Hardbingers

2

Jack sat on the toilet-seat cover and watched the guy in the bathtub stir and blink his eyes. He was young—maybe late twenties—and dressed in khaki shorts, a burgundy golf shirt, and Topsiders. He'd gelled his dark brown hair into little spikes—a style Jack had always found baffling—and had grown his somethings in South Florida. He lay on his back, his wrists duct-taped in front of him, with more tape around his ankles and knees. Not a foolproof taping job by a long shot, but Jack wasn't worried about that.

He was holding the guy's pistol.

After finishing the taping, Jack had hung a towel over the bathroom window and turned on the light. Then he'd dragged the guy in and rolled him into the tub. That done, he'd opened the gym bag—a High Sierra model with an empty water-bottle sleeve—and the first thing he'd found was a Luger.

Okay, a guy sneaking into his father's supposedly empty house was a deal, though not a terribly big one. But finding a pistol, even if he wasn't wearing it at the time, changed the picture and upped the threat level a few notches—maybe to orange. But then Jack noticed that the front sight had been filed off and the end of the barrel threaded. And when he discovered a dark blue MX Minireflex moderator in the bag, the situation went deep into the red, sending one thought clanging through his head like a gong.

Hit man. Or assassin. Whatever he called himself, he was geared for a close-range, silent kill.

Jack's first thought was that somebody wanted him dead and had hired this clown to make it happen. Then he realized that that couldn't be. No one had known he was headed here. Jack hadn't known himself. Hadn't made the decision until he'd landed.

So who was he after? And why had he come here?

The guy groaned. He'd been doing that and opening and closing his eyes for about ten minutes. This time they stayed open and focused on Jack for a few seconds, then up and around at his surroundings.

"What the fuck?"

He tried to sit up but then grimaced and slumped back to his original position.

"Headache?"

Jack had been through the post-concussion thing a few times. Early on, every movement sent a bolt of pain through your head.

The guy fixed on Jack again.

"The fuck am I?"

"Who, what, or where?"

"Where."

"A nice little house in Gateways. The one you broke into just a short while ago.

"And who the f—?"

Jack raised the pistol. "That's my question. One of many I'm going to be asking you." jack saw fear race through his eyes at sight of the Luger, but only for an instant. Then the hard-guy look returned.

"I checked your clothes and your bag," Jack said. "No ID. So tell me: What's your name?"

The guy sneered. "John Smith."

"Very funny." Jack hadn't expected a straight answer but felt obligated to ask. "Okay, Smith, what's going on here? What are you up to?"

Another sneer. "The Motel Six was full up and I needed a place to stay."

Jack had an urge to wing a slug past Smith's nose but didn't want to mess up the tile. He hadn't looked but assumed the pistol had a round in the chamber. He worked the toggle anyway—for effect. The ratcheting sound echoed off the tiles as a cartridge spun through the air and bounced along the floor.

Jack gestured with the pistol. "Now we'll try again, Smith. What are you doing in my father's house?"

The tough-guy facade cracked a little. "Your father? Shit, I heard it would be empty."

"Heard from whom?"

"No one and nobody." He stared at Jack. "You mean you and your father live here?"

"Nope. My father's gone and I'm just visiting."

"But why are you a day early?"

That came from so far out in left field that it knocked Jack off balance.

"What?"

"You weren't supposed to be here until tomorrow."

"I wasn't supposed to be here at all. You sure you're talking about me? Did someone show you a picture of me?"

His tone turned uncertain. "No… never seen you before in my life."

Smith put his head back and closed his eyes. "Shit! I just can't believe he could screw up like this."

"He who?"

Smith's eyes snapped open as if he'd received a shock. He glanced at Jack with a worried look.

"No one. No one at all."

Jack studied his face. He thinks he said too much. And maybe he did. But about what?

Jack waggled the pistol at him.

"This is a hit man rig."

The sneer again. "How would you know?"

"Oh, I know. I know." Jack turned the pistol over in his hands. "An American Eagle Luger. Not the original—this is the Stoeger recreation—but a pretty piece, no less. Put a couple of hollow points through the back of the head, let them bounce around inside the skull to make Swiss cheese of the brain, and that's all she wrote, right?"

He saw a look of worry and wonder ripple over Smith's face. Seemed it was finally dawning on him that he'd broken into the wrong house at the wrong time and wound up at the mercy of the wrong guy.

"I'm not with the mob."

"Okay then, an assassin. Am I right?"

"You have no idea."

"Who were you supposed to hit?"

Jack hoped the "were" got through to him.

"Nobody." He raised his taped wrists and knuckled an eye. "That's just for self-defense."

"Yeah, right. Who sent you?"

"Nobody. Like I told you, just looking for a place to crash."

Jack had a feeling he'd learned all he was going to from this clown. Unless he applied a little pressure. He rummaged through the gym bag until he found the suppressor. He pulled it out and held it up.

"Nobody needs one of these for self-defense. So come on, Smith. Let's stop dancing around and put a few facts on the table."

"Told you all I know," he said as he rubbed his eyes again.

"We'll see about that. And keep your hands down."

With studied deliberation, Jack began threading the suppressor onto the end of the barrel, glancing at Smith with every turn.

"My, my… I do believe you're starting to sweat."

"Hot in here."

Yeah, it was kind of close in here, but not hot.

"Afraid of dying, Smith?"

"Not really. I'd regret it, but it doesn't scare me. Put one in my head and get it over with. You're boring the shit out of me."

"'Boring the shit out of me.'" Jack had to smile. "I'll have to add that to my list of favorite last lines."

He hoped the subtext wasn't lost.

"You kill me, you get double nothing."

