Uncommon Assassins

by F. Paul Wilson

  Pace eased the barrel back. “Sit up!”

  Jenks closed his eyes and massaged the crater caused by Pace’s abuse. “Frankel’s wife has cancer. She’s got six months, so he’s taking an early retirement. Said he wants to end his career with a happy memory. That’s why he’s doing this. Your pain is his pleasure, Pace.”

  Pace remained silent for a moment before a smirk appeared. “There’s only one way Frankel can avoid being held responsible if this little game goes south. He’ll make you take the fall. You had to sign and submit paperwork to take custody of me, right? Did you look it over first?” Pace’s smile widened as he watched Jenks’s expression turn sour. “Come on, Jenks. You must have kept a copy, right? It’s easy enough to check it out. Let’s have a look.” Pace knew the answer as soon as Jenks turned away, his stare now focused on the highway. “Strange, isn’t it? You’re headed to jail and I’m going to be a free man.”

  “That will never happen, Pace. You’re delusional.”

  “Strike a nerve? You’re suddenly full of life again. Maybe—”

  Pace was interrupted by Jenks’s cell phone. Janine’s number flashed on the screen. He removed the battery and threw the phone into an adjacent wooded area. He then put the car in gear and headed toward the truck stop.

  CHAPTER 6

  Graham Pace’s girlfriend’s eyes widened as he pulled up beside her. Before she could find any words, he said “We need to swap cars right now, Janine. Take this thing straight back to your place and put it in the garage until I come back later on.”

  “Are you out of your mind? What the hell happened here? And how am I supposed to get to work? I just—”

  “Now!” Pace stared her down until she responded. He turned toward Jenks and motioned with the muzzle of his gun for him to get out.

  “Oh my god, Graham, there’s a dead guy in the back. And there’s blood everywhere! There’s no way I can drive this thing to my place.”

  Pace ignored her and stood outside the vehicle until Jenks climbed into the passenger side of their new transportation. A storm of pounding fists rained down on Pace’s shoulders, a tirade full of expletives accompanying the assault as he moved to take the wheel. He gave her a shove and drove off, never looking back.

  “Class act all the way, Pace,” Jenks said.

  “That cheating whore gets what she gets. She’s lucky to be alive and it’s payback time.” Pace looked in the center console where his girlfriend usually kept her cell phone. “By the way, you’re going to make a phone call. Then you can shut your mouth from here on in, or I’ll shut it for you permanently. Your choice.” Pace handed over the phone. “Call Frankel. Tell him everything is set.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Graham Pace admired the M24 sniper rifle in his hands. The fact he had located such a weapon inside the span of several hours felt like destiny, though the Internet and Jared Jenks helped make it so. Jenks had proven to be a valuable asset, possessing two things necessary to procure such a weapon on short notice: spotless credentials and deep pockets. On the black market, there are no background checks. However, the process left little time to work out some serious kinks.

  Pace’s perch inside Huron Terrace, located on the periphery of Wrigley Field, provided a perfect sightline on a particular cluster of bleacher seats inside the ballpark. Upon entering the tower, Pace coerced an elderly woman into letting Jenks and him enter her tenth- floor apartment. Unfortunately, the units had no windows that opened, save a single awning located nine feet above the living room floor.

  Pace had a plan. “Drag that dining room table over here, and then take the drawers out of her dresser,” he commanded. Jenks gave no resistance, the far end of his own weapon now trained on his chest.

  The woman was in for the shock of her life when someone finally came around to remove the gag and ropes now holding her hostage. The living area would soon look much different. The men stacked furniture piece by piece until it formed a platform high enough to reach the windowsill.

  Pace stood back and surveyed the structure. He gave Jenks a nod. “That’ll work. Head back toward the bedroom. You’re going to keep the old lady company. Maybe you two can wink Morse code to one another.”

  After tying and gagging Jenks, Pace returned to the cobbled tower, satisfied with the job he’d done securing the odd couple. A glance at his watch told him he had about five minutes to spare. He checked the bolt-action rifle again, and then chambered a round.

