Chapter 5

Five

Three days of patient observation paid off. The nest was thirty floors up, on a floor under construction with no glass installed yet. The plastic sheeting provided ample cover. There was a bathroom one floor down.

As jobs went, this was almost like a room at the Ritz. Hour sixty-nine—good hour—the target arrived at his private apartment for an assignation with the mistress or call girl or whatever was the season’s latest flavor.

The woman wasn’t his wife. That was all I needed to know. She was also not a target. Collateral wasn’t covered, but they would like a witness. So it wasn’t just a physical assassination.

They wanted to kill the guy’s reputation too. Then again, he was part mob sellout, part politician, and all around sleazebag. His numbers in the current poll were tanking but the guy hadn’t lost an election in twelve years.

Frankly, I didn’t care. The jobs came in, they paid the bills, some had some specialist shit they wanted done—like cutting out tongues or leaving their penises next to them. Those jobs were a little messy, but I’d done a few.

I preferred the distance work. I saw better from a distance. The more difficult the target was to acquire, the more I liked the job. It also meant the more I could charge.

Regular infusions also let me turn down the clean-up on aisle fourteen jobs. When the target turned out to be scum? That was just icing on the cake. He was dancing as he came in and he tossed her something. She had to be twenty years younger than him.

Nice tits and ass, but I liked them actually out of college at the very least. When she started cutting a couple of lines, I kept an eye on her for a moment.

Cocaine. She didn’t look too buzzed right now. Maybe the next few minutes would scare her straight. Either way, she at least didn’t have to worry about faking it for the limpdick who was already stripping off his clothes.

Fuck my life, I could have gone forever without having to look at pasty white flesh, apron belly, and flab that rippled when he swung his hips like he was some hot stud on a stage.

Only habits and training kept me from closing my eyes or giving in to disgust. I had a clean sight on his head, and when he turned to face the mirror—that would make a nice splatter target. It was also into a load bearing wall so it would be less likely to cut through him, then the wall, and into someone else.

The mushroom-tipped bullets were designed to shred once it was inside the body, but I liked to minimize the risk of pass-through shootings.

One breath.

Two.

In between the heartbeats.

I squeezed the trigger.

One round.

It blew the front of his skull off and he stood there, limp dick in hand like the body wasn’t sure what to do before he collapsed. The rifle was muffled, but the shot had been loud on this floor. Might even have echoed down to the street, but the girl in the living room was riding her high.

Yeah, enjoy it while it lasts, birdie.

“You’re welcome,” I murmured. Snapping two photos to add to the collection of the others I’d taken. Proof of life snuffed out for the job. Then I broke down the gun and packed it away. Different pieces into different parcel boxes, all going to different locations where I could pick them up later.

Courier tags were already on the boxes. I separated out other pieces and tucked them into hollow crutches. In under five minutes, I’d policed the area of my nest and sanitized it.

Instead of the elevator, I took the stairs down four floors to where a customer service center was located and a trading company. They both worked weird hours. I dropped the boxes into the courier slot. Those went down to a lock box that was only opened by the courier service.

With care, I used the crutches to make my way down the hall. The backpack over my shoulder and earbuds in my ears made me look like one of those traders wrapping it for the night.

“Oh, hang on,” one of the guys stepping off the elevator said, he held the door open for me. “Heading down?”

“Yeah, parking garage.”

“You got it, man.” He hit P1 and then let the doors close. I tucked my head down, leaning heavily on the crutches while yawning. The tired rolled over me. Easier to play the part when you inhabit it.

Once I was in my vehicle, I scratched at the beard covering the lower half of my face. Damn thing itched. I started the old F150 up and rolled my head from side to side. At least the “broken” foot was the left one. Meant driving wasn’t too much of an issue.

You needed to use a building badge to get in and out. Trevor Markowitz of Randolph Trading was the right height and build if you squinted and looked at him sideways.

Not that I had to worry, he was out of town this week and a couple of cameras had been on the fritz for the last few days. It all worked out.

It was just after midnight. The bars were still hopping. I took my time driving to another garage. It was a private one, and I dropped the truck off for clean-up, then walked three blocks over to pick up a different car.

Then I found myself at an all night diner for coffee and food. I ate in the car, firing off the proof to the client’s dropbox.

I had a half-dozen fresh emails since the day before. Vetted files from Patch were at the top of the box. That was my girl, always on top of things.

Thumbing through her breakdowns, I grunted. She definitely found a lot more on the targets than my first go round. Probably should have taken it to her in the first place. I bit into the tuna melt.

Despite the ache of hunger in my gut, I ate slowly and deliberately. I tended to eat very little when on a job. The less I ate, the less I needed to take a shit.

The same with drinking.

Drink only the bare amount necessary. I’d hydrate before I got on my flight. In the meanwhile, I would eat my sandwich, sip my coffee, and do my research.

