Diary of an Assassin

by Methos, Victor

  CHAPTER 16

  Vanessa Hailstorm had been to Paris three times in her life and each time she was in and out so fast she hardly had the chance to grab a meal at a restaurant. Her French was decent, though, having been worked on in the quiet town of Matane, Quebec, one of her favorite vacation spots.

  A driver waited for her in a small European car and she slipped into the backseat without a word. They began to drive.

  “Do you wish to stop and eat somewhere first, mademoiselle?”

  “No, just straight to the prison please.”

  The neighborhoods were bustling and pleasant to look at but the weather always seemed gray. It was the same each time she visited. The weather, to her, was the most important part of a city and she couldn’t imagine moving here as many young women her age dreamed of doing.

  The La Santé prison was the most famous in all of France and had housed many infamous criminals and terrorists, including Guillaume Apollinaire, the poet and playwright who was suspected of aiding in the theft of the Mona Lisa from the Louvre.

  The exterior of the prison was intimidating but not entirely unpleasant and nothing compared to the dilapidated interior where multiple inmates were crowded into cells designed for only one. Vanessa stared at the exterior gate a while and then exhaled. “Wait for me here.”

  She entered through the gates and showed her credentials, which identified her as a mid-level bureaucrat with the United States Department of Homeland Security. She cleared several other gates and was amazed how anachronistic the prison was. It could have been transported back two hundred years and no one would have been able to tell the difference.

  She was escorted to a small room with a table and several chairs. As she sat and checked her emails, the noise of the prison jangled all around her. It was far louder than one would expect and she wondered how people slept through it.

  Before long a metal door opened across the room. Two guards stepped through, a chained prisoner between them. He had some sort of contraption around his mouth and nose to prevent him from spitting. It was leather and metal and made him look deformed.

  The man was sat in front of her before the two guards took their spots on the wall behind him.

  “Vous pouvez partir maintenant,” she said. The guards looked to each other, and then left through the door they had come in from.

  “Préférez-vous anglais ou français?”

  “I like English,” the man hissed. At first Vanessa thought he did it on purpose but could see now that the leather strap covered only half his mouth, making it sound as if he dragged the last letters of his words out.

  “Why do you like English?”

  “It has four hundred thousand live words and seven hundred thousand dead ones. It is the only language whose dead words outnumber its live ones. It is constantly adapting.”

  “Is that what you do?” she said. “Adapt?”

  “There is nothing else.”

  She exhaled and pulled out a cigarette from her purse, lighting it. She took one puff and then leaned over, placing the butt into the man’s lips.

  “I have your real name as Gustav Pierre Fabrice. Is that correct?”

  “Very good. You are not from Homeland Security, are you?”

  “No. Do you know who I’m with?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know the work we do?”

  “I worked for your predecessors, long ago.”

  “I’m here to make you a one-time offer.” She leaned in close. “One time. Right now.”

  “I’m all ears,” he said, attempting to grin but unable to do so.

  “I already know you worked for us once. Well, a subsidiary of ours. I read your file. It’s impressive.”

  “We must go with our strengths.”

  “Here’s my concern: you’ve been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. If I were to secure your release, I’m afraid the outcome would be unpredictable.”

  “You have people killed for money and I’m the one who’s crazy?”

  “I’m serious, Mr. Fabrice.”

  “So am I. You can’t be sane and be in this business. But your concerns are unfounded. I am currently taking Aripiprazole. It gives me clarity.”

  “Okay, assuming you’re going to stay on your medication, I have another concern: your last mark.”

  “What about him?”

  “He was on a bus and you set off explosives near the back of the bus. There were no survivors. Our agency is a scalpel, not a hammer.”

  “I understand. That particular client had asked for a public display, so I gave them a public display.”

  “Who was the client?”

  “The PLO. They pay well and have many contracts. Perhaps it’s a resource you have not tapped as yet.”

  “We’re not terrorists. What we do, we do for our country.”

  He shrugged. “As they say, if you say so.”

  She leaned back in her seat, considering him. “This is a big risk on our part. I don’t know if you’re worth it.”

  “May I ask a question now, mademoiselle? Exactly how did you find me?”

  She pulled out a photo and slid it on the table: it was of Isaac Rhett. “I spoke with our agents. I asked them who they thought the best in their field was. Number two, was him,” she said, tapping the photo. “Number one, was you.”

  “I’m flattered.” He looked to the photo. “Is this the mark?”

  “Yes. And a woman.”

  “My standard fee is one million per mark.”

  “Considering we’re getting you out of a life sentence, your standard fee is now one hundred thousand per mark.”

  He exhaled and swore in French. “I don’t work for pennies.”

  “Very well,” she said, taking the photo and putting it back in her purse. “It’s been…interesting meeting you. Have a good life.” She stood.

  “Wait…” He swore again. “I will do it.”

  She sat back down. “If you do not, and you flee, I promise you we will make the bounty on your head so high the penguins in Antarctica will be trying to kill you.”

  He laughed. “That’s cute. Now, I need ten men, reliable men, and several military-grade items that I assume will not be difficult for you to procure. I will also need a credit line, two passports, and photo identifications, as well as—”

  “Hold on, stop. I’ll send someone to pick you up when you’re released. You can give them a list.”

