The Assassin's Prayer

by Mark Allen

  Kain eyed the MP5/10 and the distance that separated him from it. He wanted that gun. He needed that gun. There was still another hitter out there, closing in fast, and the MP5/10 might mean the difference between breathing oxygen and sucking dirt. It was only about ten feet to the gun. A relatively short gap, but in order to cross it Kain would have to briefly expose himself to the second hitter.

  No time for hesitation. His chances of survival slimmed with each second he wasted.

  He gathered his legs under him and lunged into the open, his adrenalized muscles hurling him across the ugly linoleum like a human cannonball. Bullets plucked at his clothes but missed his skin; he was moving too fast to make an easy target. He snatched up the MP5/10 as momentum carried him through a full roll. He rose up on his knees, facing the shattered patio doors, just as the second gunner stormed into the room. Both men fired simultaneously.

  The gunner had expected Kain to rise to his feet, not his knees, so he fired too high. Kain heard the hum of bullets zipping over his head followed by the thwack-thwack-thwack sound of those same bullets burying themselves in the wall behind him.

  Kain aimed lower. Much lower. The 10mm salvo chopped into the target’s shins and then tracked upward, blowing apart his thighs. The thick bones ruptured like hammered ice. He toppled onto his back, the air exploding from his lungs in a whoosh as he hit the floor.

  Kain scrambled over and kicked the gun out of the hitter’s hands. He thought he heard the man’s wrist snap in the process but wasn’t sure. He didn’t care either. This son of a bitch had tried to kill him.

  The gunner tried to sit up. “Stay down,” Kain growled, pinning the guy’s throat beneath his boot with enough force to keep him prone but not hard enough to crush his larynx. He didn’t want the man dead … yet. Not until he had a chance to have a little chat.

  Kain fixed his cold gaze on the man. He didn’t recognize the guy, but that didn’t mean anything. He touched the hot barrel of the H&K to the tip of the man’s nose. “Answer my questions,” Kain said, “and you’ll live. Refuse and I’ll kill you. Simple as that. You’re a professional, so I’m sure you understand that if you make me put you down, I’ll put you down hard. So save yourself the pain, do us both a favor, and talk to me.”

  It was a good speech, but it didn’t work. The gunner kept his mouth closed so tight you would have thought his jaw was wired shut. He stared up at Kain with flat, emotionless eyes that revealed nothing. In fact, those eyes were barely even registering pain.

  Maybe this guy was Black Talon. Kain had heard rumors that Talon underwent extreme pain-tolerance training. But c’mon, the guy’s legs were nothing but hamburger. He had to be feeling something.

  “Are you Company?” Kain asked.

  The gunner didn’t reply. Or twitch. Or even blink. He just laid there and leaked red all over the black and green linoleum.

  Kain lifted the MP5/10’s muzzle off the gunman’s nose, pressed it against the spot where the man’s left arm hinged to his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. Apparently the man’s pain-tolerance techniques did not extend to having his arm nearly amputated by a half-dozen bullets—he howled in agony.

  Kain ignored the howling. During his years with the Company, he had encountered other operatives who cultivated a taste for torture, who got their rocks off by inflicting prolonged pain upon others, but they had been the demented, the deranged, the sadists and psychopaths. Invariably, the Company put them down like the diseased dogs they were. For Kain, torture was just one more tool in the toolbox. He neither loved it nor loathed it, but understood that sometimes the rules of the game called for torture as a means of harvesting information. Sure, drugs were better, the information they extracted more reliable—a man being tortured will sell his own mother down the river to stop the pain, making the information gleaned suspect—but Kain didn’t have any sodium thiopental sitting in his medicine cabinet, so he would just have to keep pumping bullets into various parts of the gunner’s body until he broke.

  “Silence gets you nothing but more pain,” Kain said. He moved the MP5/10 over to the gunman’s other shoulder. “So I’ll ask again—are you Company?”

  The man managed to stop howling, but huge drops of sweat dappled his forehead and rolled down his face. Through agony-clenched teeth he hissed, “They’ll kill me if I talk.”

