The sun had gone down, yet there were no lights on in either Parnell’s or Faulks’s apartments. Both of them must have heard of the others’ slayings by now and realised they were next, so it was unsurprising that the remaining two men had gone into hiding. It was a problem that he hadn’t thought through well enough, and couldn’t see how he would be able to trace them now. San Francisco was a huge city with many places where they could hide, God forbid that they had fled the city itself. It was a blip in his plan for ending the lives of all those involved in his father’s murder, but only that. They would not stay away for ever, and would have to return to their homes soon enough. He’d already been in both apartments earlier and found that all their belongings seemed intact; maybe they’d hurriedly packed an overnight bag but that would have been all. Their clothing was still hung in wardrobes, their shoes and underwear, toiletries and even medication all remained. He hoped that one or the other of them would attempt to sneak back under the cover of darkness to fetch more of their belongings and at that time he could follow them back to wherever it was they were hiding.
He had parked his car in a dead-end street, near to a book depository now closed for the day. He had spun the car first, parking nose out so that he could keep an eye out on the street. Initially he decided he would give it an hour or two, and if neither man showed, then he’d reassess the situation — maybe go after the old Jap bitch instead.
He thought of how he’d missed his opportunity to finish the lying whore the first time, but he was certain that when he struck her with his gun barrel he’d heard her skull crack like an eggshell. He should have put a bullet or two into her to make sure, but at the time he was more intent on punishing her husband. His mistakes were not those a professional assassin would make, but he didn’t consider himself anything other than a son paying back the murderers of his father. He was allowed to make a mistake or two. Like he had with Takumi; he should have shot the cripple and had done, but thankfully everything had worked out there. He had heard the news that the old man had perished en route to the hospital, so in the end he was happy with the result.
Pity his actions a short time later hadn’t finished as well. After firing at the stranger he was certain that the man had been killed, but he had heard nothing about any fatalities from the multi-vehicle pile-up he’d caused. The stranger was still out there somewhere and he had no idea who he was — or how dangerous. That was a little worrying, he had to admit, but it was nothing that would deter him from his task. Markus Colby owed entire commitment to avenging his father.
He had only caught a series of brief glances of the stranger, first as he’d run from the burning house, then later as he’d played cat and mouse with him through the city streets. But he had fixed the man’s description in his mind. He was certain that neither of the two who had pulled their car into a parking slot opposite Hayes Tower was the guy who’d dragged Takumi from the fire. His first concern was that they were cops, and he thought about leaving the scene, but when neither of them climbed out of their vehicle, but sat watching the tower block, he concluded that they were there for a different reason than law enforcement. Maybe the stranger had survived the crash, but he had been injured, and these men were his replacements. Had these newcomers arrived with the purpose of watching for his arrival, with the intention of taking him out? Or had they come at Parnell’s or Faulks’s behest and were they checking things out prior to going inside to fetch their belongings? Markus decided he’d wait and see.
The men in the vehicle were tough guys. They had the kind of faces that had been on the end of more than one whupping, lumpy with scar tissue and their noses flattened, and one of them had cauliflower ears. They had thick necks and broad shoulders. One of them gripped the steering wheel with hands that looked capable of strangling a steer. Markus was familiar with their type, but wasn’t afraid. He knew that tough guys were nothing when held under the threat of a silenced pistol. He guessed that they were muscle brought in as protection, but they wouldn’t stop him. They were the ones in need of protection from him.
He watched for another quarter-hour. Civilians wandered the street, heading uptown, or making for the shortcut along the far side of Hayes Tower to get to the social housing scheme round back. Markus ignored them all, watching the two tough guys as they in turn watched the tower block. Occasionally one or the other would glance his way, but he was invisible to them behind the tint of his windscreen. Markus thought that if these men were here on Parnell’s or Faulks’s behalf, then he could sit it out, wait until they drove away and follow them back to their base. He fully expected that he’d find one or other of his quarries there.
It was a full twenty minutes later before one of them got out and went to the back of their car. The one inside popped the trunk and the other leaned inside. Markus couldn’t make out what happened next, but when the guy straightened up he was holding something inside his coat, gripping the item tightly with his elbow. He nodded to the other who joined him on the road. The first passed something over and it was hidden beneath the second man’s jacket. Both men then glanced at the uppermost floor. Markus followed their gaze, but from his angle couldn’t determine what had caught their attention. The tough guys jogged towards Hayes Tower.
Markus slipped out of his car.
The two men disappeared inside the tower block, heading in by the communal entrance, the glass doors swinging lazily in their wake.
Markus didn’t immediately follow; he angled across the street for a better position and looked up at Parnell’s room. Immediately he recognised a difference from his visit earlier. Then the curtains had been closed tightly, but now they had been opened a hand’s span. Someone must have gained access to the apartment, most likely approaching over the waste ground and sneaking into the building via a secondary entrance at the rear. Markus smiled to himself. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. Then he paused.
If the big guys were protection brought in by one of the old men, why had they been out here at the front and not accompanying him, as Markus would expect? Why — when noticing movement inside the apartment — had they collected their weapons from the trunk and gone inside? He couldn’t imagine a reason, but he’d swear that the thugs had an opposite agenda to what he’d first credited them with. They weren’t here to protect the old guys, but to hurt them. Scowling, he headed for the entrance door. He wanted to see Parnell and Faulks dead, but not by someone else’s hand: where was the vengeance in that?
