Dragons Luck

Fifteen

The Quarter is always transient. People come for weeks, for years, for an hour while passing through. It rarely matters, because the outside world hardly seems to exist when one is in the Quarter. Time is at a standstill. So much so that some come for a weekend, never leave, and hardly remember that they were supposed to.

For those coming to New Orleans, there are a host of different types of accommodations. Hotels, motels, full resorts. Even apartments that are sublet. Some locals flee the city during big events, whether it is a football bowl or Mardi Gras. And when a room with a balcony can bring in a thousand dollars a night on Bourbon Street, more than one local property owner has used the tourist dollar to fund their own vacation to far-off locations.

Even when no specific event is going on, one can always find a room. A quick Internet search, a check of the classifieds, and it is little trouble finding a nice apartment for the night. In some ways it is far more convenient than trying to find a hotel room. As time goes by, hotels ask more questions, keep better records, and grow more suspicious about checking an ID than an average Joe who just wants cash up front. Subletting an apartment for the weekend was often easier than finding a place to live for a year.

The assassin sat alone in such an apartment.

He was a big man, well muscled and tough-looking. A bald head first made him seem menacing, but, if anyone had thought to take a second glance, it made him seem neat. His clothes, black and loose, were immaculate. His hands were covered in skintight black-leather gloves. Nearly as thin as surgical gloves, but much less conspicuous. His eyebrows had a light sheen, and it would have taken a keen eye indeed to realize they had been lightly coated with Vaseline.

No matter how advanced investigation techniques became, you had to find a sample for DNA to be recognized. Hair follicles were easier to find than skin cells. And there were ways of dealing with skin cells.

The assassin glanced out of the apartment window. It was early yet, barely six, and he could just barely make out the sign of the target’s favorite pub. An Irish joint from the sign, but he had no plans to approach closer than he was now. The contract had come with surprisingly good information on the target’s activities, but it had also come with a time limit. Two days was almost no time for a true professional hit, and if the money hadn’t been as extraordinary as the intel, he would never have taken the job.

According to the intel, the target, one Griffen McCandles, tended to drink late and often. Quite regularly, he didn’t leave till closing, around two to four in the morning. A perfect time, minimizing threats and potential witnesses and casualties. This area was far too heavily patrolled for the assassin’s liking during the day and evening, but early morning the police presence should be reasonably lax.

The assassin almost smiled. In some ways this town was the worst and best environment for this kind of hit. Getting away with most scenarios would be difficult, but afterward…

A crowd to fade into, a city of roads to get lost on, and the chances of making the newspaper slim to none. Griffen McCandles would be reported as a surprisingly violent mugging, if he was reported at all. The police would know the truth, but no one would want the newspapers to frighten the tourists. Any investigation’s hands would be tied as a result, not that he was particularly worried about local cops.

If the target didn’t come to the pub tonight, tomorrow night the assassin would have to move to Plan B. The target’s home. Not only wasn’t there as accessible a vantage point, but it would make escape much more difficult. He would have to take the shot just as the target passed through the security gate. The timing would be bad, but it was worth it.

If the intel was wrong entirely, he would have to trace things back to the client himself. That would be much more work, with no payment for the hit. Still, one had a reputation to maintain.

Early or not, the assassin began his preparations. He had already cleaned and prepared himself at another site. The outfit was brand-new—well, actually bought years ago elsewhere and put aside, like all of his other “work clothes.” Easily disposed of if necessary, and a white shirt and a pair of blue shorts would make him into an entirely different person if he needed to strip. He pulled out his rifle, which he knew enough. Fired in a private range enough times to break it in. Also easily disposed of. He could leave it on-site or on the target’s body, and it would still give no help in tracking him down.

Just to be safe he broke it down, cleaned it, and reassembled it, setting it on a small table by the window. No balcony in this place. With a balcony, people tended to look up. Without one, they almost never did.

With that he settled in to wait, watching the street via a mirror aimed toward the window. It was enough to watch by, and he was good at waiting. A few hours without moving, a single shot, and he would be much richer. Well, two shots, both to the head. For some reason the contract insisted. As if one would not be enough? The assassin pondered this to pass the time.

“You present a real quandary for me,” a voice said behind him.

What the assassin did not do was jerk around in surprise. He was astonished he hadn’t heard anyone enter; he was 90 percent sure that was impossible. Impossible or not, if the speaker had wanted him dead, he would be dead. He was 99 percent sure of that.

