SICARII: Part III

by Adrienne Wilder

  “Jacob is waiting for you outside. Go.” With an obscene tenderness, Marcel placed a kiss on the man’s forehead before letting him drop to the floor.

  Adrenaline pushed Ben to his knees. He made a drunken crawl through the splintered doorway, down the hall to the front of the apartment. He unlocked the door and spilled out onto the sidewalk.

  Jacob caught him. “C’mon, we have to hurry.”

  “Marcel…”

  “I know.”

  “He…”

  “I know.” And Jacob said it almost like a plea for Ben to stop. “His car’s over here.”

  Ben wrapped an arm over Jacob’s shoulders, and with his help, they fled into the shadows at the end of the motel.

  Marcel flipped off the light in the bedroom of the motel room. The main door of the apartment-style space opened and shut. Jacob’s words didn’t carry, but what he said wasn’t important.

  Shadows passed in front of the broken window. Two melded together, struggling to stay upright. Glass ground against the concrete. Footsteps tapped the sidewalk, fading until the buzz of street lamps filled the space.

  Doors opened and shut in the building. Muffled voices leaked from behind the walls and the parking lots. A car engine started up, pulled away. Another grew louder. It died, and car doors opened and closed.

  “Fuck!” Shards of glass ticked then snapped. “Where the fuck is Jimmy? Find him. Call Clyde and Dom both. Tell them to canvas the area. Find them, goddamn it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Shadows grew in front of the busted window; the curtains swayed with the flow of night air.

  Marcel waited.

  Two men climbed through the window, guns in hand. Enough light from the parking lot spilled in, throwing a silvery orange blanket across the bed. The taller of the two jerked to a stop.

  “Jesus, fuck, it’s Jimmy.” He knelt. The other man pivoted with his gun raised.

  Marcel waited.

  The door of the motel apartment opened.

  The man kneeling stood and stepped forward, sliding into the shadows where Marcel stood less than a foot away. He seized gunman’s arm and sidestepped, turning him to face his companion, using his body as a shield. With one clean movement, Marcel swept the blade across the man’s throat before sliding back into the darkness beyond the door to the hall.

  Marcel’s target dropped his gun in favor of trying to stem the flow jetting from his throat.

  “Mike?” His companion stepped over Jimmy’s body. “Mike, what’s wrong?”

  Mike swayed into the light from the parking lot.

  “Holy fuck, fuck, fuck…” The second gunman started to follow Mike in his fall but pulled away in the last moment, leaving Mike to bounce off the bed and hit the ground.

  The second gunman squeezed off several shots, the bullets exiting the muzzle with a muffled huff and flash. Heated air skirted Marcel’s cheek. A second thump hit the wall beside his temple, throwing out bits of sheetrock.

  He waited.

  The gunman lunged forward, dipping into the darkness. Marcel turned. A liquor tainted exhale brushed Marcel’s cheek. Fabric ghosted over his arm. The guy rushed past him, and Marcel stepped back against the wall as the gunman moved into the alcove with a vanity and bathroom. A light clicked on.

  “Logan, Logan, someone’s here.” His panicked voice ricocheted in the tight confines. “Logan.” The gunman headed toward the shattered doorway leading into the hall.

  A foot passed the edge of the wall where Marcel stood. A leg, hip, shoulder. The gunman started to turn, and Marcel curved his arm around the man’s neck as if to lock him in a chokehold, but instead, he put his strength behind the blade. Warmth rushed over Marcel’s fist, and the gunman made a strangled sound. With a swipe from the second blade, Marcel severed any remaining tendons and grated the bone of the gunman’s spine.

  He went to his knees, his trigger finger reflexing. The silencer spit shots, giving momentary light to the dark. Carpet fibers and concrete kicked up only to rain down in gentle taps.

  Marcel sheathed one knife and exited the bedroom, pushing into the nearest doorway. Relaxed, he eased out a breath, flattening himself into the narrow space, letting the stillness wrap around him while Logan rushed past, followed by two gunmen.

