THE JUDAS HIT

by W. D. Gagliani

  Curtis had always been proud of his straight-shooter reputation as a soldier, leader, and now as a well-paid flunky.

  But he was afraid of his boss’s temper.

  Kessler said, not unkindly, “Tell me what happened, Pieter.”

  Curtis explained that the targets were awake in the middle of the night, and somehow they had predicted or expected the attack. Well-armed, they were able to kill all the attackers but one.

  Kessler listened without speaking, nodding in places during the account.

  When Curtis was finished, he managed to avoid wiping his brow. He could tell there was sweat forming there, probably brought on by Kessler’s silence and the way he sometimes dealt with failure.

  It wasn’t my fault, Curtis thought, fingers twitching behind his back, where his hands were clasped. It was a military stance, but it helped him conceal his fear. They were fucking outnumbered but they still managed to escape the ambush.

  “Who is this you’ve brought with you?” Kessler said, for the first time acknowledging the tall, sinewy Irishman who’d come over from Belfast where he had once been a bombmaker for one of the worst IRA sliver groups.

  “This is Dunwood, sir, my right-hand man.”

  Dunwood nodded at Kessler.

  Kessler came around the desk and leaned his buttocks on its edge. He nodded back at Dunwood. He directed his words at Curtis. “You’re my right-hand man, Pieter. You know that, and you know I rely on you a great deal for my…less than public efforts.”

  “Yes, sir, I know.” Curtis tried to swallow, but his throat was a desert.

  “These people, are they some kind of genetically engineered soldiers? How many of your men have they managed to kill?”

  Curtis opened his mouth.

  “Doesn’t matter, it’s too many. I hate losing good men, good soldiers.”

  Curtis nodded.

  Kessler seemed to be weighing his next words.

  Instead there was a blur of movement. A single slug struck Dunwood in the forehead—his head kicked back as if made of rubber, his body crumpling to the floor, where blood leaking from the exit wound pooled quickly like a crimson halo. The small pistol had just appeared in Kessler’s right hand.

  Curtis closed his eyes, expecting a second shot. There was a sharp jabbing pain in his bowels.

  “This is what happens to right-hand men who can no longer function, Pieter.” Kessler made the gun disappear. “Word to the wise.”

  Curtis wiped some bloody bits of skull off his cheek. “I understand.” His voice was strained, but didn’t break.

  Kessler made a conciliatory gesture with one hand and smiled. His eyes did not reflect the shape his lips made.

  “Clean this up and use Sanctuary West. They’re not busy tonight.”

  “Sir.”

  Sanctuary was a small chain of mortuaries owned by Kessler through a shell corporation. Although completely legitimate business walked in the front door of all six branches, the crematoria also did a fair amount of off the books trade for Kessler and his security team.

  Curtis waited—was Kessler finished with him? His boss now half-faced the window wall, his look suddenly faraway and disinterested. Curtis figured he was daydreaming about the vast power the ritual would grant him, and what he would do with it. Not for the first time, Curtis shuddered. Not much difference between him and that poor fucker Dunwood, was there?

  But he was glad he’d brought the guy in. Might have saved his life.

  In the massive anteroom, he passed the witch Stoyanova heading in the opposite direction. When she smiled at him, it was the snake eyeing the bird.

  She had one real advantage over him—Kessler lusted for what was between her thighs—but Curtis knew she’d devour her boss, too, given half the chance.

  He escaped, his neck feeling constricted. Then he set about issuing orders for the clean-up.

  Chapter 56

  Best Western Plaza Hotel

  Long Island City

  Queens, New York

  Straker kept an eye on the mirror the whole way from D.C., but he’d spotted nothing out of the ordinary. Stopping for gas or washroom use, he checked out anyone who seemed to have followed them. The truck stop food was barely edible, but from corner booths he pretended to converse with Bella, while watching the doors and trying to spot anyone too interested in them.

