by Erik Carter
“I said hold, Nakiri.”
She exhaled.
And her trigger finger trembled.
Chapter Seventy
Tanner put his badge away, and the guard retreated into his shack and pressed a button. The red-and-white-striped boom gate arm in front of the Lincoln slowly raised. Tanner eased the car into the Port of Pensacola.
“Heck of a hunch you got here, Lieutenant,” Pace said from the passenger seat.
Both of the Lincoln’s front windows were down, and the fed had his stupid arm dangling outside as he looked into the port, drumming his fingers on the nice, freshly waxed paint. Every now and then, Tanner could hear the man’s class ring tapping against his Lincoln.
Tanner’s teeth ground together.
“Burton’s meeting with international terrorists,” he said. “He won’t be going to the airport, not with the security, especially on the night of a popular festival with people flying in from out of state and from other countries. I’ve called in units to both here and the airport, just in case, but this is where we’ll find him—the port.”
The sounds of the festival carried over from a few blocks away. The air wasn’t too warm, but it was thick and made his skin moist. They drove through the various buildings and patches of light. Tall metal things—spires and round tubes with pipes and electrical cords coming out of them.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Pace said as he continued to stare out the window.
Tanner’s teeth clenched harder. He really wanted to tell this guy to shut up.
But before he could, he saw something. Motion at the cargo containers in the back corner.
He pointed. “There!”
In one of the aisles between the containers, two figures were silhouetted against the orangish glow of light. One of the men stood over the other, who was lying on the rain-slicked ground. Something was going down. Something bad.
They were just shadowy figures in the dark distance, but Tanner recognized them. He’d been studying them both for months.
The man standing was Lukas Burton.
And the man on the ground, the larger silhouette, was someone Tanner would recognize anywhere.
“Shit. It’s Jake,” Tanner said. “Doesn’t look like his revenge turned out the way he’d hoped.”
He flipped on the emergency light and floored the gas.
Chapter Seventy-One
“Plastic surgery?” Burton said as he stared down at Hudson. “Is that it?”
Hudson nodded.
“Well, damn, you sure got your money’s worth, Pete.”
He cocked his head as a realization came to him.
“Why do I keep calling you Pete? I’m guessing ‘Pete Hudson’ was an alias, because you’re clearly no more a car thief than you are a federal agent. You’re a pro. An assassin. Are you working for one of my father’s old enemies? Have you come to kill Jacques Sollier’s son?”
No reply.
“I’m following in the old man’s footsteps,” he said, gesturing to the port surrounding them. “But I never even got to know the guy. Jacques met my mother here, at this port. This is where she worked.”
He snickered and looked off, into the port. Memories of his mother working at the very place he was standing reminded him that he’d never left Pensacola. Unworthiness fell over him again. Momentarily. Then he straightened his back, remembered the bigger goal.
And returned his attention to the man on the ground.
This assassin was deadly, the sort you didn’t turn your back on for a moment.
Burton continued. “He knocked her up and left, sent money every six months. Only visited twice before my mother was killed. No one ever figured out whether the murder was random or connected to Jacques. Regardless, from then on, I was on my own.
“I don’t remember my first meeting with my father. I was only five. But I clearly recall the second visit, when I was eight, about a year before my mom died. Big guy. He had this sort of dignified power to him—the way he dressed and carried himself. Different from the Americans I was used to. Classy. He took me to a park, asked me about my studies, fed me at a fancy French restaurant downtown, taught me the history of a few buildings, and had me back to Mom before dinnertime. Last time I ever saw him. He was killed, too, a few years later.
“I was in and out of foster homes. Got in some trouble. Got arrested a few times. Then a chance meeting with Joey Farone changed my life. At a fruit market, of all places. He saw the potential in me, took me in as a ward for my last year of legal childhood. From then on, I was with the Farones, and I had a real poppa. Then you came in, posing as a car thief, and won the favor of my new father—and his beautiful daughter—in a few months!”
Burton stopped. He felt out of control. That wouldn’t do. He was always composed. He took a deep breath before he continued.
“Whatever you were doing embedded with the Farones, you had us all fooled. Who are you?”
Still no reply.
Burton felt the corners of his standard grin twitch, ready to curl into a scowl. He took out his Smith.
“You’ll forgive me for wanting to know a man’s name before I blast him to Hell. What’s your name?”
The man squinted those dark eyes at him, and his face screwed tight, eyebrows lowering. He locked eyes with Burton.
“Silence Jones.”
Burton felt the gun dip in his hand. He gasped.
That voice…
So bizarre. Unnatural. Deep, crackling, and growly. Macabre and wicked. Inhuman—not so much animalistic as it was mechanical.
The voice jolted Burton back a couple inches. He reaffirmed his grip on the Smith, brought it back up.
He realized his smile was gone. Revealing his shock. Lessening his dominance. So he smiled again.
“Well, Mr. Silence Jones, you’ve stolen so much from me—my poppa, his daughter, my funds in New Orleans, and the passports tonight, my chance at something bigger. It’s finally time to even the score.”
He pulled back the hammer.
