Skin Game

by Ann Aguirre

  “We will. I can shoot,” she added. “But if we’re fighting inside, it may be dangerous to rely on weapons.”

  She took his silence for agreement. They went back to the Marquis, which they’d left in the alley outside the storage facility. The night air was cool for Vegas, a desert-scented wind sweeping the city. In the light from the dashboard, she read the address she’d scrawled. Mentally, she mapped it, and then started the car.

  “Where are we going?”

  Kyra didn’t answer. She didn’t want him here, didn’t want his help. But she wasn’t stupid enough to try this alone. Little as she liked it, she needed his expertise, so this would be the last thing they ever did together, and then she’d start forgetting he’d ever existed. She just wished it didn’t hurt so fucking much.

  They pulled up outside a martial arts studio. Kyra had checked the hours in the phone book ad, and they slid in just before the place closed. It was one of the few open this late. The last class had already gone, and the sensei was getting ready to lock up. Master Li was a small Japanese man in his late fifties, his salt-and-pepper hair worn clubbed back in a plain elastic band. According to the credentials on the wall, he was also an eighth-degree black belt.

  “Can I help you?”

  Kyra offered a sweet smile. “My husband was wondering if you had any positions open for instructors. He’s studied Jendo, capoeira, and tarung derajat. Tell him, honey.”

  Seeming not to mind, Reyes recounted how he’d studied in Brazil, the Philippines, and Indonesia. Then he executed a few katas, showing his stuff. Despite everything, Kyra still felt a traitorous pleasure in watching him move. He possessed all the dangerous beauty of a honed knife.

  Master Li asked Reyes a few questions and then said, regretful, “I don’t have any openings at the moment, but your skills are most impressive. I wish I could help you.”

  She offered her hand. “Thanks anyway.”

  The sensei shook it, sending a spike of pain straight through her temples. Kyra swayed and Reyes supported her. “We need to get you something to eat. She has low blood sugar,” he added, presumably for Master Li’s benefit.

  By the time he got her out to the car, she felt a little better. Apex’s skill and the combat expertise she’d lifted didn’t utilize the same part of the brain, so this would be tolerable. The aftermath would be brutal, given that she’d be making contact with a lot of people in the melee, but Kyra would worry about that after they saved Mia.

  “Give me the keys.”

  For half a second, she considered arguing, but in truth, she needed the time to let things settle in her head. That would be easier with her eyes closed, doing relaxation and breathing exercises. So she tossed them to him, and he caught them in a jingle of metal.

  Kyra slid into the car and leaned her throbbing head against the window. She breathed deeply, holding it for two beats, and then pushing the air out through her nose. After five minutes or so, the pain had dulled enough to be manageable. She wouldn’t win any spelling bees, but she could fight, and that was all that mattered.

  “Better?”

  “I’m fine,” she growled. “Just get us there.”

  Before I crash.

  When they pulled into the neighborhood, it wasn’t what she expected. No lavish mansions, no gated communities. This was an average middle-class subdivision, each house more or less like its neighbor. She supposed he’d holed up at some unoccupied rental property; it wouldn’t do for Serrano’s own home to be spattered with blood. There were limits to what a cleanup crew could do.

  “I’m parking here,” he said quietly. “They know we’re coming but there’s no sense in making it easy for them. We’ll go the rest of the way on foot.”

  Kyra nodded mutely. From Master Li, she had taken an unexpected lightness of movement. Her bones felt liquid, as if she could flow from place to place like the wind itself. She followed behind Reyes as he set off down the street.

  At their turn, he stilled, and then pointed to the dark Ford Expedition parked near the curb. It was only one of two vehicles on the street. Everyone else had garaged their cars for the night. He tugged her arm and they slid sideways, which gave her a better vantage. She saw two men in silhouette from a driver passing in the other direction.

  Lookouts.

  Reyes motioned for her to get down, and she complied. By his gestures, he intended to take the driver, and he wanted her to get the guy on the passenger side. Kyra didn’t need to be told this needed to be a permanent solution. The windows were rolled up, so that would make it tough hand to hand.

