The Killer

THIRTY-THREE

Marseilles, France

Saturday

01:59 CET

Reed held his palm over the sink. He felt no heat, but the air smelled faintly of burned paper and alcohol. He moved around the kitchen slowly, then into the lounge area. The communications equipment looked state-of-the-art and was cool to his touch. He stood in the darkness, seeing with the dim light of the city filtering into the apartment and his own natural night vision. He made his way to the bedroom, noting the open wardrobe and drawer, the discarded garments on the bed.

He found an all-night café where he ordered a black tea and composed an e-mail on his smartphone, explaining with an economy of words that the target had left recently, and in a hurry. He asked what he should do next.

The waitress who brought him his tea wanted to flirt, but Reed pretended not to be able to speak French. She still tried despite the perceived language barrier, and he politely ignored her. Not for the first time, he mused, that life would be far easier as an ugly man. He finished his tea with a minimum of fuss and went on his way. He had a room booked at a fine hotel on the seafront and set off on foot, the ground wet from the rain but the air pleasant and cool.

He enjoyed the walk, listening to the sounds of talking, laughter, and music drifting out of bars and clubs. Reed was neither disappointed nor annoyed that the target was not where the dossier claimed she would be. It was not in his nature to become emotional when working. There was a secondary-potential strike point listed where he could try if his anonymous client wished.

There were five targets in total that his client wanted removed, the first of which Reed had left dying in one of Paris’s less-than-hygienic abodes. Aside from the Marseilles disappearing act, that left three more, one in Milan, one in London, the last in a yet-to-be-established location.

As yet there were no stipulations on how the remaining targets were to be eliminated, but Reed prided himself on killing efficiently, subtly, and reliably. These were the reasons he had been hired and were the reasons he was able to charge such a pretty penny for his services. Suicides and accidents were his specialty, and when there wasn’t the opportunity for such a demonstration of his talents, he would select another means of death that didn’t spell out assassination.

At times in Reed’s line of work a more direct approach was needed. Some targets were too well protected, skilled, or just too careful to be removed discreetly. In such cases, Reed opted for more appropriate methods of removal than those he usually employed. He found the nine millimeter variety was usually quite sufficient but he preferred sharpened ceramic for a more personal touch.

The last of the listed targets held particular interest to Reed. There was no name, just a code name, and that alone told Reed much. This nameless man was a contract killer, and by all accounts a good one at that. If the information he had been given was correct this Tesseract had killed seven gunmen who tried to ambush him at a hotel, as well as avoiding another assassination attempt in Switzerland. Reed had to admire such performances, even if the results had been achieved with rather less finesse than he liked to enact himself.

Reed looked forward to the killing of this target. Other professionals were always the most difficult to execute cleanly, but Reed enjoyed a challenge. Like Reed himself, the experienced ones were almost obsessively paranoid in how they conducted themselves, and the precautions they took were more often than not especially extensive-not forgetting the little fact that they tended to be more than capable of fighting back. Which was exactly why they were such good fun to murder.

The fact that this quarry was in possession of skill appealed to Reed, who judged his own achievements in relation to the quality of his victims. He killed for money, whether it was the Queen’s or some private client’s banknote, but he still took pride in his craft. Participating in a sporting kill gave Reed considerable personal satisfaction, even if, by the very nature of his own abilities, such contests were so heavily stacked in his favor. But it was only in performing against the very best opposition that one’s true aptitude could be measured.

Reed walked across the vacant parking lot behind a fast-food restaurant. The smell of heart disease ruined the otherwise pleasant evening air. He just hoped this Tesseract was good enough not to get himself apprehended by the authorities before Reed caught up with him. That would be most unsatisfying.

Footsteps.

Boots, trainers. Multiple feet on the asphalt behind him, making no effort to conceal their noise. Not professionals.

Reed knew what he was going to see before he turned around. A gang of adolescent toughs and degenerate twentysomethings approached him. They were a mix of races, almost all with heads shaved, clothes a mix of baggy sportswear and knock-off designer labels, cheap jewelry abundant and gaudy.

They spread out, and he allowed himself to be surrounded so the braver ones would naturally face him. Cowards at his back did not bother him. Some struck bizarre poses, and if Reed didn’t know better he would assume they had spinal deformities. He counted twelve, six or seven of which he could tell by their physiques were capable of handling themselves and by their demeanors were more than willing to. The others didn’t carry the same capabilities or confidence.