  He bowed his head. As Vanessa walked out, he said, “Mademoiselle, I appreciate your trust.”

  “I don’t trust you. But I need you. Just do your job and we won’t have any problems.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Rhett sat across the street from the police precinct at a café and sipped cappuccino. Stephanie and her friend had run down several blocks before they happened to find a policeman stopped at an intersection. The officer had taken them in. The man that had been chasing them wasn’t anywhere to be found and Rhett would glance into all the windows of the surrounding buildings every few minutes.

  It was soon late in the afternoon when Rhett ordered lunch. The waitress was pleasant and didn’t say anything about the fact that he had sat there for several hours. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure she’d noticed. It was amazing how little people noted about their surroundings.

  Rhett saw two men pull up to the precinct. FBI. He could always tell because they tended to dress similarly: a ridiculous stay over from the days of J. Edgar Hoover, who insisted they wear white shirts and black suits no matter what they were doing.

  The feds being involved complicated things. They would secure Stephanie away, probably in some safe-house in a nearby state, and he would have to get to her before Starlight could send someone in: they had the ability to forge any credential. If Stephanie were his mark, he would simply be given FBI identification—or any ID that would get him into the house—and he would give Stephanie an injection of potassium, which would mimic cardiac arrest.

  Rhett paid for his lunch and
went across the street. He took a small tracking device called a Spider—so named because of its eight small attachment hooks—and placed it on the rear bumper of the feds’ car. He then went to his own car, something he rented from Enterprise, and turned on the radio as he waited for them to come out.

  Shortly after the feds had arrived, the two men were escorting Stephanie out of the precinct and to their car. Rhett followed them as they pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

  Driving cautiously, Rhett could see that they were using basic tailing maneuvers. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He just rotated back and forth between several cars and stayed out of view of the rearview mirror.

  The car eventually stopped at a hotel and one of the men went in. He came back out and nodded to the other man, who helped Stephanie from the car. Rhett thought it unusual that they would take her to a hotel rather than directly to the airport. He wondered why…

  “Shit,” he said under his breath.

  He jumped out of the car and ran around to the back of the hotel. A service door was propped open with a garbage can and he could hear the cooks shouting in Spanish. He slipped inside.

  The kitchen was hot and the cooks looked at him like he was crazy. He simply acted like he needed to be there and said hello to them before walking into the restaurant and then through to the hotel lobby. An elevator dinged down the hall as Stephanie and the men stepped on.

  He ran over and watched the small red number above the elevator stop on four. He rushed to the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he got to the fourth floor, he pulled out his .22 and stepped into the hall. Around the corner, a door slammed shut and locked. He ran over and stopped to listen. Unable to hear anything, he went from door to door, placing his ear on the wood.

  He heard a groan from one door, and he leaned back, slamming his heal just underneath the doorknob. The door splintered and crashed open. Rhett stepped in gun first. He realized he was pointing it at a nude elderly couple beneath the covers and looked away.

  “Sorry, I’m really sorry.”

  A scream came from down the hall.

  Rhett sprinted out then stopped and listened. A woman was shouting something. It was muffled, like someone was trying to keep her quiet. He ran to the room and kicked the door down, rolling over the carpet and coming up on one knee.

  Stephanie was tied to the bed, one of the men standing over her binding a gag over her mouth. Rhett let loose two shots, hitting him just above the eyebrow, and the man toppled over onto the carpet.

  Another man stepped out of the bathroom. Their eyes locked. He dove back into the bathroom as Rhett fired three rounds and leapt behind the wall, his back pressed against it. A mirror in front of Rhett allowed him a view into the bathroom. The light was off and he couldn’t tell where the man was.

  “You can leave,” Rhett shouted. “I don’t want to take your life. Just come out with your hands behind your head and get down on the floor. I promise you won’t be hurt.”

  Silence. Rhett slowly stood, the gun up by his chin. He glanced around the corner and began to make his way out.

  The man jumped out of the bathroom with a modified Tec-9 in his hands. Rhett jumped behind the bed as the shots rang out, tearing away bits of plaster and wood from the walls, exploding the television and one of the windows.

  Rhett aimed underneath the bed and fired, hitting the man’s ankle. Rhett jumped onto the bed before landing on the man’s back.

  The man flipped him off himself and came up with a small, claw-shaped blade in his hand. He swung at Rhett’s face, slicing his cheek, before coming in with a downward blow aimed at his eye. Rhett stepped out of the way and grabbed the man’s wrist. He spun him around using his own weight against him and slammed him headfirst into the wall, leaving a hole.

  The man spun and blindly swiped at the air. Rhett elbow locked him as he put his other hand on the back of his neck and bent him low. He began to knee the man in the groin. When the man shifted his groin out of the way, Rhett bent him down farther and kneed his chest and then his face, knocking out several teeth.

  The man, blood pouring down his chin, charged for Rhett’s eyes with his free hand. Rhett grabbed his fingers and twisted them upside down and back toward the wrist. He snapped three of them. The man screamed and Rhett pulled the blade from his other hand and stuck it into his throat.

