Honorable Assassin

by Jason Lord Case

  “I assume, sir, we’re paying a visit to the widow Pierce?”

  “Your assumption is correct, but for her to be a widow, they would have needed to be married at the time of her husband’s demise.”

  “Fair enough, the ex-Mrs. Pierce. The question is, what makes her important enough today to get the Superintendent of the whole province to speak with her personally?”

  “It’s not so much that she is important, it is that she knows somebody I knew once. Remember, Sergeant, the same way assumptions will trip you up, coincidences, true coincidences are rare. What are the odds that Linda Pierce gets a job working for someone I knew 15 years ago?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. That’s a long time, and Orange is not that large a town.”

  Linda’s next message told of a pair of policemen, plainclothes officers, who were asking to speak to Terry about an accident in Sydney. Linda included the information that there was no policy number given and no claims had been filed out of Sydney for weeks. Linda knew cops, after all she had married one. She was certain that these were genuine. They had left a business card. Terry took down the information over the phone while his mouth hung open in shock. “Superintendent Theodore Barlow” must be an extremely old man by now. He was not young when he was an inspector.

  It may have been completely innocent, but Terry doubted that. For Theodore Barlow to visit his business in Orange the same day as four mob figures could not be a coincidence. Something had happened.

  “Understand me. This Terry Kingston has been seen in that immediate area within weeks of now. Regardless what the farmer said, Terry Kingston is there or has been there recently. I need you to go back to that farm after dark and find out where he is now. Use whatever means necessary and do not leave a witness. That is correct.”

  Adam Troy hung up the phone with one eye on the meter they used to check for wire taps. He turned to his brother and after a sip of brandy, Abel asked him to explain what it was that he had discovered.

  “All right, this begins quite a long time ago. I don’t think you ever met the Viper, did you?” Adam’s question was rhetorical. “Well he was quite good at what he did, and performed some useful functions for us. Of course, you remember Randy Arganmajc?”

  “What do the two have to do with each other?”

  “Arganmajc contracted the Viper to kill Felix Ribbaldi after Felix went south on us. Well, the Viper killed Felix for us and then for some reason it appears that Randy contracted two other men to kill the Viper. They accomplished this task. One of these men was a sociopath who kept the Viper’s wife bound in his cellar until he slipped up and she actually killed him. She beat him to death with a piece from his stove top. The other man was Bradley, I know you remember him. Well, he went back and eliminated her from the picture.”

  “Bradley died recently, didn’t he?”

  “Six or seven years ago.”

  “So where does this all go?”

  “The Viper’s real name was George Kingston.”

  “Kingston?”

  “Yes. The elimination of the woman was witnessed by two. Bradley was supposed to have taken care of these two, years ago. He told me he was going to do it and I never questioned as to whether he had or not. After all, there was no evidence linking them to us… Except Bradley.”

  “And he’s dead?”

  “Murdered. In his own home. He was retired. Hadn’t taken a job in years.”

  “And you think the man who witnessed her contract killed him?”

  “Yes, or the boy. I mentioned there were two witnesses. One of them was the Viper’s son.”

  “Aaahh. This was Terry then?”

  “Precisely. Terry Kingston, and if Henry is to be believed, he has been working within our organization for some time now as Thompson Barber. That is what I get for not following up on things. I trusted that Bradley would take care of the situation, and I think he did not. He let it slide until it jumped up and bit him. It has been biting us ever since.”

  Hercules did not bark at cars that did not pull in the driveway. If they were simply cruising past, they were ignored. This one was obviously coming in, and it had its lights off. The barking stopped abruptly. The shot was muffled but the dog’s yelp was unmistakable. Hercules had just performed his last labor.

  The four men approached the farm house with care. Looking down the barrel of a shotgun is a sobering position and none of them wanted to see if the man was ready to use it. Their prey had been described to them as a tall blond man. They were also told not to hesitate if they recognized anyone at the site. The Kingston farm was enemy territory and everybody there could be considered an enemy.

  The farmhouse was quiet and the lights were off. The old pickup truck was parked in the driveway and the hood was cold. It looked as though they would catch the residents in their beds. The men slipped inside quietly and moments later began blasting away. When the BMW left the Kingston farm, the yellow corona of the burning farmhouse was visible through the back windshield.

  “Oh, Terry.” Linda’s voice sounded like she was about to burst into tears. “I just got a call from the police in Molong. I don’t know how to say this. Your uncle was in the house last night when it burned to the ground. They want you to come to the morgue and identify his body. Dear God, I’m so sorry. I’m sure this has something to do with me. I’m leaving work and going back to the farm. I’m scared.”

  Terry started shaking and hyperventilating. Despite Linda’s assertion, he knew it had to do, not with her, but with him. He had been in the shower when she called and by the time he called her back, she had left the office. She did not carry a cell phone with her.

  Gordon MacMaster did have a cell phone and was closer to Molong than Terry. The directions were easy to follow and the address was described with the familiarity of a man who lived there. Terry needed to know if the farm house was indeed burned. Terry’s tone told the tale; gone was the cockiness and confidence he had exuded from the first. It was replaced by fear and guilt.

