《Shadows》


 Tick, Tock

    She could hear the clock ticking. It sounds crazy, because she happened to be in the heart of Central Park. It was late. Or maybe really early. And there were no clocks. Yet she could feel it. With every heartbeat, she got closer. These were his last seconds. Him. The first boy she would kill.


    If she wanted to, she could have seen him for what he was, a chubby, dark haired sixteen year old boy. His name was William Havensburg.  She knew everything about him. Where he went to school, his address, even his birthday. But that didn¡¯t matter, because he wouldn¡¯t reach his next one. He was her target. He had to die.


    ¡°Why?¡± asked a small voice inside her head. She tried to push it aside. Doubts would only slow her down, make her sloppy.


    And she only had one chance.


    So she thought of him as she had learned to do, as a pair of lungs, a heart and a brain. Thinking of her targets as human beings would eventually drive her crazy. It was self-preservation, really. This wasn¡¯t her first killing. There had been other men and women. She briefly mulled it over. Thirty or maybe forty. And she had been paid handsomely for all of them.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t any different¡± she thought. But she knew it was. Those people, they were adults. They had made their choices and had paid for them. But this boy, he was dying for the choices that someone else had made. Another killer had been requested for the father. And her for the son.


    This hit would net her the most. The sum of one million dollars would be deposited to one of her bank accounts.  They hadn¡¯t only hired her for the kill. They wanted to send a message. And she was delivering it


    .


    ¡°He¡¯s only a child¡± the voice kept whispering. But this was the life she had chosen. And so she raised her gun. It was a silenced FP9, a single action pistol manufactured in Hungary. She never got to take the shot.


    The bullet pierced the back of her skull, fragmenting it. Her brain wasn¡¯t even able to compute what had happened before she was dead. As her body fell, a figure emerged from the shadows, her feet gliding in silence over the path, picking up the unfired weapon.


    Someone out there had heard that young heir William was in danger, and had decided he should be spared. So they had hired her, to tail the boy, protect him. She didn¡¯t know why he was so important, she didn¡¯t care. All she knew was the fact that she was getting paid to do it. Just as the killer had. In another life, their situations could have been reversed.


    She had noticed the other woman¡¯s hand tremble in the end. Indecision. Which was almost sad, because she had been good. If she had fired faster, she might have still been alive. If she had noticed the other assassin¡¯s presence, she might have lived. But she died. Because of a mistake.


    Her mouth curled downwards, almost in a grimace, looking over the body. That was were the two had differed.


    She didn¡¯t make mistakes.


    A gasp sounded out in the park.


    The boy had turned around, his eyes round, darting down to the corpse. The look of a trapped animal. He was trembling pathetically.


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    Her face was partially covered by a hood, and she was sure that, in the darkness, he would never be able to make out her features. He would never recognize her.


    Not that he would have the chance. Their paths would never cross again.


    She turned away. She heard the sound of his footfalls quickly faded. And then she disappeared into the night.


    Walking through the park, letting the shadows engulf her, she was at ease. It was natural for her to hide in the darkness. Most people wouldn¡¯t dare enter the area at this time, their fear keeping them inside their homes, safe. She thrived in this environment, a shadow among countless others. She had no fear of possible assailants. If someone was stupid enough to attack her they would find themselves on the ground, in varying degrees of pain. She kept a leisurely pace. The boy wouldn¡¯t reach help for at least fifteen minutes. That was what he got for looking for a fix in the middle of an enormous park. It had been only one of the many mistakes he made daily. For example, he always took the same route to school. He was predictable. She couldn¡¯t even imagine leading a life like that. Completely unaware of the dangers around her. And the rewards they could bring, if exploited. She wondered if that was what a normal was.


    It was a pity she couldn¡¯t see the stars, what with the lights beaming out of the city.


    The air was crisp around her, cool on her skin. It had been far too long since she had had the time to simply walk. No target to trace, no plan to make. It was nice. The moonlight reflected off her skin. Her hair gently grazed her face. Her eyes scanned, continuously, the surrounding area. They were midnight blue, alight with intelligence, yet tinged with a disconcerting darkness, one that made you shiver, if you held her gaze. The eyes of a trained killer. She was in her early thirties, though looked to be in her late twenties. She had the grace and fluidity of a dancer, her movements silent. She knew to never use too much energy when she moved, only the right amount.