  She tipped her head at the bag and he unzipped it silently. Within seconds, he’d fitted two guns with silencers. Reyes handed one to her, asking with his eyes whether she could use it. Kyra nodded. Then he gestured low. At first she didn’t get it, but when he crawled under the SUV, she understood.

  Once they were in position, directly beneath passenger and driver, she rolled over and removed the safety. In unison, they sent a spray of bullets up into the SUV. She imagined them striking their targets, blood and bone spattering everywhere. Better she couldn’t see what she hit. Through the heavy reinforced metal, she couldn’t even hear them cry out.

  On his signal, she rolled outward and returned the weapon as she circled back around the SUV. Kyra didn’t look, but Reyes checked their handiwork through the window, dispassionate.

  “They’re done,” he said quietly. “Let’s roll out.”

  From that point it was smooth sailing all the way up to the house. To her surprise, all the windows were dark. Shit. Maybe they’d been set up. Maybe nobody was here, and if they opened the door, wired to blow, the whole place would go up in flames. How far did they trust Foster?

  By his expression, Reyes was wondering the same. “You think Mia’s in there?”

  “He said she was.”

  “It’s your call,” he said.

  She wavered. “Yeah. Let’s check it out. But we’re not going in the front.”

  “One of the windows?” he suggested.

  “Sounds good.”

  They circled around back and found a bedroom window. Kyra liked ranch houses; they were easy to enter. Reyes cut the screen and then produced a glass cutter. He etched a small circle and used a suction cup to pull it out silently. Her hand was small enough to reach the latch, so she unlocked it, and raised the frame. Reyes went in first and checked the room. When he indicated it was clear, she slid in after him.

  Two guys sat lounging in the living room, watching TV in the dark. Rey slid up behind one, and broke his neck. Clean, quiet. Kyra struck with both hands across his throat, her hands like steel wedges. This one was a shooter; she felt the tingle run up her arm and into her fingertips. Suddenly, she wanted to use the gun in her pocket, but it was too much. Security, karate, marksmanship—it all twisted through her, making her realize she was on the verge of a full seizure. She hadn’t had one of those since she was a kid.

  Red laced her vision, and she wanted to puke.

  “You’re going to—to have to finish it,” she choked out. “Please. I paid you well enough. Don’t let anyone hurt her.”

  Reyes came over quietly, setting his hands on her shoulders. The warmth seemed to soak in through her skin, edging everything else out. Kyra concentrated on breathing, aware that she was wasting time.

  “Stay with me,” he breathed. “I never intended to take your money, but I knew you wouldn’t trust me to stay the course unless you hired me. You’re in this. You’ll finish it. It won’t be over in your head unless you do.”

  God, he knew her so well. She hated him for it. With his help she fought the seizure back. Who the hell knew what would happen later? She’d been so careful up until now. The important thing was, she could go on.

  They just had to find Serrano. It was almost over. She should have been euphoric, but the suppressed pain made her feel nauseous instead. Kyra needed food and sleep . . . and Mia.

  There were two more guards in the kitchen. Kyra shot
one, knowing she couldn’t take an extra theft tonight; she was saving the last one for Serrano. Reyes took his foe down in sweet silence, a flurry of kicks and punches so powerful the other guy hardly had a chance to respond, and then he caught the thug before he hit the ground.

  Just hang on.

  Serrano was in a back bedroom, talking to Mia in a low voice, trying to get her to tell him something about Kyra. So Foster hadn’t lied. Mia sat tied to a chair, and her eyes were wide and dark with fear. She didn’t appear to have any visible damage.

  “I’ll end her. I swear to God I will.” Serrano put the gun to Mia’s temple, and Kyra froze. She hoped Reyes had the sense not to do anything rash.

  “Am I too late?” Foster asked, sauntering in. He held a Glock in one hand, which he trained on Reyes. “I hope I didn’t miss the party.”

  “Foster.” Relief colored Serrano’s voice. “Thank God. How the hell did these two find me? I distinctly ordered you not to give them the go-ahead until morning when I had all my men in place.”

