Assignment- London

by Craig A. Hart

  “But… you’re one of the good guys! You would never kill an innocent, would you?”

  Perry smiled and reached over to give his friend a playful punch on the arm. “Lesson one: we’re all good guys. Till it’s time to be bad.”

  “‘Lesson one?’ Okay, sensei. What’s next, wax on or wax off?”

  “I’m not interested in helping you wax off. I’m sure you do a fine job of that on your own.” He paused a beat. “But I did promise to show you a way.”

  “What does that even mean?” Burke said, rankling a little. “I’m really not in the mood for mysterious riddle talk.”

  Perry looked at Burke for a minute then said to the driver, “Donny, does your privacy window work?”

  Without a verbal response, the young man pushed a button on the center console of the vehicle, and with a whirring sound, the Plexiglas dividing the front seat from the back rose into position. Once it was fully extended, Perry said, “Listen to me carefully, because this is the only time you will ever hear me say these words.”

  Burke’s anger abated as he looked into his friend’s blue eyes. Perry did not often make these sorts of proclamations.

  “I know, Burke. I know every color of agony you’re swimming through right now. I know every flavor of pain you’re feeding on. I even know how long you can go without thinking about her. Which is not very goddamn long.”

  “I know you think you do,” Burke said. “But there’s a difference.”

  “Because you believe Lyndsey’s alive?”

  “I can feel her, Perry. It’s like her heart is still beating in rhythm with my own.”

  Perry sat motionless, trying desperately to know the right thing to say. He did not think there was a chance in hell that Lyndsey Archer survived that fall. The odds were, well, beyond long. But Burke’s eyes were so sincere, so determined, that Perry couldn’t bring himself to douse the tiny flame of hope that dwelt there.

  “Okay, Burke. Okay. I’ll give you that she may be alive, but you need to allow that she may be dead. I’m not saying she is—but it’s a possibility we have to face.”

  “Fair enough,” Burke said. “She’s not dead, but I’d be a fool not to hear what you’re saying.”

  “And what would you do if she was dead?”

  Burke paused. “I’m not sure. I haven’t allowed myself to think about that, because I know, deep inside, that she’s still breathing. I guess…I’d probably lose my mind.”

  “And that’s what I want to guard you against, Burke. I know what I’m saying is hard and kind of shitty, but I’m your friend and so feel I have to be the one to talk about this.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Perry took a deep breath. “From the moment I learned about Trina to the flight back from Istanbul when Adabelle told me she believed in me, I thought about two things: killing Flick and dying myself. I wallowed in my misery. Flick was little more than a name and a voice. I didn’t know where to find him, what he looked like… nothing! And that’s what helped me find the way.”

  “When you say that, you sound like you’re recruiting me to join your cult.”

  “No, I’m telling you how I got from wanting to be dead to not being able to wait to wake up and look over at Adabelle’s face. But…” He stopped talking and seemed to be trying to decide if he should go on.

  “But what, asshole?”

  “But it’s not pretty.”

  8

  The Velvet Glove walked up the final few steps to the apartment, his hands deep in the pockets of his camelhair coat. He stood for a moment in front of the door, steeling himself. Just inside, three men were waiting to kill him. One was pressed against wall to the right of the door, one huddled behind a couch end on the far side of the room, and a third lurked in the shadows of the hallway that led to the back bedroom. The Glove pulled out his smartphone and opened up the app that connected the security cameras he had strategically placed around the apartment. By swiping through the different camera views, he could see every square inch of every room. The men inside hadn’t moved. He had made a show of getting out of his vehicle and hadn’t bothered to silence the heavy footfalls on the stairs. No, he wanted them waiting, listening, still.

  He took a set of keys out of his pocket and inserted one into the lock. Then he turned it. The lock clicked. The Glove returned the keys to his pocket and then withdrew a shimmering dagger from inside his coat. He gripped the door handle and then burst inside. He spun as he entered, taking the first man completely by surprise. With one hand, he took a firm grip on the man’s hair and pulled his head back. The other hand held the knife that now pressed dangerously into the man’s throat.

