The Assassin's Prayer Page 7

  “She wasn’t even supposed to be home that night,” Frank said. “That’s why we didn’t include her or the kid in the stats package. Had I known, I probably would have had you take her out too.”

  “And you know I wouldn’t have been able to do that,” said Kain.

  Frank sighed. “Yeah, I know. You and your precious code.”

  The code.

  Kain’s code.

  The Assassin’s Prayer.

  God, let not my bullet or blade shed the blood of innocents.

  Karen had written that for him on the night he revealed to her that he was a Company assassin. He had been afraid that she would leave him, but she had simply looked at him for a moment, then taken out a piece of plain white paper and wrote THE ASSASSIN’S PRAYER at the top. She had then penned the words of the prayer just beneath the title in her flowing, feminine script. She had presented it to him with uncharacteristic solemnity, then touched her lips to his in the gentlest of kisses and told him that it didn’t matter, that she loved him no matter what he did for a living.

  Kain felt the sting of tears in his eyes, but blinked them away. They’d be selling popsicles in Hell before he’d cry in front Frank or Silas. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said.

  “You’re right, I don’t understand,” said Frank. “Man, woman, child ... anyone who gets in your way is fair game to be put down.” He shrugged. “But it’s no big deal. Let’s see how this thing shakes out tomorrow night. If I decide I want Rene Perelli buried alongside her husband, I’ll have one of my boys do it or hire another freelancer like you.”

  “Speaking of tomorrow night,” Kain said, “which marina are you using to offload the guns?”

  “The one just down the road from your house,” Frank answered.

  “The Saint James Marina?”

  “That’s the one. You could walk to this job.”

  “Why so far away?” Kain asked. “Why not do the drop down here in the city? The way you have it set up now, you’ll have to transport the guns over the road.”

  Silas answered. “Location. It’s cow country, for god’s sake. Nobody will ever suspect we’re offloading an arms shipment there. And the marina is empty this time of year, so there’s less possibility of unwelcome eyes observing the proceedings.”

  “And with you running interference on the ground,” Frank added, “things should go smooth as silk.”

  “What time is it going down?” Kain asked.

  “We expect the yacht—it’s called Sea Shark, by the way—to be there around midnight,” Silas said. “You’ll want to get there early to secure the grounds and take out any uninvited guests.”

  “Gee, thanks for telling me how to do my job,” Kain drawled sarcastically. “I’ll be there by ten. Are we done here?”

  Frank nodded. “Yeah, that’s it. I’ll have one of the guest rooms made up for you.”

  Kain stood up. “Don’t bother. I’m not staying.”

  Silas stood as well, saying, “You’re actually going to drive back home tonight? You just got here.”

  “All I came for was my money and my next job. I got both, so there’s no reason for me to stay.”

  “You spend too much time alone, Kain. It’s not healthy. Stay here among friends for a while.”

  Kain wanted to ram his fist down Silas’ throat and rip his tongue out by the root. “You are not one of my friends, Silas. Get that through your thick skull.”

  “Only because you won’t let me be.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  Frank slapped his desk to get their attention. “All right,” he said, “that’s enough bickering for one night, kids. Kain, if you don’t want friendship, that’s perfectly okay with me. The only bond that needs to be between us is my cash and your guns. Love, loyalty, friendship ... all as overrated as ribbed condoms. So have a safe trip home. I take it you don’t want Silas to escort you out?” There was a bemused smirk on Frank’s face.

  “I think I can find my own way out.” Kain turned and walked out of the room. He heard Frank say something, probably adios or sayonara or something equally stupid, but he didn’t respond. He just pulled open the double oak doors, exited past Pierre and Andy without acknowledging them, and strode briskly down the hall until he reached the front door.

