It had shocked Frank to see what had become of Silva since he saw him last. Even at his advanced age, Silva had conveyed the very essence of strength; a man who could control a group of mercilessly violent men with a single word, and could reign in the pandemonium that was Bella Moncrief; teach her to sit up straight and say please and thank you when appropriate.
Within minutes of first meeting the old man, Frank held him in higher esteem than any man he’d ever known. Silva had risen to greet him, furious with the men for causing Frank harm. He’d spoken to Frank in his native tongue, apologizing for the mistreatment and explaining the situation as cordially as one could explain the mess Frank had made by murdering a woman someone else was meant to murder. Unlike Charlie or even his father, Silva did not take Frank’s reluctance to speak as an indication that he was mentally deficient. He patiently listened to what little Frank did have to say, and spared Charlie’s life at Frank’s request. Then he’d sent Charlie away so Frank could recover from his injuries in the peace and quiet of Silva’s home, just like any of his other workers.
Now the former warrior was reduced to a frail senior citizen, his body wasted away until he could barely stand on his own. The old man had looked worse than Frank could have anticipated, sitting feebly behind that desk where he had issued the command for countless assassinations. Frank was not eager to see him again in his declining state, least of all with the knowledge that like the murder which brought their introduction, Silva may have death come for him before he could be killed.
He entered the room, shutting the door behind him and accepting the offered chair directly in front of Silva’s desk. The Degas painting was no longer hanging on the wall, only a bullet hole left in its stead. Had Bella requested its removal? Would she systematically remove all artwork from the house just to spite him, to leave a cruel reminder with every missing painting and sculpture that she’d stolen Casey away from him?
Silva gave him a warm smile and asked, “How quickly did you figure it out?”
“It took about twenty-four hours.”
“You are out of practice.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “Why Gideon?”
“I dare say you would have come far sooner had I chosen Margaret Evans. Or her son.” Frank flinched. “I have upset you.”
He nodded once, keeping his eyes downward. He considered it disrespectful to glare at one’s elders.
“Forgive me, Frank. My intention was never to hurt you. I only wanted the best for Bella. I do not have very long.”
“No, you certainly do not,” he said coldly.
Silva laughed. “There are a few things I must take care of before I die. I would greatly appreciate a slight postponement of your plans. Three weeks, perhaps? It would give you ample opportunity to stalk me, if that is what you still enjoy.”
Frank successfully fought back a smile, giving him only a nod of approval. This situation could have been extremely difficult for both of them. Having Silva accept his fate—no, appreciate it—made Frank feel more like a dutiful son, and less like he was a savage criminal murdering an already weakened old man.
“I do hope your opinion of your friend has not been permanently affected. Gideon was the lesser of evils. And I daresay as a lawyer, this cannot be the first time his life has been threatened.”
“Did you write his name in that book?”
Silva gestured for him to approach, sliding the leather-bound journal across the desk. The writing was indecipherable, code written in a language that Frank could not read. “The front of this book lists those working for me. The back,” he turned the book over, revealing an entirely different section of writing, “are jobs. You are the only one in both sections, coincidentally.” Silva pointed out and underlined a short segment of jumbled letters and symbols in both sections and then closed the book. “Mr. Adler is not in the book. Neither is his family, apart from you. When I am dead, you are welcome to take this with you. I assume you can now decipher the contents if you so choose. It may even give you and Vincent something to do with your spare time.”
Frank looked at the book with considerably more interest now that the contents were being presented to him as an assignment, but he forced himself to turn away, to remember the events leading up to Vincent’s attack with absolute shame. “Vincent did not want to retire,” he said.
They had never truly discussed it. After V’s injury, it was all Frank could do to keep it together, to be strong for him when felt like any strength he had ever possessed had been ripped from his grasp. He had feared it during their first hit together, when Vincent baited their mark with a disturbing ease. Frank knew that if the man laid his hands on Vincent for even a second, he would lose it. It was not the numbness that terrified Frank, the moment when his mind switched off and he functioned on instinct alone, becoming no more than an animal. A soulless killer. It was what happened after his mother died that truly frightened him, when he murdered a man, started cutting him to pieces while he was still breathing. Frank lost all sense of reason. It was not work or survival or even vengeance. It was madness. When he saw Vincent bleeding, already half dead, that was what Frank became. He emptied his entire gun into his brother without so much as a second glance at Vincent on the floor. Once it was over Frank found himself again, unlike he had with his mother. He was able to call for help, to ignore Charlie’s pleas to leave while they still had time. To leave Vincent.
It was already too late. He had left him. On the floor, tied to that godforsaken chair, Vincent’s hair saturated with blood. Frank had left him then. He had lost track of time, for how long he did not know. Precious moments that could have been the difference between life and death, between a complete recovery and the lingering complications that caused both of them so much pain. Moments spent consumed so thoroughly with rage that he was blind to everything else.
