Disturb

by Jack Kilborn

  Rothchilde’s paranoia had served Halloran well. The icing on the cake was Rothchilde’s office-afraid of being overheard, he’d had it soundproofed. The guy was practically begging for someone to shoot him.

  Halloran let himself in after a one-two knock.

  “How did it go with the Schaumburg police?”

  Classic Rothchilde. No greetings. No pleasantries.

  “Fine. Where’s the money?”

  Rothchilde offered one of his frequent condescending smiles. “It’s in my wall safe, of course. Do you think I’m going to let you just walk out of here with a quarter of a million dollars?”

  Halloran didn’t like where this was going.

  “How am I supposed to give it to him?”

  “You don’t have to. I already made arrangements.”

  The cop’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I called up Schaumburg myself. Strangely, the Captain there doesn’t even know you. But he was willing to look the other way for only thirty thousand.”

  Halloran took out the piece. “I’m through messing around, Albert. Just give me the cash.”

  Rothchilde continued smiling. “Frankly, Captain, I’m surprised. I didn’t think you had the stones to cross me.”

  “The safe, Albert.”

  “Isn’t it your intention to kill me anyway? Why should I also let you take my money?”

  Halloran’s face twitched. He could feel the sweat climb down the back of his neck. The moment was getting away from him. Halloran had killed a man before, in the line of duty, clear self-defense. Killing in cold blood was a horse of a different color. If he was going to do it, it had to be now, before he lost his nerve. The money wasn’t the motivating factor. This was self-preservation.

  Halloran thumbed off the safety.

  “Before you shoot me, maybe you should know about my insurance.”

  Rothchilde glanced up at the corner of the room. Halloran followed his gaze.

  A video camera winked down at them from the corner.

  “A rich man like me needs security.”

  Halloran snarled. “Where’s the VCR?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to tell you.”

  It kept getting worse and worse. Halloran had spent his career talking to criminals who couldn’t understand how their careful plans had gone so wrong. He was watching the same thing happen to himself.

  “I could make you tell me.”

  “Perhaps. Or you could continue to work for me, and I’ll give you a nice bonus. Put away the gun.”

  Halloran didn’t move. This had gone very sour, and the very last thing he wanted to do was give Rothchilde the upper hand again. But what else could he do?

  Halloran shoved the gun back into his pocket.

  “Good cop. I’ve got your bonus in here.”

  Rothchilde opened his desk drawer and stuck his hand inside. Alarm bells went off in Halloran’s head. Rothchilde was moving too fast, and the expression on his face was wicked, almost bloodthirsty. Halloran dug back into his pocket, pulling at the 22, getting it caught on the fabric.

  Rothchilde’s hand came out holding a large 9mm. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t talk. He aimed it at Halloran’s face and pulled the trigger.

  Maybe he’s not a good shot.

  That was Halloran’s last thought, and it went out the back of his head with a good portion of his frontal lobe.

  Rothchilde watched the cop pitch over, a fine mist of vaporized blood settling to the ground after him.

  It had been like shooting skeet at the club. Aim, squeeze, score. Easier, even; a clay pigeon was small and fast, not fat, stationary, and stupid.

  Rothchilde stood up and walked around the desk, surveying the damage. There was a black, gooey hole where Halloran’s left eye had been. His other eye was wide open, still registering shock. It delighted Rothchilde so much that he located his Polaroid and took a picture.

  When the novelty wore off, he realized that this had to be dealt with. There were stains, and as time wore on there was sure to be an odor. He picked up the phone and dialed the familiar number.

  “Yeah.”

  “Carlos, when you’re finished at DruTech, I need you and Franco at my place.”

  “I got hit with a cactus.”

  “I can’t say that I care. You both must come here when you’re finished.”

  “Okay.”

  Rothchilde frowned. Didn’t the man want to know why?

  “I need you to dispose of something.”

  “Okay. I said we’ll be there.”