  “Let the girl go,” he said. “Everything’s under control now. Come on, Mia. It’s almost over now.” He held out a hand.

  “Are you crazy?” she all but snarled. “You gave me to him, and now you just expect me to heel like a dog? I trusted you.”

  Foster was ice. “Your mistake. Come on now. Step away from him. Don’t make me ask again.”

  “Oh, fuck it,” Serrano said. “Take her. I lost my stomach for killing women years ago. Fix this for me, and there’s a big bonus in it for you.”

  “That’s good. Come on over here now.” Mia did as Foster asked with reluctance, looking at him as if he were a snake charmer who could make her do things she didn’t want to. Once Mia reached Foster’s side, he turned the gun on Serrano. “Sorry about this,” he added to her. “I hope you weren’t scared, but he had guys on you, and I needed to buy a little more time. If I hadn’t turned you over when I did, he’d have known.”

  Serrano looked pale and sick. “Known what?”

  Foster smiled, and the gleam of his teeth sent a shiver through Kyra. She’d never seen anything like his look. “Mia, go on outside,” he said. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

  She looked at Kyra uncertainly. “Are you—”

  “I’ll be fine,” Kyra said. “Go.”

  Mia went.

  Reyes stirred, surprise mingling with conviction in his voice. “You hate him.”

  “More than you can possibly imagine,” Foster agreed.

  Serrano made a small sound over staring down the barrel of a gun held by a man he’d trusted. “We can talk about this. Whatever you think I did—”

  Foster was implacable. “I know what you did. You won’t be walking out of this room, one way or another.”

  “Why didn’t you just shoot him long before I came along?” Kyra asked. “You had plenty of chances.”

  Hellfire lit the ice of his eyes from within, as if a thousand lost souls lay trapped beneath their silvered surface. His tone was savage. “Because that was too simple. You see, Kyra, I wanted him to suffer. I had to find something worse for him. I could only cause him physical pain, but you . . . you broke his heart.”

  That was too much for Serrano, who apparently couldn’t stand being ignored. “The bitch did nothing of the kind.”

  “No?” Foster laughed. “These poems prove otherwise.” He lofted a silver USB drive. Kyra started with shock, and he glanced her way. “Didn’t know that, did you? He planned to give them to you on your wedding night. After you left, they took a sad turn.” Foster quoted aloud, “Darkness, unlit by stars/Now that you have gone, neither bread nor meat holds any savor. /Sorrow pure unhallowed blue/I am desolate with loss of you.”

  Reyes seemed to come to some realization, and his expression held something like pity as he gazed at Serrano. “That’s why you were so set on wiping her out. Not because she lied or even because she dented your pride. Because she left you.”

  “Fuck,” Serrano said in disgust. “Kill me now, Foster. Spare me the psychoanalysis from a bastard who’s more screwed up than I am.”

  “I don’t work for you anymore,” he said quietly. “I’ve accepted another offer. Kyra, he’s yours now. Do with him as you will.” As he passed by, Foster tossed her the USB drive. “I’d have them published posthumously if I were you. Imagine how he’ll writhe, humiliated in hell.”

  Then Foster glanced at Reyes. “Don’t worry about your failure to complete the job. You did exactly as I expected, and the stain on your record dies with him.” He paused at the door. “By the way, if you have the stomach for it, I suggest chopping off his hands and etching him with some Russian characters. There’s a cop named Sagorski who’d love to hear about it.”

  That took all the defiance out of Serrano, who gazed wildly between Kyra and Reyes. “Don’t. Jesus, no. Can’t we come to some kind of agreement? Keep the money. I can give you more if you want.”

  “I have the stomach for it,” Reyes said, smiling. “If the client pays for it, I’m happy to make the hit look like it came down from a certain criminal contingent. I’m good at emulating M.O.”

  A surge of pure fury went through Kyra. “No, he’s mine.”

  Foster slid out whistling a tune she couldn’t place. She tucked the poems into her pocket, and stared at Serrano. He looked older than his late forties now, frail somehow. It roused no pity in her.

  “At least tell me why,” Serrano begged. “What the hell did I ever do to you?”