Chapter Seventy-Two
On a normal evening, Laswell would be enjoying his time at Pensacola Bayfront Auditorium.
It was a massive, squarish arena-style building—maybe fifty feet tall, brick, windowless, and with a gabled roof, built at the end of a pier, surrounded on three sides by Pensacola Bay. Gentle nighttime waves twinkled with city light as they lapped against the pier’s concrete wall.
But while Laswell leaned against the decorative fence at the quiet walkway surrounding the building, he wasn’t enjoying the splendid sights or the comfortable atmosphere. He was looking due east, the least glamorous direction, where, over a short stretch of water, was the Port of Pensacola.
A massive ship—big enough to have a helipad on top—was docked, bright lights making it’s white-and-blue paint job shine out in the night. Just past the vessel was an area of shipping containers—that’s where Laswell was staring, because that was where his new Asset would be attempting to stop an influx of terrorism.
Nakiri had phoned him, told him she’d finally heard from Suppressor, that Suppressor knew where to find Burton, at the shipping containers at the Port of Pensacola, that they’d be going there to intercept him.
And now Laswell’s two Assets were out there, hidden in the industrial complex on the other side of the water.
“Oh, shit!” Nakiri’s voice came in scratchy through the phone. “Burton cocked his gun.”
Though he couldn’t see her, he knew she was perched on one of the warehouses in the distance, watching what was happening through a scope.
Laswell squinted. He still hadn’t been able to find—
There.
There they were. Two figures. Faint outlines in a dark aisle between the shipping containers. The taller of the two men was on the ground.
That would be Suppressor.
The other figure had his arm extended, pointed downward, toward Suppressor.
Laswell’s left hand clenched the fence, and
his right hand smashed his cellular phone against his ear. Every bit of him was taught, muscles ready to explode.
Because the tone of Nakiri’s voice had said she was getting the itch to interfere.
To defy him.
Like she had before.
“Hold,” he said through his teeth.
“He’s stepping closer. Oh, no…”
“I don’t give a damn what Burton does,” Laswell said, pulling the phone in front of his face to give it a proper shout.
A woman passing behind him shot him a look and hurried her young boy away.
“You let this play out, Nakiri!”
She didn’t reply.
“Nakiri! I’m telling you to—”
He stopped suddenly. There had been a beep-beep in his ear.
He looked at the screen. The green multiplex LCD letters said:
CALL ENDED
“Shit!”
Chapter Seventy-Three
Silence looked up.
At the revolver.
And beyond it, Burton’s face. Not smiling for once. Grim.
Silence only then realized this was the closest he’d been to Burton since the punch to the throat.
The searing pain. The unnatural, impossible sensation that had coursed through his neck. The strange whiteness that had engulfed him. Death.
He’d accepted death.
It was about to happen again, death, once more at Burton’s hands. He’d have to accept his demise for a second time.
“There’s a lot I could do to you right now,” Burton said, “to find out why you’re here. But as you can guess, I’m running low on time. My friend will arrive any moment, and I need to explain to him why his passports are at the bottom of the bay. So we’ll make this brief.”
His finger tensed on the trigger.
Silence took a deep breath. From his stomach. A diaphragmatic breath. Just like C.C. had taught him.
He saw her face, smiling.
I love you, Cecilia.
Another deep breath.
CRACK!
Burton’s shoulder exploded.
A cloud of mist, a snake of blood, and a chunk of flesh, all back-lit by one of the dim, orange streetlights in the distance.
Silence had only a split second to consider what had happened. It was all he needed.
She wasn’t supposed to help him. She was only supposed to clean things up if he bungled.
Nakiri.
He blasted into action, not jumping to his feet but rolling straight toward Burton, a move Burton wouldn’t expect.
The Smith & Wesson Model 29 flailed in Burton’s hand as he stumbled, then the gun roared, muzzle flare blasting from the end of its barrel, strobing the surroundings with a flash of light.
Silence felt the bullet’s impact tremor through the concrete. Debris peppered his back, hot pinpricks through the thick canvas of his jacket.
He crashed through Burton’s shins, and Burton teetered over, his full frame collapsing onto Silence.
The momentum of their combined mass jolted to a sudden stop as they smashed into CG247. A hollow metallic thud rattled through the box.
Silence blinked his eyes open to find Burton’s leg splayed on top of him. He grabbed the shoe and twisted hard, wrenching with that new strength that he’d trained for.
Snap.
The foot went backward.
Burton howled.
Silence scrambled closer, grabbing Burton’s wrist below the gun. Even with a broken ankle, even with a destroyed shoulder, even with Silence torquing his arm with all he had, Burton held steady, muscles hard, quivering. Nothing but adrenaline and rage, the natural strength of a man who was born into a life of crime and violence.
Their locked arms quaked, making the metal wall of the container warble. Silence eased off, fractionally, feigning disadvantage. The Smith’s barrel shook as it drew closer. Burton’s sweaty smile became a sneering line of bared teeth.
Silence waited, then suddenly thrust forward. Explosiveness. Hard lessons learned with kettle bells and medicine balls. He smashed Burton’s wrist into the container.