  “The rest of you! Drop your weapons and move to the center of the room! Now!”

  Slowly, reluctantly, the men followed orders. As they let their weapons fall and moved to stand together in the middle of the room, their eyes shot daggers at the Glove, but he was not one to be cowed by the mere opinions of others.

  “I am inclined to cut your friend’s throat, but that would almost certainly ruin my new rug, which is one of a kind and set me back a pretty penny. Therefore, I would much prefer that any violence take place outside of my personal abode. I will not, however, allow my materialistic leanings to interfere with good sense. The slightest false move from anyone and you will almost instantly be covered with your partner’s blood. I’m rather experienced with a knife, you see, and know just how to cut in order to ensure the greatest range of spray. It’s amazing just how far the human heart can pump a spurt of blood, especially when the heart is nearly pounding out of the chest—much like this one.” The Glove indicated downward toward his hostage’s chest with the point of the knife. “I can feel it thumping all the way through my coat. I can imagine it slowing, seizing, stopping as the blood drains from the body. I have felt it many times before and, if I may say so without being too macabre, have come to look forward to that moment. To share someone’s final moments is an experience not to be taken lightly or ever forgotten.”

  “You’re one weird fuck,” one of the men snarled. “It’s no wonder he wants you dead.”

  The Glove smiled, taking no offense at what was clearly intended as an insult. “I am that. Even my dear old mother would agree. Speaking of my mother, I cannot help but suspect that the ‘he’ you so mysteriously referenced is the same fellow who has prevented me from my weekly phone calls to the sweet lady. Frankly, I resent that more than this attempt on my life, if only because it was so pitifully doomed to failure from the very beginning. I wouldn’t think The Wolf would want anyone who could be taken so easily. Then again,” he continued, casting a dour eye at the men, “he did send you, so perhaps his judgment is fallible after all.”

  “We don’t know anything about that,” said the man, who seemed to be the leader of the three. “We just follow orders.”

  “Badly,” the Glove added. “The question now, however, is where does this leave us? I suppose the sporting thing would be to simply call it even, have a good laugh, shake hands, and agree to meet upon a future battlefield. But this is not a matter of honor—it is a matter of reality. I certainly cannot simply allow you all to walk away. You’ve invaded my living quarters, which I keep as a sanctuary from the outside world. That is a transgression that must be punished.”

  “You can’t get all of us,” the leader said. “You might cut Ralph’s throat, but me and Patrick would be on you like dogs.”

  “That is where we must differ,” the Glove said. “I most assuredly would get at least one more of you. Possibly both. If I might say so without sounding the braggart, I am highly skilled with my blade. The best, in fact.”

  The other man snorted. “The best I ever saw was a man named Flick, and he’s dead.”

  The Glove threw back his head and let out a peal of laughter tinged with disdain. “Flick! The knife was as a cudgel in that man’s hands. I had the misfortune to view some of his handiwork and it looked like he’d performed the acts with a butter knife.�
� The Glove shook his head and repeated, “Flick was a mere imposter. But, of course, don’t take my word for it. Make a move and see how things go for you.”

  For a moment, it seemed as if the leader was about to try his luck, but then he settled back. “Then we appear to be at an impasse. Unless we close on you, you’re not getting all three of us.”

  “Quite right, which is why I am willing to make a deal. You leave me this man and the two of you are free to go, on the condition that you give a message to the Wolf.”

  The leader hesitated. “You…want us to leave you Ralph? What do you plan to do with him?”

  The Glove’s voice took on a steely tone. “Whatever I damn well please. Now what is it to be?”

  Burke and Perry exited the transport a few blocks up the street and walked together toward the apartment building.

  “You sure this is the right address?” Perry asked.

  Burke checked his phone’s screen, which displayed a GPS map. “These are the coordinates Moore gave me. The number is 110-C.”