  Pace closed his eyes and slowed his breathing in preparation for the trigger. He thought about Warden Archer Frankel as he said the Army Ranger sniper’s motto out loud. “One shot, one kill.” A quick scan through a pair of binoculars purchased earlier that day made Pace smile; Frankel had taken his seat at the Cubs game.

  Pace picked up the cell phone, placed a call, and hit speaker.

  “Jenks? Where the hell are you?” the voice on the other end asked. “I told you to get here ten minutes early.”

  “Archer Frankel? This is Graham Pace. I need you to shut up and listen very carefully. I’m looking at you through the scope of a weapon you’re very familiar with. The M24 is one hell of a rifle in capable hands. Look up toward the building at your one o’clock.” Pace took a makeup mirror found in the old lady’s bathroom and beamed reflected sunlight in Frankel’s direction. “Now say goodbye.”

  Archer Frankel’s jaw fell, his attention fixed on the apartment tower where he’d seen Pace’s signal.

  The gunshot echoed like thunder across the Chicago skyline as a .300 Winchester Magnum round tore through flesh and bone, in clean and out mean.

  Graham Pace was free.

  KATAKIUCHI

  BY CHARLES COLYOTT

  As I’m sure you know by now, lots of people have written about my last job. One of those stupid, melodramatic news shows did a two-hour special about it, too. I heard there was even a made-for-TV movie about it. I honestly wouldn’t know. I don’t watch that crap, myself.

  In any case, nobody got it right. Not really.

  You want to hear about it?

  Nah, I don’t mind telling you. It doesn’t matter anymore. What’s done is done.

  Besides, nobody can touch me now, anyway.

  I’m clean.

  Let’s see. How to start—

  I know! I’ll tell you a secret: In this game, my game? I’m the best there is. The numbers you’ve read? The confirmed kill counts? Let’s just say that those numbers were pretty conservative. In the past five years, I’ve managed to earn a little over ten million dollars, which isn’t too shabby considering I like to keep my prices reasonable.

  By the way, before you start to think that, like, I’m some kind of monster and you start questioning my childhood and all that shit? Let me put all that to rest right now: My childhood was awesome. My parents are great people, and my big brother was a great guy. I am not a monster.

  I’m a capitalist. And trust me, there’s a market for my services. I could’ve taken ten times as many jobs, if I wasn’t so cautious. And if I wasn’t so lazy. And if my schedule allowed it.

  As it is, though, I’m pretty proud of my record.

  Anyway, I digress.

  Where was I?

  Right. The last job.

  So there’s this Darknet board I use for getting work. It’s called Chiba City.

  Hm?

  No, not the real Chiba, in Japan. This one’s a Neuromancer reference. Y’know, the classic William Gibson novel?

  Oh.

  Oh, right, sorry. Darknet. It’s ... uh ... sorta like the Internet’s seedy underbelly. It’s the stuff that doesn’t come up in searches. The stuff you can’t get to unless you know somebody. I know a lot of somebodies, let me tell you.

  And those somebodies all think they know me: O_Kami, the “Great Spirit.”

  The ghost in the machine.

  Back before I even went pro, I started seeding rumors around, from various fake accounts, about a mysterious, steely-eyed assassin of unknown origins. I pretty muc
h just paraphrased my phony bios from old Wolverine comics and spy movies and Repairman Jack novels, but it did the job ... before long, I started get inquiries.

  I started to get jobs.

  And the way it always worked was like this: At some point, early in the correspondence, I would sneakily infect my client’s system with a tiny bit of malware of my own creation. It was a simple piece of identification software, allowing me to determine the who, the where, the why, etc., etc. This allowed me to dodge the occasional law enforcement sting job, but it also gave me a better idea about each client’s motives.

  Yes, motives. Believe it or not, I’m not so bad. I don’t do kids. I haven’t done women (not that I wouldn’t, necessarily, but there was never a compelling enough reason).

  Oh, ha-freaking-ha.