Frank’s mother had not died immediately after she was attacked. She was still alive, but instead of staying at her side during her final moments, Frank played in the blood of a stranger. What became of her, and of Vincent, was entirely his fault regardless of what anyone had to say on the matter. And Frank would never forgive himself for it.
“Did you want to retire?” Silva asked.
What he wanted was to be in control again, to be able to look Vincent in the eye and promise him that he would—that he could—keep him safe on the next hit. It had been as if the same fate that brought them together had conspired to break them apart; for the final job to be on a boat, for the mark to own Casey’s painting, and for Frank to succeed in protecting Vincent on every job until that moment and then fail so utterly in his duties to protect him from his own past. “I can’t lose him, Silva.”
“According to Bella, you are losing him.”
For Bella to notice, or for Vincent to mention his discontent which was more likely the case, meant the situation was far worse than Frank wanted to admit. He rubbed his face and quickly changed the subject. “I would not work for anyone but Charlie.”
“Joseph would have taken good care of you. He is here, if you would like to speak with him.”
He shook his head. Joe Russell was an American ex-assassin who had been forced into early retirement by having nearly every bone in his body systematically broken over the course of four days. He was lucky to be alive, and the bitterest human being Frank had ever met. Following his injury, Joe became a handler. He worked exclusively with Silva’s son, before Frank killed Augustin on Silva’s orders.
Frank had been skeptical of Joe from the very beginning. He distrusted Joe’s eagerness to assist his latest charge while conceding the life of his former. Charlie used to say that Joe was competing for the handler of the year award. Frank decided to make it a point not to introduce Joe to Vincent. For a little attention and some candy, V just might give it to him.
“May I ask how you plan to kill me?” Silva asked.
“I am going to bash your head in.”
“How delightful. You always were one for bludgeon
ing. That is how you killed Charlie, is it not? Or did Vincent complete that task?”
“I did it.” Frank pointed to a marble bust of Voltaire on the mantelpiece. “Would that do?”
“It would be perfect. I bought it to remember you by.” When Frank had come to rescue Charlie, he was carrying three things: an antique gun which did not work, a knife which had worked on many occasions, and a paperback copy of Candide. Boris had laughed when he searched him, and then hit him in the face with it. Upon hearing this, Silva had given Frank his own copy, which was just as worn but not nearly as bloody.
Frank stood and briefly held the bust in his hand, testing the weight. It was perfect. He placed it back on the mantelpiece with a smile. He had never had this discussion with his victims before. At least not to this extent; there was usually what you’ve done and what I’m going to do. But there was another discussion to be had. “I do not work for free, Silva,” he said. Even with Charlie’s death, with the freedom that came from it and the honor that required it, Silva sent him a payment.
“How much would you like?”
“Million pounds,” Frank said without hesitation.
Silva smiled and nodded. “I thought that would get your attention.”
“You’re not going to tell Bella, are you?”
“I think she is mad enough at you as it is, Frank,” he said. “And I will not keep you any longer. It is a pleasure to see you again, my boy, and to meet Vincent.”
“Thank you,” Frank said sincerely. There was little in his life that prided him as much as Vincent, and had it not been a safety hazard, he would have been far more blatant in his affection for him.
“Do give Gideon my best.”
He smiled. That, he would not.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Until he ran over them a second time, Casey had forgotten about Bella’s road ravaged purchases. She’d probably killed men for less. But that was okay. Everything was okay. Everything was wonderful!
He stopped briefly to admire the leafless trees surrounding the house, the sky lavender with snow clouds in the morning sun, and then he ran inside calling excitedly to his mother to give her the good news. She caught him the moment he entered, hugging him hard. “I’ve been so worried about you!” she said, pulling his hair slightly as she affectionately smoothed it down. “What the hell do you think you’re doing running off like that?”
“I was upset,” he said, only then remembering just how upset he’d been. Then he smiled and hugged her, spinning her around like he’d done since the day his height surpassed hers. “But that doesn’t matter now. I love Bella. I’m going to Prague.”
His mother’s worried expression became stern, a look that from the age of fourteen had caused every man she met to put their heads down with shame and refer to her as ma’am. “You are most certainly not going to Prague, Casey Matthew Evans.”
“I know she came here to kill Gideon. I’ll tell her not to. It’ll be all right.”
Gideon stepped forward and said, “Why don’t you come sit down?”
Casey had a feeling there might be rope involved if they got him to a chair. But he was really glad to see his dad, so he obeyed, giving him a strong hug on his way to the kitchen. Gideon was shorter than him too.
There was no rope, though Gideon did firmly place his hands on both of Casey’s shoulders once he was seated. Casey smiled up at him. “It’ll be all right. She won’t kill you.”
“Honey,” his mom said, sitting across from him and taking his hands. Then she realized they were full of paint, and took a moment to scrub his fingers with a wet washcloth before continuing. “She doesn’t know who hired her. That’s why they’ve gone to Prague. If they can’t find out…” She turned away and shook her head, her goldenrod curls—the box even said so—bouncing across her neck.
“How could she not know who hired her?” he asked, gripping her hands.