  As he stepped out into the darkness of early night, Jean-Luc was no longer manning the front door, so Kain found himself alone at last. Only then did he let the tension bleed from his muscles, the fires of his anger to abate. Silas was zealous in his quest to repair their broken friendship but seemed blind to the fact that his attempts only served to enrage Kain. Whenever Silas tried to mend the wounds between them, all Kain could picture was Karen’s legs wrapped around his best friend’s waist. Forgive the betrayal? Absolve the sin? No way. It was never going to happen. Silas might feel the need for redemption, but all Kain felt was a deep, burning rage.

  At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself. But as Kain descended the steps to his Jeep, he knew he was lying to himself. Sometimes, hidden just beneath the rage, he felt a sense of loss, an empty ache for a friendship that had been drowned in a sea of traitorous lust. The feelings never lasted long—just a flickering second or two and then they were gone—but try as he might, Kain could not deny their existence.

  The emotional tug-of-war scraped his nerves raw as he fished his keys from his pocket. As he climbed into his Jeep and drove away, there was a hollow ache inside him that he refused to explore. The pain made for a long drive home.

  CHAPTER 7

  The next night, Kain arrived at the St. James Marina at precisely 2200 hours. The mercenary team showed up 60 minutes later.

  Approximately 200 yards northeast of the marina proper, in a large field of waist-high wild grass, squatted a crumbling heap of blackened rubble and scorched stone that had once been a luxurious riverfront mansion before it burned to the ground thirty years ago. From the shadows of these old ruins, Kain watched the mercenaries through night-vision binoculars that stripped the world of color, leaving behind only varying shades of gray, black, and green.

  The four men arrived in a dark blue van with blacked-out windows. Kain pegged them as mercs by their tactical clothing, disciplined precision of movement, and TDI Vector submachine guns threaded with suppressors.

  Kain wondered why Rene Perelli had contracted outside talent for this job. Peter Perelli had been a powerful up-and-comer in the organized crime ranks and Kain was not egotistical enough to believe that his execution of the crime boss had crushed the entire organization. He had inflicted some damage, made them suffer some losses, but there still should have been enough goons left to rally to Rene Perelli’s cause and carry out this attempted hijack of the Giadello arms shipment.

  Then again, most organized crime gunners know how to carry out a hard strike about as well as a vegetarian knows the best way to cook veal, so maybe that was why Rene Perelli had opted for pros. And there was no doubt that the four-man team that exited the van decked out in black from boots to caps were professionals. They moved with the lethal grace inherent to men who are at home on the killing fields. Their movements were quick but stealthy as they melted into the shadows, merged with the darkness, and took up positions in a pine grove near the water’s edge. Studying the angles, Kain saw that the team leader knew his business and had chosen their concealment well. The entire merc pack would be completely invisible to the Sea Shark when it motored into the marina.

  The Saint James Marina was little more than a cement launching ramp for small boats and several wooden docks that stretched from the shore out into the deeper waters to allow the occasional yacht to moor. As long as he had lived in the area, Kain had never seen the place manned. There was a dilapidated trailer that served as a main office, but it looked like its better days had been somewhere around the heyday of afros, bell bottoms, and disco balls. No lights glowed in the windows. As far as Kain could tell, he and the mercenaries had the place to themselves.

  Satisfied that
there was no immediate threat, Kain lowered the binoculars. He could smell the river, a ripe reek of decay, dead fish, and corruption. Back in the ‘80s, the factory three miles upriver had dumped pollution into the water on a regular basis, turning it an ugly orange-brown color and cursing it with a sulfuric stench. The authorities had eventually intervened but the damage was done. Even after all these years and multiple cleanup efforts, the stink still hung in the air and clung to the inside of your mouth like dry rot.

  Kain glanced up at the sky. The darkness was dense. Thick clouds suffocated the stars and marginalized the moon’s effectiveness. The mercs had to be loving this weather. It was a perfect night for a hijacking.

  Kain reached for his weapon of choice for tonight’s mission: an Israeli-made Galil Sniping Rifle. It featured a folding stock, making it one of the most compact sniping systems on the market, more of an accurized assault rifle than a true sniping rifle. But this was not a surgical strike where millimeters mattered. With the Galil, Kain could put five shots into a two inch circle at 200 yards, more than accurate enough for this job. After all, the hijackers’ heads were a lot bigger than two inches.

