A Blood of Killers

by Gerard Houarner

  Max didn’t play games, like their mutual masters. Too bad for Mr. Tchask. “Your mission with me isn’t going to save your life.”

  “That’s one of them,” Mr. Tchask said, with genuine surprise, leaning toward Max and half-rising out of his seat until Max forced him back with a stiff arm. He had a hand on the Beretta, silencer already in place. But the setting was wrong. Nothing should happen out in the open. They were all professionals.

  At least Mr. Tchask had already relieved himself.

  A tall, thin, mostly bald man wearing casual black slacks and windbreaker, eyes, nose and lips oddly centered as if the skin of the features had been slipped over a skull too small to wear them, passed without a glance. His gait was odd, arrhythmic, as if he was adjusting to more than the train’s motion. He went through the door into the next car.

  Max hadn’t picked up on the bulge of a weapon or any trace of interest in Max carrying one.

  And yet, was that the smell fresh makeup in the air? Had the man’s eyelids been tattooed?

  The Beast followed the trail of tension and tracked the stranger. Finding nothing of interest, it drifted back to Mr. Tchask, puzzled and distracted. But hungry.

  “What are you going to do about that man?” Mr. Tchask said. He picked up the prayer beads, sliding half-out of the seat and into the aisle, and when he had them in hand the thread of wooden balls raced through his fingers in a mass mailing of supplications for mercy to the heavens.

  “How many more?”

  “Two.”

  The certainty of the answer opened a window on the situation, let in the rancid air. “You know them. You betrayed them.”

  Mr. Tchask grunted, as if Max had slapped him. “Yes.”

  “I forgot how stupid people like you can be.”

  “I’m carrying something your superiors need to see, something you should know about yourself.”

  “Who else is after you?”

  “No one. We’re the last, the four of us. I left a trail to the airport, a secondary track to the bus. There was the rental car. I really didn’t think they’d get to the train.”

  “How long were you with these men?”

  “All my life. Our fathers were missionaries.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  The little boy was still watching. Max rubbed both his temples. He wanted to make a face, scare the child, show him the Beast. Give him a vision he’d remember so he’d never look too long again at things he shouldn’t see.

  Everyone needed to learn such lessons young, when there was a chance the wisdom gained might save them later in life.

  “You requested the train transport?” Max asked.

  “Yes. I told my contact I was afraid to fly. And I asked for you. I told them I wouldn’t come in without you as an escort. I wanted the time with you. Nothing else, just time.” He wasn’t quite at ease with his own words. The Beast picked up on the man’s need for more than time. It understood, and in its understanding, wanted Mr. Tchask even more.

  “But you didn’t tell them your information had something to do with me.”

  “No, only that it dealt with operatives close to their inner circle. I was able to identify names and dates. Events. Through our research, we’ve been able to single out some of the agents working around you.”

  “Researching what?”

  “You.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re important.”

  There it was. Another band of Beast hunters, eager to worship, or stalk, or become the hunted. “You gave my superiors enough information to make them suspect I’d betrayed them. Maybe you’ve put us both in danger with your little game.”

  “That wasn’t my intention,” Mr. Tchask said, suddenly flustered, blinking rapidly, breathing heavily.

  For all his supposed research, the man obviously had no idea what he was doing, or had done. Still, any number of scenarios might be playing out. He needed surer footing before taking action. “Did you set your partners up?” Max asked. “Do you think you can use me to eliminate them and drive up the price of the goods you’re delivering?”

  Nothing. Mr. Tchask was afraid, but not of the men. “Or are you after something else? Blood? Do you like to see it? You want to watch me work? Or did I kill someone who meant something to you? Do you think putting us on this train made me vulnerable? Is this all part of a revenge plot? Are you having second thoughts about sacrificing yourself for my death.”

  Mr. Tchask’s attention remained focused on the door ahead of them, as if waiting for his feat to make an entrance.

