“A favor? That’s a switch.” Mark looked at Morgan in surprise. “Usually I’m the one needs something from you guys…like the reason I’m calling you today.”
“OK…you first. What do you need?”
“I need three people whacked, in public, with a message.”
“Whoa! Who pissed you off this morning?” Morgan showed him a huge grin. “Or are you thinking it’s ‘buy two, get one free’ time? Sorry, that special expired last week.”
“No problem, I’ll pay for all three of ‘em—at the usual professional courtesy rate, of course. And yes, somebody pissed me off—I’ll send you a file with the details. No hurry, just need it done in an orderly and proficient manner.”
“Can do—and we’ll send you the usual report when it’s done. Or maybe you can watch it on the evening news, depending on how big that message is you want sent.”
“That would be nice, if you can arrange it. Read the file, you’ll see why.” He touched his screen and heard the ping on Morgan’s system as the file arrived.
“Got it—I’ll get back to you if we have questions. Now…about that favor we need from you. You have a guy by the name of George Maroney on your contract list, right?”
“Yes.” Mark gave him a questioning look. “He’s scheduled for tomorrow, in fact. What about it?”
“He’s one of our people.”
“Yours? You mean he’s a Shooter, or just somebody you’ve got a contract for?”
“Both. We’ve been looking for him for about a month.”
“Hey…he was not on either list—I checked. You know I always do. My background check shows he’s a big-money real estate broker.”
LifeEnders maintained two lists on their corporate system. The lists were confidential, never to be seen by anyone other than LifeEnders operatives—except that they were also available to Mark as part of his non-compete agreement, and to anybody who could afford a good enough hacker to break into the databases. So far, that was exactly nobody.
The first was the “No Hit” list—people whom LifeEnders corporate did not want killed. The list included the Corpses’ own people—Corpse being the urban slang for LEI, Inc.—the exempted professions and classes, and select people with whom LifeEnders had a vital business relationship. Mark and Lisa were both on the “No Hit” list.
Licensed LifeEnders field agents, aka Shooters, were required to refuse contracts that targeted a person on the list. More importantly, they were required to report any attempt to take out such a contract to LEI HQ—in case LifeEnders decided that the person asking for the hit was a problem needing to be dealt with. Technically, such a request didn’t trigger a reprisal hit…technically. The reality was otherwise.
Mark’s franchise agreement with LifeEnders required him to check the “No Hit” list and not accept a Ferry contract from anyone on it without a special LEI dispensation. LifeEnders might allow someone on the list to commit suicide, which, legally speaking was the service he provided, but so far the issue hadn’t come up.
The second list was the “Hit” list—people for whom LifeEnders had a contract to kill, but hadn’t yet completed the job. Mark was required to refuse a contract from anyone on that list as well, since it was already contracted for, the only exception being the rare ‘Open Hit,’ where anyone with a License to Kill could execute the person and get paid for it. Payment for a LifeEnders contract was often contingent upon completion of the hit. They didn’t want to be cut out of a fee because one of their targets chose to off himself (or hire the Ferry to do it).
So far, Mark hadn’t run across an Open Hit seeking a Ferry Ride. He would have been more than happy to do so, since he would be able to collect his regular termination fee from the ‘Ferry client’ (of which LifeEnders would get their usual cut) and then collect the fee from the person who had contracted for the hit (of which LifeEnders would get their standard cut as well.) It would be a double win for both the Ferry and LifeEnders.
Mark also maintained a list—which LifeEnders also checked—of people for whom the Ferry had a contract pending completion. It wasn’t a long list, since Ferry contracts were usually completed at the end of the three-day wait. LifeEnders, on the other hand, might be looking for a fugitive target for a long time.
LifeEnders operatives were instructed not to take a contract for anyone who already had a Ferry contract pending. In return, Mark was always careful to check both their lists.
