The Assassin's Prayer

by Mark Allen

Numb with grief and stricken with terror, Larissa didn’t even struggle, unaware of where Pierre was dragging her until he flung her onto the bed. She rolled onto her back, bedsprings creaking harshly, and horror pierced through her grief, bubbling up within her like black, ugly oil. Pierre not only intended to kill her, he intended to have some fun first. The thought was unbearable. Please God don’t let this happen to me! She began to kick and claw.

  Something hard and cold thudded against the bridge of her nose. “Hold still,” Pierre snapped.

  Larissa froze, realizing he had the gun to her head. “Please don’t do this to me,” she pleaded.

  “Shut up,” Pierre growled. “I didn’t come here to listen to you yap. Next time you open your mouth, I’m going to fill it with my dick.”

  Go ahead. I’ll bite it off and spit it in your face.

  Under the threat of the gun, Larissa didn’t struggle as Pierre bound her wrists and ankles to the bed posts with 550 paracord that bit deep into her flesh. It hurt so much she thought the bone itself must be bruising.

  Pierre tightened the final knot, then Larissa heard the whisper of steel on leather as he drew a knife from a sheath. Terror and shame burned through her as he cut away her clothes. She choked back a sob every time the blade grazed her skin, an icy kiss laced with wicked portent. She could hear Pierre chuckling softly, the sound of pure evil. She didn’t know how she was going to be able to stand what was about to happen to her.

  He touched her then, places he had no right to touch, places that had not been touched since Todd died. Her skin crawled and she could no longer stifle her sobs. She prayed for numbness, for a way to detach herself from reality until this hell was over, but it was useless. She felt his every touch, the slimy lick of his tongue, the rough groping of her body, the sour smell of his breath, the cheap scent of his cologne. She laid still and suffered, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  But when she felt his weight crush down on her, felt the tip of his rigid member start to force its way inside her, she could not hold back the horrific cry that escaped her lips. “No, please!”

  ******

  Kain arrived at the Arbor Apartments wondering if he was too late. The early morning traffic around Albany had been a snarled mess of congestion that had shaved precious minutes from the clock.

  The sun was just coming up as he walked down the rough, weed-sprouting sidewalks. The rays caromed off cracked concrete and crumbling bricks, bleaching the color from the urban scenery as Kain went into the apartment building.

  Silas was inside the lobby, leaning against the wall at the foot of the stairs. Pierre was nowhere in sight, presumably already upstairs taking care of business. “What are you doing here?” Silas demanded.

  Without breaking stride, Kain fired a right cross that Silas never saw coming. The blow caught him flush on the jaw, whipped his head around, and sent him slithering to the floor, out cold.

  Kain bounded up the stairs to the fourth floor and made his way to apartment 4C. He reached inside his duster and wrapped his fingers around the butt of his Colt .45 when he saw a blood-puddle seeping out from under the door. He felt something deep inside him recoil and wither. He was too late. The woman was dead.

  He drew the Colt with his right hand and nudged the door with his left. It opened at his touch, revealing torn hinges and a splintered jamb. The coppery scent of blood rushed out at him, the bitter taint biting into the back of his throat.

  But it wasn’t the woman’s blood like he had expected. He gazed down at the blown-open carcass of a German Shepherd. The glassy eyes seemed to stare up at him with a mute plea. Kain saw a glint of metal through the mess of blood. It was the dog’s tag and even through the gore, he could read the name.

  SIRIUS.

  Kain felt something dark and cold touch the edges of his heart. Then he heard the desperate cry from the back of the apartment.

  “No, please!”

  Kain rushed toward the sound of Larissa’s voice, tracing its echo into the bedroom. Emotions wrenched at him, screamed through his veins, ignited something deep within his soul, setting his blood on fire.

  The bedroom door was half-open. Through the gap he saw Larissa bound, naked, and spread-eagled. Pierre was positioned between her legs, on the brink of penetration. Kain felt all control snap. Rage sliced through him like a million hot razors, twisting his face into something feral. The very air swirled red before his eyes.

