Greyson’s green 1966 Jaguar was faithfully waiting for him. This was one luxury he wasn’t going to give up. A quick walk around showed no scratches. If he relocated to Brazil, the Jag was coming with him.
When Greyson turned the key, a large bomb exploded beneath his seat, splattering the remains of his body into the concrete ceiling of the garage.
ntonio Beltran had decided on the method of execution. This was a favorite of the cartel for urban assassination. For three days, he had tailed his prey, following him from Queens to Long Beach, back to malls and the Bronx. The schedule was irregular and the routine varied. The target used the same vehicle every time. That would be his coffin.
Beltran sat in a motel in Queens downloading the rest of the information he needed. On the bed were the tools of his trade: Glock, AR-15, garrote, binoculars, commando knife. He had killed with each of the weapons at close range and long. There was no escaping death. The AR-15 rifle with the Zeiss 12X scope was his favorite for long distance jobs. But most of his work involved the motorcycle helmet he’d brought with him from Mexico. A veteran of several jobs, it was with him when he had ended the re-election campaign of the mayor of Ciudad Juarez. He used it to terminate two rivals of his client in the Gulf cartel.
Wearing rubber gloves, he carefully wiped off enough ammunition to fill the clip of the AR-15 and the Glock. He checked the silencers he had hand made before leaving for this job. He always made his own silencers. These were disposable and caught most of the powder residue in the silencer chamber. Simple device, it was made of a ten-inch section of a brake line, perforated with holes. Then the brake line was encased in PVC tubing, capped at both ends and drilled to accommodate the barrel. The space between the PVC pipe and the brake line was filled with steel wool, then small holes were drilled around the cap to allow gases to escape. Once the target was dead, the silencer was thrown away. Untraceable.
He entered an address into Google Earth and zoomed in on the target. The whole neighborhood could be seen. He traced out his avenue of escape. Now he was ready.
Through binoculars, he observed his victim exit the building and walk half a block to his car. On previous days, Beltran had followed him in a rental, but this morning he was on a stolen motorcycle in Long Beach. The Kawasaki was fast and provided the perfect means of escape once the job was done. Then he would dump the bike, the gun, and the helmet.
The target headed east on Beech street toward the Atlantic Beach Bridge―one of only two ways out of Long Beach where it attached to the mainland of Long Island. Beltran calmly put it in gear and eased in the throttle. He went directly toward the bridge and waited for the target. There wasn’t much traffic today and he had checked the reports for any major bottlenecks on Long Island. There were none.
The silenced Glock was cocked and ready in his shoulder holster. The car appeared in the distance and Beltran watched it approach in his rear view mirror. It made the right onto the bridge and the chase was on.
Beltran kept his distance along the span. He couldn’t move on him until they were on the Nassau Expressway, but he had to strike before they got to the Van Wyck Expressway, which always had traffic jams due to Kennedy Airport. The target sped by the toll booth without stopping. That lane had the barcode reader. Beltran reached into his pocket and grabbed the two dollars and two quarters he had prepared. By the time he exited the cash lane, he was ten cars behind the target. The Kawasaki could easily close that gap with a twist of the throttle.
They got onto the Nassau Expressway. There were several cars in front and behind him and that wasn’t necessarily a problem, but Beltran preferred as few witnesses as possible. He never knew when he was going to run into a hero in a fast car.
What he liked about this road was that it was straight, not winding, so he could see ahead for several hundred yards in order to make an escape.
He closed the gap to five cars. There were now only two cars behind him, a mini-Cooper and an old Mazda―too slow to catch up to him. Up ahead, there were four cars, no motorcycles. The target got onto the fast lane. Beltran could kill with either hand, but he preferred to be on the left of the target because the driver’s side was closer to the barrel of his gun. If the attack came from the right and the victim dove to his right, he’d be protected by the passenger door.
They’d be hitting Rockaway Boulevard soon with slower traffic leading up to the crawling Van Wyck. The target passed the four cars up ahead, then drifted back into the right lane. It was clear sailing. Perfect. Beltran would be in the passing lane as he shot him. Riding four cars behind him, the hitman glanced in his mirrors to gauge his isolation from the other traffic. The car picked up speed. Beltran held his position; he didn’t want to shadow his target move for move.
This was like a chess game. Beltran had to wait for a moment when he could pass the intervening traffic, take out his mark, then have enough clear road ahead to make an escape. He searched the horizon and mirrors for police cars. His keen eyesight could spot an unmarked car two-hundred yards away.
The moment arrived. He dropped the visor of the full-face helmet. There was only one car between Beltran and the van. His right hand cranked the throttle; his left reached into his jacket. Here, he had the singular advantage of being left-handed. Not only could he maintain control of the throttle while shooting, but he could hide the gun with his body from rear onlookers. As he pulled up to the van, his hand came out of the jacket with the Glock. He turned his head momentarily to locate the target and fired three rounds into the window. The glass turned white from the impact, and Antonio Beltran knew at once that he had a problem. It was bullet-proof glass.