  Kain flipped down the integrated bipod and adjusted the legs, stabilizing the Galil. A 6x40mm scope was mounted on the receiver. He looked through it, feeling the rubber eyepiece press against his skin. The scope was a light-gathering model, capable of utilizing all latent light, including moonlight and starlight, and magnifying it to such a degree that the shooter could see the target even in the dark.

  Kain swung the rifle onto each of the four mercenaries, marking their positions. When the time came to open fire, he would have only seconds to take down quadruple targets. Knowing where they were and how far apart they were spaced would be crucial to his success. He tracked left to right, then right to left, then repeated the sequence several more times, getting a feel for how far he would have to swing the Galil before acquiring sight picture on his multiple targets. He didn’t have to worry about anyone hearing the gunshots; the Galil sported a sound suppressor that doubled as a muzzle brake and flash suppressor. Whatever killing went down here tonight would go down quietly.

  Through the scope, the mercenaries looked restless. They repeatedly checked their chronometers, then scanned the river. They appeared ready to go, ready for action. Just sitting around was probably playing hell with their nerves. One merc fired up a cigarette, match flaring brightly. It was the first sign of poor discipline anyone on the team had exhibited.

  From the way the others kept glancing at him, Kain pegged the smoker as the leader. A few meters to his left was a black man with a rubbery-looking scar on his upper lip. The other two were your standard issue white boys, completely nondescript.

  Take the leader first, Kain decided. It was just a basic combat axiom—destroy the head honcho and the followers often fall into confusion and confusion leads to vulnerability. Kain hoped the sight of their commander falling would freeze the others long enough for him to drop them as well. He had mentally crunched the numbers. It was going to be close. He had to be quick and smooth on the trigger. The margin for error was hair-thin.

  Lights appeared off to Kain’s left where the river first curled into view. A few moments later the rumble of engines reached his ears as the yacht eased toward the marina docks. Kain didn’t bother confirming that it was the Sea Shark; just the way the mercenaries tensed up and shifted into action stances told him it was show time.

  Kain drew a bead on the merc leader. Through the scope, he saw the man drop his cigarette, crush it under his boot heel, then exhale his last drag in a cloud of smoke. Kain aligned his crosshairs, applied 2.5 pounds of pressure to the fine-tuned trigger, and sent his first 7.62mm bullet right through that gray haze. The merc leader staggered backward, his entire oral cavity—teeth, tongue, and soft palate—blown out the exit wound in the back of his neck.

  Kain barely registered the kill. He was already swinging the Galil onto his second target, the black merc.

  Trigger pull. Recoil. Impact.

  The scar on the man’s lip vanished, erased by a bullet. Then half his head vanished as well.

  Moving with the fluid precision of a well-oiled war machine, Kain tracked right, seeking target acquisition on the third merc. The man’s startled face filled the scope and Kain blew it off. Four seconds elapsed, three men down.

  The last merc tried to take evasive action, but he was just a split second too late. As he spun to his right, seeking cover behind the nearest tree, Kain drilled a bullet through his ribs and into his heart. The guy pitched sideways, dead before he hit the dirt.

  Kain took a deep breath and exhaled, releasing the tension and adrenalin that had built up during the six seconds it took him to terminate the merc team. His breath plumed like dragon-smoke in the cool night air as his taut nerves returned to a more relaxed state. He stowed the Galil back into its case, then extracted himself from the area. His work here was done.

  He was home in time to catch the second half of Leno.

  CHAPTER 8

  Later that night, Kain awoke to the sound of his cell phone ringing. He glanced at the alarm clock, red numbers glowing in the dark. 2:30 a.m. Safe to assume it was not the Christian Children’s Fund calling to ask him to sponsor a starving kid.

  He answered on the fourth ring.

  Before he could say so much as hello, Frank Giadello was bellowing in his ear as if someone had twisted his ball sack into a Gordian knot. “They hit us! Ambushed the van, whacked my guys, and took my guns!”