  He kicked open the door. Pierre hesitated in mid-thrust, head jerking toward the violent intrusion. “What the—” Then he saw the .45 in Kain’s fist. “Hold on, wait a second, man, you don’t want—”

  Kain cut loose with the Colt, the bullets ripping out Pierre’s throat. Whatever he’d been about to say vanished in a spray of scarlet froth. The impact hurled him off the bed and onto the floor. Blood spattered onto Larissa’s face and chest, the crimson shockingly bright on her pale skin.

  The sight further fanned the flames of rage burning in Kain’s heart, blinding him to all thoughts save that of vengeance. He walked over to where Pierre writhed and gurgled on the floor and emptied the clip point-blank into his skull until there was nothing left but pieces.

  When his murderous fury finally ebbed, Kain realized he was still pulling the trigger on an empty gun, his mind locked in a deadly rhythm of retribution. Shock rushed in to replace the rage. What the hell had happened to him? He looked down at Pierre’s savaged body and began to shake so badly that the .45 rattled in his hand. He stared at the corpse, at the shattered remnants of Pierre’s head, and wondered how he had lost control so badly. His killing had always been cold, methodical, dispassionate—he had controlled it, not vice-versa. But even as his mind asked why, his heart knew the answer. But it was an answer he did not want to face.

  As he slid the .45 back into its holster, Larissa said, “Who’s there?”

  The fear in her voice made Kain want to bring Pierre back from the dead just so he could kill him all over again. “It’s all right, Larissa,” he said. “It’s just me.”

  “Travis?”

  “Yeah.” Kain plucked the dagger from its boot sheath. The steel blade whispered against the leather and Larissa flinched. “Easy,” Kain said, doing his best to sound soothing. “I’m just going to cut you free.”

  Tears spilled from her eyes as Kain began slicing through the paracord binding her to the bed. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but that man, he ... he did things to me ... with a knife.” She broke down, her words dissolving into muffled sobs.

  Kain cut through the last cord and gathered her into his arms. She clung to him desperately, sobbing uncontrollably into the crook of his neck. He didn’t pull away. He just held her and let her cry.

  After a few minutes, Larissa lifted her head from his shoulder and brushed the tears from her face. “Sorry,” she said softly. “I just … you know …”

  “Yeah,” Kain said, “I know. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” The wetness in her unfocused eyes made them gleam like emeralds, but they were emeralds set in raw, red sockets. More raw redness glowed angrily on her ankles and wrists where the cords had scraped her skin. But these were simply surface wounds, easily healed. Kain wondered how deep her inner wounds ran, how long it would take for them to heal. Only time would tell.

  “We have to get out of here,” he said, letting her go and rising to his feet. “The people I work for want you dead.” He was having a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that just days after once again crossing paths with Larissa, he now found her living next door to his latest targets and marked for death by Frank Giadello, his client. The odds were astronomical. With that kind of luck, he should go buy a lottery ticket.

  Maybe it’s not luck, suggested some inner voice. Maybe it’s fate.

  He silenced the voice. No time for those kinds of thoughts right now. He needed to focus.

  He drew the .45. Extracted the spent magazine. Popped in a full clip and jacked the slide, injecting a round under the hammer.

&nb
sp; “Dead?” Larissa echoed. “Why?” Without waiting for an answer, she slid from the bed and groped toward the dresser.

  Kain knew he shouldn’t look, but his eyes were drawn to her like metal to a magnet. The sight of her naked body made him remember how long it had been since he had been with a woman. Not since Karen’s death. He felt a twist of pain, the memories like a nest of thorns in his heart. He watched Larissa dress, sleek muscles moving with unintentional sensuality under her silken skin, and remembered a time that seemed so long ago and yet like only yesterday.

  Larissa suddenly paused, one leg in her jeans, and looked at him with unseeing eyes. “Are you watching me?”

  Kain’s bittersweet memories fragmented and spun away. “No,” he said, his voice huskier than he had intended.

  Larissa remained still, head canted in his direction. Despite her blindness, Kain felt like she could see right into his thoughts. “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  Kain didn’t respond to that. Just said, “We have to go. Now.”