  The last man jerked, his muscles tensing, his hand tightening on the gun as he pivoted at the shoulders. Adrenaline and aggression tainted the air on his exhale. He started to step back and make room to raise his weapon. Marcel grabbed the man’s wrist, yanking him forward.

  He had a scar above his eyebrow, a mole on his chin. He might have been thirty or a twenty-year-old who’d wasted ten years on this useless life. A life of little value that now belonged to Marcel.

  The anger morphed into realization, then panic. Marcel arced his arm up, guiding the dagger across the guy’s throat, opening up a cut from his shoulder to his ear.

  By the time the man hit the floor, Logan and the remaining man were in the room. Marcel followed, unsheathing the second dagger.

  Logan spun a circle, gaze tracking the rivers of blood dammed by bodies.

  Marcel stepped up behind the gunman standing just beyond the door, driving one dagger into the back of his spine. The trauma shot down him in a full-body muscle spasm, and his weapon hit the floor.

  Marcel flicked the second blade over the man’s throat, opening it up just as Logan turned around. Blood fanned across Logan’s face, leaving dark shadows on his pale shirt. He held up a bandaged hand, and the white soaked up the crimson.

  Logan scraped at the blood in his eyes and raised his gun. A bullet grazed Marcel’s ear.

  Logan squinted, blinked, wiped his face on the sleeve of his silk jacket. “Get the fuck away from me, you freak.” He took a step back, squeezing the trigger, expelling brass cartridges from the ejection port. A sting nicked Marcel’s cheek. Another passed through his shirt sleeve, tearing away a crease in the fabric.

  Marcel closed the distance. One quick swipe punched the blade in his left hand through Logan’s wrist.

  He dropped his weapon and went to his knees, choking on a scream. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He reached for his gun with his other hand.

  Marcel kicked it away.

  Logan blinked, tears cleared away the blood. Sweat matted down his hair. “Please, please, don’t kill me.”

  Marcel tipped his head, mapping the tension in Logan’s expression. The roundness of his eyes made brighter by the blood splashed across his lids. Scars over his nose. Finer ones near his jaw and forehead. The kind made with a surgical tool rather than a weapon.

  “I’m sorry, man. Please, let me go, and you’ll never see me again.” Panic burst out of Logan in jagged sobs.

  Marcel jerked his knife free.

  Snot covered Logan’s upper lip. “I got money. Take it. Drugs. There’s at least ten pounds in the closet behind the wall panel. Take it too.” Logan cradled his hand close to his chest, and a new fall of tears soaked his cheeks. “Don’t, don’t, please…”

  Marcel slid his fingers into Logan’s hair.

  “No, no, please, God, fuck, no, please.”

  The light from the bathroom glinted over the edge of Marcel’s blade.

  Logan widened his eyes. “No, no…” His sobs choked off, and he shook in Marcel’s hold. “Take the drugs, take it, just…”

  Marcel leaned closer.

  Logan went still.

  Did Logan understand now? Some did. Some did not.

  Logan met Marcel’s gaze, and it was then Marcel laid the blade close to the space under Logan’s left ear. There was no resistance, no sound, only a momentary look of confusion from Logan as Marcel slid the knife to the opposite side of Logan’s throat.

  Warmth splashed the front of his shirt. Logan jerked, and he clawed at Marcel’s wrist with his remaining hand while opening and closing his mouth, to beg, or to scream. A blood bubble swelled between his lips only to pop and trickle from the corners.

  Like so many before Logan, his fear
gave way to disbelief, then to denial, only to return to where it started in a matter of seconds. Then his pupils expanded with the loss of color to his cheeks. His hold fell away, his muscles slackened, yet his gaze jumped back and forth like he watched something beyond Marcel.

  Beyond what was real.

  A hiss of air sputtered from the slit in the man’s throat, following the last significant pump of blood.

  Marcel stroked the man’s cheek with his thumb, leaving a smear of red and lowered him to the floor.

  A debt paid.

  Marcel straightened up. Night air tossed the curtains, pushing around the scent of copper. He left the bedroom for the hall, heading toward the living area of the apartment. Doors opened and slammed in the building. Car engines rumbled. Then the night fell quiet again.

  Marcel stopped at the kitchen.

