“Grocery run?” he asked.
“You can. I don’t want to leave the house. Not while someone’s out to kill you. If they do it here, at least there’s a chance I’ll come back to life before someone finds me. I die out there, this whole plan falls apart.”
“That’s some smart thinking,” Dan said. “Keep it up and no one will ever believe you’re me.”
He stopped at the door. “You, uh… got any money? For groceries?”
“Yeah,” I said and slipped him a twenty.
He looked at it incredulously.
“Shop cheap,” I said. “Ramen. Bread and peanut butter. We only have to make it a week or two, and we’ll both be rolling in it, but until then, we need to be frugal.”
Dan left, and I turned on the TV, fiddling with the coat hanger until I could get a signal through the static. Soaps. Infomercials. Sesame Street. I almost shut it off when a news broadcast caught my eye. The police had found the car and identified it as Dan’s. They also determined that it was struck by a blue vehicle which was not on scene, and that forensic evidence indicated someone had been pulled from the driver’s side of the car, but no body had been found in the area or admitted to any local hospitals. The vast quantities of blood that pooled in the ceiling raised a few eyebrows and made them ask questions which I didn’t feel like answering. They were currently investigating it as a homicide.
As no body had been found, the police would come by soon, no doubt, so I decided it best to hole up in the bedroom and keep quiet if they came. Hopefully I could buy myself a little time to figure out how to deal with them. One wrong word and they would want blood samples. They would find traces of heroin, and worse, they would find my blood perfectly matched the blood in the car, and it wouldn’t be long before the paramedics realized there was way too much of my blood at the crash site for me to still be alive, let alone unscratched. I would not be experimented on again.
I shut off the TV and anything else that might suggest I was home, then disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door behind me. Pacing back and forth, I tried on any cover story that crossed my mind. I could say the car was stolen, but that didn’t explain my blood. I could cut my hand pretty badly, but that wouldn’t justify just how much blood was found at the scene and how much was left in my body.
As I paced around my room, wondering how I would spin the story by the press, Dan’s phone rang. I almost didn’t answer. I was not ready to give a statement. My Pavlovian reflexes, however, wouldn’t let me ignore it, and soon, against my better judgement, I snatched up the receiver.
“Hello,” I said quickly. “Yes, I’m alive. No, I don’t have anything I want to say at the moment.”
“Danger Man,” said a woman’s voice on the other end. “I need you to get under the bed. Now.”
“Who is this?” I demanded, but the line was already dead. Strange.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of breaking glass and a hot pinch against my neck. The cord dangled, severed in my hand, and the cord dripped blood. That’s odd, my still drug-fogged mind thought. Phone cords don’t usually bleed. Touching my hand to my throat to see what happened, I was disappointed to see large bloody patches on my fingers and palm. “The hell?”
Staggering, I turned to the window and see a bullet hole, perfectly in line with me. On a rooftop across the street, a man in a ski mask gave me the finger, then put away his rifle and a video camera he had mounted on a tripod. I applied direct pressure to the neck wound, but the spreading warmth down my sides and the spreading chill in my veins told me it wouldn’t save me. Again with the jugular. Bleeding out twice in one day. What were the odds? Stumbling to the bathroom, I turned on the tub faucet and climbed in, awkwardly removing what clothes I could. I would at least keep the apartment clean. No sense giving the police two bloody crime scenes to investigate.
I braced myself for the chill of bleeding out, the old familiar flames of death, and the new experience of waking up high.
What a day.
Chapter 12
OLIVIA
HERE BE MONSTERS DRESSED AS MEN
My phone pings with an alert on Dan Germany. His car was found totaled and bloody on the side of I-95 heading toward Philadelphia, but no body. My heart races at the thought of him dead, my failure. The police haven’t said whether they suspect foul play, but the images on the news alert show nasty scratches down the side which look more like a vehicular collision than a simple, slip-off-the-road accident. The fact that there’s no other car at the scene certainly suggests another “seeker.” Had they taken the corpse as proof?