  “Then let’s get it over with.”

  They found the stairwell and began climbing to the third floor. They had just reached the second-floor landing when they heard shouting and the sounds of a struggle. Taking the stairs two and three at a time, they bounded upward, coming up short as a grisly scene unfolded before them.

  Lying half out of an apartment door was a man whose head appeared attached to his body by the merest scrap of skin. A pool of blood spread beneath and around him, rippling as fresh blood continued dripping into it. As they watched, another man staggered through the doorway, stumbling over the first man but not seeming to notice. His hands were clutching his midsection and Burke saw with horror that the man was attempting—and largely failing—to keep his intestines inside his own body. As Burke and Perry watched, the man collapsed across the legs of the first man and lay gasped and gurgling.

  From inside the apartment came a loud crash and a series of emphatic curses. As both men drew their weapons, Burke charged forward, with Perry close behind, and they ran inside the apartment to find two men locked in mortal combat.

  “Should we do something?” Burke asked.

  Perry shrugged. “I’m not sure who’s a bad guy and who’s a good guy.”

  “Can’t tell them without a program,” Burke agreed. “Although I do recognize the guy in the camelhair coat.”

  “Don’t tell me…”

  “The one and only Velvet Glove.”

  “Kind of makes me feel like the fellow getting the worst of it is probably closer to the good guy end of the spectrum, then?” Burke could hear the level to which Perry was unsure about this by how he turned the statement into a question. A moment later, the point was moot.

  “All they had to do to live was leave you and deliver the message. Not too difficult, hmmm? But they decided to try to save you, and now you’re all going to die, and I’m going to have to find someone else to pass my news to the Wolf.”

  Burke and Perry looked at one another at the mention of the name.

  Although no one in SpyCo had heard the name Velvet Glove until recently, the other name, The Wolf, was the stuff of legend. Formerly a major player in the IRA, the man known only by the animal moniker was linked to dozens of high-profile assassinations over the past forty years. He had never been seen, and no photographs of him existed save for one grainy black and white shot from the late 1960s that had been tapped upon by a dying man whose last words were “Him. The Wolf.”

  “This is starting to get interesting,” Burke said.

  “Oh, he had my attention when the fellow with the external guts stumbled out, but yeah. The Wolf ups the ante.”

  At the sound of the voices, the Velvet Glove snapped his head in the direction of the door, probably expecting to find reinforcements for the hapless trio, or perhaps a bobby rushing in to spoil his fun. When he saw the two men standing in the gore among the satisfying pile of bodies near the entrance, he smiled.

  “Look, Ralph, we have guests! It’s Sad Corporate Lawyer and a friend!” With that, he plunged a large knife deep into Ralph’s throat, the man’s blood spraying on his arms and face, and completely ruining the camelhair coat.

  As he released Ralph and allowed him to slump to the floor at his feet, the Velvet Glove tossed the knife aside, a decision that puzzled both of the armed men.

  “So,” the Velvet Glove began, “clearly I have to revise my assessment of your career choice. I confess it was made based mainly on your very smart wardrobe. I do tend to lump the sharp dressers into the lawyer herd, I’m afraid. Perhaps it’s a character flaw, hmm?” When neither man responded, he continued. “Ah, you’ve done well not to answer. It was a trick question. I have no character flaws. Now would you both be kind enough to lower your guns and give me a hand harvesting these heads?”

  Burke couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “No, we will not—”

  “Sure,” Perry said loudly, cutting his friend off. “Hell, this one’s practically ready to go!” He holstered his gun as he walked to the man whose decapitation was nearly complete and grasped his head firmly with both hands. Then, with a quick twist that produced both a bone-cracking and a flesh-tearing sound, he ripped it free of the body. Turning, he tossed it underhand to the Velvet Glove.

