The Assassin's Prayer

by Mark Allen

  Outside in the parking lot, Kain paused, letting his brain pick, poke, and prod at the problem he now faced. He had survived his rumble with Robbins, but killing the merc had also killed his chance to find out where Frank’s hijacked guns were holed up. There was no question he could have forced Robbins to spill his secrets. Crank a couple bullets into the kneecaps, maybe blast one into the balls, and the mercenary would have been begging for mercy. But that was no longer an option.

  Kain walked across the parking lot to Robbins’ Blazer and peered inside. Stuck to the windshield by a suction cup mount was a GPS. Could he be that lucky?

  He tried the door, but it was locked. The keys were no doubt on Robbins’ corpse, but Kain didn’t have time to retrieve them. Instead, he smashed open the driver’s side window with the butt of his gun. Messier than a key, but just as effective. He reached in and plucked the GPS from its holder.

  He didn’t waste time studying it right there, but instead hopped into the Jeep Cherokee and high-tailed it back toward the city. He stopped at the next rest area and used the GPS’s touchscreen to access the information he was looking for. Before his violent demise in the dirty stall of a remote public bathroom, one of the best operatives in the guns-for-hire market had programmed in his destination, an address in the downtown slums of Albany.

  Kain was betting that’s where the guns were.

  ******

  It was mid-afternoon by the time Kain got back to the Giadello estate. The return trip had seemed longer than it actually was because he could not stop thinking about how wretched Robbins had looked lying on the floor, head sheared in half, blood splattered everywhere. It was a tough way to check out and Kain found himself strangely shaken by the whole brutal business. It just cut so close to home.

  Robbins had been just like him, a professional, a modern day gunslinger, and Kain couldn’t shake the chilling sensation that he had looked into the mirror of his own fate. It was as if the giant hand of the god of war had reached down, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and rubbed his weary face in his own sickening future. See that? That’s how your life is going to end. Someday you’ll be on the wrong end of a gun and it will all be over.

  It was a disturbing thought, one that made for a long drive back.

  ******

  Frank was no longer lounging poolside when Kain returned. Andy, nauseatingly fresh-faced and eager-to-please, escorted Kain to the office where Frank was shooting a game of billiards with Silas. Kain heard the sharp crack of balls smacking into one another as he walked in, followed by a muffled thump as one dropped into a pocket. Other balls caromed off the cushions. Looked like Frank had just broken a fresh rack.

  The crime boss studied the lay of the table for a few moments, then glanced over at Kain. “Is it done?”

  “Yeah, it’s done.”

  Frank chalked up his cue stick. “Did you get the information?”

  Kain leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Best I can tell, Robbins rented a little rat hole in Albany for him and his team. Some place called Arbor Apartments. I pulled the address off his GPS. I’m betting the rest of Robbins’ team is there, sitting on your guns.”

  Frank lined up a shot and smoothly stroked the cue stick, driving the cue ball across the green felt. The target ball slid down the cushion and plunked into the corner pocket. Frank reached for the chalk again. “Take some of the boys,” he said, “and go get my guns. And be sure to make an example out of Robbins’ men so that Rene Perelli will know she can’t mess with me and get away with it. She needs to realize that every move she makes against me will have serious consequences. Understand?”

  “Yeah,” Kain said, “I understand. But you’re forgetting something.”

  “Such as?”

  “Compensation. You’ve barked a lot of orders since last night and I’ve complied, but now seems like a good time to remind you that I’m not one of your boys. I’m a freelance contractor and I expect ten grand per kill. Now, most mercenary teams consist of five men. Sometimes less, sometimes more, but five is the average. Since I already took out Robbins and the sniper, I expect—”

  “You killed the sniper?” Frank interrupted.

  “Forty-five caliber lobotomy. Which means we should expect there to be at least three more mercs at the apartment.”

  Frank smiled. “I thought this might come up.” He leaned his cue stick against the table, went to his desk, and took a thick envelope from the drawer. He walked back over and tossed it on the pool table. It landed next to the eight-ball. “There’s fifty grand there; ten for Robbins, ten for the sniper, and thirty for the rest of ‘em.”