  “Your mission doesn’t concern me,” Max said. “Or what you’re carrying, or what you want from me. It doesn’t matter if this job is legitimate or a set-up. I think you’re supposed to die. If this situation is what you say it is and the threat is real, even if these men don’t get you, I’ll be asked to do the job later. It would be easier on you if you let them kill you. If this is about something you think is between you and I, you’ll regret the effort you made to bring us together.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand, I die,” Mr. Tchask said, throwing the beads down, this time smashing them beneath his heel. The balls eluding his rage sprayed off in all directions on the floor of the car. His round face turned red, his nose ran and his fingers tapped violently against his thigh. A co-ed stirred in the seat across and behind them, lifting her head slightly to look around.

  Mr. Tchask continued, raising his voice, “Everyone dies. Especially around you, isn’t that right? But not everyone has the chance to fulfill their destiny before their death, as I do. And you.”

  The Beast snapped and Max’s hand shot to Mr. Tchask’s throat, shutting him up.

  Max had his mouth open, tongue running over his teeth, before he remembered. The train. The mission. What would happen if he lost control?

  The little boy snatched one of the beads that had rolled by him and put it in his pocket. He pretended to focus on his game.

  Max sat back. Mr. Tchask coughed. The co-ed behind them sat up, shook her head, ran her fingers through her hair.

  The boy raised his head again without a change of expression. His mother shook his shoulder, laughing, and said something to him. Her smile faded when he didn’t answer. Her gaze inspected the car.

  Max looked away, out the window, numb, feeling Mr. Tchask fumbling with a handkerchief next to him. He studied the family at the end of the car out of the corner of his eye.

  Suspicion. He knew the look. The mother said something to the man Max presumed was the husband across from her. He also surveyed the car. Two women from the seats across the aisle came over, and all four adults conferred. One of the women, older, white-haired, hugged the boy, who still wouldn’t stop staring at the Max and Mr. Tchask.

  The husband’s attention lingered on Mr. Tchask for a few moments. But his self-preoccupation and clumsy movements made him clownish, not threatening. The boy’s father said something, the women laughed, everyone sat back down. The mother whispered into the boy’s ear, but left him alone with his apparent fascination.

  Max considered the possibilities. Someone like Mr. Tchask might be useful as a decoy on some assignments. But no, the Beast would never have it. He’d be in the same predicament, fighting off the impulse to kill an easy victim in the middle of a mission.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Tchask said, putting his head back and wiping his face with his handkerchief. His tattooed eyelids were exposed. The sinewy lines made no sense in terms of a recognizable image. They seemed more like Hindi script, only older, pre-dating even Awadhi or B raj -B hasha.

  Max could almost hear the lines whisper. He’d never seen anything like them in Calcutta.

  One of the college students had spotted Mr. Tchask, gasped, then giggled.

  A distraction. That’s all the tattoos were. They were irrelevant. What mattered was what was happening now, all around Max.

  Maybe getting them thrown off the train had been the plan all along.
What if Mr. Tchask was lying and there were more men waiting for them at the next station. Snipers. Police.

  A touch of nausea crawled through Max as the train walls, the seat in front of him, the scent of prey, all closed in on him like the walls of old prison cells.

  The mission was turning into a nightmare, spinning out of Max’s control. He couldn’t tell who was trustworthy, who was after him. There were too many lies. There were always too many lies, but he usually didn’t have to think about them. Just kill. But now the mission was lost in a fog of doubt. Enemies seemed poised to strike from every direction.

  The boy. He seemed innocent enough. But useless.

  The Beast rose like hot, bitter bile in his throat, and Max gritted his teeth to keep from screaming in frustration. At least death washed away the nausea.

  “I’m sorry I made a scene,” Mr. Tchask said. “It’s just that what I’m bringing out will let everyone know what a precious gift you are. More valuable than anyone realizes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your birth. Where you come from.”

  The Beast went cold in his gut. It withered and curled into a tight ball.

  Max felt as if he’d been hit in the solar plexus with a sledgehammer.