I pull out my laptop and set sail for the darker parts of the Internet, off the edge of the map where BBS cartographers might have written “Here there be monsters.” Places where good, wholesome people wouldn’t go, and dare not even think about. Places where drugs and people and lives are bought and sold like children buy candy with a dollar they found. Somewhere in the darkness, Marv “the Fist” Taggert runs his little hide and seek games. If I can find him, I can see if someone posted confirmation of their kill. Maybe I’ll get lucky. Maybe Danger Man is still alive. Maybe I’ll even be able to see who’s after him. While I’m wishing for miracles, maybe I’ll win the lottery and can retire to a tropical island full of bronze skinned cabana boys and a high-speed Internet connection. A gal can dream.
I spend nearly two hours link hopping from one murder-for-hire/murder-for-fun forum to another. My stomach twists into vile knots as I read. Is it weird, I wonder, to feel so squeamish in these places, being a professional killer myself? I seem so casual about it at home. Hell, I was raised in it. It should be normal for me, and for the most part, I guess it is. Maybe it’s how unprofessional these people are. Maybe it’s the sadistic glee the killers seem to get in being as brutal as possible, or maybe my sickness comes from the petty reasons people are putting out hits in the first place. He made me come to work on Christmas. They didn’t buy me the car I wanted for my birthday. She’s a Jew. Reading these requests asking for cold blooded psychopaths, begging for “details & pics. Tell me how u made them scream,” it both makes me want to go on a killing spree and never want to touch a weapon again.
But these are the monsters. These are the sorts of people I’m paid to kill. Except, you know, on a bigger level. The prime minister of wherever wants this woman and her family killed for not sleeping with him. The general of that military government wants them all dead because they have inferior blood. The madam who tells countless poor fifteen-year-olds in third world countries she can get them a real good job if they’ll just wear this dress and go into that room with that man. I read the posts and think, these bigger fish keep me busy, you little fucks. They keep a roof over my head and gas in my car. But one day, I’ll take a vacation, and you guys I’ll do pro-bono. The restful sleep of your victim’s families will be all the pay I need.
After the better part of an afternoon, I finally find what I’m looking for. At the bottom of a thread in which someone is sharing pictures of a family they brutally murdered because someone “got sick of their stupid smiling faces all the time” and decided to “give them something to smile about,” someone suggested the killer might enjoy a good game of hide and seek, saying he would fit right in with all the other players. I follow the shared link, and there it is. The Fist’s own hide and seek game.
The website is simple. Some forums I can’t access because I don’t have an account, a page for active games that I am again locked out of, and the terms of service, a sociopath’s rulebook for murder, Internet style. A five grand account setup fee to cover background checks, making sure you aren’t a cop. A five hundred dollar buy in for every game, with a five grand pay out for the winner, the first person to provide proof that they killed the target. Details, usually just a name and photo, but sometimes a last known location, are hidden behind each game’s paywall. Security’s pretty tight, but I don’t let it deter me. I come at the authentication software every way I know how, and in the end, I�
�m victorious.
It’s a federal agent’s wet dream. Countless threads tied to past games. Names, photos, details about murders that only the killer would know. I make a mental note to jot down how I bypassed security so I can shoot the information over to the authorities once I see Danger Man safely tucked away. Danger Man, who has dozens of people gunning for him. Most games only have five or so, people who are presumably semi-local to the mark, plus a few who fancy themselves pro players. People like Bigbadaboom84, who has wins all over the country. I guess with Danger Man being such a big-name target, it brought all the crazies out of the woodwork. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. I can only hope that they’ll have as hard a time finding the vagabond stuntman as I will.
I comb through what profiles I can to glean any relevant data about people hunting Danger Man, but unsurprisingly, it’s all pretty vague. Even the stomach-churning videos contain little more than a sniggering voice, which some Hollywood hacker might be able to work with, but not me. I look for other clues, but no dice. Not so much as a reflection on stray glass or a post-slaughter selfie with the victim. I’m on my own for spotting these people, so the best I can do is try to find Dan Germany before they do.