  “I’ll kill you if you don’t and I’m right here, right now. Worry about me. Now, one last time—are you Company?”

  “Yes.”

  “Talon?”

  “Trying.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Kain asked.

  “I’m in the program,” the man replied. “Last phase. You were my final field test. They sent me to take you out and if I succeeded, I would be part of the Black Talon team.”

  Kain couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re telling me this hit was nothing more than a training exercise?”

  “Basically, yeah.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Macklin.”

  Kain felt the past clawing at his mind. He had known this day would come. The Company was not in the habit of letting their top-tier assassins just walk away as Kain had done. The only real surprise was how long it had taken them to send a team after him. He had expected to be targeted for extermination years ago. Wasn’t like he had been hiding out or on the run—there was no point. He knew better than most that if the Company wanted to find you, then you would be found, whether you were living as a monk in some Mongolian monastery or simply residing at your last known address. Kain had just gone on with life, learning to live with the itch between his shoulder blades, knowing full well the crosshairs would come eventually.

  “Macklin is going to kill you,” the crippled gunman said. His face was turning an unhealthy shade of white. Blood pumped from his shattered legs in a widening pool, probably from a bullet-pierced femoral. Add to that the severed arm and the man was living on borrowed time.

  Kain took his foot off the man’s neck. “Maybe,” he said. “But you’re going first.”

  The hitter lifted a hand, the only one that still worked, and rubbed his throat where Kain’s boot had pressed. He then lowered it back to his side and looked up at Kain. “We about done here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Make it quick, will you?”

  “Sure.” Kain put a triple-burst through the hitter’s face then called Silas’ cell. As it rang, he looked at the piles of dead meat polluting his kitchen and knew the gunner had been right—Macklin would come for him. Kain had killed two Black Talon protégés and Macklin would take that as both an insult and a challenge.

  According to the rumors, myths, legends, and bathroom wall graffiti, Black Talon was commanded by a man known only as Colonel Macklin. He wore a wicked ear-to-ear scar on his throat, compliments of the Colombian drug cartels. During a strike against one of their cocaine networks in Bogota, Macklin had been captured and brutally tortured. When the Colombians finally accepted the fact that they were up against a man who simply would not break, they had cut his throat and left him for dead.

  But somehow—by making a deal with the devil himself, some whispered—Macklin had survived the ghastly wound. But even though the blade did not kill him, it savaged his larynx, cursing Macklin to the life of a mute. According to the stories, Macklin now hunted in silence, backed by his ruthless Black Talon squad, seeking out those assassins who tried to leave or who the Company deemed expendable for whatever reasons. Lay down your guns without permission and eventually Macklin came looking for you. Basically, he was the Company’s boogeyman.

  Silas answered his phone on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

  “I need a cleanup.”

  “Why?”

  “I have two bodies leaking all over my linoleum.”

  “I’ve seen that linoleum. The blood is probably an improvement.”

  “Just get a cleaner over here already.”

  “Our cleaner is down in the city,” said Silas. “Be at lea
st three hours before I can get him to your place. Can you contain the situation for that long?”

  “It’s already contained,” Kain said. “I just need the mess cleaned up.”

  “Three hours then. If you’re not there, my man vanishes.”

  Three hours turned out to be an optimistic estimate, which left Kain with plenty of time to mull over this morning’s deadly events. He suffered no delusion that he had seen the last of Black Talon. Their reputation for relentlessness and results was well-earned. When the brass pointed at a target, Talon went to work, no questions asked, and didn’t stop until that target was deceased. Black bag stuff, off the books; Kain doubted even the President knew about the kill-squad. But any assassin who had ever worked for the Company knew that if you tried to walk away, Talon would eventually come calling. Damage control, the brass called it. Plugging potential leaks would be a more accurate description. Silence the slayers, kill the killers, murder the murderers … it was all part of the Company’s cover-your-ass syndrome.