  Except for giving Bella second glances—even when disheveled, she was spectacularly attractive—no one seemed to pay them any real mind. Straker was large and imposing enough to dissuade any unseemly interest. He still felt he was being watched, but he hadn’t seen any proof.

  An hour earlier he’d parked the Dodge van he had lifted from a mall parking lot in Georgetown and they were in a high room at the Best Western, gazing out the window at the East River a few blocks away. Tucked between 39th and 40th Avenues, the hotel also gave them a fair view of the Queensboro Bridge and the great battleship-shaped Roosevelt Island sailing beneath it.

  “We’d better get rolling,” he said.

  She nodded soberly and grabbed her things.

  They’d showered after a fast but very romantic tussle on the clean sheets, and now they looked enough like tourists that he was satisfied that, when they met the elusive Don Walton at the bar of his choosing just on the other end of the bridge in Manhattan, they’d fit right in.

  A half hour later they were seated at a table tucked near one of the pillars within view of the bar at Docks, a raucous seafood place with prices that made the Florida joints Straker usually haunted seem like booths at a county fair midway.

  “I couldn’t believe it was you calling me like this, out of the blue,” Don Walton said as he twirled his second Scotch neat around. He was a tall man standing, and still seemed tall sitting, so much so that he hunched over a little as if protecting his territory. He was wearing an expensive silk suit in metallic navy, with a crisp white shirt bisected by a dark silver tie. The suit did not hide his muscular frame.

  Straker thought he looked more successful than he should have, given what he did, but maybe that was good. Maybe his connections were even better than in his military intelligence days.

  He noted that Walton kept grinning at Bella, who had gone all out to showcase her beauty. Straker had suggested they appear not only better off than they were, but also happily on vacation. Not so much for Walton, he had said, but for anyone who might be watching.

  “But if they’re watching us that closely,” Bella pointed out as she did her make-up in the hotel room’s art deco bathroom, “then they’d already know it’s an act.”

  Straker conceded the point, but it didn’t hurt to try and fit in. Looking like refugees from a Florida hurricane disaster would make them stand out in the midst of Manhattan’s vibe. After shopping they still weren’t quite as well-appointed as Walton, but they looked more the part. But now Straker’s cash was close to depletion.

  Bella looked hot in a cream silk blouse beneath a supple forest green leather blazer, a Gaelic-inscribed matching scarf tied fashionably loosely around her perfect neck. Straker’s leather jacket was a black bomber over a maroon turtleneck sweater Bella had sworn was back in style. His pre-worn jeans had cost him a dozen times the original price of his own authentically worn pair.

  Now with twenty dollar drinks in front of them and orders of fresh oysters placed, Straker was trying to reconnect with Walton. For his part, Don Walton seemed suspicious of them.

  Which was why Bella was flirting with Walton, laughing at his jokes and giving him rapt attention. He grinned a lot, clearly intrigued by her.

  They’d started with the usual reminiscing of military men who had shared a theater of war, had seen their share of horror, and had lived to talk about it. But now Straker had to turn to the reason he had tracked down his old acquaintance. How he did it would make all the difference.

  “Okay, so I just came across something strange while we were diving on a wreck in Florida.” Straker made it sound casual.

  “Yeah?
Strange how?”

  “It’s a gold statuette, yea high. It’s definitely valuable, but besides that it looks wrong. It’s hard to—it’s offensive and disgusting. It doesn’t seem to belong with the usual cargo we’re finding, religious medals and crucifixes and the like.”

  Walton thought about it, then sipped his drink. “So why ask me about it?”

  “I remember you said you were in the antiquarian field before the military, and you were attached to the special company dealing with Iraqi antiquities, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I was.” Walton scanned the loud tables nearby. Groups of visitors and United Nations workers were spread throughout the place but no one was paying attention. “I was helping authenticate, catalog, and eventually repatriate cultural artifacts we determined had been swiped from other countries. Also returning art to its owners when we could.”

