God of Destruction
Page 3
She cracked her knuckles once in reminder of his crushing loss and shook her head. “I was truly wishing for a worthier adversary, Mr. Harris. You have disappointed me greatly,” she murmured smoothly, her voice obviously influenced by a thick, Czech accent.
She crossed the room leisurely to retrieve his hat and fixed it onto her head. “It looks better on me, I think,” she concluded, outwardly blasé. He seemed to be down for the count, but she’d been tricked by opponents into a false sense of security before. His accusing eyes had no effect on her, she’d been doing this far too long to feel anything. “Do not feel bad, Mr. Harris, you would not be the first man to be bested by me, and you will most certainly not be the last. It is what I do.”
“W—?” Harris gasped, unable to move, or speak.
“Nothing you need concern yourself with Mr. Harris,” she promised, striding back to him with the brim of his cap pinched between her fingers.
He tried to question her again, but all he could emit was a breathy moan of pain.
“Goodnight, Mr. Harris,” she sighed in contentment, stomping on his cheek, eliciting a sharp crack as his head snapped to the side and his body went slack. The uneven gasps of breath ended.
The mysterious woman circled her prey twice, admiring her work. She pushed the hair that had fallen in her face back behind her ear flirtatiously as she sensed another presence in the room, watching her. “How long have you been watching?” she grinned, biting her lip. She was an attractive woman, as she well knew, and she used it to her advantage, even when her job didn’t necessarily call for it. She kept her back to the visitor, knowing he would speak of his own volition soon enough.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?” the weary voice questioned with a deep sigh.
“I am afraid my mother did not feel any need to remind me of such trivial things. However this hardly constitutes your metaphor. I am many things, Kierlan, but a cannibal does not make the list,” she insisted, eyebrows knit together.
“Ugh,” he replied. “Let’s just get the book and go. If I have to deal with anymore of your…interesting mannerisms tonight, I’ll put a bullet in my head.”
“And then where would we be?” she laughed. “Silly boy, there is no book, only a page.”
Her partner merely shook his head in disappointment. He didn’t care if it was an entire library, so long as he got paid and could go home. “Put on your mask, Natalia, someone might see you,” he ordered.
“No one who will live to tell about it,” she chuckled. “Perhaps you should take care of the other guard. We will need his uniform to leave the building.”
“What happened to the plan, Natalia?” he snapped, knowing immediately what had happened and wondering increasingly why he’d agreed to work with someone so incompetent. Well, he amended reflexively, not completely incompetent.
Natalia Petrov was the best assassin just as he was the best thief to accomplish this job, and, for the most part, she did the job better than he could have hoped, aside from nearly falling into the museum when she broke the clip to her harness. Her only flaw was theatrics. A lifetime of cold killing had taken away every ounce of the humanity born to all men and women, leaving her cruel and frigid. She enjoyed the hunt. She enjoyed the death. She enjoyed the mockery.
“Your team’s equipment is crap, Kierlan! It was by no fault of mine,” she insisted, becoming immediately defensive, as she always was when her work ethic was questioned.
“Or, could it be, that you’ve just become careless over the years, Natalia? You seem to be losing your touch! Dropping your only way out? Letting your target hear you coming?” he made a face under the ski mask he wore as he stared at her in accusation. “When I heard you were the best I was expecting something a bit more professional.”
Natalia’s freckled face turned bright red. Kierlan could hear her teeth grinding together from across the room and inwardly grinned. He loved making her upset. “Do you have the page, then? Since you can stand there and criticize my work! Where is the page?” she growled, trying her best not to shriek at him.
“Killing was never part of this plan, we were just supposed to get the page and go,” he protested, coming to the realization that he would have to end the life of the much younger man upstairs. Kierlan had never done the killing before; he’d always had someone on his team willing to do it for him. Thievery was his game, and he was good at it. That and organization; he could organize a murder, but he would never have the stomach to carry it out himself like Natalia could. He took no joy in killing, nor the chase, nor the mockery that followed.
“Ohh grow a pair! I have been in this trade since I was fifteen, you worthless man! Even you can certainly manage it once,” Natalia snarled. She gathered herself after a moment of peace and softly added, “I cannot wear this man’s uniform, Kierlan. Would you prefer it if I dispatched Mr. Reyes myself?”
Kierlan knew he should’ve said yes, but his mind had warped Natalia’s words into something condescending. Ms. Petrov wasn’t kind, not now, not ever, and even the strange attraction she had developed towards him wouldn’t change that. Feeling the sting of her ridicule reverberate through his brain, he let a moment of silence pass between them before he finally whispered, “No. Don’t worry your pretty little head about me. I’ll do it myself.” His voice was quiet, but steely, and as cold as ice. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode back up the steps, blending easily into the shadows.
Natalia was fully aware that she’d wounded the less experienced man and gloried in it. She was accustomed to being worshiped and sought after for her talent. She was the best in the world. She was paid well every time outside parties hired her, and this time was no exception.