He had to take evasive action. The van veered violently to the left, nearly striking his rear wheel. Beltran nailed it and sped off. The van receded quickly in Beltran’s rear-view mirror. There was no way it could catch up. Ahead of him was clear road that would enable him to vanish. Then a shot rang out and the Mexican’s right shoulder blade was shattered. Now he couldn’t control the throttle.
Beltran lay across the gas tank, making himself a smaller target to both the wind and his pursuer, but the van was catching up. He held the gun behind his back and fired at the pursuer. No good. The van loomed in his mirror.
He changed lanes, hoping the enemy would come alongside for a shootout. He didn’t take the bait, but swung directly behind the motorcycle with a clear shot to his back. Desperate, Beltran nailed the throttle, barely able to control it at over one-hundred-fifty miles an hour. The van momentarily receded from view, but in the split second it took him to glance at the mirror, the motorcycle veered out of control, taking ten-foot swings on the highway.
His right hand dropped off the throttle. It hung uselessly at his side now. His left hand swung across to take over, but in that instant, the pursuer pulled up behind him and slammed into the rear tire. He was heading for the edge of the road. He put the bike down on its side and slid forty yards on the gravel. The van stopped behind him, blocking the view from oncoming cars. Unhurried footsteps approached Beltran, but instead of a gun swinging up, a foot came down on his head.
That was the last thing he remembered until he woke up in the dungeon.
e was naked, spread-eagled and tied to U-bolts on a wall. His shoulder had a dressing on it, but it was agonizing. The figure in front of him sat in a chair.
“It seems you’ve come a long way to kill me and I don’t even know you,” said the voice. “So we must have a mutual friend. But we’ll get to that later. First, your name? I’m a stickler for formal introductions.” He gripped the man’s penis with a pair of pliers. The scream died quickly in this place.
“Oh, come on, your name can’t be ‘AAHHHHHHHHH!’ It’s got to be something else like John or Gregorio or something like that. Let’s try again.”
“Antonio―Beltran.”
“Antonio Beltran, it looks like you have some basic assassination skills. Did you take the home study course?”
Beltran grimaced and glanced at his shou
lder.
“Don’t worry about that wound. The bullet went clear through. That’s not what’s going to kill you. Now, back to your skills. Where did you learn to do drive-by killings? Let me guess―you’re an amateur button boy who works south of the border and you wanted to expand your business. I admire ambition in a young man. Did your mother teach you ambition? I said, did your mother teach you ambition?”
“Yes.”
“And which shit hole border town were you born in? Nuevo Laredo? Tijuana, Rosario?”
A bright light shone on Beltran’s face, so he couldn’t see the features of his captor, but he could see something dark come out of that light toward him. The gloved fist landed flush on his beautiful white teeth, knocking them out of his mouth.
“Have some pride and tell me what town you’re from.”
“Nuevo Laredo.”
“So you’re Antonio Beltran from Nuevo Laredo and you are ambitious and in New York to kill me. Well, I’ve got to tell you, you arouse my curiosity. Do I know you?”
“No.”
“Then on to our mutual friend. And who might that be?”
“There are people who know I’m here. They know who you are, and when I don’t return, they’ll come after you.”
“So I should just cut my losses now and let you go, is that what you’re saying?”
“You figure it out.”
“You know something, Antonio Beltran? I’m looking at you right now with your balls hanging out and a bullet through the shoulder in a place no one will ever find you and you don’t strike me as a man with a lot of bargaining chips.”
“They’ll find you.”
“Did they send you to kill me?” No answer.
The Webmaster switched on the camera to record what followed.
“Not much in this life is guaranteed. But I guarantee that you will tell me what I want to know. You can tell me now or after you’re missing your balls and some limbs. Now once again: who paid you to kill me?”
Still no answer.
The figure connected jumper cables to the victim’s testicles. Though Beltran’s screams were deafening, there was no chance of anyone hearing him, not down here.
“This is only the beginning, my friend. In a moment this is going to get much worse. When I connect the other end of the cables to this car battery, you’re going to see the world very differently. Last chance to tell me who paid you to kill me.”
The jaws of the jumper cables were released on the battery terminals and they devoured the life out of Beltran. The tormentor varied the path of the electricity by attaching the clamps to the assassin’s penis and anus, his lips and his toes, his eyelid and his penis, his tongue and his toes. Each time the current slashed through his body with the ferocity of a Samurai sword.
In seven minutes, he was ready to talk.
“… Greyson … Armand Greyson…”
“Who else?”
“No one. No one else, I swear.”
“Why?”
“No one ever tells me why.”
“But that’s the most important question in life.”
Three hours later, Beltran’s torso was dumped in a landfill next to the Hefty Bag containing his arms and legs.
livia didn’t know how many days had passed since the nightmare began. Her tormentor arrived each day to feed her, to give her the insulin, to check on her vital signs and prolong her life. Later, he would return to torture her. Each time he came as the provider, she hoped she could move him to spare her, to free her. As the provider, he could be considerate, soft-spoken, even caring. Yesterday as he was wiping her forehead with a wet towel, he had asked how she was feeling. She said that the last session of torture was all she could bear. That she was at her limit. He nodded and said, “I understand.” She hoped that message would reach his other self―the man who suspended her from the ceiling and screamed obscenities as he raped her endlessly. But it hadn’t.