I’m not wholly unlucky. A few seekers aren’t clever enough to turn off GPS tagging when they post from their phones. Pulling the geotagging data from their brags and boasts isn’t terribly difficult. Looks like most are either in Philadelphia now or travelling to. Good. Either I’m close enough to him that I can maybe save him or he’s far enough away from all of us that I don’t have to worry. It’s not much, but it’s a start.
Part of me wants to stake out Danger Man’s apartment. After all, they found his car heading for the city, so he wasn’t in town earlier when Bigbadaboom and I had our little exchange. He may not think to avoid the place. He’s not in any of the hospitals near the accident or here in town, so in theory he is mobile enough to go home of his own accord, a fact I can only attribute to years of stunt training. Even so, the landlady might recognize me. Police might be watching the area as well. It’s best, I think to keep my distance.
Hopping on Google, I pull up a map of the area and find a rooftop near enough to give me a decent vantage point when checking out Danger Man’s apartment, but not so close the police will have eyes on it. I won’t have good visibility inside, but I’ll at least be able to see all the windows and the door to the building, and seeing people coming and going will count for a lot.
Gaining roof access isn’t terribly difficult. The fire escape is easily reachable from the hood of my car. Just to be safe, I keep my pistol and a pair of binoculars but leave everything else. I don’t want to look suspicious if the police do happen to be sniffing about. Even though Queen Mary is one of my very first guns, I can ditch her easily enough and come back for her later.
I settle into a nice corner, and pull out my binoculars, laying low against the elevated roof edge. I should have brought a camera. That way I could at least try to pass myself off as a paparazzi if worse comes to worst. But I didn’t bring it. Looks like I’ll have to be discrete instead.
From my nook, I sweep my gaze back and forth from windows to door, door to windows. No police unless they’ve gotten uncommonly good at the low-profile stakeout. No one coming or going.
Just as I get bored enough for my leg to start fidgeting, I see Danger Man and some blond kid climb out of a pickup. There’s an exchange of handshakes and off the truck goes. Danger Man, strangely, has his shirt heavily stained with blood. It’s not the glaring, bright red of a fresh wound, nor is it the caked-on brown of dried. It’s the faded stain of a shirt that’s been washed while the blood was still wet and new, but not soon enough to get rid of it completely. Stranger still, I see no wounds on Danger Man or the blond, at least none significant enough to stain his shirt that much or leave the amount of blood police say they saw on the scene. Could it be someone else’s? Did they kill the man who tried to kill him and leave the body somewhere in the woods? Oh, Danger Man. I knew you’d fallen in with a rough crowd, what with the gambling and the drugs and the mob, but I never imagined you had it in you to kill a man.
Time passes. I don’t know how much because I don’t dare take my eyes from the building to check my watch. I want to walk over there, tell him what’s happening, and get him out of there. Not that I would be able to get into the building. The old lady would make me in a second, and then it’d be nothing but questions and cops. Better I watch from a distance for now and not move close until I know it’s safe.
I take a moment to shift my weight as blondie leaves the building. I can just make out some movement inside. The angle isn’t good, but as far as I know, there’s no one else in his apartment. Good. He’s still alive for now. I glance around and don’t see anyone coming up the street. If I can’t get a good bead on him, he probably won’t notice me either.
I figure now is as good a time as any to stretch out after a long sit under the hot sun. Right as I’m about to stand and shake out the legs, I notice a man on a nearby rooftop, similarly fixated on Danger Man’s building. Call me crazy, but I suspect that unlike me, he has more nefarious purposes for being up there. It could be that sinister glee in his eyes. It could be me stereotyping him for being on a roof in a ski mask in the middle of summer. Probably, however, it’s the sniper rifle he’s assembling piece by piece from a large hard plastic case. It’s nowhere near as nice as my Bonnie Prince Charlie, but he’s also not shooting from anywhere near as far.