My email pinged three times while I read through the first file. I really did like how much detail she broke it down in from personal habits to online addictions. What I could never figure out was how she figured that out.

The comment that his background was too clean set off alarm bells. It meant someone had scrubbed him. Whether it was the government or whoever his criminal associates were, it was a very thorough job.

Thorough enough that Patch, the best goddamn operator I’d ever had, highlighted the discrepancies. She hadn’t filled in the blanks. But I hadn’t asked her to do that. It would be a much deeper dive and require a lot more of her resources.

Turning the information over in my head, I pulled out some fries and munched on those as I went through the next two targets’ files. All scrubbed. Just like the first. Patch had left a note at the bottom of the last one.

Post Office should have better receipts than what they turned over. Suggests that they were part of the scrubbing. Be wary.

Part of the scrubbing. So maybe a freelance Eraser had taken the job. If that was the case, then Patch was right. Nothing that came out of the Post Office could be trusted.

Fuck.

I could turn the jobs down. I hadn’t accepted yet. They’d come back with an increased offer. I’d declined the first time because they’d been cagey on the target and the timeline. I’d also been busy.

Now? Well, with the recent job done, I had plenty of time. The question was, did I want to deal with the fall out if it turned out to be a shit show? The coffee was dark and bitter, like my soul. So good.

Leaving the files, I flipped back to my mail to see the receipt indicating proof of death had been accepted. The next was proof of payment.

Oh, that would take care of a few bills. It was almost two in the morning, but it was after five in the Cayman Islands. My body had no idea what time it was, too many trips abroad. The internal clock was broken.

I slept when I needed sleep and that was fine. When I finished the last of the fries, I put a call through to Isaiah.

“You better have blood or bone showing, I just poured my fucking coffee.”

A grin crossed my face at the grumpy bastard’s greeting. “Well, then I got you after you were out of bed. So bitch less.”

“Oh,” he answered with a grunt. “It’s you. Hang on.”

I waited as he probably switched locations. The soft click of a door closing and the beep of an alarm engaging confirmed the thought. Leaning back in the car, I stared down the darkened street.

I was close enough, I could probably drive down to the beach for sunrise. Problem was, I’d be facing the wrong way.

“Right, I’m at my desk. To what do I owe this honor of a before fucking dawn phone call? Do you need bail money?”

“You’re a regular fucking comedian,” I told him. “No, I don’t need bail—today anyway. But it’s time for you to earn that ten percent you charge me.”

He chuckled. “I earn that ten percent plus interest every single day. You’re up by thirty across most of your accounts. You also doubled your investments in that shipping company you took a liking to.”

That happened when the CEO of the opposing business died while in the middle of a brothel in Asia. But I didn’t judge.

At least not after they were dead.

“Glad to hear it. You should be getting a fresh infusion to the Carmichael accounts.”

Didn’t matter what jobs I took or what name I gave them. I spread out the payments to a wide variety of accounts. Every single account was designed to filter the money through investments, to clean it, then forward it on to where Isaiah could route it to my personal accounts, business expenses and more.

“Good. Probably close them after this payment. Unless you’ve already taken another job there.”

I thought about the files I’d just read. “No,” I told him. “Might be taking a vacation.” I tried the words out. They seemed easy enough to say.

“I’m sorry, who are you and what have you done with Michael Remington?”

I snorted. “I can take a vacation.”

“Name one you’ve taken in the last seven years.” Then before I could comment, he said, “And Cabo doesn’t count. When you’re recovering from gunshot wounds, it’s not a vacation.”

I made a face. “Clean the money up, make sure you pay Patch first. Add a bonus for me, she’s done some good work lately.”

“You really taking a vacation?” Isaiah asked.

“Don’t know yet,” I said. “I’m thinking about it.”

“Well, that’s further than you’ve gotten any other time.”

“You’re an ass.”

“That’s why you like me,” he retorted. “Let me know if you take the vacay, I’ll free up some cash and it’ll be in the right accounts.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. In fact—don’t call so early next time.” With that, Isaiah hung up and I shook my head.

It was the middle of the night here, but I wasn’t sure what time it was for Patch. I could call, but I didn’t need to call. At least—not yet. For now, I checked in for my flight and got the hell out of Los Angeles.

It took almost half a day to get back to my place and it was afternoon when I pulled up her number on my work phone.

I’d made myself wait all day. I’d even come up with some questions about the files.

The only problem was, she didn’t answer.

I frowned and tried the call again. It rang.

It rang and she didn’t answer.

Patch always answered.

One more attempt, even if I already suspected the outcome. I was on my feet and had a go bag in hand while I waited for her to pick up. When she didn’t answer that one, I headed to my garage. I needed to track that number and find her location.

That meant I needed computer access and I couldn’t go through the Post Office.

Not this time.