  “Right, that’s what I thought. This is why I called you.”

  “Okay, so do you have this thing you want me to take a look at?”

  Now Straker looked around. “Yeah, but not here. I do have some pictures, though.” He called up the camera roll on his phone and handed it to Walton. “Flip through the next dozen.”

  They sat back as Walton started to swipe fast, then slowed.

  Walton’s good-natured grin disappeared.

  “Holy fuck.”

  He looked up at Straker, then went back to the photos, looking at each again, then working his way back more slowly.

  “What is this shit?”

  “You tell me, Don.”

  Walton cleared his throat. Just then the overworked server came around the partition with two platters of oysters on the half-shell and a raft of lemon wedges, so he set down the phone and covered it with his hand.

  “Here you all are,” she said jovially, already edging away. “Need anything else?”

  “Another round,” Walton said. “Definitely.”

  When she was gone, Walton grabbed the phone again.

  “Goddamn, Dev, this is some fucked-up shit you got here.”

  He tapped to enlarge, stuck his right eye over it, then did the same for several of the other shots, until he had essentially looked at the statue in three dimensions.

  “Yeah, this thing definitely rates an automatic excommunication.” Walton laughed nervously. “It gives me the creeps and I’m just looking at pixels. What’s the real thing like?”

  “See?” Straker said to Bella. “I told you. That statue has an aura.”

  Bella shrugged. She’d tried to explain it made her uncomfortable, but not in the same way. It was just offensive to her, but Straker seemed more affected. “Whatever it has, it’s not something I want to see very much of.”

  Walton nodded absently. They dug into the oysters almost as if they needed to change focus. Their mood altered, they enjoyed their food in near silence, somehow subdued.

  Walton: “Okay, so what do you want me to do?”

  Straker thought. Could he trust Walton?

  If not, why had he bothered to come this far, evading creepy assassins without police help? He could have dropped the thing in any body of water between Vero Beach and Manhattan and walked away. Or could he? He had that feeling…like those that saved his ass on the battlefield that even if he’d given up the thing he and Bella were somehow doomed.

  “Don, somebody wants this statue very badly. We’re in danger every minute it’s in our possession. It’s worth a lot, but to someone it’s worth killing for.” He didn’t bother to mention how many lives it had already cost. “My brother and partner were both killed for it.”

  Walton stared at him. “You’re serious.”

  “When haven’t I been? You know me, I don’t even find banana peels funny. Everyone else thinks they’re a riot.”

  The server returned with an array of drinks on a tray. When she left, everyone took an all too sober sip. Bella had a margarita and Straker was allowing himself the cliché of rye Manhattans in Manhattan. Walton had more of the Macallan. He cocked his head, serious. “Sounds like you have a story to tell.”

  Straker decided to trust Walton up to a point. He told the tale of the find and the piracy and murders, but left off the train attack. It had made the news, but there was a hurricane gathering strength in the Caribbean, the popular Pope was on the move, a couple suspicious explosions had made New Yorkers nervous, the economy was teetering, and sundry other events had nearly knocked the train massacre off the cycle. Plus Straker noted that the cops were holding back most of the brutal details. He’d been damn lucky, using his alternate identity to buy the tickets—if they were being hunted by the cops too, best to leave them adrift in misinformation.

  Afterwards, Walton made a little whistle. “That is some story. You don’t often hear about this kind of piracy at sea unless it involves drugs or ransom.”

  “Don, someone’s got bankrolling this attempt to get the statue. Thing is, I’d happily sell it to him.”

  “Just like that, after he had your brother and partner killed? Allegedly, and whoever it is.”

  Straker grinned but it didn’t look like a smile. “You’re right, I’d sell it to him just before I put a bullet through his forehead.”

  “Revenge?”

  “Assuming I was sure it was the right guy.” He paused. Drank. Maybe he’d been too honest.

  Walton nodded. “I get it. After all, he could have made an offer. You don’t even know how he knew you had the thing, right?”