“You’re right.” Morgan shrugged. “He wasn’t on the lists. He wasn’t on the No Hit because we took him off. He’s not on the contract list because we don’t put our dirty laundry on that one. We don’t do a regular contract when we need to hit one of our own.
“As for the real estate thing, he wasn’t one of our General Practice guys—he was a Cover Agent. The real estate brokerage was his cover. Anyway, he’s on our internal hit list now because of a target ID issue.”
Mark understood. LifeEnders General Practitioners were agents who were out in the public, either working for LEI directly, or franchised, but with LifeEnders’ name on the door. Cover Agents were sent out when a target was expecting to be hit and was taking security precautions. Nobody expected to be whacked by a hairdresser, a lawn maintenance contractor, or a real estate broker.
The ‘target ID issue’ meant the Shooter had had a legitimate contract but had hit the wrong target by mistake. LifeEnders got really upset about such things, because they tended to piss off local authorities and were a reflection on LEI’s professionalism. It was OK if one of their agents incurred some collateral damage—like having to take out somebody who interfered with a hit—as long as the right target got hit as well. Hitting the wrong target altogether was not OK. Their basic rule was “Strike One and You’re Out.”
“Hmmm…” Mark considered the problem, “so he figured you guys were going to get him anyway, and he’d rather go out with us—’quick and painless’ is what he asked for. Either that, or he figures he’ll try to bribe us to say we’ve done him and send the notice to DHS. If that’s his game, forget about painless—I’ll shoot his sorry ass on the spot. You guys don’t play that game, and neither do I. So where does that leave us?”
“No problem for you.” Morgan shrugged. “I assume you already got paid, or he wouldn’t be coming in tomorrow to be chopped. It’s just that we like to take care of our own internal issues—like you said, to send a message. What we’d like to do is hit him in front of your place when he shows up tomorrow, but we don’t want to step on your contract. Technically, you got him first, and the non-compete says he’s all yours. I guess we’re just asking for a waiver on this one, you know…professional courtesy.”
“Well—like you said—I already got paid, and LEI got their cut from that.” Mark’s grin matched the one on Morgan’s face. “As far as I’m concerned, if he has an accident on the way over here tomorrow, he’s just another no-show, and we keep the money. He’s due here at 9:00AM. If you want to whack him, I’m OK with it. Just try not to get blood on my front steps, or I’ll send you a bill for the clean-up.”
“Nah, we wouldn’t do that. We’ll hit him outside your gate. You can watch the show on your security cameras.”
Chapter Seven
Professional Courtesy
The next morning, Mark and Lisa were both watching the screens as the little electric ride-service car pulled up in front of the gate, and the driver pressed the admittance request on the security kiosk.
Mark keyed the intercom. “Client name, please…”
The driver conferred with his passenger, then turned back to the kiosk. “George Maroney…says he has an appointment.”
“Just a moment…” Mark pointed to the wide view from the street-side security camera, calling Lisa’s attention to the big trash collection truck that had just pulled across the driveway, blocking the little car from backing out.
Two men dressed in the trash company’s uniform coveralls jumped down from the rear of the truck and came around both sides of t
he car, drawing pistols as they approached. One covered the driver’s side from the rear, while the other used a rescue tool to shatter the passenger side rear window, then fired repeatedly into the back seat. The sound of the shots came through loud and clear over the intercom. Suppressed .45 ACP, Mark decided. Good choice for up close and personal.
Mark glanced at the kiosk camera and saw the terrified driver, scrunched forward, his arms wrapped around the steering wheel. Despite the camera’s penetrating infrared imaging ability, his view of the rear-seat passenger was obscured by the heavy splash of blood dripping down the inside of the other rear window.
The shooter jerked the door open and ducked into the car to check that the target was dead. He emerged a moment later and flashed a thumbs-up to his partner, who then walked forward to the still-open driver’s window.
“Relax, buddy,” he told the driver. “Your name’s not on our list. Suggest you stay right here and call the police. When they show up, give them this.” He held out what looked like a business card, but the driver only whimpered and continued to clutch the steering wheel.