  Larissa faced him for another heartbeat and Kain saw the emotions in her blinded eyes. Then she turned away and continued dressing. She didn’t bother with a bra; just pulled a dark green t-shirt over her head. She retrieved her Firestar .40, tucked it into her waistband, and let the shirt fall over it. “Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”

  “Let’s get out of here.” But before they could go anywhere, Kain heard the creak of the front door being pushed open. He quickly thumbed back the hammer of the .45 and moved into position in the bedroom doorway where he was partly shielded but still had a clear view of the living room and front entrance. His finger tightened on the trigger, taking up the slack.

  The door swung open all the way, but there was nobody there. Kain waited, adrenalin thundering in his veins. He could hear the sound of Larissa’s breathing right behind him.

  Then Silas called to him from out in the hallway. “Kain? You in there? The hell is going on? You just about broke my jaw.”

  “I’ll put a bullet in it next time if that’s what it takes,” Kain said. “Stand down, Silas. One way or the other, we’re walking out of here.”

  “I can’t do that, Kain, and you know it. She’s a target.”

  A target. How many times have I used that term myself? Kain thought. Using the word “target” dehumanized the victim and made it easier to pull the trigger. But Larissa was not a target, she was someone Kain had once loved, and it would be a cold day in hell before he stood by and let her die. “She’s an innocent, Silas. You know that.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Silas sounded hard and grim. “Step aside, Kain. Don’t make me take you down. What’s she to you anyway?”

  Kain could sense Larissa close behind him, could smell the clean scent of her skin and feel the warm whisper of her breath on the back of his neck. He remembered their lunch date a few days ago, her confession that she had never stopped loving him. He couldn’t return that love, but at least he could keep her alive. His mouth twisted at the irony—he refused to love her, but he would kill for her. The thought begged further exploration but now was not the time or place. “She’s my friend,” Kain said. “But I guess that doesn’t mean anything to someone like you.”

  There was a moment of silence from Silas, then: “Go to hell, Kain. I can’t change the past. If you can’t forgive and forget, that’s on you. But none of that has anything to do with this. My orders are to eliminate the bitch and that’s what I intend to do. So either get out of the way or let’s get this dance over with.”

  And just like that, talking time was over.

  Kain knew it.

  Silas knew it.

  Kain tightened his grip on his gun.

  Bring it on, you bastard.

  Silas spun into view with fluid speed. One minute the doorway was empty, the next Silas was there, popping up like some pistol-packing jack-in-the-box. Kain dropped to one knee in a combat crouch as Silas blazed away with a Glock 17. Unsure of Kain’s exact location, Silas capped off rounds in a random spray-and-pray pattern. A lamp exploded. Holes appeared in the walls. Sheet-rock dust billowed into the air. A reproduction of The Last Supper fell to the floor, bullet holes drilled through the heads of Jesus, Judas, and other assorted apostles.

  Kain had a distinct advantage—he knew right where Silas was. He looked at his former friend over the open sights of the Colt and slammed back the trigger. Silas, realizing he had exposed himself for a split second too long, tried to duck back into the hallway. The .45 slug tore into the door jamb, shredded the wood, and hurled a hellstorm of needle-edged splinters into his face. Silas let out a horrible cry as one of those slivers drove straight into his left eye. Kain caught a quick glimpse of spurting blood and then Silas was out of sight. But Kain could still hear the wet and raw howls of a man in excruciating pain.

  And then … silence.

  Drops of Silas’ blood dripped down the splintered doorframe as Kain waited for Silas’ next move. It was so quiet Kain imagined he could actually hear the smoke as it curled from the barrel of his .45 in a blue-gray twist. A long minute of silence ticked by, as if the Reaper was holding his breath, waiting for the next burst of violence. There were no sounds from Silas.

  “Is he gone?” Larissa asked.

  “Not sure.” Gun ready, Kain crossed the living room to the wrecked doorway. Carefully, not wanting to get his head blown off if Silas was still out there, he looked out into the hall. A trail of blood droplets led to the stairs. Looked like Silas had fled to lick his wounds. Kain holstered his Colt and returned to Larissa as sirens wailed in the distance. “We have to get out of here,” he said.