After taking a moment to put a small video camera on a tripod, the man rests the now assembled rifle on the edge of his own building and pulls the stock close to his nose, tightening the weapon firmly against his shoulder. I watch the rise and fall of his breathing. Another shift. I know these signs, these gestures and movements. He’s aiming. He can see him.
Fumbling for my phone, I try to track down the site where I got Dan Germany’s address. There’s a phone number. A quick check says it’s a fixed line. If his bill paying habits are any indication, it’s probably been shut off, but a girl can hope. It rings. The sniper steadies. Breathes in. Rings. No answer. Breathes out. Rings. No answer. I’m on pins and needles. I don’t know if he’s the kind of guy to fire at the top of a breath or the bottom. It rings again. Pick up the damn phone, Danger Man!
“Hello,” a haggard voice says before I even realize someone has picked up. “Yes, I’m alive. No, I don’t have anything I want to say at the moment.”
“Danger Man,” I say, racing to get the words out before he hangs up. “I need you to get under the bed. Now.”
I want to say more, but in my urgency, I didn’t realize how long or how loud I had been speaking. The sniper lifts his gaze from the stock of the rifle and looks my way. No more than perhaps my eyes could be seen above the parapet—I think that’s what these mini walls are called, but I chastise myself for stopping to think about it now. Hanging up, I drop fast and flat to the roof and hope I wasn’t seen I doubt it, though, because I hear the rifle fire. Long enough for a skilled sniper to regain his aim against such a close target. Of course, this guy brought a sniper rifle to shoot a target a between fifty and a hundred yards away and still took a moment to aim. Chances are, he’s not a skilled sniper. Just an amateur who thinks a better gun makes a better shooter. Could I be that lucky?
I wait in silence, holding my breath tight like an alcoholic holds his fifth last drink ever. Will he flee the scene immediately or will he come for me first? I cautiously, ever so cautiously pull Queen Mary from my pocket and slip its tiny grip into my hand. Easing my way up in a way that makes me wish I did more sit ups, I peer above the wall. He’s gone.
I wait for some sign of the sniper’s success or failure, but no ambulances come. Either Danger Man is hiding under the bed or he’s been shot and it’s all been for nothing. I want to stick around longer, to see what happens when Blondie comes back, but if the police show up while I’m down there, it will not end well for me at all, I’m sure. I groan. This is why I can�
�t have nice things.
I’ll have to find another way to keep tabs on the old man.
Chapter 13
JAIME
DYING’S WHAT I’M PAID TO DO
By the time I revived, the feeling of flames lapping at my body were nothing more than a distant memory, buried beneath an avalanche of mid-grade opiates. My whole world was soft as a pillowy cloud. If it weren’t for the crippling addiction, I could get used to waking up like this. I savored the strange sensation of the shower raining down on me, like a thousand cold fingers tickling at my aged bones. I let the sensation take me away to wondrous dreamlands of death-defying stunts. I was nothing, and the buried memories of Dan “Danger Man” Germany drifted in to fill the spaces. Flying motorcycles over busses, flying off the side of a building, wind in my face and low altitude parachute at my back, flying hot rods through flaming rings. Flying and flames. Flying through flames. Flying on flames.
“What are you talking about?” said a voice, strange and distant, echoing through the wide-open skies of fire.
The intrusion pulled me back into my body as well as the spider-silk connection between drugged mind and meat could manage, and the biological memory of Dan Germany retreated back to the recesses of my thoughts. “Fire,” I said. “And flying.”
I looked up and a blond man stood over me, an inexplicable look of concern on his face.
“Are you high?” he asked.
I thought long and hard about this. I was flying. But then I was cold and wet. Like a fish. Was I high? Or was I low? “No. Wait… drugs. Yes. Yes I am.” I laughed for no good reason. “Do I know you?”
The Daredevil Corpse (The Departed Book 2) Page 6