  Burke’s mouth dropped open, but the Velvet Glove beamed at Perry as he caught the ten-pound mass with ease. “You know, I was momentarily concerned that you might be difficult to name. But now I see quite clearly that I was wrong, eh, Dapper Psychopath?”

  To Burke’s further shock, Perry smiled upon hearing his label. “Perry is not a psychopath, mister. He’s one of the good guys.” As unsettled as he was by all of this, Burke was completely done in when he heard the Velvet Glove’s response.

  “Oh, I believe that we’re all good guys. Till it’s time to be bad.”

  Burke turned to Perry, who had spoken almost the exact same words on the drive over. “Lesson one,” Perry said.

  9

  “I must say I’m not impressed with your productivity, Bombshell.” The large, muscular man frowned at the blonde-haired woman who stood before him, her face an impenetrable mask. “I had high hopes for you.”

  Lyndsey Archer shrugged. “Ultimately, I can only bring in those who wish to be. Bring them in alive and in good condition, that is. And that’s the point, isn’t it?”

  The man nodded. “Indeed. Perhaps it is your skills of persuasion that are lacking. It certainly isn’t your fighting ability. The man you encountered has a reputation as a tough operator.”

  “I didn’t have much trouble with him.”

  “Then perhaps you are over-qualified for this particular job,” the man said, his austere expression cracking into a smile. “But no matter.” He handed her a manila folder. “In there is another operator I would very much like to have in my fold. I understand he is already being courted, which speaks highly of his skill. We must not allow him to be acquired by anyone but us, do you understand?”

  “And if I’m unable to bring him back alive?”

  “It’s better he die than work for a competitor.”

  She nodded, took the folder, and left the room.

  The man walked to a desk and, walking around to the rear, sat in a black leather swivel chair. He looked to the right of the chair, at the plush doggie bed that sat on the floor. Inside the bed was a snoozing puppy with unique grey and white markings. The man reached down and picked up the animal, holding it aloft as it struggled to open its tiny, sleepy eyes.

  “You and I are going to be great friends, Phantom. Great friends, indeed.” He brought the puppy’s face close to his own and nuzzled it with his nose. The pet reached out with a wet tongue and licked at his owner. “Your predecessor met with a tragic end, but I’ll see that nothing happens to you. In fact, if all goes as planned, you will soon be able to watch as I rip out the throat of man who killed my beloved dog. And then he will know the true power of the Wolf.”

  The Wolf
set the puppy gently back into its bed and then sat back in the chair to think, ponder, and plot his next move.

  Lyndsey closed the door to the Wolf’s office quietly behind her. It wouldn’t do for him to see her shudder of revulsion. While the man didn’t repulse her as much as some, there was no love lost. He was attractive enough physically yet had the indisputable aura of evil about him.

  She bypassed the elevator—the things could be unpredictable—and opted for the stairway. As she slowly descended, she opened the folder—and stopped dead in her tracks.

  Inside was a dossier, complete with a headshot of her mark. She examined the photograph. Looking back at her with dark, piercing eyes was the face of a dapper man in his mid-forties, sporting a pencil-thin mustache and oiled hair. He could have stepped directly from a black and white movie starring Clark Gable or William Powell.

  The man was striking, but that wasn’t what had stopped her. She recognized this man—and the last time she had seen him had been in an apartment practically swimming in severed heads.

  She already knew the name, but she read it anyway, silently forming the words with full lips. “The Velvet Glove.”

  She closed the folder with a snap and continued down the stairs. She could feel her heart rate increasing, and it wasn’t because of the exertion.

  “Lyndsey-girl, you have your work cut out for you.”

  The Velvet Glove had taken the severed head, and in yet another act that seemed to defy logic, simply left Burke and Perry alone with the other two corpses. He walked down a hallway and into a room that opened to the right.

  Perry stood in front of Burke, blood dripping from his hands. “I love these London flats, don’t you? Can’t really say what’s different about them with regard to an apartment in the U.S., but there’s just a certain… charm! That’s the word.”