  Kain walked over and picked up the envelope. It was heavy, stuffed with hundred dollar bills. He counted out ten thousand and laid it down on the table before pocketing the rest. “I don’t want any money for Robbins,” he said as something dark twisted through him. “That one’s on the house.” He saw Frank looking at him quizzically, but didn’t explain any further. Didn’t know if he could even if he wanted to.

  He turned and left the room.

  CHAPTER 9

  What a dump, was Kain’s first thought as Andy found a parking spot across the street from Arbor Apartments. The four-story building had definitely seen better days. At least half the windows had been shattered. Kain wondered what had shattered them, rocks or bullets. In this part of town, could have been either.

  Kain felt the cargo van settle as Andy shifted into park and killed the engine. In the passenger seat, Silas turned and looked at Kain, who was sitting directly behind Andy. “So what’s the plan?”

  “Just sit tight for a few,” Kain said. “I want to get a feel for the place before we go in.” He knew it was possible that the merc team had gotten nervous and jack-rabbited for parts unknown when Robbins failed to return. They were pros, and pros possessed that sixth sense that warns them a deal has gone south and it’s time to vacate the vicinity.

  As Kain studied the street, Pierre and Jean-Luc fidgeted in the seats next to him like ADHD-afflicted toddlers. The two brothers hated sitting still, especially when there was a job to be done. Kain knew he would have to keep a close eye on Pierre. The man’s eyes were bright with bloodlust and Kain had no intention of letting him go on a rampage. If the psychotic SOB wanted to go kill-crazy, he could do it on his own time.

  It was 8:30 at night, but not even the darkness could hide the reeking desolation and desperation of Arbor Apartments. Under harsh streetlights, the grass grew high enough to hide a Buick and weeds rioted in the crumbling foundation. This was not a neighborhood; this was a wasteland of fast food wrappers, old newspapers, and empty beer bottles, a diorama of dereliction strewn with the detritus of lives gone sour. Whores, crack-heads, gangbangers … these were the human waste that called this sewer of suffering home. As if to reinforce the point, a pack of youths—a motley crew of blacks, Hispanics, and white boys, not one of them over sixteen—perched on the fissured concrete steps leading up to the entrance of the building, a boom box blaring rap music at ear-bleed decibels. The bass-heavy beats slapped at the van with sonic backhands.

  Kain turned away from the window and looked at his team, a term he used loosely. Between Andy the rookie and Pierre the psycho, Kain felt like a damn babysitter. Maybe he should have packed formula and diaper rash ointment instead of bullets and extra mags.

  “All right, listen up,” he said. “The target is apartment 4D. We go in hard but use suppressors to minimize the noise. Andy, once we’re inside, you stay in the hall and cover our backs.”

  Andy looked disappointed. “Come on, Kain, I want to—”

  “I don’t care what you want,” Kain snapped. “Just shut up and do what you’re told. Got it?”

  “Yeah.” Andy pouted sullenly. “I got it.”

  Kain reached for the door handle. “Let’s go.”

  Outside the vehicle, the rap music was nearly overpowering. Kain yearned to put a bullet through the boom box and end the ear-raping misery. But he refrained fro
m drawing his gun as he led his team across the street, watched with hostile eyes by the gang. As he started up the steps, the youths closed ranks, standing shoulder to shoulder all the way across, forming a solid wall of human, hoodie-wearing flesh.

  Kain knew whichever one of them spoke first would be the leader. He was guessing it was the tallest guy in the middle of the human wall. Black, with a shaved head, mirrored shades, and gold chains around his neck that looked fake even to Kain’s inexpert eye. What didn’t look fake was the black matte butt of the Smith & Wesson .357 jutting out of the front of his baggy jeans. Stupid place to carry a pistol, unless you wanted to accidentally blow your balls off.

  “Who da fuck you be?” Tall Guy asked. He didn’t look a day older than fifteen, but the tone of his voice was surprisingly mature, despite his gutter vocabulary. “And what da ‘ell you be lookin’ at?”