  More importantly, his command of the car wavered. The fog that had settled over his confidence suddenly smothered his senses. The Beast was missing. He was alone with only his human rage for strength. He felt brittle and slow. Vulnerable.

  “My birth doesn’t matter. I don’t want to know anything about those days, and I don’t want anyone else to, either.”

  “But they’ll treat you better once they realize your importance. Believe me, when they see the film, they’ll stop sending you on these pointless hunts, stop wasting your talents, let you become what you really are.”

  “I’m a killer.”

  “You’re just clearing the way for what comes next.”

  Another man came through the front of the car. His wild mane of blond hair drew attention, as did the solid mass of muscle beneath his form-fitting jogging suit. High cheekbones and a wide mouth gave his face a sensual appeal, but the scars on his hands and pitted face warned that he was more than a slab of muscle fantasy.

  He wore sunglasses. Max was willing to bet his eyelids were tattooed with the same sinewy patterns as the rest of the group.

  The blond man fell clumsily into a seat across the aisle behind them.

  At least he wasn’t good on his feet.

  “They’re here,” Mr. Tchask said.

  “And what are they going to do?”

  “The next one is going to talk to us. After that, I don’t know what will happen.”

  “Are you going to give the film back?”

  “No.”

  “Then they’ll try to kill us. They don’t look like they care if there are witnesses.”

  “I’m sure it’s time now for us to switch seats.”

  “Stay exactly where you are. I can defend you better if I’m not under direct fire.”

  “What if I get hit?”

  “Give me the film.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  Max put his hand on the Beretta 92, with suppressor attachment, strapped at the hip, under the sport coat. The Beast refused to rise to the bait of blood.

  The third man appeared in the doorway, his rumpled dark suit stained, thick black curls popping out from under a driving cap. He hadn’t shaved, and his eyes were sunken and rimmed with worry lines. Like Mr. Tchask, his tattoos peeked through their disguise. Of the three newcomers, he looked like the one with the most on his mind.

  From the other end, the first man reappeared with a coffee in hand. They walked toward each other, adjusting their pace to meet at Mr. Tchask’s side.

  “Savet,” Mr. Tchask said, looking up at the man in the cap.

  “Where is it?” Savet asked, in a rough voice, ignoring Max.

  “I understand how you feel,” Mr. Tchask said, too loud, as if he wanted the blond behind them to hear as well. “I know you don’t believe in what I’m doing. But it’s already done. We’re on our way. The machinery has been set in motion.”

  “Nobody knows anything,” the windbreaker man said, surprising Max.

  He hadn’t expected the man, with his odd face and walk, to be capable of speech; perhaps a faint mewling, or a pathetic whine, but not the construction of recognizable words.

  “If you’d told anyone,” he continued, “they not only wouldn’t have believed you, they would never have made arrangements to see you.”

  “We can still turn back. Go home. Honor the memory and sacrifices of our parents.”

  “No. We can’t. This is him. Grown.”

  “Doesn’t look like much,” Savet said, squinting as he studied Max. “Disappointing, in fact. Certainly not worth all the trouble.”

  “Then why not let me get on with what I have to do.”

  “Our parents didn’t want to interfere. They didn’t want us involved.”

  “They trusted in God to do what had to be done,” the windbreaker man said. “We bear witness to miracles, but not to the devil’s work.”

  “But he’s not the devil’s work. What’s on the film, it doesn’t have to do with God or the Adversary. This man is the harbinger of all sacred things, not their destroyer.”

  The elderly man who’d been dozing next to his wife got up, pardoned his way between the men, hanging on to the seats as he headed to the other end of the car.

  He stopped suddenly, turned to Savet, and said, “Kill them. Kill them both. He’s a fucking killer,” he said, pointing a yellowed finger at Max. “Felt it as soon as we came on board. I’ve seen what men like him could do. Stopped them, in my time. Monsters. All of them, monsters.” He turned and kept on walking.

