But they sat there, letting him produce his small pistol, what he preferred for close work, minimal fuss and mess, completing their surrender. If he could do it with a BB gun, reliably, that's what would have shown up in his hand, not this .22 caliber automatic, filled with soft lead pellets that could pop a hole in a head then rattle around inside, twirling the brain cells into mush. One bullet, one brain.
“Why?” the woman asked, they always did. Men knew, or thought they did, great rationalizers.
“I thought you'd be able to answer that, for me.” He looked at them, quizzical, showing he meant it. His employers hadn't said why he had to kill the man and his family, only that they wanted them all dead, fast, with no one left alive – Momma, Poppa and baby too. Fine with him, but this time he'd gotten curious when he riffled through the inevitable plain sheets in his folder – picture, bio data, a short career synopsis his employer had provided as a starting point for his brief search for this, their final hiding place.
The father, the offending party, had worked for a Russian company. He'd quit in a huff after discovering something he felt was very wrong and gone to the authorities who'd said they'd hide him until he testified, giving Vladimir a chance to find them.
Oh how America filled people's minds with self righteous clap trap. In Russia someone might find work at a factory, then discover they turned bums off the street and aging fallen women into dog food. Their only question would be where's the bathroom and how long are the breaks – all the while secretly calculating how little they'd need to work to get their meager paycheck. Getting all high and mighty was the last thing they'd do.
“What the fuck?” the man was completely lost. “I'm protected by the FBI you stupid jerk.” Which sounded much more impressive in the Moscow accent this man had. It didn't faze Vladimir in the slightest, raising his heart rate slightly. Part of him actually hoped a pair of this nation's finest g-men were sneaking up to the front door at this very second, where they'd find his shoddy picking tools stuck in the lock, broken off so no key would ever slip inside again. They'd have to knock or batter it down, giving him a chance to react. All he needed, generally, was five seconds or less to recast his plans. The thought of adding a few FBI scalps to his list of lethal accomplishments made this mundane job interesting again.
“Where's..?” Vladimir turned his wrist, looking down at his short cheat sheet, taped to the inside of his forearm, “Natalie?” His etched in stone memory was flimsy once the excitement of a job began animating his body and mind – the reason his first hit had gone so bad for him, killing an entire apartment full of the wrong people, caused by a mistaken address, a mistake he worried he'd never live down at the time.
“My grandmother?” the woman swooned, thinking her entire family was doomed. And all because her husband had stupidly added to their misery by going to the FBI when he couldn't stomach his secret work. He'd been hired to complete a difficult genetic experiment only a few could pull off, the golden boy, to be paid an immense amount of money if he succeeded, and he had. After he'd done it, he'd become troubled then hounded by his sense of ethics, all enhanced by this insane, religion soaked country – finally driven to turn himself in to the authorities, all done to atone for his heinous deed.
Now this assassin was asking about her Babushka, Natalie, still in faraway Russia, enjoying a few comforts bought by the rich salaries everyone was paid here in this country, no matter what they did. She wanted to kill her husband more than this thin, unsettling man, dressed in black, with the empty smile of an undertaker suggesting a nice casket.
“Oh, sorry,” Vladimir consulted his wrist again, “Mary?”
That hit the woman even harder. A young girl, their daughter, nearly eight and growing precocious and a bit rebellious. Her new, married American friends, who lived in their desert subdivision, all gossips and busybodies, told her what to expect, even at that very early age. Boys took a year or two more to find out how much fun it was – sex, drugs, and self indulgent rebellion – revealed and revved up by porn on the internet, spiced up by murderous video games played until their fingers went numb. “Oh Gawd, not her, she's not here, kill us, let her go, I beg you.”
Vladimir's practiced eye followed hers to a large picture, a recent school photograph, posed in priceless, very appealing clothes, nothing a kid in the sticks, in his country, could ever have or even yearn for. These people were so rich and useless. They still hadn't stirred from the couch where he'd found them. Didn't they want to live? Had they turned into cattle after living in his licentious country?