  The man fell to his knees, blood raining out of him and over the carpets. The claw was meant to enter and then, because of small reversed hooks, only be pulled out when it could take flesh with it. Rhett ripped it out of his throat and made the wound bigger. The man toppled over, a choking, wet mess and Rhett turned away from him and untied Stephanie.

  “We need to go, now.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Gustav Fabrice saw the light of the setting sun for the first time in six weeks. He had been in what the prisoners of La Santé simply called the Coffin. It was a crate in which a prisoner would lie on his back and the guards would feed him through holes. Another hole allowed him to relieve himself, and, other than the guards shouting at the prisoner twice a day, there were no interactions.

  Gustav had been placed there for attacking another prisoner that the guards were fond of. One guard in particular, Gy, had taken enormous pleasure in Gustav’s predicament and at one point urinated on him in the box, the other guards laughing behind him. When Gustav was walking out of the prison in the jeans and sports coat he had worn at his arrest, he smiled to Gy and told him he wished he had an enjoyable life.

  “Fuck you, Gustav. If I see you in here again, it will not be as pleasant.”

  “Take care of yourself, Gy. It is a dangerous world we live in.”

  A car was waiting out front and he got into the backseat.

  “Where to, monsieur?”

  “Autour du Monde, please.”

  “Oh, the monsieur knows his clothing.”

  As they drove, Gustav stared out the window. Five years he had been locked away and in five years the city had changed. It appeared more crowded and dirtier than he recalled, trash drifting over the streets on a light breeze. But perhaps he was wrong? Perhaps he had changed and saw the world a bit differently.

  Autour du Monde, to his satisfaction, looked exactly the same. The small boutique catered to those who preferred something unique in what they wore. Gustav found several shirts and sweaters and a few pairs of pants with scarves and a jacket to match. The driver paid on a credit card.

  “I need a shower,” Gustav said.

  “Of course, monsieur. A room has been arranged for you at Hotel Lutetia.”

  “Excellent. Take me there now. But I need to make a quick stop first.”

  “Of course.”

  After a twenty-five minute drive to a Paris suburb, Gustav told the driver to wait. Parked in the lot of a farm, they simply sat as the minutes turned to an hour. Gustav occupied himself with meditation, but the driver asked if it would be all right for him to go for a walk. Gustav nodded.

  Evening soon came and when darkness fell, Gustav got out of the car and walked several blocks amidst the night air. He forgot how exhilarating being on the streets at night felt. He was like a predator confidently walking through the jungle, certain that he was at the top of the food chain. In prison, he felt much the same way, but because he was held in the psychiatric unit, there really wasn’t anybody there to challenge him.

  Before he’d left, he began an operation smuggling narcotics into the prison, primarily heroin. He preferred to sell heroin, cheaply, to the other inmates, as it made them more docile and easier to control.

  The home he was looking for was across the street and to the right. It was an average home, nothing out of the ordinary for this suburb, and inside, through the windows, he could see a family playing with a dog in the living room.

  Gustav walked across the street, and knocked on the door.

  Gy Tasse finished his shift at the prison and logged out. He checked in his firearm, as the guards were not allowed to take th
em home, and changed into some sweatpants and a warm hoodie. As he made his way out to his car, he spotted an administrator, Nicolas, stashing something in his trunk.

  “I have some candy for you,” Nicolas said, tossing him a wad of cash. “Your share of Gustav’s money.”

  Gy caught the brick of cash held together with a rubber band. At least twenty thousand francs. Not an enormous sum, but a surprising profit for someone locked away in the psychiatric unit.

  “I’m glad the sick bastard’s gone,” Nicolas said, lighting a cigarette. “He frightened me.”

  “He was nothing. Just talk, like a woman.”

  “I was with him longer than you, Gy. You’ve only been here two years. I was with him from the beginning. I remember one time a good doctor that was employed in the unit gave him a test, and Gustav pretended to break the marker he was using. The doctor, not thinking, gave him a pencil. You should have seen what Gustav did to him. He lost both eyes.”

  “If he’s that dangerous, how did he get out?”

  Nicolas shrugged. “Who knows how things really work? L’oublier, que pouvez-vous faire?”

  Gy threw the cash up in the air and caught it again. “See you tomorrow.”

  Nicolas nodded and returned to what he was doing.

  As Gy drove through the streets of Paris, he thought he would stop and buy his wife a box of artisan chocolate from Patrick Roger, her favorite chocolatier. The traffic was terrible, and he called to tell her he was going to be late. He left a message and made his way to the store.

  The store was crowded, as it always was, and they were giving away samples of a new lemon chocolate. Gy took one and loved it. He ordered a box of ten and paid with the cash Nicolas had given him. Halfway out of the store, he turned around and bought another three for the ride home.

  The night air was cool and the sky was black except for a slit of moon. Gy never gazed up to the sky in wonder. He was worried about practicalities, and theory never interested him. In school, his favorite subject was car mechanics and he had no interest in subjects like literature or mathematics. He was happy in his little corner of the world, with a guaranteed paycheck, four weeks of vacation a year, and a good retirement.