  Bella said, “It’s like they knew before we laid eyes on it. Somehow they were waiting for us to find it, and as soon as we did they—they killed…” Her eyes teared up.

  Walton looked uncomfortable. “These assholes deserve worse than that bullet, Bella. I don’t have a problem with Dev’s plans. Back in the desert, we both saw and did things that…well, neither of us would want to talk about’em, believe me. But there’s always a feeling that you owe your brothers everything, and if they’re hurt you have an obligation to provide payback.”

  “They were murdered, Don. Not hurt.”

  Walton made a waving gesture. “I know, but what I mean is that the eye for an eye thing is something I totally get.” He drained the Scotch. “Look, you’re asking because I have connections with army intelligence and the U.N., right? And in the art world?”

  Straker nodded. Bella wiped her eyes.

  “Do you have the statue here, with you?”

  Straker looked at Bella. He shrugged. “It’s in a safe place, not out in the car or anything.”

  Walton fixed them both with a hard gaze. “You called me. You have to trust me.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just—it’s that people around this thing die. Except us, so far. And that could change at any time. We’re not feeling too trusting.”

  “All right, all right. There’s more, eh? Best I don’t know.”

  “Thanks, Don.” Straker shook his hand. “I appreciate your time.”

  “I can do some calling around, see if I can find out something.” Walton’s tone was reticent now. “If it’s dangerous to mess with this thing, though, I could be painting a target on myself.”

  Straker said, “Yeah, there’s that.”

  Walton opened his jacket, ruffled its edge. Straker caught sight of a black pistol in a pancake hip holster.

  “No worries,” Walton said. “This is a 9mm Les Baer. They call the ‘Black Baer,’ so…” He let the fabric drop back into place.

  Straker thought he’d also caught the glint of a badge, but maybe not.

  “I’ve got your phone number, Dev. I’ll give you a ring if I hear anything. Give me a day or maybe two?”

  “We’re staying in Queens—”

  “Don’t tell me. Better if I don’t know, right?”

  Straker nodded. It had been a test. If Walton wanted to know where they were staying, he’d have walked away without looking back.

  They finished their drinks, Walton slipped the server the booklet with a couple hundreds, and they shook hands agai
n at the door.

  A group of six or seven well-dressed people was entering and Straker held the door for them.

  A striking woman with crimson lips and raven hair walked past, part of the group, and smiled at him. He nodded, stepped aside, then joined Bella and Walton on the sidewalk where they parted ways.

  Minutes later, they were back in the Dodge van, heading toward the bridge and their hotel.

  Straker’s neck tingled again.

  He checked the mirror, but there was no one. He shrugged.

  Bella rested her head on his shoulder as he drove.

  He felt protective, and angry. And afraid. His eyes flicked across the mirror again. There was nothing. “Don will come through.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about,” she said into his shoulder.

  Chapter 57

  Docks Oyster Bar

  Murray Hill

  Manhattan, New York

  Walton watched the couple walk away. The night was cool, but he felt downright cold all the way to his core. He shoved his hands in his pockets hard, probably ruining the lines of the suit but not caring.

  Shit.

  Straker was right.

  There was something off about that vile thing. More than just out of kilter. He wasn’t easily offended, he wasn’t creeped out by most things others found upsetting, he had seen and done things…the stuff of nightmares…but yet this thing, even just its photographs, had caused him some kind of existential jolt. He definitely felt something.

  He knew what that might mean.

  Might. You don’t know anything for a fact yet.

  No, he didn’t, he argued with himself. But he would have to find out.

  From what he remembered, Straker was neither a fool nor was he prone to histrionics. And his story could be checked.

  He reached his car, a sporty Lexus coupe, at a nearby structure, and climbed in. His breath made tiny clouds around his face. It was colder than he’d realized. He locked the doors and sat staring ahead as he thought about the best way to approach this. He dialed one of his contacts.