  Rothchilde tried to quell his desire to brag. This was his first kill, a symbolic rite of passage. He proved that he had the intestinal fortitude to get his own hands dirty-wet work, the mob called it. Carlos should have sensed that, offered to share their bond and welcome him as a member of the club. Instead, Rothchilde got blind obedience.

  “How long will you be?” Rothchilde had to slip it in. “This body is doing terrible things to my carpet.”

  “Should be soon. We’re pulling into DruTech right now.”

  Was the man dense? Or was he so used to murder that it had become mundane to him?

  “Fine.” Rothchilde sighed. “Keep me posted.”

  He hung up, annoyed. Why did he care what Carlos thought, anyway? The man was a petty thug. Even worse, he was the hired help. Rothchilde would have to be content with keeping his victory to himself.

  His spirits buoyed a bit when he noticed the hole in the far wall. Using his letter opener, he pried the slug out of the wood paneling. It was mashed on one side, like a small lead mushroom, still sticky with Halloran’s blood.

  Rothchilde placed it in an envelope and locked it in his wall safe. If he couldn’t share the experience, at least he could keep a trophy.

  Then he sat back at his desk and relived the whole scene in his head. The look on Halloran’s face was priceless. He wished he could do it all over again.

  Then he remembered the security camera.

  Excited, Rothchilde left his office, locking the door behind him. He moved at a brisk clip, down the grand staircase, into the library, through the keypad entrance where all of the security VCRs were located. Several minutes later he was watching the correct tape on his big plasma screen, mouth frozen in a grin and eyes wide as saucers.

  It was hugely disappointing.

  Rothchilde’s equipment was state of the art, but its purpose was to aid in security, not produce Hollywood blockbusters.

  First of all, there was no sound. All of the delicious things Rothchilde had said-taunting Halloran, getting him to put away his gun, all of it was missing. And while the color was fine, the stationary downward angle didn’t show either of their faces.

  But the worst part was the speed. The VCRs recorded in time lapse, so an entire twenty-four hour period could fit onto one eight hour tape. It only videotaped one frame every second, so things were ridiculously speeded up. From the time Halloran entered the office, until he was dead on the floor, lasted a measly eight seconds.

  Rothchilde tried to watch it using the slow motion button, but the result was still jerky and unimpressive.

  A pity. He would have given a lot of money to see himself in action. Too bad there wasn’t a way.

  But there was a way, wasn’t there?

  Rothchilde stood up, heart hammering. It might not work. He’d shot Halloran in the head. Perhaps he’d damaged the part of the brain that can be made into N-Som.

  But it was worth a try, wasn’t it?

  He bounded up the stairs, back to his office, and called Carlos. They would have to postpone the murders, until Rothchilde could force Theena to turn Halloran into N-Som.

  The phone rang, and rang, and then he was connected to Carlos’s voice mail.

  “Damn it.”

  The dumb thug had turned off his phone. He was probably very close to killing them both. If that happened, it would be weeks before Rothchilde could find replacement scientists to do the work.

&n
bsp; If it was one thing the rich hated, it was waiting.

  Rothchilde hung up and dialed his pilot.

  “Fredrick? I need you to fly the chopper over to the mansion, ASAP. I have to get to DruTech as quickly as possible.”

  Fredrick complied. Rothchilde rarely used the helicopter, and it cost an extraordinary amount of money to keep it always on standby, but it looked like his indulgence would pay off today. Weather permitting, he could be at DruTech in twenty minutes.

  But he had something to do, first. Rothchilde went to the kitchen and quarter-filled a plastic garbage bag with ice. Then he grabbed the largest butcher knife in the rack and headed back to his office.

  Jack Kilborn

  Disturb

  Carlos didn’t like it.

  There were unwritten rules for hits. That’s how he’d lasted in this business as long as he had. Bending the rules was asking to get caught-or worse.

  The DruTech building was practically empty, but it was still a public place, and that went against the rules. Carlos wasn’t some inner city gang-banger who got his kicks doing drive-bys. Carlos was a pro, and he wasn’t being treated as such.