  The Beast didn’t stir at the challenge. Max couldn’t remember ever seeing the old man before, nor ever provoking such a reaction in a civilian. Usually, if prey sensed his predatory nature, they remained still. Or ran away.

  Of course, the man had not claimed to be innocent.

  Max wanted to go after the old man. In the bathroom, he could tease out a few of his war stories, pick up tricks to help deal with his kind. But there was business to attend to. No time for tangential research.

  “Please,” Savet said, “for our parents’ sake. For the times we had together. For the future even you can’t predict. Let this go. Walk away. Come home.”

  “We don’t want to kill you,” the windbreaker man said. “But we will.”

  The blond made no effort to speak, instead sitting back in the seat, legs spread wide, as if the effort to use words was too great. Max laughed.

  A nearby college student joined in, glancing at a couple of young girls also listening in.

  Max believed they could barely hear every other word, but even that much had to sound absurd.

  “Go ahead,” Max said. “Try.”

  “The film,” Savet said. His hand was on Mr. Tchask before Max could react. By the time Max made a grab for the wrist, Savet had already padded down one side of Mr. Tchask from armpit to waistband.

  Max got a wristlock, but Savet countered and withdrew. Max felt as if he’d tried to grab a snake. There was more to the three men than he’d assumed; other demons, disciplined in ways both alien and familiar to Max, lurked just below their civilized masks. Max discovered he had an odd feeling of kinship with them, as if he’d stumbled across a taste of amchoor or asafetida in an ordinary American dish, the scent of henna or jasmine in the air, the sound of a Sarob or the rhythm of rapidly-spoken Hindi.

  They were more dangerous than he’d initially thought, touched by a breath of what passed through him. He wanted them. Perhaps more in the instant of recognition, because that breath had been stilled by the Beast’s retreat.

  “I’m not carrying the merchandise,” Mr. Tchask said, holding up his hands. “Let them search me if it’ll make them happy.”

  Max remembered the boy, whose attention
had at last been drawn away by his playmates on the floor. As soon as Max’s gaze fell on him, the boy looked up, met Max’s look without a twitch of emotion.

  A co-ed stepped up to the blond man, getting in his line-of-sight with Mr. Tchask, and talked to him, bare, outstretched arms braced against the seats. Her body curved around a question that remained unspoken.

  “There’s a mule on board,” Mr. Taschk whispered in Max’s ear, covering his mouth with his hand.

  “Who?” Max asked.

  Drawing away from Max so the Savet could overhear him, he answered, “That would be telling.”

  “They’ll torture you to find out.” He glanced at Savet, challenging him with a hint of a smile to try.

  “If you let them. But you won’t. Can’t. What’s going on isn’t about me, anymore. It’s about what you are. Besides, where on the train are they going to torture me? It’s the same as all this posturing. None of you can really do anything right now. Too many people.

  That’s the rule, isn’t it? People notice things. Don’t they?” He raised an eyebrow as he cocked his head to the both of them, one after the other, in an invitation to join a private joke.

  Spoken by a man with tattooed eyelids. “You’re on your own,” Max said. He stood, stepped over Mr. Tchask, pushed past Savet. As Savet recovered to reach for him, Max pretended to lose his balance with the train’s rocking and stumbled back, driving him into the windbreaker man. Max whipped an arm out in the appearance of flailing for balance, casually delivering finger strike to Savet’s throat.

  While Savet doubled-over coughing, the windbreaker man held him up, grabbed him. Nearby students reached out offering help. The blond stood to help, but the college student facing him also pretended to lose her balance and threw herself into him.

  Max shed the windbreaker with a strike to the groin and a foot stomp. Clever man, he twisted his hips to avoid the worst effects of the strike, but still lost his grip on Max.

  Mr. Tchask stood in front of Savet to plead his case on his feet, oblivious to the ease with which a blade could be slipped between his ribs. Another college woman joined her friend in mauling the blond man. A couple of nearby young college men stood and pretended to make their way through the crowd, adding to the confusion, with the obvious intention of attracting the attention of the two college women.