“You’re passing through my kingdom,” one said in French, the largest and most brashly dressed. “So you have to pay the tax.”

Reed held his gaze. “Trust me when I say that you do not want to do this.”

The large youth stared at Reed with something approaching disbelief, obviously unused to facing anything but dread. The complete absence of fear in Reed’s unblinking eyes caused his expression to falter. He looked at the others. Reed knew the kid had come too far to back down now.

He drew a gun from his jacket and held it loosely in his hand. A nickel plated Beretta. It looked like it was polished regularly, but Reed doubted the working parts would be cleaned with the same diligence. The guy raised the gun to Reed’s face, a poor grip, holding it horizontally to complete his perception of cool.

“Wallet, phone, watch,” the leader demanded.

Two of the others showed their own weapons. One held his revolver loosely by his side, the other lifted his shirt and rested his fingers on the automatic tucked into his waistband. Reed said nothing, merely stared unblinking at the person before him, the kid who knew he was out of his depth.

“Fucking hand them over.”

Reed’s expression remained blank. “Why?”

“Say what?”

In that moment when confusion combined with anxiety, Reed grabbed the outstretched arm before him, wrapping his left hand around the wrist and pulling the kid forward sharply, directing the gun away and to the side. He took hold of the kid’s lower triceps with his free hand and twisted the wrist in his grip, locking the arm. He wrenched it downward, hard-against the joint-snapping the arm at the elbow and into an inverted V.

The gun clattered on the asphalt and the awful wail momentarily stunned the others. Reed released the wrist and the kid collapsed. Among the screams he managed to find his voice.

“FUCKING KILL HIM.”

Reed sprang forward toward the other drawn gun, knocked the weapon aside as it was raised to fire, using his forward impetus to multiply the force of the elbow he sent into his enemy’s face. His head snapped backward, blood splashing from his mouth, and the kid went down heavy, out cold, jaw broken.

The other youth armed with a gun backed off, palms showing, eyes wide, head shaking. Reed ignored him, heard the click of a switchblade opening, turned, sidestepped as his attacker lunged and overextended himself into empty air, stumbling, completely off balance, arms flailing.

The next came from behind, his feet scraping on the ground. Reed whipped round, threw the edge of his hand into the guy’s throat. He fell down convulsing.

Two more came forward at the same time, one wielding a hunting knife with a four-inch drop-point blade, the other a crowbar. The crowbar swung at him first, from the left, aiming for his head. Reed caught it and the attacker’s hand together, redirected it downward, using the kid’s momentum against him to twist the bar from his fingers and into Reed’s own.

He smashed an elbow into the youth’s side, knocking him backward, as the youth gasped, ribs cracked. Reed followed through with the crowbar, backhanding it into the side of his attacker’s skull. Blood splashed on faces in the crowd.

The hunting knife passed within inches of Reed’s face, a wild swing, clumsy. Reed dodged backward, waited for the next attack, used his forearm as a shield to turn the blade aside and the crowbar to sweep his attacker’s feet out from under him and drove it down into the kid’s face, exploding his nose across his cheeks.

The small youth with the switchblade recovered and yelled as he attacked again, a frenzied stab. Reed dodged, invited another thrust, and brought the crowbar down hard onto the youth’s exposed arm, shattering bones. He screamed and dropped the knife, wrist and hand hanging limply from midforearm. Reed reversed his grip on the crowbar, swung it upward, cracking the youth under the jaw, the force lifting him off his feet and dropping him back to the ground in a silent heap.

It was all over in less than seven seconds. Six lay on the wet ground, some completely still, others moaning and writhing. They would all live, but not as they used to. The others stood paralyzed in a mix of awe and terror. Reed looked at them for a moment. He knew he could pick up the Beretta and execute every one of them within a matter of seconds, but they were just idiot kids, and twelve gunshots would bring police officers. Half a beaten-up gang was attention enough without creating corpses. Besides, as things stood, even the ones he had not crippled would take the time to rethink their lives, and Reed felt almost proud of that public service.

He twirled the crowbar around his hand before handing it to a reluctant recipient. The youth took it, grimacing, feeling the wet blood and skin of his gang mates matted to the metal. Reed straightened down his jacket and eyed those who were lucky enough to still be vertical.

“Move.”

They parted reverently to let him pass.