  She slipped her hand into his. “All right, let’s go.”

  Kain led her toward the exit as the sirens grew louder. He figured they had three minutes, tops. He picked up the pace, pulling her along, then paused as she stumbled over Sirius. “Hold on,” she said, her voice soft and fragile as butterfly wings. She knelt beside the dead dog, stroking his fur with a familiarity that came from years of companionship. “I can’t just leave him like this.” Her voice was thick with emotion.

  Kain said, “We don’t have a choice. I’m sorry.”

  “I have to say goodbye.”

  The sirens were shrilling in his ear, but Kain simply nodded. Larissa had lost her best friend. Only the coldest of hearts would refuse her a final farewell.

  She leaned over and kissed the top of the dog’s head as she hugged his neck for the last time. “Goodbye, Sirius,” she whispered tearfully. “I’ll never forget you. Never.”

  The sirens were critically close. They were out of time. Kain touched her shoulder. “Larissa, I’m sorry, but…”

  She nodded, brushed the tears from her face, and stood up. As he led her away from the shattered remnants of her life, Kain knew that neither of their lives would ever be the same again.

  CHAPTER 12

  Kain steered the Grand Cherokee down I-87 as quickly as he dared without risking getting pulled over. A couple horns blared and a few middle fingers shot up but he ignored them. Right now all that mattered was putting some distance between himself and Larissa and the carnage back at her apartment.

  He took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at Larissa, silent as stone in the passenger seat next to him. She gripped the dashboard so tightly her knuckles were white. So was her face, all pale and ghostly. Maybe it was his driving, but Kain suspected she was in post-traumatic shock. The loss of Sirius, her attempted rape, the explosion of violence … it had all crashed down on her, leaving her shaken, dull, and lifeless, her blinded eyes void of their usual spark. Kain wanted to reach out and comfort her, but his heart rebelled. Besides, he needed both hands on the steering wheel.

  He kept the needle pinned at ten over the speed limit. He whipped around a slow-moving Volvo and then darted back into the fast lane, tires thrumming as they devoured the road. Larissa just slumped in her seatbelt like a rag doll.

  Kain felt a dark streak of anger run through him
. He wasn’t a religious man, but he did believe that God, in one form or another, existed, and right now Kain wanted to ask Him just how much crap He was going to shovel down on Larissa’s head. He wanted to look God dead in the eye and ask, How much is enough?

  In his anger, he punched the gas a little harder. The sudden acceleration pinned Larissa back in her seat. Her nails dug deeper into the dash but still she said nothing, maintaining her haunted silence.

  About twenty miles outside of Albany, the traffic thinned out and Kain soon had the fast lane to himself. He set the cruise control at a respectable, non-attention-grabbing speed. He kept his eye on the rearview mirror, but his mind turned to thoughts of Macklin and Black Talon. Their dawn strike at his apartment a few days ago had failed, but believing that was the end of the matter would be as foolish as trying to find a pot of leprechaun gold at the end of a rainbow. From all reports, Macklin was a ruthless machine who lived for the thrill of the hunt and the rush of the kill. He would just keep on coming, the Energizer Bunny of assassins.

  Kain knew there would be no peace until either he or Macklin was dead. The thought caused a crushing weariness to settle over him and sink deep into his bones. He was tired of killing but there was so much more of it to be done.

  “Where are we going?”

  The sound of Larissa’s voice pulled Kain out of his grim thoughts. He glanced at her. She didn’t look much better than she had the last time he looked at her, but at least she was talking. That was a good sign. “We’ll hole up at a hotel,” Kain said. Which hotel remained to be seen. He knew enough to avoid the big chain hotels that lined the major highways, but how far from home should they run? His instincts said not far at all. They were being hunted by multiple parties—not just Silas and the Giadellos, but Macklin and Black Talon as well—and Kain figured it was better to face a fight on familiar turf. By sticking to home ground rather than running, they might just gain an edge in a game in which every edge counted. Plus their hunters might not anticipate such a move.