  There were other rules being ignored as well. Never work with a partner, especially a dumb ox like Franco. Don’t do contract work for the corporate sector. And most of all, never return to a crime scene. He’d broken all of these in the last two days.

  It got worse. That moron Rothchilde called a little while ago, bragging he just wasted someone, wanting him for yet another garbage run. The risk of cleaning up after amateurs was incredibly high. It just wasn’t right.

  “You okay? Looks like you got a saggy diaper that leaks.”

  Franco laughed at his own idea of wit.

  “Stay sharp. This one feels like it could be messy.”

  “I’m always sharp.”

  Yeah, right. Sharp like a box of dumb bells.

  Carlos parked where they couldn’t be seen from the front entrance, and again did the Fed Ex thing. The doors were locked, but one fat security guard was reading a paperback behind his stand in the lobby. Carlos knocked.

  The guard made a show of walking over, pulling out a loaded key ring and fumbling with the lock.

  “Late today.”

  Carlos gave him his practiced ‘average Joe’ shrug. “Overnight guaranteed, even if there’s nobody here.”

  The guard looked him over.

  “You cut yourself shaving?”

  Carlos seethed beneath his bandages. He’d spent twenty minutes in front of a mirror, pulling out cactus spines with tweezers, and he didn’t find it amusing.

  “Yeah. I always shave my forehead.”

  Carlos offered the clipboard for the guard to sign. Then he did a discreet screening of the perimeter before putting a bullet in the fat man’s temple.

  The sound was deafening, but this was the suburbs-they weren’t used to hearing gunfire. No one would guess that’s what it was.

  Carlos knelt next to the guard and did a quick frisk. He took the keys, his wallet, and found the elevator card Rothchilde had described.

  Franco came up behind him, and together they hauled the body into the lobby and locked the door.

  “How many guards are on?”

  “Just the one. We can take our time.”

  The elevator had a slot beneath the call buttons, and Carlos jammed in the card key.

  Franco giggled in his girl’s voice. “Like James Bond.”

  Carlos sighed. Maybe it was time to think about retiring. The mob didn’t offer a pension, but he had a few dollars socked away. Plus he’d put money in the 401k. Not enough to live like a king, but enough to get by.

  When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, Carlos sensed something was wrong. Franco picked up on his vibe.

  “What is it?”

  “Not sure.”

  Franco sneered and walked into the hall. He was completely unprepared for the maniac with the fire ax who came careening around the corner, whooping and swinging.

  Carlos managed to get his gun out. The guy chopped away at Franco like a tree, sluicing the white walls with blood, his howls mingling with Franco’s wails. A scene from a slaughterhouse in hell.

  Carlos had five shots in his Colt’s cylinder and he fired them all.

  Three of the slugs buried themselves in Franco’s back, ending his misery. The other two took the psycho in the chest. At least, Carlos thought they did.

  Franco dropped to his knees and slumped over, but the other guy ran back the way he came, not giving any sign that he was hurt.

  Carlos stood there, stunned. The 38 Special was warm in his hand, a trail of smoke spiraling up from the barrel. Why didn’t that guy go down? Carlos was positive he’d hit him.

  He thumbed the extractor and emptied his brass into his hand. Without needing to look, he located his speed loader in his pocket and nudged in six more bullets. Holding his breath, he strained to hear down the hallway. The only sound was the drumming of his own heart.

  “YOU CAN’T KILL ME.”

  A man’s voice, coming from everywhere at once. Carlos traced it to the overhead speakers.

  “Come out and I’ll try again!”

  “LET’S PLAY HIDE AND SEEK. YOU’RE IT.”

  Carlos moved cautiously, keeping both hands on the gun. A trail of blood droplets glinted on the tile floor. He followed them, hugging the far wall as he turned the corner.

  The loudspeaker giggled.

  “GETTING WARMER.”

  Carlos stopped. He was scared. Fear was an old, familiar roommate, but he didn’t show up too often.