    Control.


    She was always in control. Her face was often a blank mask, deceptively calm. She could both blend in and stand out in a crowd. It was a gift, one which had been exploited many times. Exiting the park, she let the nightlife flash in front of her. The taxis, lights, people.


    She had always loved observing people.


    With her training, she could reconstruct at least part of their story. The boy with the headphones, taking a late night stroll, the anxiety of exams curving his shoulders. The business man, picking up groceries after a long flight, his collar wrinkled, free from its tie. Even the tourists told a story, of lands near and far. She weaved among them, another soul in the endless city. A slight woman, 5¡¯6¡±, with her hood covering part of her face, who would notice her? She caught the night bus, taking it four stops, then reversed her movements back to catch a taxi in a completely different direction. She got off after ten minutes - paying in cash - and continued on foot for half an hour up to a non-descript apartment building, the kind that you would live in to not spend much money, which was ideal for her. No one asked many questions and she could use one of her dozen aliases.

 Visitors

    Something was off.


    She noticed it immediately. Most people passing by her door would never notice the layer of grease on the handle, so carefully applied. And, apparently, neither had the intruders, since the slight disturbance in the grease was, well, there. But she knew that they had not come completely unprepared, as she could not make out any fingerprints. This meant that they had at least put on gloves.


    Surely, in other circumstances, she would have given them some pointers on how to properly sneak into a hostile base, but now she had other plans. She didn¡¯t know how many people were in there, or who had sent them, but planned to find out.


    Going in directly was not an option. For all she knew, their orders were to kill on sight. Or, perhaps, to have a ¡°chat¡± with her. Really, the possibilities were endless.


    She had prepared for this scenario. The apartment next to hers was vacant. It was rented year round, but no one had ever seen the lodger. That was because, in fact, she was the lodger. Her partner often joked that if someone needed an escape plan, or a backup one, no matter how improbable the circumstances were, she would have one. She never took offence at the jibe. Took pride, in fact, in her capability to plan ahead and, especially, to get out of sticky situations. This setup was no exception. So she broke into the ever empty suite next to hers. Well, technically using the key wasn¡¯t actually breaking in, but those were details. Silently closing the door behind her, she made her way to the vent. She mentally thanked her trainer for telling her to always stash some knockout gas. He was an internationally wanted contract killer, the man people would consider the worst possible role model. But not to her. She owed him her life, her training, even the few morals and boundaries she had had come from him. She had grown up as his disciple, seen him as the only example to follow.


    She used a set of screwdrivers, hidden under the couch cushion, to unscrew the bolts and remove the grate over the air vent. No trace of her entry in the apartment would exist. She hoisted herself up to the vent and slipped in. The awkward angles weren¡¯t a problem. Her mentor had insisted on teaching her rock climbing, often basing in mountainous areas and taking frequent week long trips on the peaks. She had hated every initial move, the unforgiving stretch of her muscles and joints pivoting, holding her over what had always seemed an infinite void. Yet, she had eventually come to enjoy, revel in it. The ability to control her movements to the millimeter. The sharp focus. The terrifying beauty of a possible drop.


    It also made her able to scale almost anything really quickly, natural or man-made. Which helped when running from guard dogs. Or mobsters. Or machine gun fire. Or, once, an angry mime. She did a lot of running. Slowly, she crawled through the cold vents, hands gliding over metal until she reached her room, recalling the blueprints she had flirted out of the Department of Buildings clerk.


    She stopped just shy of her living room vent, in the off chance one of them had glanced at it. There were, as best she could tell from the different intonations, four of them. The two she could see were impressively armed. They were speaking something she couldn¡¯t recognize, but by their lighter skin and guttural tone, was probably an Eastern European language. One of them was sprawled on her couch, already practically falling asleep. This would make things easier.


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    Without making a sound, she twisted her arm behind her and grabbed the gas canister, pulled the pin, and slammed her other palm into the grate, tossing the knockout gas into the room. The men jumped up, reaching for their weapons, but they would be asleep in seconds. She didn¡¯t stay to observe, though, crawling as quickly as she could in reverse, so as to not be effected by the fumes. Still, as she dropped back into the adjacent room, she could feel the effect of the gas, her head heavier, her vision spinning for a few seconds, her breathing slowed. She hoped the other tenants weren¡¯t feeling it as well. She didn¡¯t need the cops showing up. After replacing the vent, screws and screwdriver, she waited a few additional minutes for the gas to clear before she slinked out of the room to slide through her own door, still feeling off-balance.