  I know what you’re thinking, but I have had plenty of dates, thank you very much.

  Anyway, dick, my point is that motives fucking matter, y’know? I don’t just drop Mjolnir on somebody who doesn’t deserve it. With great power comes ... well, y’know.

  So anyway, last April. I’m kickin’ back on a Friday night, alright, and I’m playing a little World of War-crack, and I get a ping from my laptop. The laptop is what I use for business, so I log off of WoW and switch over. It’s a new client. I chat ’em up a little, stick ’em with the malware (I named it M.A.R.K.-13 after the killer robot from the classic 1990 sci-fi movie Hardware, which my bro Dennis showed me back in the day), and discover the slightly alarming fact that this particular client—as well as the potential target—is from my ’hood. Or close enough to freak me out a bit, anyway.

  Even though they come up clean, my spidey senses are still a-tinglin’, so I tell them that I’ll get back to them with an answer within a couple of days. This gives me a little time to do some research.

  M.A.R.K.-13 tells me that the client—Thomas Dobrowsky—is a forty-nine-year-old insurance salesman from a little town just across the river from where I reside. From that jumping off point, I dig around a little. In under an hour, I find out that he has joint checking and savings accounts with his wife Janice, a forty-seven-year-old nurse. They have two kids: Steven, age ten, and Deena, age twenty-four.

  Decent credit rating.

  Nice-looking family.

  Dude looks like an insurance salesman. Wifey’s a bottle blonde. A little dumpy-looking now, but I can see where she probably would’ve been a looker back in her day.

  Little Steven is a freckle-faced lad with the distinct look of someone who eats a lot of paste. This kid was definitely taking daily beatings at whatever school he attended, the poor bastard.

  And yet, he looked happy in every picture I managed to find.

  Big, dopey smile.

  A trusting smile.

  Unlike his big sis.

  Deena Dobrowsky was a slight, pretty thing. Raven hair, pale skin. Something a little Asian-looking about her features (I later figured out that this wasn’t quite right; her family is Ukrainian), mostly in the cheekbones, the eyes.

  Big, dark eyes. Sad, empty eyes.

  There was something about the way she held herself, as if she was trying to disappear.

  Seeing that shy sadness in her eyes, I felt my heart break a little. I wanted to find this girl and give her a hug, for god’s sake. I wanted to tell her that, whatever was going on, it would get better.

  Not that she would’ve taken me seriously at all, mind you.

  Still.

  Anyway, after all that, I checked out the target.

  Mr. Franklin Alfred Bennington, Jr.

  I know who he is now, of course, but at the time I just figured he was some pompous, rich douche bag.

  (Spoiler alert: He was.)

  Age twenty-five. Classic Aryan looks. In fact, from the pictures I found online (one from an honest to god polo match, if you can believe that clichéd shit) he looked disturbingly like Johnny Lawrence, the villain in the 1984 version of The Karate Kid.

  I was ready to take the job based on that fact alone, to be honest.

  But, being a conscientious and diligent little killer, I forced myself to dig deeper.

  Hospital records are a little harder to get nowadays, but they still don’t give me much trouble. I learned from the best, after all.

  My bro, Dennis? I mentioned him, I think. He was the A Number 1, Original Gangsta. The ub3r h4x0r. If you were paying attention, back in the early nineties, he was the guy who hacked the FBI database. What the news media did not tell you was that, that same night, he broke into the D.o.D., the C.I.A., and the World Bank ... and not for anything malicious, mind you. He just wanted to show the world that he could.

  He was fourteen at the time.

  And yes, he did some prison time. And yes, he ended up working for a security corporation, locking out other little creeps like himself. And yes, he was (more or less) on the straight and narrow when some drunk asshole in a Miata skipped a curb and splattered the finest brain I’ve ever known all over the sidewalk of Washington Avenue.

  He was engaged. His fiancé was smokin’ hot.

  He was twenty-seven.

  He deserved a shot, y’know?

  Anyway, Jesus ... whatever. Am I right?

  Back to the front, yo. We got a schedule to keep, after all.