The Smith dropped, hit the concrete hard, clattered to a stop. Only inches away. Burton swiped for it, and Silence hooked him around the throat, rolling them a full revolution away on the wet pavement.
There was a twitch from Burton’s hips, then a blurring knee met Silence’s chin. His teeth cracked together, and his head snapped back.
Burton glanced to the gun. Several feet away now. Turned back to Silence.
Silence tried to focus, but Burton tilted in his vision, the teeth-cracking knee shot still echoing through Burton’s body. Burton slapped Silence’s arms away, and wrapped his functioning hand around Silence’s throat while the other dangled at his side.
Silence swung at the inside of Burton’s elbow. No effect. A rock-solid pillar. Another swipe. Nothing. Burton was one powerful son of a bitch.
His eyes flicked to Burton’s bloody shoulder.
Go for the wound, Nakiri had said while they watched a tape of Brazilian underground Vale Tudo fights. Hit that weak spot. Relentlessly.
Silence swung his torso to the side, momentarily lessening the arm-pillar’s grip on his neck, then smashed his head into the mess of Burton’s shoulder.
He felt Burton’s blood on his forehead, wet and warm. The impact was hard enough to send an electric quiver through his face, an instant headache.
Burton shrieked and dropped back. The grip on Silence’s neck loosened.
That was all the space that Silence needed.
He shoved Burton back and rolled to his feet, a crouched position, his boots digging into the pavement. Burton looked up at him.
And Silence’s foot thudded into the bloody shoulder.
Burton screamed again, shrill echoes shuddering through the alleys of shipping containers.
What else had Nakiri said?
Speed and power, dummy. Get rid of that energy you worked so hard to build. Give it to the scumbag.
He squared a fist, swung it down to Burton’s face, a blur of speed and a flawless transfer of massive energy.
Burton’s nose snapped. His eyes rolled back, cheeks slackened.
Silence grabbed a handful of Burton’s hair and smashed his head into the concrete. A glob of blood shot from the corner of his mouth.
He gripped the hair tighter, and dragged Burton back to the shipping container. Adding his second hand to the hair, he reared back, and threw Burton face-first into the wall.
Bang!
The container thundered louder than when they’d both smashed into it moments earlier. Its sides shook. Burton slid down the corrugated wall, leaving a streak of blood dripping down the rusty metal.
He was a tangled pile. His face was all bumpy mounds of flesh. Purples and reds and one swollen-shut eye. The other eye blinked, looked up at Silence. Sputtering breaths.
Silence remembered C.C.’s mangled, dead face. Half a face. Burton had stolen the rest of it, left it as flaps of skin.
He thought of his own ruined face. Falcon had told him that Burton and his men had turned him into “hamburger.”
Doughty’s face. The street thug who had been harassing Mrs. Enfield. Silence had smashed that face into the ground, much as he’d just done to Burton.
But he’d halted abruptly.
Mrs. Enfield had come up behind him, put her wrinkled hand on his shoulder, told him to stop.
Silence had then added mercy to his assassin’s toolbox, juxtaposing the Nakiri mainstays like stealth and intimidation.
Mercy.
He looked at Burton.
And his mind went to another image: Jake Rowe, in Burton’s living room, just before he was forced to watch the video of C.C.’s murder. Jake had thought about how his predicament—tied to a chair, surrounded by thugs, tortured—bore similarities to a typical Hollywood action movie.
Burton stared back at Silence with his one functioning eye.
In a typical action movie, this
would be the point where the good guy would show mercy on the villain, the man he’s been seeking revenge on the entire film. He would let the bad guy go. Then the bad guy would reveal a hidden weapon, and the good guy would defend himself, killing the villain. Our hero would get his revenge but keep his honor.
Whenever Silence saw a revenge film with this sort of climax, he felt unsatisfied. Cheated. That type of ending was a copout.
In his new career as an assassin, Silence would need to know when a situation called for mercy.
But this was not one of those situations.
Burton continued to sputter, blinking rapidly now.
Still conscious.
Good.
Silence stepped to where his Beretta had disappeared and found it in the shadows, resting against a container wall.
He picked it up, went back to Burton, watched the man putter for another moment or two.
Closed his eyes.
C.C., smiling at him from her spot on her favorite sofa in the library, book in hand.
Eyes open.
A one-second meditation.
He raised his gun.
And fired.
Two rounds to the forehead. A double tap.
In a typical action movie, the good guy would be overwhelmed with emotion at this moment. The soundtrack would swell to a thunderous crescendo.
But for Silence, his immediate reaction was anticipation of a delayed reaction. He knew the impact would come later, some time when he wasn’t expecting it. For now, he was numb.
Just a simple thought.
Eight down; none to go.
It’s done.
There was a flash of light, sudden and bright enough to make him jump. He looked up.
Bright blue, strobing.
A cop light.
An unmarked car approached, fast, turning a corner, the light pulsing out of its windshield.
For just a moment, he saw Tanner behind the wheel.
Headlights swung in his direction.
Silence threw a hand over his face and sprinted off.