  Next to the microwave, a variety of liquor bottles. A package of cookies near to the stove. Beside the sink, a first aid kit where streams of gauze tumbled over the edge following the splatters of red to where broken glass lay around the drain. A few intact tumblers made of the same thick glass occupied the other side.

  Marcel moved to the door. More speckles of blood dotted the sofa cushion where the fibers dragged toward the edge from the forward movement of the person who’d sat there. The loud carpet print almost erased a darker patch of crimson next to the recliner. Sweat, soap, the faint flavor of Jacob’s deodorant and Ben’s, saturated by sex.

  The freshly vacuumed carpet was new enough to hold the twist of footprints from multiple people. Marcel tracked them to the door where they ended. Undisturbed carpet left a narrow path between the door and the air conditioner. Dimpling the fibers, a triangle shape, and a round spot with no tread.

  A woman’s high heel.

  Marcel knelt.

  Oil smudged the fibers near the tip of the print. Powdered cement ghosted the edge. He opened the door. Another partial print at the threshold glittered with gravel dust.

  There was barely a foot between the curtain over the front window and the entrance into the apartment. The edge bent away from the wall, where the fabric dragged the floor, unable to swing back into place.

  Marcel stood.

  Tiny lint hairs tangled with the coarse threads weaving the curtain. Silk, wool, cotton. At shoulder height, a blonde hair clung to the edge.

  Marcel plucked it free and held it to his nose.

  True jasmine, Bulgarian rose mixed with a hint of Agarwood resin.

  Very few perfumes contained natural flower oils, fewer contained real oud.

  At some point, producing the most expensive fragrances in the world hadn’t been enough for the Annanstein’s, and they’d used the family business to funnel money for others.

  The decision had filled their bank accounts, forged powerful alliances, and amassed them an empire.

  But none of that would not protect them from the Sicarii.

  Jacob took the on-ramp to the highway.

  Ben shivered in the passenger seat. Sweat melded his shirt to his chest, and his muscles jumped under the fabric.

  His usually sun-kissed skin had lost all color, leaving behind flushed cheeks, pale lips, and heavy shadows around his eyes.

  Ben leaned forward, dry-heaving hard enough to pull his shoulders up. “Tastes funny when I swallow. Like pennies.” Strings of saliva clung to his lips. Ben touched his mouth. “I think I bit my tongue.” He examined his fingers. “I’m bleeding.”

  Jacob tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Fucking Logan. Why couldn’t the man just have taken his rage out on him and have left Ben alone? It wasn’t like he hadn’t done it before.

  At least Jacob had experience being hit.

  He merged into traffic.

  “I don’t feel so good.” Ben heaved again.

  “You’re just coming down off the drugs.” The words came out so calm Jacob could almost believe himself.

  “What—” Ben’s teeth clacked. “Did he…give—”

  “Heroin.”

  “How do you—” Ben shook his head.

  “Because it was Franky’s go-to for stringing out the boys he ran. Seems Logan is copying everything else the bastard did.” Which meant there was a good chance there was more than just heroin in the syringe. Just the right cocktail made getting off the stuff twice as hard.

  Ben wrapped his arms around his ribs, and sweat dripped from his nose. “I can’t believe people voluntarily take this stuff.”

  “Who says they choose?” Jacob grimaced. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have—”

  “It’s just sometimes it’s better not knowing what’s going on or at least not caring.”

  Ben nodded as if he understood.

  Jacob knew he didn’t. Couldn’t. And he was grateful for that.

  Ben coughed. Crimson painted his lips. He gritted his teeth, and blood outlined his gums. “I’m guessing this isn’t normal.” He wiped his mouth.

  No. Only a few things used to cut heroin could make a person bleed.

  Things only a money-grubbing idiot would use.

  “Ja—” Ben curled over, heaving a strangled gurgle and more blood-laced spit. “Fuck.”

  “Just sit back and close your eyes, we should be at the hospital in less than ten minutes.”

  “Hospital?”

  “He could have overdosed you.”

  “I thought overdoses happened quicker.”

  They did. But other things could take hours.