Any normal Russian would have leaped and gone for his throat seconds after he'd said he was there to kill them. 'Not me, not now, not you – MOTHERFUCKER!!!!' But this expat, raised by his father with one small foot in the old country had gone soft completely, not a bit of fiery Mother Russia zeal sparked his eyes.
A sudden, mad dog attack by his targets would have meant things were resolved fairly quickly, not like this. They were making their deaths as dull as an earnest pitch for life insurance. He felt like a damned social worker, reminding them their family tree had a missing link, one Mary, girl child, nearly eight, who was long over due, since the sun had gone down. Americans trusted their kids, that was admirable, if they weren't taking advantage, which he was sure they were, all of 'em.
“Where is she?” He pointed his small gun at the woman, “ten seconds and I'll ask your husband next.” He sighed, this was going to be so predictable.
“She's at her friend's, for dinner, she'll come back...” her voice said she was going to stay for the night, such an obvious ploy.
“Call her, now, or I'll kill her when I kill you two. Do it.” He didn't raise his voice. His empty, reptilian, lifeless tone was unnerving, used when he was starting to lose his patience with schemers like these two. She searched frantically on the messy coffee table then uncovered her thin, glass faced cell phone.
“Here it is,” she offered it up, then realized she needed to call her daughter, not him. Overcome by the certitude of her own death she started crying, losing it so much her husband took it from her, punched the listing and automatically put it on speaker, knowing the thin lipped man facing them would require it.
“Mary? I know, honey you have to come home, I know I said it was okay, but your mother thinks it's best. Mary, don't ever talk to me like that, ever again. Come home right now.” He tapped the red button on the phone and left it on the table to show the connection was closed. He had never wished his contentious daughter would rebel against his authority as he did now, praying she'd run away, far away into the surrounding desert to never come back.
Vladimir raised his eyebrows when the man said it would be about ten minutes.
“Great, lets get up, both of you, into those chairs there, the ones with the arms, are they antiques, they look well made.” Getting ready to interrogate, torture and kill his targets made him giddy. His firm instructions to the couple made him sound like a damned faggot pitching a bit of overpriced art to a disinterested, wealthy customer 'don't you love the Cinnamon tones?' 'Don't move, this won't take long, hold the arm rests, there, we're done'.
It was as close to small talk as he ever came in life, that moment when he felt them enter his mental space, moving in the same dimensions he inhabited, very alone, but never lonely. He liked his privacy but this was fine, chatting them up, their potential threat to him gone – nonentities, dead already, they were like dummies standing in for real actors on a stage, letting him practice and tweak their lines and blocking.
They sat on the straight backed heavy oak chairs then looked at him earnestly, like they expected him to praise their compliance. Facing death, a surprising number of people regressed, becoming passive and infantile. He produced a roll of very strong duct tape from his kit bag, taping their forearms on the chairs, then their ankles, all while they sat quietly, like they'd become suicidal, wanting him to kill them. The woman kept mumbling about sparing their daughter or not letting her see their dead
bodies, thinking ahead, like it would matter to them after they were gone. He didn't like this part, when they chattered and tried to bargain. Only a few people he'd killed had stoically accepted their fate, looking off, silent and grim, knowing words wouldn't reach his ears or penetrate his mind. At this point he was a robot, not a human, arranging lifeless mannequins.
He taped the woman's mouth shut, the only thing that would cut off her patter, expedient not cruel – she'd earned it.
