a whoosh of breath, and the grip on him loosens. As Ruger comes at him again, Doyle reaches behind himself, grabs the kid, and throws him hard into Ruger. There is a clash of skulls and more cries of pain, but Doyle finally has both opponents in front of him. He raises his gun, alternating its aim between Ruger and his companion.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he says.

  Ruger bares his teeth and flexes his muscles. His nakedness takes the edge off it, however.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Santa. I’m early this year.’

  The young guy takes hold of Ruger’s bicep with both hands. ‘He hit me. I think I’m gonna be sick.’

  Ruger yanks his arm away. ‘Shut up.’ Then to Doyle: ‘You’re a dead man. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Keep talking like that and you won’t get any presents. Get on the bed, face down.’

  ‘You picked the wrong house, asshole. You know who I am?’

  ‘I see bald naked guys all the time. They all blur into one. Now you can get on the bed alive, or you can get on it dead. Your choice.’

  Ruger pauses long enough to show he’s not afraid, then does as he’s been told. Doyle tosses two sets of Plasti-Cuffs over to the other guy.

  ‘You. What’s your name?’

  The kid is shivering, and looks ready to pee himself. Doyle would feel sorry for him if he didn’t think the kid would gouge his eyes out given half a chance.

  ‘S–Samuel.’

  ‘Okay, Samuel. I want you to tie your boyfriend up. One set of cuffs on his wrists, the other on his ankles.’

  Samuel looks down at Ruger, then back at Doyle.

  ‘C’mon,’ says Doyle. ‘I’m not asking you to do anything you haven’t done before.’

  Reluctantly, Samuel kneels on the bed and begins to bind Ruger’s wrists behind him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Anton,’ he says, a tear rolling down his cheek.

  Ruger continues to stare at Doyle. ‘I’ll find you. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll hunt you down, you motherfucking piece of shit. And then I’m gonna make you realize what a big mistake you’ve made. You hear me, you cocksucker?’

  ‘That’s rich, coming from you,’ says Doyle. He waits for Samuel to finish, then points the gun at him. ‘All right, Samuel. Now it’s your turn. On the bed, next to Mr Potty Mouth here.’

  Samuel puts his hands over his shriveled genitals and shakes his head.

  ‘It’s all right,’ says Doyle. ‘I’m not gonna hurt you. I just wanna make sure you can’t attack me again. Okay?’

  Keeping his eyes on Doyle, Samuel slides himself onto the bed.

  ‘Good,’ says Doyle. ‘Now, hands behind your back.’

  Doyle takes two more sets of nylon Plasti-Cuffs from his pocket and ties up the kid. Then he checks that the cuffs on Ruger are tight. When he is finally satisfied that the pair no longer pose a threat, he puts his gun away.

  ‘Now what?’ Ruger asks.

  ‘Good question. See, I lied about being Santa. I’m actually Anti-Santa. Instead of leaving presents, I take them away. But only from naughty boys like you, Anton.’

  Doyle walks over to the nightstand and picks up the ring. ‘I think I’ll start with this.’

  He expects a howl of anguish, and is surprised when he gets instead a vicious smile of insight.

  ‘Oh, so that’s it,’ says Ruger. ‘You’re no burglar. Burglars boost TVs and hi-fi and shit. No burglar I know would take a risk like this and go straight for that ring. Did Bartok send you here? Is that it? Did that cock-eyed freak send you to do his dirty work?’

  ‘Goodbye, Anton.’

  Doyle drops the ring in his pocket and turns to leave.

  ‘You’re dead, you dumb fuck. You and t
hat freak. And you can tell him that from me. Tell him . . .’

  But Doyle is no longer listening. The rant continues behind him while he descends the staircase. He retraces his steps to the kitchen door and out into the night. Ruger and his boyfriend will release themselves from the cuffs eventually, but by that time Doyle will be long gone.

  Stripping off his gloves and his ski mask, he returns to his car, never once looking back.

  He drives for about five minutes, then pulls the car over and takes out his cellphone. He dials the number that Bartok’s man gave him.

  ‘Hello?’

  It’s Sven’s voice, heavy with tiredness.

  ‘It’s Doyle. Tell your boss I got what he wanted.’

  ‘Do you know what time it is, asshole?’

  ‘Just tell him I’ll be there at eight.’

  Doyle hangs up without waiting for a reply. He looks at the clock on his dash. It’s three-thirty in the morning. No point in going home and waking everyone up and putting Rachel in an even grouchier mood.

  Instead, he finds a quiet Brooklyn street and sleeps for three hours in his car. After that, he finds a diner and wakes himself up with some strong coffee accompanied by some bacon and egg.

  And then it’s time to join the party.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  It’s not the happiest of parties. No balloons, no cake, not even any music. Bartok the clown could be funnier, although that trick with his eyes is pretty good. The dark-suited Sven and his partner are acting like they’ve just had a tiff because they’re wearing matching outfits. And that guy over there? Sonny Rocca? He’s a real barrel of laughs. Looks like he’s had one over the eight, and then some.

  Doyle takes his seat in front of Bartok’s huge desk. Tries to stop his gaze wandering to the left, where Rocca is slumped on a chair. It looks to Doyle as though Rocca has been fully defrosted. He is all white and limp, and one of his arms is drooped over the back of the chair, keeping him from sliding to the floor. He stares at Doyle, his dramatic recline like one from a classical painting, only without the same spark of life.