Jack offered what he hoped was a sadistic smile. "Who said anything about killing you? As long as you've got knees and ankles and elbows—"

Jack didn't know what type of smile Smith was going for. Whatever it was, it looked pretty sick.

"Same difference. You shoot me anywhere, I stop talking."

Those words, combined with the look on his face, struck a sour note in Jack. He looked around for the bullet he'd ejected and found it. His stomach dropped when lie saw the tip: The hollow in the point had been filled with something and sealed over.

His thoughts flashed back a month—to a figure lying dead on the floor of the LaGuardia baggage claim area… dead of a flesh wound in the thigh that should have caused pain and some blood loss but no more.

Dead for one reason: He'd caught a cyanide-filled hollow point.

This looked like the same thing, except it was a 9mm Starfire instead of the 5.56 NATOs used at the airport.

Still… an assassin's bullet.

He held it up. "Cyanide tipped?"

Smith's mouth tightened into a thin line, but he said nothing.

"You connected to Wrath of Allah?"

Smith frowned. "Who the fu—oh, those Islamic assholes who did LaGuardia?" He looked insulted. "You gotta be kidding."

Jack set the round on the edge of the tub, point up.

"Those Islamic assholes used cyanide hollow points to do the job. You sure you're not connected?"

"Absolutely. On my mother's grave—wherever that is."

"Then who are you connected to?"

"No one."

Jack sighed. "You're pushing me. That bullet puts a whole new spin on this situation. Someone very close to me was killed by a similar round. Before the night's over I'm going to know who sent you. We can do it easy or we can do it nasty. My father left a well-stocked toolbox out on the back porch. I'm especially fond of his variable-speed electric drill. Do I have to go get it?"

Smith paled and broke out in another sweat. But he wasn't backing down.

"I've told you all I can."

Jack made note of the fact that he didn't say all he knew.

He wondered if his bluff would work. He wasn't in a black enough mood to drill into someone's shinbone. This jerk most likely broke into the wrong house. Under other circumstances Jack might have loaded him in his trunk and dumped him in the swamp, leaving him to get out of the tape himself and find his way home. But that cyanide-tip changed things. Jack wanted more. Maybe plugging in the drill and revving it a few times as he brought it toward Smith's kneecap would prove a tongue loosener.

"Okay. You're going to make me hate myself in the morning."

As he rose he reached for the round, but Smith got there ahead of him. His taped hands darted up and grabbed it, then raised it to his mouth.

"Jesus!" Jack shouted. "What are you—?"

He leaped forward and grabbed for the hand, but too late—the round went into his mouth. Jack dropped the pistol and tried to pry Smith's jaws apart but the guy was struggling and thrashing and twisting his head back and forth to prevent Jack from getting a grip.

Finally Jack felt Smith's throat work, and then the man stopped struggling and smiled at him.

"You jerk!" Jack shouted. "What you do that for? As soon as that seal melts, you're a goner."

Jack imagined Smith's stomach acid working on the seal right now.

Smith shrugged. "You were going to torture me, then kill me, so I decided to skip the torture part."

Jack shook his head. "I was just kidding about that—trying to scare you. Sadism isn't my bag."

Smith stared at Jack. He must have seen the truth there because he hung his head and sobbed. Once.

Jack leaned forward. "You think you could puke it up?"

Smith shook his head. "No. Too late."

"Well, all right then. Since there's no turning back, why not come clean? Who were you supposed to hit?"

Smith hesitated, then said, "I don't know."

"Come on—"

"I never get a name. Just a description and a time and a place."

"Do I match the description?"

"Close enough, but you look like anybody."

"Yeah, well, I work at that. When was this supposed to go down?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, but I was supposed to get here early and set up."

"Who sent you?"

Before Smith could answer his eyes rolled up and he started flopping around in the tub like a hooked fish. He made grunting noises as he flailed his taped arms and kicked his legs.

Jack could do nothing but watch as his face turned blue and he arched his back to the point where it looked like he'd snap his spine.

And then he collapsed into a flaccid, silent lump of flesh.

Jack watched him a full minute for signs of life. None. He sat back on the toilet cover and wondered why these things happened to him. All he'd wanted to do was pick up his father's war medals, catch a few hours sleep, and be on his way.

Now he had a body to dispose of.

Shit.

He picked up the pistol and popped the magazine: eight more cyanide-tipped rounds within. Starfires were perfect because of their big cavity. He worked the toggle to eject the chambered round. Now he needed a way to dump the nine cartridges without poisoning someone.

lie look a towel from the rack, unscrewed the suppressor, wiped it down, then wiped down the pistol too. He went to stow them back in the High Sierra bag but decided to give it one last, thorough search.

He upended it and dumped everything onto the bathroom floor. He checked all the end and side pouches and felt around inside for hidden compartments or a phony bottom panel.

Nothing else.

Just a change of underwear, a shaving kit containing an electric razor, toothbrush and toothpaste, a jar of Bed Head hair gel, a box of Starfires, yesterday's Miami Herald, a battered old John D. MacDonald paperback, a Manta Ray baseball cap, and sunglasses.

The banality of the pile depressed Jack. Who was this guy? Who'd sent him? And for whom?

Probably never know.

Jack used the towel to replace the pistol and suppressor in the bag. Since the sunglasses would take fingerprints, he picked them up with the towel as well. He was about to drop them back in when he noticed that they looked familiar. Too familiar.

Forgetting about prints, he held them up and stared through the lenses. No darkening—he could see the shower head perfectly. Yet when he flipped them over… impenetrable tinting.

A band of cold iron tightened around his gut as he jumped up and hurried to his own gym bag. He pulled out the shades Davis had given him and held them side by side with the dead guy's.

Identical.

Unless he'd stolen or found these, the guy in the tub was a yeniceri.