Nevertheless, she was never one to simply overlook a chance for advancement in anything, especially money, so she stooped beside the body she’d turned cold, pulling her gloves tightly against her small fingers, and searched the corpse for a wallet.
Upstairs, Reyes was becoming uneasy by Harris’s extended absence. He’d also been unable to find batteries.
Without company or a distraction, he was officially creeped out and bored. Slapping his hand onto his head to adjust his hat, he pulled himself to his feet without much hesitation and resolved to look for his partner. “Harris!” he called, enjoying the sound of his voice echoing through the abandoned building. Any second now, he told himself, Harris is gonna turn out of some corner that he was, miraculously, able to hide his fat ass in. He’s gonna threaten to kill me if I keep acting like a child, just like he always does.
No such response ever came. No response at all.
“Harris!” he repeated in the same manner as the first time. When he was, again, ignored, Reyes’s tone took on an air of desperation. “Henry! I’m not fooling around!” When Reyes’s latest attempt produced the same result as the first, he pulled out his flashlight and journeyed further into the depths of the museum, focusing his eyes on the ground so he wouldn’t startle himself with the sight of mummies in the dark.
Unlike Harris, Reyes’s death was swift and painless. It was debatable, in fact, whether or not he knew what was happening at all. A hasty kick to his tailbone sent the guard sprawling to the floor, dazed as he flattened himself against the granite. Above him, two legs straddled his back as a pair of gloved hands found either side of his face and swiftly twisted, ending Fred Reyes’s short life.
Kierlan had to swallow back shame, and possibly bile, before he could stand and face what he’d done. It was over now. I don’t need to worry anymore, he reminded himself, but he couldn’t shake the horrible feeling that had overtaken him with his first kill. He stood over the body, still warm under his hands as he pried them from the man’s neck. Still warm. It would be so easy to pretend that he was only sleeping.
“Not bad,” her sultry voice made him want to jump out of his skin when she suddenly appeared beside him. She did that a lot. “Not a drop of blood spilled. Could not have asked for a better
job well done, myself.”
For a rookie…
The words were left unspoken but they hung in the air, nonetheless.
Natalia didn’t find her compliments offensive; she’d meant it when she told him how well he’d done. After this job, she hoped that she could possibly convince him to train with her for a time. She wasn’t stupid, and her astute observations as an experienced assassin made her far from oblivious. She knew raw talent when she saw it. And Kierlan Cole definitely possessed that raw talent.
“Take off your mask, Kierlan; enjoy your work!” she suggested cheerfully, pulling the ski mask off in one fell swoop.
Kierlan Cole was a handsome man with chiseled features and closely shaven black hair. He was large, almost as large as Harris, and between the ages of twenty and thirty, though it was unclear which he was closer to. His eyes were the darkest of grey, like a storm-cloud, and were bordered by dark circles, displaying a worry and exhaustion far beyond his years. His face had obviously gone unshaven for the last few days while they stayed in London waiting for their chance, but its ordinarily tan glow was sallow with nausea.
“I’m gonna to throw up,” he informed her, covering his mouth and circling his arm around his abdomen.
“No! They cannot find any evidence!” Natalia snarled, beginning to strip Reyes of his uniform. Once Kierlan had sufficiently calmed down, she continued, “Go to the basement and take the other uniform. The next shift will be here soon.”
Wordlessly, the broken man did as he was told.
Ten minutes later, two uniformed men strode down the long set of stairs toward the sidewalk, passing two other men in similar uniforms as they approached the doors of the museum. The smaller of the two departing guards kept his hand fixed firmly around a fragile piece of parchment paper, knowing it wouldn’t be missed for at least a day. A tendril of blonde hair threatened to fall from the cap, but the guard’s particularly feminine lips blew it out of its owner’s face. Both guards kept their faces directed pointedly toward the ground, obscured by the lack of light. The smaller guard smiled a predatory grin.
“Evening, Reyes,” one of the replacements smiled. “Harris.”
The larger guard merely gave an unintelligible grunt in response, whereas his companion gave no retort at all. The two stepped out into the street, seeing their car at the very end. They never lifted their heads, even when they pulled themselves into the front seats.
They got away.
Chapter Four
London, England; December 20th, 2011
Janie Campbell had never been one of those people who involved herself in other people’s business. However, even she knew when it was time to intervene, namely when it concerned the murders of two local men. The twenty-year-old girl had run from her hiding place near the museum until she was doubled over and wheezing back at her hotel, letting her camera swing heavily against her chest. She clutched the pictures in her hands so tightly her fingernails had drawn blood, staining the stiff paper.
Janie was an aspiring photographer from a Texas university, abroad on a school trip with her Creative Arts class. She was of average height and tanned from the Southern sun, a feature that made her stand out in London, where it was often raining. Her face was soft and round with glowing hazel eyes and her hair was long and auburn, tied back in a braid that hung against her spine. Tremors violently shook her body, despite how warm she felt from the run. She was far from stupid, but, after this ordeal, she didn’t credit herself as the most intelligent person she knew; after all, the thought that London was colder than her favorite state had never entered her mind. Therefore, she was clad only in thin leggings, a button down blouse, and a pair of high-top sneakers.