    ¡°I have to have a chat with Jo about the potency of that stuff next time we meet¡± she thought, shaking her head.


    Or not.


    The men were sleeping like babies.


    She grabbed four zip cuffs out of a drawer in her bedroom and tied the men, making sure they were tight around their wrists, and then gagged them by ripping a bed sheet into strips and stuffing it in their mouths, keeping it in place by tying another strip around their heads. She dragged them to different parts of the apartment. Sure, if she had been a rookie, she might have stuffed them all in one place, but she wasn¡¯t. And that was the mistake the men had made. They thought they were attacking a beginner, or worse, a civilian, it was obvious. They hadn¡¯t installed any safety measures, or a lookout in the hallway. They hadn¡¯t noticed that all the vents in her apartment were missing their bolts, and were only propped into place. And, evidently, they had missed her three concealed caches in the bathroom, kitchen and bedroom, each holding a weapon, documents, and five thousand dollars in cash.


    Fools.


    They had thought that simply pointing their guns at her would make her surrender. She would soon disprove them. She put one man in a wardrobe, another in the bathroom, and a third in the bedroom, tied to the bed¡¯s headboard. The final man she strapped to a chair in the middle of the room, using up some duct tape to secure him. Ah, duct tape, the everyman¡¯s tool. He seemed the leader, his gear in slightly better shape than the others¡¯. If she was wrong, she could simply start over with another one. She started brewing a pot of coffee. By the time it was done, the man had woken up. There were also muffled groans and shouts from the other areas of the apartment.  She walked over to the man on the chair.

 A few questions

    ¡°Hello¡± she said.


    The man, still drowsy, was realizing several things: his weapons were gone, he was tied to a chair, and, more importantly, the young woman he had been sent to snatch was sitting in front of him, in complete control of the situation.


    ¡°Hello¡± he answered tensely back.


    ¡°Look...¡±


    ¡°Arb?n¡±


    The force of the slap took him completely by surprise, and by the glint in her eye, the perfectly fluid, precise movements, that didn¡¯t waste a single ounce of energy, he knew she wasn¡¯t what he had been told, a travelling lawyer. The impassive mask on her face, that didn¡¯t show any emotion, fear or reaction to his presence, or that of his men. No, she was dangerous. Fuck, why had he taken this job again? He should have gone with his gut. The one that had told him that no lawyer who was important enough for an international team would be renting a place in a run-down building in Harlem. That there was something off when he grasped the door handle. That the apartment felt wrong. No pictures, no personal effects. He should have turned it down. Gone home, instead of getting on  a plane to JFK.  Backed out and taken the economic hit, not forged forwards. And now, faced with this woman, he prayed that he would be able to leave. To go home and hug his little Petra, be there when she opened that stuffed unicorn he had gotten her. To see her smile, to join his brother¡¯s security business and never take another hit again. Please God, he thought, let it happen.


    ¡°Don¡¯t interrupt me. Alright, Arb?n, this is how this is going to work. I¡¯m going to ask you some questions. You will answer them. Truthfully. Do that, and I¡¯ll let you go free. You will not lie to me. If you do, I will make you suffer. Death will seem like a welcome thing once I¡¯m through with you. Do you understand?¡±


    Arb?n nodded his head slowly.


    ¡°Who sent you?¡±


    The very first question made him freeze.  He wasn¡¯t good at this, at thinking his way out of things. He was muscle, hired for a hit, not the tactician behind it, and he was not very good at coming up with lies on the spot. Lana had always teased him about it, saying she could tell when he was up to something, like when he had tried to plan a surprise birthday party. She¡¯d figured it out a week before.


    ¡°I¡­I don¡¯t know¡±


    Who would buy that? Seriously, what did he think this was? A story in a book?


    She picked up the coffee pot, that was still scalding, and started to pour it, slowly, onto his crotch.


    He let out an agonized scream.