  The farm house was an old, dry wooden structure and undoubtedly went up quickly, but he thought that it may have been an accident never crossed Terry’s mind. He knew with a certainty that if it had burned, the fire had been set and Ginger’s death was due to his nephew’s activities. He physically staggered and sat, naked, on the floor of the hotel room. His long, drawn out revenge had been an exercise in hubris and the gods were beginning to take their own revenge.

  The fact that Terry was in a hotel and not his own apartment was not coincidence either. He had noticed that he was under surveillance. He assumed, as any mob figure would assume, that the police were monitoring his activities so he gave his observers the slip and was spending time alone. He had not, in his confidence, realized that the men performing the clumsy surveillance were the same ne’er-do-wells he had been consorting with. He had learned to never answer the phone when he was on the run and thanked God for the answering service.

  The next message that was left was Linda again. She sounded as upset as she had before or more so. “Terry, I was followed home from work. There are men watching the farm. I don’t know who they are, but I’m very frightened.”

  Terry called back immediately. “Linda, do not leave the farm. Load your guns and keep your eyes open. Warn your family that there are some very bad men and they are looking for me. I cannot join you right now.”

  “Terry, where are you? I need to know where you are.” Something in Linda’s tone told him that the men she referred to were closer than she had said.

  “I’m at that old fleabag motel in Molong, but I can be there in a couple of hours. I’ll call you back.”

  “Ok. I’ll be here at the farm.”

  Terry hung up wondering how he was going to do that since he had no available vehicle.

  The next message was from Jimmy Cognac. Jimmy had been calling regularly, using a variety of devices to make Terry think everything was all right. He acted concerned one time and angry the next. He told of jobs tha
t Terry was missing and obligations he needed to fulfill. Terry did not return the calls.

  When Gordon MacMaster called it was to tell Terry that the farm house had indeed burned. The story was in the newspaper in Orange. One man’s body was found and it was assumed to be that of Ginger Kingston. The fire was listed as being of suspicious origin. This call was returned.

  “Glasgow?”

  “Tarrytown.”

  “It’s all turned to a huge shitstorm. They killed Uncle Ginger. I think somebody is in Linda’s house, trying to get me to go there. The fucking Superintendent for New South Wales showed up at the office looking for me in particular. Somebody is watching my apartment in Sydney; I thought it was the cops but I’m not so sure now. It was fun while it lasted, but the game is at an end now. I’m afraid I’m a dead man walking.” Terry’s voice was shaking with the impact of it all.

  “Calm down. We cannot take care of business in a professional manner if we are overwhelmed with emotion. Call your friend the bikie, and call in a favor. I have the address of the farm. If the bikies show up at the farm and take Linda out of danger, we can be sure it is not they who initiated this. Leave the men watching the apartment alone. It ties up their resources. I assume you are not there?”

  “No, I’m…”

  “I don’t care where you are and I don’t need to know. There is nothing we can do for the dead, we can only hope to salvage the living and get out of the country alive.”

  “My whole life just blew up in my face, Glasgow. I no longer care if I live or die. I’m not important. My life is not important. I don’t know how they found out about all this, but they have and now I intend to do what I should have done in the beginning. Instead of playing around, I should have just gone in and killed the sons-of-bitches and been done with it.”

  “Calm down. We can do everything you need to do, but we must have clear heads to do so. Do not do anything rash. Call in your favor from the Dark Knights. I’ll be watching for them.”

  Three hours later, a stream of growling motorcycles poured through Orange and headed up the road to the Pettigrew farm.

  The sheer number of riders precluded any question that they were going to have their way. They rode up the driveway and surrounded the front of the house. They were armed in a variety of ways, but there was no effort made to disguise the fact.

  A man in a business suit came out of the house, onto the porch and calmly told the mob that they were on private property, and if they knew what was best for them, they would be leaving in short order. They did no such thing.

  One particularly brutal looking individual with a disfiguring scar across his nose pulled a sawed-off shotgun from a custom leather sheath on his bike and strode up the steps. He stuck the double barrel right in the stranger’s face and grinned, exposing his rotten teeth.

  The man in the business suit did not move a muscle. He was as cool a customer as you could get, but he also recognized an untenable position. There was nothing he could physically do against this crowd, but he also knew better than to back down too quickly. A show of cowardice would have them abusing him like a stripper in a cell block.

  One short, thin, gothic-looking woman in tight fitting black leathers dismounted and strode up the steps like a cat. Very few women rode with any of the gangs unless it was on the back of a man’s bike, but this club had a number of women riding. This woman did not have the physical stature needed to hold her own in a fight against the mountains of testosterone-pumping flesh around her, but there was something about her that set her apart. She stalked past the man on the porch without looking at him and entered the house as if she was in charge.

  Inside there were two more men in business suits and two men in overalls. There was a professional-looking woman in the downstairs bedroom, looking very anxious. The men in suits had their hands on their pistols, inside their jackets but one look through the window was enough to convince them they wouldn’t get far.

  “Give me your cell phones, boys.” The woman’s voice sounded like chocolate syrup. “Or do I need to call my friends in?”

  The men decided that discretion was the better part of honor and handed over their devices.