  The first time Carlos killed someone, as a green thirteen-year-old joining the Latin Kings, he was scared. Every time Gino made him deal with those crazy Colombians, with their dead eyes, he was scared. Years ago he’d gotten arrested, and some punk ass street cop, hungry for a promotion, beat Carlos with a phone book, trying to get him to squeal. He’d been scared then, too.

  But this time the fear was different. Carlos felt like he was in a haunted house, waiting for some deformed monster to jump out and say boo. A bullet proof monster with an ax.

  “DON’T STOP NOW. YOU’RE SO CLOSE.”

  Carlos knew he should turn around, take the elevator back up, and get the hell out of there. Why walk willingly into a nightmare? He could come back with more men, take care of this the right way.

  Gino wouldn’t stand for it. Franco was Gino’s nephew. He’d trusted Carlos to take care of him. If Carlos came back without avenging him, he was dead anyway.

  He began to move forward again.

  “Come out! Come out, I’ll finish you off!”

  The hallway came to a division. Carlos looked left, and then right, searching for the blood trail. He went right.

  “WARMER. WARMER. GETTING HOT.”

  The door up ahead was ajar, a smear of blood on the knob. Carlos tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry.

  “BURNING UP! YOU’RE ON FIRE!”

  He kicked the door and went in low, gun close to his body. It was a small kitchen, something large and bloody slumped on the floor in front of him.

  Carlos fired three times at the figure, four times, his brain registering that this wasn’t the guy, that this was some poor dead girl, but he couldn’t stop firing, he was too scared to stop, and when he was out of bullets and clicking on an empty chamber he felt movement behind him.

  Carlos spun, falling to the ground as the man with the ax towered over him like an immense shadow. He had a sick, happy smile on his face, and there were two bloody bullet holes in the front of his shirt.

  Why was this guy still standing?

  Carlos heard a horrible scream, and realized that it was coming from himself.

  Then the ax fell, and the screaming stopped.

  Jack Kilborn

  Disturb

  “We should go now, while they’re busy.”

  Bill agreed. When they’d first heard the gunshots, he and Theena had held out hope for rescue. Their escap
e plans evaporated when they realized the two mob thugs had come to call.

  But the situation had improved slightly. Close as they could figure, Carlos and David were in the kitchen. That meant the hallway to the emergency staircase was open.

  Bill displaced the desk and Theena helped him drag the dresser out of the way. They had problems opening the door; the ax had done so much damage the mechanism was stuck. Bill gave the knob three solid kicks to free it up.

  They pushed out into the hallway, liberated and frightened. Theena uttered a surprised gasp.

  David was standing at the corner. He looked like a blood-drenched demon from hell, swinging his ax and staring at them like Satan coming to collect souls.

  Bill grabbed Theena’s wrist and they sprinted in the opposite direction. His feet were fueled by terror, and they made it to the fire door and up two flights of stairs before Bill had time to even take a breath.

  Two more flights, and they were at the lobby door. Bill wasted precious seconds fumbling with the dead bolt, and then they were suddenly through. They ran to the front doors and pushed against the glass.

  Locked.

  Bill stared at the keyhole, unable to comprehend it. He rammed his shoulder against the doors but they didn’t so much as shudder.

  Theena came up behind him, holding a cylindrical chrome garbage can. She and Bill hefted it on their shoulders.

  “Close your eyes.”

  They rammed it into the glass door with all they had.

  There was a loud clanging sound, and the can bounced off the glass. There wasn’t so much as a chip. What the hell were they making glass out of these days?

  “There has to be a fire exit somewhere. Come on.”

  Again he grabbed Theena’s wrist and they ran back behind the security desk, practically tripping over Barry’s body.

  Theena screamed. The security guard looked like a dropped watermelon from the neck up.

  Ding.

  Bill and Theena turned as one and faced the elevator.

  It was coming up.

  Bill had no idea what to do. The DruTech Building was big, fifteen stories and hundreds of offices. Maybe they could hide somewhere, wait for help to come.

  “Barry…”

  “Barry’s dead, Theena.”