He slipped in through the glass doors, easing them shut behind him, and stepped into a dim foyer. In his jacket pocket was his silenced gun. He placed his hand on the butt though he did not draw it. There was always the chance that another of the tenants might meet him and the last thing he wanted was for them to start hollering about an armed man on the loose in the building. He scanned the foyer, then walked to the base of the access stairs. He listened but there was no indication that the tough guys were making their way up the stairs. He returned to the elevator. The bulb in the direction arrow had blown, so there was no external sign to show that the elevator was on its way up, but he placed the flat of his hand against the metal doors and felt a faint vibration. He could hear the soft thrum of machinery from beyond the doors. Immediately Markus bounded towards the stairs.
As he pounded up he didn’t stop to think that the men were here for anyone other than his would-be victims. They had definitely been watching Parnell’s apartment, and the movement of the curtain was what had brought them from their car. The stairs doglegged back and forth, and at each level allowed access to a corridor open to the elements along the rear of the building. He ignored the first few landings, but the higher he went the more careful he had to be. He’d momentarily lost count of the flights he’d ascended and it was important that he scope out each landing in case one of the tough guys had exited the elevator on Faulks’s floor. When he detected no movement he continued up. At the penultimate level he paused, catching his breath. There he withdrew his gun, careful that he didn’t snag it on his clothing. He checked the action and was confident that all was in order. He went up the final flight of stairs at an easier pace, picking the spots where he placed his feet to avoid making any unnecessary noise.
Coming to the final level, he pressed himself into the door frame, out of sight of anyone in the corridor, and peered through glass made practically opaque by the number of greasy fingerprints smearing the window. The elevator doors were approximately twenty feet away and were closed. Beyond them he could make out two bulky figures moving along the hall, attempting to be cat-footed, but still cumbersome from the way they were bunched together. Markus thought about rushing along the hall behind them and shooting them before they knew he was there, but the noise would most assuredly alert his targets, who would already be on high alert. Should he approach them in another manner — his gun hidden — and take them out silently? He was confident that he could handle the two of them, even though they carried clubs. Their weapons would hinder them in the confined space, whereas he’d have plenty of room to deliver a couple of larynx-crushing blows. The idea was tempting but he chose to wait, his finger hooked around the trigger of his gun, observing the men as they took up position to each side of the second to last door. There was no doubt now that they had come for Parnell. But with their weapons of choice they had not come to kill him; he would enter the apartment after them, kill them, then take Parnell at his leisure.
Markus crouched slightly, attempting to find a cleaner spot on the window. When he could find none, he took the decision to push the swing doors open a little and he watched the action through the gap down the centre. He was in time to see the nearest man rap softly on the door. Immediately the tough guy slipped out of the way; possibly so he couldn’t be seen if anyone checked through a spyhole. Markus couldn’t recall if there was a peephole or not. When there was no reply the two guys huddled together, but their words were merely a sibilant hiss from this distance. One of them backed up, placing his hips to the small wall that formed the balustrade. Then he lunged forward, lifting his knee and crashing his heel close to the door handle. His first attempt to kick open the door failed, so he lifted his knee and booted it again. The clatter of a chain snapping and the links scattering on the floor was loud even to Markus’s ear. The door swung inwards this time, and crashed off a wall. Immediately the two guys charged inside.
Markus didn’t stop to think. If they were here to harm Parnell and Faulks, he had seconds to respond or they would get to his targets first. He thrust through the swing doors and raced along the hall.
He could hear the stamps of the men as they surged around the apartment, the thud of doors being thrown open, and the sounds were almost Markus’s undoing. He was concentrating on them so much that he almost missed the final door on the landing being pulled open and a man stepping into sight. He thought that the man was possibly a concerned neighbour, checking on the sounds of commotion. But then it struck him. He knew the face that briefly turned to regard him. He saw the man’s eyes widen in recognition, and in the next instant the man’s hand was coming up and it was clutching a handgun. Unlike the two tough guys who’d mounted their attack with the finesse of charging bulls, this man moved with professional calm. The man centred his gaze on Markus the way he had in that moment when they’d glanced at each other over the fence in Yoshida Takumi’s back yard. The stranger aimed his gun at Markus’s chest.
Markus also lifted his gun, but he wasn’t quick enough. He fired, but it was a moment after the stranger had already done so. Markus had no way of knowing if his aim was on target, because his reaction was to throw himself to one side. It didn’t save him: the bullet struck his side like a hammer blow. Caught mid-dive the impact spun him and Markus caromed against the low wall.
Pain flared through him, a white flash of agony lancing through his senses. He wanted to scream but the pain ensured his teeth were clamped tight. Before this he’d had no idea of what being shot felt like, but he knew now. He wondered if he was dying, his mind racing, rage boiling up because he’d been thwarted before completing his mission. The wind was caught in his lungs, his throat pinching tight, and then the world tilted.
He could see the evening sky, the clouds a bilious orange tinted by the city lights. Then his vision was filled with the lights of the buildings opposite, and they were slipping and arching, following his sideways pitch as he tumbled out over the balustrade. Everything moved with a lazy calm, and Markus looked down at the hard-packed dirt of the fallow ground behind Hayes Tower.
Then the earth rushed up to meet him.