  She lashed out with a spin kick, knocking him to the ground. “You took away the only person who ever gave a shit about me,” she snarled. “You had an old man beaten up, and he died in an alley like a dog. He didn’t even cheat you, asshole. He won nothing! His system didn’t work, but you never show mercy, do you?” Hate spread like wildfire through her. “And neither will I.”

  That was what he was best at, after all. No mercy.

  She hit him again and again. Rage took her. When she came to herself long minutes later, she heard Serrano moaning in pain, and his face was damn near unrecognizable. Reyes silently handed her the gun, and she finished what she’d started so many months before with two shots to the back of the head.

  Serrano died with tears in his eyes.

  Kyra stood for a moment studying her handiwork. “That’s for you, Dad.”

  “It’s over, then. He’s dead, and you’ve still got the money.”

  She swung her gaze his way, armored with violence. It made it easier to strike, hoping it would hurt him, even a little. God, she’d told him she was falling in love with him. Between the stink of Serrano’s voided bowels and the crash she was fighting back by the skin of her teeth, it was all she could do to stay on her feet now.

  “Yeah. And we’re done, too. It’s been . . . interesting, Reyes. Don’t follow. Don’t try to find me. I don’t want to see you again.”

  Kyra stumbled out to look for Mia, leaving him alone in the house of the dead.

  CHAPTER 29

  Reyes researched his next job a hell of a lot better.

  As Foster had promised, nobody seemed to know that his last contract had gone wrong. The offers poured in as they always had, and he continued to pick and choose. He reviewed Interpol files for Nicolao Vadas and he didn’t like what he saw, including the names of his movies and the pictures of his victims. After due investigation, he chose the job in Budapest for several reasons, though it wasn’t even close to the highest bid.

  One: it was across an ocean from Kyra Marie Beckwith. Two: the scumbag deserved to die. The e-mail came in through layers of encryption from a bereaved father in Hungary; his daughter had been lured into the life with promises of a film career, and she was dead by fifteen of a drug overdose. The man was a grocer, but he’d scraped up fifteen grand. Reyes would’ve done the job for $5.95. Odd as it might sound to a normal, he needed a righteous killing to feel clean.

  A lesser factor . . . he’d discovered that Monroe was hiding there. After giving him up to Van Za
nt, he had reason to fear. He’d considered the man a friend, but he should know better than anyone, friendship could be bought and sold like anything else. Monroe had to know Reyes would come for him.

  So he booked himself on an overnight flight. He couldn’t outrun the memories, but maybe it would help to be a world away. Rising costs kept people from traveling, so he had an empty seat next to him in first class. The pretty blond flight attendant showed signs of interest, but he kept his expression impassive and turned his face toward the window. Thereafter, she kept her attention professional.

  He took out One Hundred Years of Solitude and brushed his fingers over the cover. In his mind’s eye, he could see Kyra curled up in his loft, reading it. Reyes placed his fingers where she’d held it. For a long, aching moment, he let himself remember.

  Then he opened the book.

  The flight was long, but uneventful. They landed at JFK with a minimum of fuss, and then he had a connection in two hours. He didn’t try to sleep. His eyes felt achingly dry, full of grit and weariness. He bought a coffee to combat the feeling. Reyes couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept well.

  Liar. It was at the little house in the woods, the last time you held her.

  Along with the other passengers, he boarded the flight to Amsterdam just before midnight. He accepted a pillow and blanket to make his flight more pleasant, but in truth, he just wanted an excuse to shut everyone out. After refusing dinner service, he dozed in fits and starts, and dreamed of a woman’s freckled face.

  Eight hours later, the Boeing put down in Amsterdam, where he went through immigration, baggage claim, and customs. Most countries were like that these days, even if you were only passing through. Reyes rechecked his luggage and barely made his connection to Budapest.

  This was the last leg of the journey. It felt like he’d been traveling forever, though it had only been a little over a day. He never traveled directly to a hit, so there would be other stops to cloud the waters. Time-consuming, but it had helped more than once in throwing people off his trail. He paused at a currency exchange for some forints.