    ¡°Please! Stop! I can¡¯t tell you!¡±


    She stopped after a few more seconds. It had been worth a try, but violence generally didn¡¯t work on men like him, they were just too used to it. Plus, she couldn¡¯t risk her neighbors hearing him. Time for a different tactic. The man was moronic enough to keep his wedding band on.


    ¡°Do you have a family, Arb?n?¡±


    Oh, God, no.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°I see the ring. You¡¯re in your thirties. Married. From the bags under your eyes, I¡¯d say you have a young child, who still wakes you up at night.¡±


    His eyes widened a fraction. She was right.


    ¡°Do you know what will happen if you don¡¯t talk? Save it. I¡¯ll tell you¡±


    She was smiling sweetly.


    ¡°I¡¯ll find them. It doesn¡¯t matter how hidden they are. I have a net cast so far and wide they¡¯ll never escape it. I¡¯ll go to your house, in the night, with you in the trunk. Break in, put you in a corner. Then I¡¯ll get your wife and child. Put them in the opposite one. Take out a tank of gasoline, pool it so they¡¯re sitting in it, but not you. I¡¯ll stop short of you¡±


    She had moved behind him, her hands running through his hair, almost tenderly, her soft voice in his ear.


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    ¡°I¡¯ll look you in eyes as I light the match. I¡¯ll drop it. You¡¯ll watch the flames dance around who you love. You¡¯ll hear their screams and pleas. You¡¯ll want to die, and you will, but only once you¡¯ve watched them burn to death.


    ¡±


    He craned his neck back to face her, eyes wide with panic. He could see it. See their blonde hair lighting up, Petra¡¯s small cries to save her, Lana trying to protect their daughter, holding her up, burning herself.


    Her lips were a breath away from his.


    ¡°Just talk. And that will all go away¡±


    ¡°Bellarose. Francis Bellarose. Please, stop. Don¡¯t.¡±


    The last word was a sob. She could see it in his eyes. He was broken. The thrill of power went through her. She couldn¡¯t help it, it was addictive, obliterating men with just her words.


    So she stopped. She knew the name. He was the brother, and business partner, of Adrienne Bellerose. The two had been Parisian drug barons until she had killed Adrienne. That death had netted her two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Their business had collapsed under Francis¡¯s grief and financial incompetence, but evidently not enough. Francis had had enough money and resources to find her, and send a hit squad. Revenge. Such a pointless thing. And it made you make stupid slip-ups. Like give your name to the team.


    ¡°Did he send you to kill me?¡±


    The man, now fully cooperating, said ¡°No. We had to grab you, and take you to¡­¡±


    He stopped, realizing how drastic his situation really was, that he had said too much. That Francis might do what she had promised anyway. That one day he would walk home and find them in a pool of blood, instead of in flames. She simply gave him a pointed look, raising her brow. It was enough.


    ¡°507 E 119th St. He said he would meet us there. That he had to ask you some questions.¡±


    His voice was a whisper now.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure he does¡± she thought.


    She glided over to her computer, tapping in the address into Google Maps. Why take her there?  She might as well ask her new source.


    ¡°That¡¯s near the Costco Warehouse. Why would he tell you to go there?¡±


    ¡°He just said to arrive there at 11 pm. Keep you in a van for some hours and then take you for a stroll.¡± She could hear the panic in his voice, his words speeding up, slurring into one another. The desperateness to save all he loved. ¡°It closes at 8.30. And there are not very many people at that time in that area¡±


    ¡°Thank you very much, Arb?n, for your collaboration¡±


    And then raised her weapon off the table. She had replaced her previous pistol, the one used in the park, a silenced Smith and Wesson M&P22 single action with a Beretta FS 98, military standard, whilst tying up the men. First rule of the business: never leave a trail. The S&W would have to be destroyed, as some stupid do-gooder would find the body and alert the police, who would then run the rifling. They would find nothing, as the weapon had been created and bought illegally, and had never been used before, but still. No mistakes. It was already in a burn bag.


    ¡°Wait! You said I could go free!¡±


    ¡°No, I said that if you talked, your family wouldn¡¯t burn. I only said you would go free if you didn¡¯t lie. And you did.¡±


    In his last moments, he saw his daughter opening her present, seeing the unicorn. He hoped she would be happy.


    His death was quick, one in the head, two in the heart. A fine execution.


    She dialed a number.


    ¡°Hello?¡±