He turned slowly and took in the plain-looking man before him, holding a pair of semiautomatic pistols. The grip on the pistols, and the cold gaze, identified him as another professional. Though his dress was far too stylish and noticeable. There was a low table between the two professionals.

“What sort of quandary?” the assassin asked.

“I have decided to thwart your client. You are my best opportunity, or at least preventing your hit is. And I see before me a professional of such quality that I know I can’t talk or bribe you out of a contract taken.”

“You talk too much, and I see no quandary. You should have shot me.”

George sighed, and the barrel of one pistol wavered a fraction of an inch. The assassin noted this but did not yet see how to turn it to his advantage.

“Yes, you are a professional, but I am a bit of an artist, you see. I haven’t hunted a… person of your quality in quite some time. I find taking such an easy shot distasteful,” said George.

“Then you are in the wrong line of work.”

“This is not my line of work. I am on vacation. Slumming as it were. Don’t take this the wrong way. I am well and truly impressed by you without seeing you take shot one, but I am used to much more dangerous opponents.”

The assassin said nothing. The eyes told it all. This man’s eyes said that he was relating simple truth. The assassin was mildly curious what sort of “opponents” he was used to, but didn’t care much. He was in this work for the money, not the sport.

George sighed again, and again the pistol dipped a moment. His left hand. His right must be dominant. The assassin was watching for any more weaknesses when the man surprised him.

George leaned forward, and tossed his left-hand weapon across the table halfway between the two. The right-hand weapon never wavered. The assassin kept his eyes on that gun, never once glancing to the one on the table.

“I have decided to be sporting. That is your weapon. I will leave this room, but not the building. You will not leave the building, not alive. Not unless you kill me first, understand?”

“And if I decide not to play your game?”

“Feel free to try to change the rules, but it is simple. You will not leave, or get your hit, until I am dead.”

The assassin had a quick mind and was good at percentages. He took this offer, this game, at face value. But he had no intention of following the other man’s lead.

“Why should I trust that weapon? Toss me the empty and keep the full so you can kill me with your conscience clear?”

He knew the answer, knew that this sportsman before him wouldn’t do such a thing. He mentally counted to ten and fought to keep his breathing regular. He wanted to hold his breath, hoping this ploy would work.

It did.

“Very well, take the other,” George said.

Carefully, oh so carefully, George moved toward the table. He reached down, blindly, keeping his piece trained on the assassin. Only when he had the other gun in his hand did he glance down. Just for an instant, his right-hand pistol drooped.

The assassin moved in that instant, kicking the table up, jarring George’s hands. A blade, long and sharp, was in the assassin’s hand. It cut through the tendons of George’s right wrist, as a hard blow struck his left.

Blood sprayed.

The assassin kept moving, using his momentum to drive George’s left wrist into the wall. The right-hand gun fell, the left hung loosely in George’s pinned hand.

The blade slashed across George’s stomach, then up and in.

The assassin held his opponent on the blade, not releasing the limp hand still holding a weapon. The stomach blow was a killing one, but a slow death. The assassin needed information.

“How did you find me? Who are you?”

He twisted the blade, George groaned. The smell of blood and worse filled the room.

“Ah! Ahn… oh! I say, you are good. Better than me if truth be told,” George said through pain-bared teeth.

Which seemed obvious to the assassin given their current situation.

“Answer!” said the assassin.

“Yo… Ah! Your contacts and middlemen aren’t nearly as professional as you. What with your rush job I managed to track down the person handling your booking. But to be fair, I had advance warning on who to look for.”

The assassin twisted the blade again, and George arched against the wall, closing his eyes, momentarily groaning. He seemed too coherent to the assassin; it unnerved him.

“Pity, really, I did try to play as fair as I could,” George said.

The assassin knew his business. Still, he only noticed that George’s right wrist had stopped bleeding an instant before the fist cracked against his jaw.

The assassin lost contact with his foe for a moment, then George simply vanished.

The cold weight of a pistol barrel dug into the back of the assassin’s skull. A blow to the back of his knees sent him kneeling to the floor.

“So much for sportsmanship,” George said.

The blade the assassin had left in George’s sternum sliced along his throat. His last thought, almost idle, was to wonder why George hadn’t shot him, now or earlier.

Too noisy.