“Why am I here?” he asked the man, who pursed his lips, like a kid caught at school, unwilling to turn in his friends, being the noble one, taking the heat for them. “Speak,” he belted him on the face with a little tool he'd developed over the years. It was a leather strip with a row of sharp metal points that barely stuck up out of the leather's smooth surface, no wider than a belt. It made an instant rash of fine parallel lines, not much at first, but applied over and over, as he did now, one slashing strike after each question, unanswered... slash, once again... slash. In two minutes the side of his cheek was almost gone, reduced to thin, hanging shreds peeled off by his precise slaps with the leather whip, all the same speed, working up and down in the same three inch space, never off more than a millimeter – a bloody racing stripe that slanted down his cheek. It always shocked, stung then agonized with so little effort. Sometimes a quick look in the mirror finished off their resistance, seeing their face falling to pieces, a living zombie.
“Stop, stop, they...” his captive started talking, then the back door opened. Vladimir lifted his gun, pausing the torture for a moment, then he quickly popped both of them in the forehead. If this was the vaunted FBI he didn't want to have his work interrupted, unfinished. He had his perfect record to consider – mythic, unstoppable death, a living golem, mud animated and given a purpose.
A girl walked in, annoyed she'd been told to come home, then her mouth fell open. Using her shocked response, he rushed her while her eyes were locked on her parents – tied up, dead and not coming back. She'd come home from a friend's house after her father had called, stalking back angrily, wearing her school pack on her back, stuffed with a change of clothes so she could spend the night, what she did several days a week. Vladimir threw her to the floor the moment she came through the door. She looked up to see her parents' dead eyes staring at her, both of them tied to chairs from the dining room, hands and feet lashed so tight they'd swollen up, a sickly pale blue. A small hole in each forehead with a light trickle of blood down to their eyebrows showed how they'd died, one .22 bullet for each one, a touch that satisfied their killer's sense of minimalism and efficiency.
Vladimir gathered her up, carrying her away from the back door he kicked shut, his mind racing. She was beautiful, but sadly, part of his lethal target package, but he could deal with that later. His sole, almost human side was alive and surging with energy, enthralling him as a new plan emerged, one he knew would be impossible to stop. Her vitality made his only fantasy blossom into reality. This young girl was far prettier than her school picture and somehow like his very first one from so long ago – the one who had crystallized inside his heart and soul – captured then frozen into perfection.
He felt his vision animate his lifeless fingers, becoming tendrils, able to feel through his thin leather gloves. It was a very rare, magic moment. He was alive – all over, once again!
She got away, breaking free to run for the front of the house, only to slip as she ran past her parents who stared off, empty eyed, unable to witness her terror. Catching her hand he twisted her arm behind her small body, dragging her into the living room. Using light weight cords ripped off the Venetian blinds he quickly tied her hands and feet, pulling the knots tight before he released her squirming body on the carpet. He wanted to look at her, survey his catch. Standing back he felt his manhood swelling. This was going to be the one, a majestic moment he'd make last and last. All night? Perhaps, then she'd get her bullet, but there were hours before the dawn that would force him to retreat and flee, disappear in the wind as he always did.
He produced a special Japanese knife with a special hooked tip. It was as expensive as a small import car, the only kind of luxury that mattered to him, something he could use to kill or, as he did now, carefully slice off the girl's clothes, pulling them away from her skin to work the tip inside, piece by piece until he finished, removing her panties after slitting them down each narrow hip, leaving her naked and bound.
Stunning!
His ears were pounding from his heart banging in his chest. It had been so long since he felt – anything – and now this. A different, very alive and sensual Vladimir emerged. This new man looked around, unlike the previous, stalking, deadly Vladimir – he'd become visible and almost human.
His world changed, making her parents' nearby dead bodies disgusting. They gave off a sewer stench – their bowels had released into their underwear, seeping into the hardwood seats of the heavy oak chairs, soiling their clothes. The floor around them was covered in an expanding pool of blood. Their quick deaths had spared them a short, savage torture, what Vladimir would have done to find out more, still not sure why they'd been targeted for death. It was a part of his code, the logical workings of his cold empty mind that was supremely rational and nothing else, barely human with not a shred of compassion or empathy. He substituted knowing for caring.