  “Doesn’t matter who I am.” Kain raised his voice to be heard over the music. “And what I’m looking at is the guy keeping me from going where I want to go. So how do you want to play this? Should we whip out our dicks, see whose is bigger? Or maybe you’d prefer we go to guns right here in the street.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “Or maybe we can be civilized about this and you can just tell me what I need to do to get inside.”

  Kain couldn’t see Tall Guy’s eyes behind the reflective shades, but he sensed he was being sized up. Tall Guy apparently took his measure and then a gold-capped grin suddenly sprouted on the gangster’s face. “You’s got balls, white boy. Gots ta give ya cred fo’ dat. Question is, do ya gots two g’s?”

  “Maybe,” Kain said. “What’s it buy me?”

  The smile broadened. Tall Guy was clearly enjoying the game, looking to all the world like a cat playing with a mouse, completely unaware that he was really a mouse pestering a very dangerous cat. “For two g’s, I won’t turn this music down.”

  “That music sucks, so why wouldn’t I want you to turn it down?”

  “’Cause if I turn it down, the boys you come to kill in apartment 4D will know you be here to smoke ‘em.”

  Silas spoke up. “So they paid you to keep an eye out for us. If you turn down the music, it’s the signal that we’re here.”

  “Bingo, boy-o.”

  “Pretty slick,” Kain said. “How much they pay you?”

  “One thousand.”

  “And if I give you two?”

  “Two g’s on top of one g would be cause for great celebration, and everyone know dat celebrations require lotsa loud tunes.”

  “Your crew helps load the cargo we came for and you’ve got a deal.”

  “Screw dat noise. Just ‘cause I’m a niggah don’t mean I’m yo’ slave.”

  “Slaves worked for free. I’m offering you two grand.”

  “Good point.” Tall Guy pondered it for a second, then said, “Okay, pass me da bread and we gots a deal.”

  Kain nodded. “Silas, pay the man.” He could have paid the guy himself, but he was pretty sure if he pulled out an envelope stuffed with $40,000, the gangbangers would no longer be satisfied with a paltry $2,000.

  Sure enough, when Silas pulled a roll of cash out of his pocket, Tall Guy asked, “How much you’s got dere?”

  Silas was smart enough to know there was no point in lying. “Five grand.”

  Tall Guy held out his hand. His shiny smile never wavered. “Give it to me.”

  Silas looked at Kain, who gave him a slight nod. Now was not the time to quibble over a sudden price hike. Besides, it was Silas’ money and Kain didn’t care if the prick died a penniless pauper.

  As Tall Guy pocketed the payoff, Kain asked, “We’re good?” It was phrased in the form of a question, but he put a hard edge on his tone to make it clear that it was really a statement.

  Tall Guy signaled his street soldiers to step aside and then waved Kain and his team up the stairs with a flourish. “Good to go, my brutha. Enjoy your killing game. We’ll be right here, crankin’ up da soundtrack to da apocalypse.”

  “You’re a regular Samaritan,” Kain said as he led his team up the rundown stairs to the front entrance of the apartment building. The music blasted unabated at their backs.

  The heavy wood door bore the scars of the ghetto, graffiti scrawled across nearly every inch of space. Nothing unusual, just the typical vulgarities and insults. “F.U.” and “Eat My Dick” seemed pretty popular, and apparently some girl dubbed “Betty Big Boobs” was available for a good time if you called 555-796-BLOW.

  Given the neighborhood, Kain expected the door to be locked, but it opened easily when he turned the handle. Inside was a sparsely-furnished lobby containing a couple of battered chairs, a coffee table that was even more battered than the chairs, and a few dying plants, the leaves brown, brittle, and buried in dust. To the left was a staircase.

  Kain led the way up. The stairway was filthy and stank of rotting garbage, urine, and stale sweat. Kain tried to hold his breath. He had to give it to Rene Perelli—she had picked a hell of a place to hide the guns. If Robbins’ GPS hadn’t yielded up the address, they never would have been able to locate the hijacked shipment.

  Kain allowed himself to breathe again when they reached the fourth floor and stepped out into the hallway. The air here wasn’t exactly fresh, but it was heaven compared to the sickening stench of the stairway. “Everyone make sure you’re locked and loaded,” he said. He knew they were, but he had not lived this long by taking anything for granted. Assumption could mean you caught a bullet in your ass. So instead of trusting his fate to assumption, he checked his gun and waited while the others checked theirs. Only when he was satisfied that all magazines were properly seated and all chambers stuffed with a round did he give the order. “Let’s get this done.”