The power hadn’t returned yet, the reason behind her journey to the museum in the first place. Her roommates had fallen asleep hours ago when there was nothing left to do. Janie was bored, but she couldn’t get to sleep. Instead, she’d taken her camera and gone to photograph the beautiful sights around the city. The museum’s beautiful architecture had struck her from the beginning, and she’d innocently only wanted a few photos to bring back to her parents. Now, she’d stumbled upon something that would change her life forever.
“Oh my…God,” she sputtered, erupting in a fierce coughing fit.
As she tried to catch her breath, she realized that her sweaty palms were beginning to sting. Reflexively, she loosened her tight fists, allowing the developed pictures clasped in them to fall clumsily to the floor in crumpled balls. Her hands were crisscrossed with paper cuts from the offending photographs, and she saw that the ooze of red had soaked onto some of the pictures. Trying to push the pain to the back of her mind, she collected the pictures back into her hand, smoothing them out so she could study the faces of the man and woman who’d infiltrated the museum. She clung to them like a lifeline, willing the images trapped inside to become anything else.
The first picture was of the woman with blonde hair and the face made of ice. She stood in the window, watching the man in the mask stalk the guard with a smile on her face.
The next was of the man, unmasked and horrorstruck, staring straight into Janie’s lens without seeing it.
The next three were taken with only a second’s interval. Dressed in their stolen uniforms, the thieves hid under the brim of their hats as they passed the genuine guards with blank expressions. They strode nonchalantly toward a silver car at the end of the street.
The last picture, the most important, was a perfectly clear image of the license plate.
A situation like this was never something brought up when she’d heard the “Right and Wrong lecture” from her parents. Internally, Janie could feel herself losing any shred of calm essential at a time like this, and she feared that she’d be heaving her dinner into the potted plant behind the hotel entrance at any moment. Lips pursed, she staggered through the lobby in search of a garbage can to vomit into. When none could be found, she leaned over the large pot and allowed herself to finally relax. The question she couldn’t answer was always the same: What was she going to do? What do you do when you witness a murder in a foreign country?
Stupid girl, she told herself, you should know this. Her muscles twitched, and she eventually allowed herself to slump into a heap on the ground, finally unable to support her own weight.
It happened so fast, she recalled with a silent whimper, wrapping her arms around herself and shutting her eyes tightly. It didn’t help. The tighter she shut her eyes, the more vivid the image of the guard’s death seemed to be as it replayed itself in her head, over and over again. She wanted desperately to assist the police in the search for the killers. But, at the same time, she really just wanted to forget the whole thing ever happened. Even if she did search for help, where would she go? Other than what her class’s tour guide had showed them, she was entirely ignorant of where help was in this city. More than that, she wished that she could go back to the way things were yesterday, when she didn’t have to think about death.
The sound of quiet footfalls in the ear she’d pressed to the floor hinted that she wasn’t alone in the lobby; she jolted upright, gasping for breath.
“Miss, are you alright?” a male voice inquired from beside her.
Janie wobbled on a weak neck, glancing around the room. She hadn’t stopped to notice before, through her reeling thoughts, that the lobby was lined with bellhops and other workers. It was the manager who stood behind her, concern and annoyance warring behind his eyes as he shot fleeting looks at the pot through the dark. Janie couldn’t find a way to put her situation into words that would express its severity. Rather than stumble through an explanation, she shook her head.
“How can I help, Miss?”
Janie wrung her hands. “The police. Call the police. The museum’s been robbed.”
His eyes bugged, clearly not expecting this twist, but he quickly obliged, pulling a cell phone from the pocket of his uniform. He stepped away from her to make the call, leaving Janie with her thoughts.
“Miss?” the manager’s voice broke through her thoughts.
She lightly shook her head, but found the real world to be an unpleasant place. It was dark, and it tasted like bile. “Ya?”
“Someone will be here to ask you some questions in a little bit, but we were told to assure you that the museum has not been robbed.”
Janie silently shook her head. Ya, right.
The lights didn’t come back on for the rest of the night. When the flash of the police cruiser appeared out the window it was like the light of God. The manager had pried Janie off the floor earlier and allowed her to lay on one of the elaborate couches around the lobby. She heard, rather than saw, the officer enter the building while she studied the pictures in her hands with disgust. Sitting up, she pulled the blanket given to her more tightly around her shoulders and waited for him to approach her.
“She’s over there, sir,” the manager mumbled from across the room.
“Thank you,” the gruff voice of another man echoed back. “If you wouldn’t mind, sir, if you could move your staff out of the lobby so I can ask her some questions, you’d be making my job a hell of a lot easier.”
“Of course, officer.”
The echo of footsteps died away as the room emptied, leaving her alone with the phantom officer. Janie pulled her knees to her chest, hiding the photos in the folds of her shirt. She couldn’t shake the feeling of impending malice as the officer ominously kept up a steady rhythm of step…step…step.