“I don’t know. I don’t know how it all works.”
“Someone who hates me,” Gideon added, gradually applying less pressure to his shoulders as it became apparent that he was not about to flee to the Czech Republic. At least not without packing a sketchbook first. And maybe a sandwich. He hadn’t had anything but gin and tea since the night before Bella left.
“Rick hated you,” Casey said. There were some very good finger sandwiches at his father’s wake. He was really hungry. “He hated you more than anyone.”
“You’re father’s dead, sweetie.”
“Unexpectedly.”
“I don’t think he had that kind of money,” Gideon said, sitting beside him. He kept one hand on his back, proving he’d been just as worried about him as Maggie.
“Why, because he never paid us? He was a gambler. Everything he did was in cash so mom couldn’t get her hands on it. Maybe he had a big score. Or maybe he just saved.”
“You do have a point. We should call Frank and see what he thinks.”
“And since he’s dead, he can’t ask for a refund! They could turn around! Bella could come back!”
Gideon spun Casey’s chair toward him. Casey smiled. He knew what this meant. It was man to man talk time. He’d been through it with Frank before. A couple times, actually. There was the if you touch my guns I’ll have your mother break your hands speech, before Frank found out that Maggie owned a pearl-handled Derringer and Casey really had no interest in firearms. And when Frank found out he’d started smoking, they had a long discussion about how it wasn’t Frank’s fault, though Frank remained guilt stricken even after they shared a cigarette and Casey promised to never get lung cancer.
But in the most serious discussion they reversed roles, and it was Casey giving Frank the stern talking to. It had been when he was twenty-one, and Frank called him from a payphone at four in the morning to say goodbye, giving no reason but sounding desolate and exhausted.
Something had happened, to Charlie maybe or possibly even Bella, now that Casey knew of their relationship, which caused Frank to become withdrawn and to recoil from those he loved for fear of losing them. Casey had talked him back from the edge of a greater darkness than he’d ever heard in him, and considered the matter resolved, or at least improved, when Frank hung up to catch a flight. Then he didn’t hear from him again for a year and a half, when ironically he called from another payphone, overjoyed and declaring his love for Vincent.
That was right before Vin got hurt, which brought on additional conversations that Casey would sooner forget: what would happen if Gideon couldn’t get the charges dropped against Frank, and what would happen if Vincent didn’t wake up.
Maggie stood to give them privacy, hope on her face that her husband could talk some sense into him. And even though it was probably the last thing she wanted, she went in the hallway to make the phone call that could bring Bella home. But there was no way Casey could concentrate on what Gideon had to say when Bella was a phone call away, so they listened in silence to the one-sided conversation.
“Vincent, honey, put Frank on the phone. I understand that he’s busy, just put him on for a second. Fine. Put Bella on. Because it’s important for me to speak with one of them. What do you mean there’s a bad connection? I hear you just fine. Don’t you dare hang—” She scoffed, coming back into the room. “That little shit hung up on me.”
“I think you offended him,” Casey said. It was hard to believe that Vincent and Frank had been in the same profession. Vin looked so sweet. “Let me try,” he said, taking her phone and hitting redial.
“Hello?” Vincent answered on the first ring, as if he hadn’t just hung up on the same number.
“Can I talk to Bella?” he asked, and heard dial tone before he’d realized what came out his mouth. “Oops.”
Gideon pulled his chair closer. “I understand that you like her, but—”
“I’m serious about Bella,” Casey said defensively. “I’ve never been serious about anyone before.”
“You’re verging on restraining order territory,” Gideon
continued.
“I am?”
“Yes, you are.”
“Oh,” he sighed. “So I shouldn’t go to Prague?”
“That would be a good start.”
“You know a lot about women, huh?”
“I’ve been married four times, to three different women. I know next to nothing, Casey.”
“I think I’m going to marry Bella.” He beamed at the thought that had only just occurred to him. Bella would look great in a wedding dress. And he could wear a kilt! It would be awesome. He’d never been married before. “Frank would probably have to give her away, unless we did it really soon…” He stopped, glancing between Gideon and his mother. They both looked stunned. “What?”
His mom opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t seem to find the words. She slumped into a chair instead, and lowered her forehead to the kitchen table hard enough to bounce her curls. Casey put his hand on her back, leaning close to her so their heads touched. “Mamma, it’s going to be okay.”
“Honey,” she said from under her hair, “I highly doubt it.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Never, ever, as long as I lived and breathed, would I get over the horror of waking up in bed with a woman. I rolled over, squeezing my eyes so tight it hurt and I started seeing light enter the darkness behind my eyelids. Frank had slept between us. Frank was gone.
Bella evilly hugged me from behind, clinging to my shoulder with nails out, and whispered, “Good morning, lover” in my ear before biting it. Hard. The girl had a grip someone her size shouldn’t have been capable of. Calling for help was possibly my only way out, but it was such a degrading position I hesitated to scream. As much as I needed saving, I didn’t want anyone, much less my husband, to see me like this.
Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2) Page 21