  He led the way down the hall. Apartment 4D was the first one on the right, the number-letter combination barely readable through the grime and graffiti covering the door. He stopped in front of it.

  “Should we knock?” Jean-Luc asked with a grin, keeping his voice low.

  “Absolutely.” Kain fired a powerful kick just below the knob. Wood splintered and the door flew open. They stormed into a squalid room that reeked of cigarettes, booze, and unwashed bodies.

  The three mercenaries sat on the couch watching a rabbit-eared black and white TV with the classic exploding arrow scene from Rambo II playing on the screen. At the sudden intrusion, the three men leapt up and grabbed for their guns. They were pros and they were fast, but not fast enough. Kain killed the first one with a .45 slug to the center of the chest. He saw a second one pitch sideways, his heart holed by a bullet from Silas’ gun ripping through his ribcage.

  The last merc almost made it to his Uzi lying on the coffee table in front of him, but before he could actually pick up the weapon, Kain pumped a round through his palm. The mercenary flopped back against the sofa, clutching his mangled hand, jaw clenched in pain.

  Kain pointed the Colt at the sweet spot just above the merc’s upper lip. “What’s your name?”

  The mercenary glowered at him, but answered. “Rodriguez.”

  On his peripheral, Kain saw Pierre prowling restlessly around the room, kicking aside the takeout containers and food scraps littering the floor. Several roaches that looked big enough to give Godzilla a run for his money crawled out of a pizza box and scuttled out of sight beneath the TV stand.

  “What do you cabrons want?” Rodriguez’ voice, like his facial features, was decidedly Hispanic. “Who the hell are you?”

  Kain shifted the Colt slightly and fired once, the sound muffled by the suppressor.

  Rodriguez’ good hand flew up to cover his bullet-split ear. Blood oozed between his fingers.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” Kain said. “I ask the questions, not you.” He stepped forward and rested one boot on the coffee table. He leaned his right forearm on his raised knee, keeping the .45 aimed at the soldier of fortune whose fortune currently seemed to have gone belly up. “Now,” Kain continued, “tell m
e where the guns are.”

  “How about I tell you to go hump a dead mule instead?”

  The shot came out of nowhere, so unexpected that Kain thought he had accidentally pulled the trigger. Rodriguez’ head snapped back as a bullet blew his brains out onto the wall behind him. Kain spun around and saw smoke curling from the muzzle of Pierre’s Glock. He was instantly enraged. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Pierre slid the Glock into a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. “I was tired of you having all the fun,” he said. “Besides, the guns are in the back bedroom. I already checked.”

  “You psychotic piece of shit.” Kain walked over until he and Pierre were just inches apart. The .45 was still in his fist, tempting him to blow the cool, calm, collected look off Pierre’s face and do the world a favor. “You ever pull something like that again, I’ll put two in your guts and then crack a beer while I watch you die. You got that?”

  Pierre’s expression never changed. “Sure,” he said. “Sorry, Kain.” He didn’t look sorry one bit.

  Kain turned away in disgust and looked at Silas and Jean-Luc. “Someone go tell those street rats to get these guns loaded.”

  “I’ll do it.” Jean Luc exited the room.

  “Speaking of those street rats,” Silas said, “what are you planning to do about them?”

  “What do you mean?” Kain asked.

  “They’re witnesses.”

  “They’re kids.”

  “They’re gangbangers.”

  “They’re still kids,” Kain snapped. “We are not going to gun down a bunch of kids.”

  “Your call.”

  “Damn straight it is.”

  They left the corpses lying in the filth of the apartment, food for the cockroaches, and rejoined Andy out in the hall. Kain could taste blood and cordite in his mouth. Made him wish for a shot of whisky to wash it away. “Any problems?” he asked Andy.

  “No,” Andy replied. “Well, nothing to be worried about anyway.”

  “That’s for me to judge,” Kain said. “What happened?”