  The cleaner arrived shortly after noon, accompanied by Silas. Kain bit back a surge of anger as Silas entered. How many times had Silas knocked on this very door and had Karen answer? How many times had she led him from this door to the bedroom? Kain had never asked her how long the affair had been going on, how many times she had slept with his best friend. As long as he didn’t know the answer, he could convince himself it had only happened once, and once was heartbreaking enough.

  Silas surveyed the damage in the kitchen and whistled. “They really did a number in here.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Kain said.

  Silas motioned to the cleaner. “I want your best work, Mr. X. Every single trace of what went down here erased. Got it?”

  Mr. X, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper crewcut, looked at Silas with weak eyes that watered so much you’d think he was wearing contact lenses soaked in lemon juice. “When I’m done, this place will be as pure as the Pope’s prick.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m relapsed Catholic and I’m not so sure the Pope’s prick doesn’t smell like little boys’ colons.”

  Mr. X blinked at him. “Blasphemer,” he muttered. Then he went to work.

  Kain watched Mr. X drag the corpse with the knife in its eye toward the bathroom as Silas leaned against the counter. “Don’t let his eyes fool you, Kain.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You didn’t have to. I know Mr. X has weak eyes, but trust me, he’s tough as nails, gets the job done, and keeps his mouth shut. You got a mess you want cleaned right, Mr. X is the best janitor there is.”

  Kain leaned down and plucked the dagger from the cadaver as the cleaner, grunting with exertion, hauled it by. He straightened up and gave Silas a droll look. “Mr. X?”

  Silas grinned. “What’s in a name, right? Can I help it if the guy’s read too many comic books?”

  Kain went to the sink and washed the knife as Mr. X disappeared into the bathroom with the body. What came next would be gruesome; Mr. X would douse the bodies with a flesh-dissolving acid. Dead men were easier to handle when they were nothing but bones.

  “Got any coffee?” Silas asked.

  “Instant.”

  “Mind making me a cup?”

  “Make it yourself. You’re used to helping yourself to whatever is in my house.”

  Silas had the decency to flinch, but then composed himself and snapped, “You’re the one who brings this stuff up every time we’re together, Kain, not me. Are you a masochist or something?”

  Kain rubbed his temples. “Just shut up, will you? You’re giving me a headache.”

  Mr. X reappeared to drag the second body into the bathroom.

  Silas rubbed a hand over the bristles on his cheeks as he studied the blood smear left by the corpse as it was dragged away. “Any idea who they were?”

  Maybe it was his imagination, but Kain thought he heard a wet sizzling noise coming from the direction of his bathroom. “Company,” he said, images of flesh sloughing off skeletons dancing in his head.

  Silas whistled. “Guess your past finally came back to bite you, eh, friend?”

  “I’m not your fucking friend.”

  “Think twice before you exile me, Kain. I mean, take a good look around you.” Silas gestured around the room, pointing out the bloodstains and bullet holes like a realtor showing off some new macabre interior design trend. Warzone chic. “The Company tried to ice you this morning. That’s serious business.” Sunlight streamed through the shattered glass doors and gleamed on Silas’ clean-shaven cranium. “Frank has a lot of friends, Kain. Powerful friends, allies in some very high places. I say the word, he makes some calls, and maybe all your problems disappear. Face it, Kain, you need all the help you can get right now.”

  Kain wanted another drink, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pour it down his throat or pour it all over Silas and then toss him a lit match. Didn’t matter anyway; the bullet-busted bottle of Jack Daniels had been the only alcohol in the house. “All I want from Frank is the money he owes me,” Kain said. “I’ll handle my past my way.”

  “Kain, listen to—”

  “This conversation is over.” Kain headed for his bedroom, passing by the bathroom as he did so. He could hear Mr. X working in there and the smell wafting out was about as pleasant as having your nose rubbed in a dead skunk’s rectal cavity. Time to get out of here. Hopefully by the time he returned the corpses would be history.

  In the bedroom, he donned a shoulder rig that housed the Colt .45 in an easy cross-draw position, slid the dagger back into its boot sheath, then shrugged on the black duster.

  When he stepped back into the kitchen, Silas asked, “Where the hell are you going?”