  “I don’t feel high anymore. I just feel like my insides are on fire.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. Just hang on, okay. We’re almost there.”

  Ben shuddered.

  “Lie back. Please.”

  “I can’t. I can’t. I just…fuck, why didn’t he just kill me rather than this?”

  Ice trickled through Jacob’s blood. “Don’t say that.”

  Ben scrunched up his nose, but after a moment, the hardness faded from his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—” He gagged again but leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.

  “Can you crack the window? It’ll help with the nausea.”

  Ben fumbled for the crank handle. When he found it, he held it a moment before making a partial rotation, dropping the glass enough to let in a whistle of wind.

  Some of the tension eased from Ben’s face. Somehow he was even paler. Or maybe it was the dash lights. Jacob hoped it was the light.

  But the fear it wasn’t had him fighting the need to push down the pedal. It might cut off a precious minute unless State Patrol pulled them over. If they did, they’d take one look at Ben and arrest them both.

  And Ben could die before anyone even bothered to address his symptoms.

  City lights sprinkled the spaces between the trees beyond an overpass. Jacob took the next exit guiding the GTO around the tight loop, his arms aching in the fight against no power steering.

  The light at the end of the off-ramp went from green to yellow. He shot through it just as it switched to red.

  “Marcel…” Ben opened his eyes a moment.

  Jacob glanced at Ben.

  “He killed…he killed that…man. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t…” Ben tipped up his chin. Wind caught his bangs and tossed them back. “He didn’t care. Nothing. Nothing, Jacob. There was nothing in his eyes. He didn’t even enjoy it.”

  Jacob flexed his grip. “Why would you think he’d enjoy killing someone?”

  “Because he kills people. He’s killed a lot of people.”

  Jacob squeezed the steering wheel. “I don’t know a lot about Marcel’s past, but he doesn’t act without reason. And those men? What else was he supposed to do?”

  Ben nodded, then shook his head. “But he wasn’t disgusted either. It was like…like he felt nothing. It was an act. A reflex.”

  It might have been. There were so many things Jacob didn’t understand about Marcel. Things he’d never wanted to understand.

  And why was tha
t?

  “Nothing. There was nothing.” Ben’s teeth chattered. “I don’t care who a person is: that’s not normal.”

  But Marcel wasn’t a normal man. He didn’t show emotion. He didn’t show affection. He watched Jacob with the same cold stare when he fucked him as he did when he poured a cup of coffee.

  Not like Ben who wore every pleasure on his face, every desire burning in his eyes. He touched Jacob with desperation, as if being with him meant being alive.

  The hospital broke through the tree-line. Jacob drove into the emergency entrance and parked near the door.

  “Wait here, I’ll get someone to help me get you inside.”

  “I can walk.”

  “Ben…”

  “I can walk. I just need your help.” Ben curled forward with his arms around his stomach. His expression pinched.

  Jacob got out and went around to the passenger side and helped Ben out.

  The sweat soaking Ben had cooled his skin to the touch. Bruises colored his arms, neck, and cheek. The cut over his eye bled again.

  “You okay?” Ben furrowed his brow.

  Jacob nodded. “C’mon, the sooner we get you in, the better.” He bumped the door shut with his hip.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “I told you, you’re coming down off a really bad hit.” The question now was would Ben stop falling or crash and shatter? The fact he hadn’t was a miracle.

  “You don’t think I’m going to make it do you?” Ben leaned into Jacob, and he put his arm around his shoulders.

  “Of course you will. You just need some fluids and anti-nausea medicine—” Jacob’s voice cracked.

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re a terrible liar?”

  “A few times.” Jacob guided Ben up the incline.

  “Am I?”

  Jacob stopped by the door and hit the plate for the automatic door opener.

  “The truth, Jacob. Tell me. Am I going to die?”

  He maneuvered Ben inside and to the nurse at the desk. “I have an emergency. Possible overdose.”

  Ben’s knees buckled, and he dragged Jacob to the floor with him.

  “Fuck.” Ben curled into a fetal position. Blood smeared over the tile. A new trickle escaped Ben’s nose.

  The nurse called for assistance.