The LifeEnders agent shrugged and tossed the card into the car. Then he and his partner climbed aboard the truck, which pulled away and rolled down the street. The ride service driver continued to whimper.
“Driver! Sit up and look at me!” Mark commanded.
Startled, the man sat up and looked toward the kiosk, his face a mask of terror.
“They’re gone now. You’re safe. We’ve already called the police. Find that card they gave you.”
“This one?” he held up the card.
“Yes, that one. Show that to the police, and they won’t give you any trouble. Those were LifeEnders people. They only wanted your passenger. The police will call LifeEnders to make sure the hit was legitimate, and that will be the end of it.
“You might want to make a note of the number on that card,” Mark added with a chuckle. “If you call LifeEnders and complain, they’ll send you a payment to cover the repair and clean-up for your car.”
The man turned around and looked in the back seat for the first time.
“Madre de Dios!” He flung open the door, banging it against the guard rail in front of the kiosk. Scrambling out, he stumbled away to one of the tall trees that lined the street. Leaning against it, he barfed up his breakfast.
“He’s going to need to change his pants, too,” Lisa remarked, noting the large wet stain on the front of the man’s khaki shorts. “Guess we can call Maroney a no-show. Hope the police get it cleaned up before Dickerson shows up this afternoon.”
As it turned out, Elise Dickerson didn’t show up, either. Lisa had predicted she wouldn’t—Dickerson had a long history of never finishing what she started. She had inherited millions but had never figured out what to do with her life. The $250k she’d just dropped into the Ferry’s balance sheet was just another false start in her life.
“Well, that’s two for two,” Mark said. “Let’s go out for dinner tonight and spend some of our not-so-hard-earned money. What are you up for?”
“We haven’t done Mexican in a while. How about El Loco Coyote?”
“Works for me.” He gave her a pat on the ass. “Besides, Mexican food always makes you…spicy.”
“Yeah, well…I can’t help it. For me, guacamole is an aphrodisiac.”
“Gimme another one, Jimbo,” DeVonne ordered. Without question, the bartender slid another Tequila Sunrise in front of her.
Nice thing about Jimbo’s joint, ain’t nobody asks for ID. And nobody cares about stupid smoking laws, either. She lit up a Blue Haze and took a deep hit, smirking at the dirty, peeling “No Smoking” sign on the wall, with the California law citation on the bottom. Besides…that’s for the tobacco freaks. Marijuana was legal in the Golden State. Indoor smoking—tobacco or otherwise—was not, but nobody ever checked Jimbo’s.
As for the ID, she needn’t have worried about it. California’s legal drinking—and drug use—age was 18. According to her Universal Identification Card, she was 19. Of course, she didn’t know that. Just a few days ago, a check of the UID would have shown her to be 16 years of age.
She watched with interest as a potential mark came through the door. The guy was tall, solid, good looking, wearing an outfit that had money written all over it. And in case the clothes didn’t send the message, the gold chains and diamond rings told her he was not the usual ‘hood cruiser. Hollywood type, looking for hot action on the cheap, she decided, smiling as her friend Tiffany intercepted the flashy dude before he got three steps into the place.
They always want something from the other side, she mused. That was why Tiffany—the white half of their salt-and-pepper team—always grabbed the black marks and left the white ones to DeVonne. This guy was a prime example. His broad smile—showing an impressive gold grille as Tiffany rubbed her big boobs against him—told DeVonne that the hook was in. Now all they had to do was land the fish.
Tiffany steered the mark toward the bar—directly to the two empty barstools that would put him between the two of them. The guy was obviously up for it, his arm around her as they walked. DeVonne couldn’t see, but she was sure he was fondling Tiffany’s ass as they approached.
Big dude…really big dude. Where the hell’s Rocco…might need his help with this one.