  “Now, I need your guns too.” The woman was smiling.

  The two men looked at each other and then out the door at the men who were beginning to fill up the porch. Once again their decision was on the side of self preservation through acquiescence. They handed over their pistols. The woman in the bedroom came to the doorway, but did not know what to make of the proceedings. She had never ridden on two wheels.

  Two mountainous bikies entered the doorway and stood on each side of it.

  “Hang on boys, I wouldn’t want you to get hurt,” the leather clad woman purred. She slunk up to the men one at a time and ran her hands all over their bodies, slowly, sensuously, looking for hidden weapons. She found a .380 in an ankle holster on one and a straight razor on the other. She took delight in the straight razor and smiled demonically as she cut the off the man’s necktie.

  “Oooh, nice and sharp,” she purred as she closed the razor and slipped it in next to one breast. Then she turned and said, “Linda, you’re riding with me,” and stalked back out the door.

  Two miles down the road Gordon MacMaster pulled over to the side as he saw the line of bikes coming the other way. He noted that two women were riding together in a protected position at the front of the group. The gang all wore the colors of the Valkierie Motorcycle Club. He did not personally care if Linda lived or died, there was no percentage in it for him, but Terry cared.

  Up the road, there were still motorcycles in the Pettigrew driveway. Gordon did not care what happened there as long as nobody knew the trap had been sprung. He could not risk having anyone see him who might recognize him. The fact was that now action had been initiated, it must be followed through.

  Terry was still feeling quite emotional. He knew that a professional never made it personal. He also knew that he had been exposed. He could not show his face in any of the usual places. To take action now would be tantamount to suicide. His only reasonable course of action was to leave the country. If he wanted to complete the mission he had set for himself, he needed to distance himself from the affair and slip back in later. His thoughts whirled in his head like the chatter of a crowd. Individual reason was forced out as one train of thought was overwhelmed by another. The guilt of having been responsible for Ginger’s death burned. The required cold-as-steel attitude was melted away by the red hot fires of rage and shame. He wanted a drink but did not want to leave the hotel and feared to allow himself to get drunk. He did push-ups and sit-ups until he was sweating from every pore. Then, even though he had already showered, he drew himself a hot bath and sat in it breathing deeply and trying to meditate. The hot water helped relax him, but he could still not clear his head.

  The phone rang and he waited a minute then checked the message. Linda had been removed from the clutches of three wise guys. It did not look as though they had contacted anyone else. Evan owed the Valkieries a favor now, and by extension Terry owed Evan a favor. Terry promised to come through and Evan promised to protect Linda for a few days.

  Gordon called. He was in Terry’s room in Orange. Terry had still not installed the dead bolt he should have. When they spoke, the two made plans to meet the following day. MacMaster loaded the arms into the back of the Land Rover that night, cursing himself for getting in this deep. Everything he knew told him to turn and walk away. The profit margin had disappeared when Terry made it personal. He didn’t need to pad his reputation, he was already well respected in his field, and he did not need an apprentice. It had always been his policy that friends would get you killed in this line of work. The fewer who knew who you were and what you did, the less likelihood of someone squealing. So he repeatedly asked himself what he was doing and what was in it for him. The risks far outweighed the rewards, especially when the fact that Terry was an emotional amateur was factored into the equation. He was
torn. He did not do charity work, nor did he decommission men frivolously. There was always an angle to be played, and it usually involved cash. Honor was a factor but seldom a deciding one. It was honorable to always complete your mission. It was honorable to never target women or children. If an employer attempted to stiff you for the money, it was honorable to leave his head on a post in the town square. But, jobs were not initiated for the sake of honor or moral indignation. That turned one from an honorable assassin into a mad dog serial killer. At least that was Gordon’s feeling at that stage of his life. He felt that many men acted tough for no better reason that to convince the world at large that they were not homosexual.

  He almost headed for the airport when he thought of an angle.

  Terry knew he was wanted for questioning. He did not know what the questions were. He also knew he was needed to identify his uncle’s burned body if he could. The only reason he did not go to the morgue was he didn’t want to be taken into custody. What he did not know was the extent of the interconnectedness of all electronic data. He did not know that when a man bought a pound of butter, the dairy league knew that butter had been sold before it left the store, and if it was paid for by a credit card, they knew who bought it. The loopholes would be closed before long, but shortly after the turn of the century, the computer revolution was flooding the advertising and manufacturing sectors with unbelievable amounts of free data. The point here is that it was becoming more and more difficult by the day to disappear.

  Terry had taken the hotel room as a safe place to meet and plan, but he had gotten stuck in there by the knowledge that his cover was blown. Young and brash he had almost thrown caution to the winds and gone down to the warehouse on Elizabeth Street to decommission everyone in the place. He had thought better of it since they were lower-level thugs and goons without the pull or the time to order things done. He knew he wanted to eliminate Jimmy Cognac, but Jimmy was not settled into a routine that could be predicted. He might be in a place for two days and then not return there for weeks. Jimmy was also sharp and observant. He had no problem sanctioning somebody’s decommission on the basis of suspicion. Of course, the Troy brothers were the real target.