  Kain reached over and turned on the light. His bedroom window was cracked open a couple of inches. He could hear the deep, throaty croak of bullfrogs in the marsh across the road.

  “Kain? Are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “Well, say something, for god’s sake.”

  “Something.” Being rudely awakened in the middle of the night brought out the best in him.

  “What I don’t need right now,” Frank growled, “is a smartass.”

  “Sorry,” Kain said, but he didn’t even try to sound sorry.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry too,” Frank said, and he didn’t sound like he meant it either. “Sorry to tell you that I expect you down here by dawn. Got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  ******

  Kain didn’t make it by dawn—he caught a couple hours of shuteye instead of jumping right in his Jeep—but he did arrive at the Giadello estate by midmorning. Jean-Luc met him out front then escorted him around back to the Olympic size in-ground pool. A portable massage table had been erected on the patio and Frank was being rubbed down by two stark naked blondes—Missy and Michelle, if Kain recalled correctly—who giggled like schoolgirls as they slopped massage oil all over their cosmetically-enhanced breasts and let it dribble off their pert nipples onto Frank’s neck, shoulder, back, and legs. Missy stood in front of Frank and leaned over him to rub in the oil, her clean-shaven crotch kissing-close to his face. Jean-Luc went over to a small table which had been laid out with a continental breakfast, grabbed a bagel, and departed the vicinity.

  Kain ambled over and poured himself a glass of orange juice from an ice-chilled carafe. Sunrays needled deceptively hot against his skin; the calendar might have said October, but the onset of Indian summer made it feel more like June. Moist and muggy were the meteorological catchwords of the day.

  Kain sat down at the breakfast table and cranked open the umbrella to give himself some shade. Didn’t do much to combat the heat, but it was better than nothing. He sipped on his juice and watched Missy and Michelle give Frank the kind of massage that did not miss a single nook or cranny. They had enough empty space between their ears to float a zeppelin, but there was no denying they had gorgeous bodies and experienced fingers.

  Frank turned his head and pretended to see Kain for the first time, though Kain had little doubt the crime boss had known he was sitting there al
l along. Frank Giadello didn’t miss much. “Kain,” Frank said. “Good to see you again.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the girls. “Want one? They’ll do anything.” He gave Kain a wink. “And I do mean anything. I’ve done things to these two that would make Christian Grey blush and they haven’t batted an eye.”

  “I’ll pass,” Kain said. “But thanks for the mental image.”

  “Your loss.” Frank sat up, swung his legs off the table, and looked at the girls. “Excuse us, ladies, but Mr. Kain and I have some private business to discuss, so I need you to disappear for awhile.”

  Missy and Michelle’s ripe, ruby lips turned down in sultry pouts that were obviously faked but they obeyed like good little pets, leaving Frank and Kain alone on the patio. Frank donned a white terrycloth robe, then sat down at the table across from Kain. He picked up a croissant and bit into it. “So,” he said to Kain between chews, “about our little disaster last night. Somebody ambushed the van, slaughtered my guys, and made off with the guns.”

  “Think Rene Perelli hired two merc teams?”

  “Conjecture at this point, but it seems to be the likely answer,” Frank said. “Probably the team you took out was just a decoy. I bet Perelli never intended to hit the yacht. I bet her plan all along was to hit the van.”

  “Looks like she’s got brains to go with her beauty.”

  “Yeah, well, I want those brains blown out the back of her pretty little head,” Frank growled. “This is a war I don’t need right now.”

  “If you’re asking me to put her down, you’ve got the wrong guy.”

  “I haven’t asked you anything yet.”

  Silas chose that moment to make his entrance, coming out onto the patio through the sliding glass doors that led into the main house. His rubber-soled shoes made faint squeaking noises as he walked across the wooden deck.

  Frank asked, “What is it, Silas?”

  “Someone here to see you. Says he’s here on Rene Perelli’s behalf and he’ll only talk to you.”