“Hey, DeVonne, look what I found,” Tiffany purred as they reached the bar. “Says his name’s Marcus, and he’s lookin’ for a party.”
The guy grinned at DeVonne, giving her a close-up of that fancy grille.
“You a good-looking woman, DeVonne.” His voice was a deep, rich baritone. “Tiffany…ain’t you afraid your friend gonna steal me away from you?”
“She doesn’t need to steal.” Tiffany gave him another serious boob-rub. “She’s my friend—we always share.”
“Oh, my! Well, maybe I came to the right place, after all. I thought maybe I missed it—didn’t see what I was lookin’ for when I came in the door.”
“What was you lookin’ for?” DeVonne gave him a suspicious look.
“Friend of mine told me to look for a little girl named Lacrisha.” He gave her another golden smile. “Said she could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch ball.”
“Oh, yeah…” Tiffany giggled, “Little Lacrisha Suckandfuck. She could probably do that. We once had her suck one guy while another guy fucked her. She used to put on a real show.”
“But she ain’t here no more,” DeVonne told him. “She ain’t been here for weeks. Think maybe somebody offed the little bitch. Or maybe she offed herself. She was crazy, not right in the head.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.” Marcus shook his head. “Lacrisha’s not here anymore.” Suddenly his face turned dead-cold serious. “But she sends her regards…”
They never saw where the pistol came from, never even noticed it was in his hand until he shot Tiffany—twice, once in the groin, once in the belly. She screamed and backed away, doubling up in pain before falling backwards to the floor.
He turned and repeated the process with DeVonne before she could react. Seated on the high-backed barstool, she couldn’t get away. She wailed in panic and tried to grab his shoulders to push him away, but he brushed her arm aside and grabbed her by the hair.
“Wish I could make you suffer the way she did,” he snarled, “but I ain’t got the time.” He put the pistol’s suppressor between DeVonne’s eyes and pulled the trigger, splattering blood and brains over the surface of the bar.
Tossing her aside and letting her flop on the floor, he shifted the pistol to point at the bartender, who had taken one step forward with his hands extended to reach under the bar.
“Touch that 12-gauge and your brains will be on the wall, Jimbo.” He held out his left hand, displaying a large, golden badge. Jimbo nodded and stepped back, his hands in the air. LifeEnders usually didn’t come this far downtown, but everybody knew what that badge looked like.
Marcus took a quick glance around the bar. In this neighborhood
, people knew how to disappear in a hurry, and except for Tiffany still squirming around on the floor and moaning, Jimbo was the only person left in the place. Marcus stepped back, turned to Tiffany, and put a bullet into her forehead, taking care of the last item on his commission list. Her body jerked once, arms and legs shooting out, leaving her spread-eagled on the floor, staring up at the ceiling.
Marcus turned back and placed a card on the bar. “Don’t bother to call your clean-up boys, Jimbo—police are already on the way, and they ain’t gonna buy the usual ‘nothing happened here’ story. Just show ‘em the card, and make sure they read what’s on the back.” He slipped the gun back into the shoulder holster inside his leather coat and headed for the door.
“Oh…and by the way…” He paused at the door, turning back to Jimbo who still stood with his hands in the air.
“When they get here, tell ‘em they’ll find Rocco DeSantis in the dumpster out back with a hole in his head and his balls blown off. Have a nice day.” He turned and went out the door.
Jimbo picked up the card on the bar. It was the usual LifeEnders calling card, but when he turned it over, there was a neatly printed message on the back.
Lacrisha Jones
Rest in Peace
“It’s done. Report’s in your box.” Jay Morgan wore a look of smug satisfaction.
“Yeah…” Mark nodded. “I saw it on the news. Well done, as always.”
“We have a guy who grew up in that part of town. Gave him the details, and he was hot to go—hated the targets before he even saw them, probably put a little extra into the hit to deliver that message of yours. Our people will always get it done, anyway, but it helps if we decide the target really needs to be snuffed.
The Ferryman Page 5