  Like I was saying, medical records can get a little tricky ... but not that tricky. I would’ve broken through in no time, except there was a funky kind of lock on Deena Dobrowsky’s file. I’d never seen anything like it. Later on, I found out what was up (along with the rest of the world) when it turned out that this Bennington a-hole had it all sealed up.

  Because—as you know—it would look real bad for Daddy Bennington if the general public knew what Junior had been up to. Especially since this was an election year and all. Illinois has had its fill of nutbag politicians, that’s for sure, but I don’t think anybody would vote for a congressman with a firstborn like Mr. Franklin Alfred Bennington, Jr.

  You remember the details of the case?

  Sure you do.

  Deena meets Franklin. They fall in love, right out of high school. Against her parents’ wishes, they move in together. After this whole debacle when down, Deena told ABC news that she never would have done it, but Franklin said he wanted to get married. He said they had to do it all in secret because of his daddy.

  But that wasn’t true.

  What was true was that Franklin had a nice little apartment in a nice little neighborhood, and Deena moved in with him. And before you could snap your fingers and say Entitled White Male, he started having little parties. With all of his little polo buddies.

  Like I said, there’s something about Deena. She’s pretty, sure, but it’s more than that. There’s something there that I hesitate to even name because you’ll just laugh at me.

  But, fuck it. Laugh all you can, pal.

  Hehe.

  There’s something there, in her eyes, that’s pure and good and sweet ... and that’s after all the hell he put her through.

  Franklin wanted her to entertain his little buddies.

  He didn’t like it when she refused. Every time she refused.

  By the time he took her to the hospital (only out of fear, mind you) she had a concussion, three broken ribs, and severe internal bleeding. That’s not counting the damage done by the rape, either. Five guys. Five privileged little bastards who took what they wanted while she cried and screamed for help.

  And where were the neighbors, you might ask? They were used to strange sounds coming out of Franklin’s place, so they never bothered to ask any questions. Ain’t America grand?

  I’ll be honest with you. When I read her files, the thought occurred to me to unleash a major league hellstorm on every single person involved. I was ready to kill every neighbor, every pedestrian who happened to walk by that night, you name it. But, c’mon ... that’s a lot of work. And there’s only so much payment, after all.

  Like I said, I’m a capitalist.

  I gotta be. I’m a major l
eague otaku ... and let’s face it: there is some serious truth to that old T-shirt slogan that says “Anime: Drugs Would Be Cheaper.” My Japanophilia is yet another thing I inherited from Dennis, of course. He started me on Voltron, the perfect gateway drug for a kid. Of course, before long, you get into Macross and Naruto and Rurouni Kenshi ... and where does it all end?

  Oh, I’ve gone and done it again, haven’t I?

  Damn.

  Well, that tangent derailed my train of thought, but that’s okay. You want to know how I do it? This is one of those things that never got mentioned in any of the news stories, you know. They all like to paint me as some cute, harmless little geek, but we both know that’s not the full picture, right?

  The truth is (and this I learned from Dennis, too. I learned it when he died) that the average person walking around is practically dancing right on the edge of ruin. They want to think that everything is peachy keen, but all they really need is a push.

  And that’s where I come in.

  I provide the push, and they do the rest. I get the cash, and they do all the work.

  Told ya: Capitalist!

  So sometimes it doesn’t take much. You hack into their company computer, jack up their work, make them look like a major screw up, and—bang—you got yourself an unemployed mark. Another fifteen minutes fiddling in the bank account and you got yourself a soon-to-be-homeless, dirt-poor mark.

  It only takes about an hour to erase someone completely, and then they really start questioning shit. Had one dude so thoroughly cut off that, by the end of a week, he bit through his own wrists because he couldn’t even afford a razor blade.

  Kinda proud of that one, I gotta say.

  But Franklin? I wasn’t going to play Magical Vanishing Life with him. First off, it wouldn’t work because he was too high profile. Secondly, to paraphrase Pinhead, I wanted to make his suffering legendary, even in hell.