“We’ve entered the last stage of the bidding process, gentlemen.”
Olivia’s spent image was transmitted all over the world with a flick of a button. She hadn’t bathed in days. Her face bore the marks of countless blows as she lay naked on a bed. Her once flawless white skin was covered in welts. Her vagina and anus had been ripped by the objects inserted into them over the last week. A specially trained German shepherd had mounted her as the camera recorded every abuse, every scream and grunt, all the pleading for her life.
The host had challenged the imagination of the clients to conjure some new abuse, a novel act of degradation to subject her to. They had risen to the occasion. She was raped a dozen different ways―chained, suspended from the ceiling, forced to role play and speak lines from a prepared script. She had performed well, and this is what had kept her alive.
But now the imagination of her tormentors was exhausted. Now it was time for the final act.
“In keeping with tradition, I will now show the condemned videos of all the past executions and you can see her react.” He ordered Olivia to sit on a table opposite a laptop that began to play the images. The camera panned back and forth between the screen and Olivia’s face. She turned away and her abductor grabbed her by the hair, pointing her back to the screen.
“You have to watch,” said the Webmaster.
When the Schrodinger murder was played, Olivia vomited on herself. She fell to her knees and begged to be spared. She promised sex for life. She promised to love him forever. Faint applause came over the speaker as the audience approved. Then she appealed to the men who weren’t present that she might be spared as some bulls are spared in the ring.
“She’s asking for your mercy, gentlemen. We’ve never had a reprieve, but cast your votes.”
One by one the votes came in.
“It’s almost unanimous. Death.”
onia was still in bed with another client―Hector―while Rachel sat on the couch reading. Where did Sonia find all these guys? They all had tons of money. Some of them were pretty good looking, yet they risked jail, disgrace, or a gunshot from an outraged father to have sex with an underage kid.
Last night, Hector wanted each of them to come out separately as Dr. Sartorius had. At least his music was better―Latin. He smoked a joint while she stripped and that made her even more uncomfortable. What would it take for him to just reach over and put her down on the carpet? But he just sat there, a bright smile on his face with his legs crossed. Didn’t ask for floor work. After she took it all off, he had complimented her on her body and lovely hair. Then asked her to get dressed and sit with him for a few minutes. They talked. He owned a bar, had been a U.N. peacekeeper, traveled the world. She declined the joint and made him laugh when she said it caused lung cancer. He asked about her circumstances and she gave him the stock answers. Ran away from Vermont. Staying at a shelter. Working at a peep palace downtown. Rachel wondered why each man needed to hear this as if their voyeurism extended beyond a girl’s body to her whole messed up life.
Hector was originally from Mexico, and Rachel wowed him with her high school Spanish.
“Tu eres muy linda,” he said.
“Gracias, señor. Y usted es muy caballero.”
He took her hand and kissed it, something Rachel had always wanted from a man, but not in these exact circumstances. She liked those old world customs. She wished everyone spoke with English accents and had the command of language that the characters in Jane Austen’s novels had.
“You can tell Sonia that her audience is waiting.” She took that as a dismissal and got up. He tipped her a hundred dollars. Spanish class had paid off.
Rachel rifled through his house during the night, but no PC. It hadn’t been a total waste―she had brought her copy of English Romantic Poetry and curled up on the couch to read for a few hours before getting some sporadic sleep.
What a mess Percy Shelley’s life was. Married a sixteen-year-old, got her pregnant, abandoned her, married a seventeen-year-old, first wife commits suicide, writes gorgeous poetry, then drow
ns at twenty-nine.
Thy brother Death came and cried,
Wouldst thou me?
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmured like a noontide bee,
Shall I nestle near thy side?!
Wouldst thou me?―And I replied,
No, not thee!
Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon…
Hector and Sonia came downstairs. Rachel shut the book and slid it in her knapsack―homeless kids aren’t supposed to read lyric poetry.
“I hope you slept okay,” said the host.
“The couch was fine.”
“I guess we should make like a shepherd and get the flock out of here,” said Sonia.
“Cool.”
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Lisa. Here’s my number. If there’s anything I can do for you, give me a call. You’re welcome to come back.”
“Thanks, I really appreciate that, Hector.”
He watched them from the window. Great girl, that Lisa. Fourteen, alone and cute. Too bad there wasn’t any of that when he was a U.N. peacekeeper in the People’s Republic of the Congo. There were young girls, but the Africans just didn’t do it for him. Like a lot of other soldiers, he had traded food for sex with the twelve-year-olds. No problem getting college girls to come over with a promise of free beer and weed. But getting the young ones, that was another story. There were plenty of middle-school girls willing to put out for money or thrills, but the risk was too great. They had to be runaways or the cops would come down on him right away. Sonia had a lot of cute, young friends in just the right circumstances. She was a magnet.
This Lisa had real possibilities. Beautiful body, sweet disposition. He would have to cultivate her. Bring her along as he had so many girls with his no pressure approach. The conquest of a new girl was the supreme pleasure.
The Schwarzschild Radius Page 15