  “Shopping.”

  CHAPTER 5

  You could apply any number of derogatory adjectives to the back parking lot of the Trinity Mall, but deserted was the one that best suited and it was the one that came to Kain’s mind as he parked the Cherokee near the entrance of Paul’s Guns & Sporting Goods. An autumn breeze scuttled dead leaves across the asphalt and they had to drift quite a ways before finding a set of car tires to rest against. He glanced at the dashboard clock. 1:21 P.M. The lunch break shoppers had come and gone and it was too early for the evening rush.

  As Kain entered the gun shop, he saw that he was not the only customer. A woman with thick, silken blond hair cascading down to her shoulders stood at the pistol counter that ran along the left side of the store. Kain could only see the back of her head, but he was betting she was a looker. God wouldn’t waste gorgeous hair like that on an ugly face.

  A short, thin man wearing Coke bottle glasses that made his eyes look huge stood behind the chrome-and-glass counter, assisting the woman. Having never been to this particular shop, Kain presumed this was Paul. The guy looked more like a hellfire-and-brimstone Bible-thumper than a gun dealer. He glanced up as Kain walked in. “Be with you in a few,” he called out. “Feel free to look around.

  Kain nodded and then wandered the aisles, savoring the familiar scents of gunpowder and cleaning solvents as he approached the racks of rifles and surveyed the selection. Paul had an impressive stock, everything from single-shot .22s to .12-gauge shotguns to 7mm-.08 hunting rifles to .50 caliber muzzle loaders. Mounted deer heads watched him with cold marble eyes from their vaulted positions on the beige-colored walls.

  Kain picked up a Mossberg .12-gauge pump-action shotgun. A fine weapon for sporting and home defense, but not quite the type of combat weapon Kain needed to replace the SPAS-12 that had been destroyed by the hitters currently enjoying an acid bath in his shower. Still, the Mossberg was a quality piece, its lines sleek and smooth with the lethal grace so inherent in firearms and Kain took the time to enjoy the feel of it in his hands. He heard Paul talking to the blond-haired woman but it was just background noise, no more intrusive than elevator music. He didn’t pay much attention to it. Not at first anyway.

  “Listen, ma’am,” Paul was saying
, “I’m not sure sellin’ you a pistol is such a hot idea, and that’s the pure and simple truth.”

  “Why not?”

  That got Kain’s attention. His head jerked up at the sound of the woman’s voice as memories rushed in from the recesses of his mind. He hadn’t heard that voice in over five years. Could it really be her? He still could only see the back of her head. “Larissa?” he said softly.

  Her shoulders stiffened, almost as if she expected the sound of her name to be followed by a bullet in the back. Then she slowly turned around and Kain saw the shocked look on her face. “Travis? Is that really you?”

  Kain put the Mossberg back on the rack and walked toward her. To his surprise, his heart was hammering. He and Larissa Peterson had been lovers before they each found someone else. He had gone on to marry Karen and Larissa had married Todd Auburn, another Company operative. While he never became friends with Todd, Kain had respected the man and been happy to see Larissa end up with him.

  Kain studied her as he drew closer. She wore sunglasses so he couldn’t see her eyes and there was a nasty scar on her left temple that had not been there the last time Kain had seen her, but otherwise she looked exactly like she had when they had been together. If only he could say the same; he was all too aware that years of hunting men for a living had left its mark on him. There were lines etched on his face and a haunted look in his eyes that had not been there the last time she saw him.

  “Travis?” she said again.

  “Yes, it’s me,” he said, emerging from the aisle of rifles. Her hands were stretched toward him in welcome and he reached for them.

  A snarling mass of black and tan fur lunged at him. Kain jerked his hand back before the German Shepherd could tear it off at the wrist. He had not seen the dog when he first entered the store due to the configuration of the aisles; it must have been lying at Larissa’s feet. As the Shepherd’s teeth snapped shut, Kain nearly drew his Colt and gave the dog a .45 caliber reprimand. But then he saw that the animal was wearing a guide harness. A seeing-eye dog. But—