These two lifeless bodies sullied the regal aura of his nude princess. Ignoring her struggles, he carried her lovingly in his arms as she wiggled and whined, trying to escape his weirdly affectionate embrace, treating her like a precious bundle in his arms. He walked out in a straight line, never deviating more than a hair off his track to the back door, then a hard right in a beeline along the side of the house, with a final sharp turn taking him to where his truck was waiting.
He laid her out on the floorboard in front the back seat of the crewcab pickup he'd parked in front of the garage. The empty space of the two car garage was another aspect of American culture he was appalled by. Everyone signed on to this abomination, wasting so much living space for what, storage for vehicles built to endure decades of weather and sun? He and his small family could have lived like a king in that giant space when he grew up in the harsh winters and rainy summers of his home country. Their state issued apartment covered far less than a hundred square meters, half the size of the garage, for three adults – his parents and his babushka or grandmother – with two kids, him and his vile sister, a whiny, spoiled rat.
Firing up the pickup, then backing out, he stopped, courteously, for a car that drove by, the driver waving in thanks which Vladimir acknowledged with a familiar nod. As he waited for them to pass the question of why he'd been tasked with killing this family came to mind. Her parents hadn't had time to explain so he was still very curious about their death sentence. Why had he been paid so much to stalk and kill these two people and their young daughter? Needing to know why, sometimes, was his only defect, as a contract killer. But this rare diversion – a daughter who could play into his special erotic fantasy was another – otherwise he functioned as efficiently as a machine every second of the day, on the job or off.
Their house was fresh and so new it had smelled of paint and the sap of the drying lumber it was framed with. It's size and cost didn't match up to the shoddy clothes and worn appearance of the two adults and wispy daughter. A sudden scrapper, she'd tried to bite his face when he caught her. Startled, he'd lost control then watched her run away to slip in the blood from her dead father, still tied to a chair, making it easy to catch her again. Fighting back, her useless, frantic attack amused him because it was so futile, playful to his mind, taking him back to his childhood. He tied her hands and feet then gagged her with a hand towel stuffed in her yowling mouth when she wouldn't stop screeching, taking care not to hurt her tender lips.
Little bitch was worse than his sister that first time, when he'd wildly torn his young, seven year old sibling's clothes off during a rough wrestling bout, for no particular reason. It had occurre
d shortly after puberty had aroused new feelings inside him, probably the reason he'd done it, letting a new, unconscious drive take over. This chance scuffle with her had changed him inside, driving him to find a way he could enjoy her soft pink baby body once more. Forced to undress then submit to being tied up, she'd quickly learned, at age eight, to shut up and stand there for him, letting him admire her nudity, looking not touching, before he let her go – a new, secret game for both of them, but not one she liked as much as him.
It had been enough, staring at her bare, mysterious form – the other sex, doubly forbidden and taboo because it was his little sister. Vladimir was too sensitive and screwed up inside to do anything more than look and sniff at his prize. His burgeoning, prolific intellect made him extremely sensitive and he couldn't build up the courage to actually touch her, much less fondle her body or genitals. The vivid image of her soft, smooth body had etched itself in his mind – an ideal, pure, gut wrenchingly intense erotic fantasy he dreamed of long after they finished playing their solitary game for the day.
This young girl offered the opportunity to refresh his most cherished memory with her naked body. She was close enough to the age of his sister bad been when they'd started their wicked game. That's why he'd let this girl live. Honest with himself, he knew this was his only weakness, a perverse, hidden curiosity he now felt fully emerge to take over as he stared at her helpless, bound body on the floor in her house, before he cut her clothes off. She reminded him how his sister had stood, naked with her hands tied in front, symbolizing her submission, his power over her. The two images had merged – his sister's memory renewed by the naked girl after he'd gently stripped her completely to lay on the floor wiggling and kicking, a few feet from her dead parents. Realizing he'd been daydreaming, he looked back, over his seat, to check on her. She stared off like her parents had, the same strange acceptance of her fate had taken over. Good.
Hell To Pay Page 6
