Children of Paranoia (29 page)

I nursed my drink, watching the front door of the office building, waiting for them to come out, waiting for my destiny to come out that door and head down the street toward Chinatown. I was afraid. I had never felt that type of fear before. Not even when I was kneeling on that beach in New Jersey, my hands tied behind my back, a gun pointed in my face, did I experience fear like this. The fear I felt on that beach was simple. I was afraid to die, but it was only for me. All I had to lose was my own pitiful life. But from now on, if I fail, I fail you and I fail our child. Up until that moment, I had been a soldier in a war that was bigger than me. I was a pawn. I knew it. My only responsibility was death. Even if I failed, it led to death. A successful job meant they died, a failed job meant I did. Now I was responsible for life too. It was terrifying. Right then, sitting alone in that café, the butt of that gun resting in my hand, I had to remind myself that that my only skill in the world was still going to serve me well, at least one more time.

After a few hours, my mark and his entourage came out of the building, the new bodyguard in front, my mark in the middle, the American behind them. The new bodyguard's eyes scanned the street as he moved. For a second he looked in my direction. I felt his stare in my gut. The three of them left the building and started down the street. It was time to move. Suddenly, the doubt was gone. The fear was gone. I was on the job for the last time. I'd have time for doubts again when I was done.

I didn't follow them to the restaurant, fearing that I'd be spotted. I knew where they were going. All I had to do was figure out which of the two bodyguards was sitting in the general dining area and which of the two private rooms my mark was in. Then I'd walk through the door, stroll casually up to the first bodyguard, shoot him at close range, walk into the private room, shoot the second bodyguard, and then shoot my mark. Then I'd walk out of the restaurant through the kitchen and disappear forever. If I was successful, it would be a job to brag to people about, though I knew that my days of bragging were over. After this job was done, I knew that I'd never see Michael or Jared again. I couldn't put them in that position. I couldn't ask them to ignore the rules for me.

As I walked to the restaurant, I continued to visualize the event. I tried to look at all the angles, tried to make sure there was nothing that I was overlooking. I assumed that no one in the kitchen was going to try to stop me. It was a safe assumption. I'd have a gun in my hand that I'd proved I was willing to use. I tried to picture it in every scenario. First, my mark would be in the room to the right. Second, in the room to the left. I tried imagining how the job would go with each bodyguard in the different positions. I hoped that the new guy would be in the general dining area. I wanted to get him out of the way first.

When I got to the end of the block, I peeked around the corner to see if I could locate the entourage. The three of them were standing outside the restaurant waiting. The new bodyguard was taking a long, deep drag off a cigarette. He didn't open his mouth after inhaling, instead blowing two long streams of smoke out of his nostrils. I turned back behind the building, leaning against the wall to make sure that they couldn't see me. I listened but none of them spoke. I kept looking around me, knowing that I would have to move if I thought I saw my mark's business associates coming. I got lucky. They came from the opposite direction. I heard my mark greet them. I recognized his voice instantly from the lecture. There was a general greeting, followed by some introductions. There was no discussion of business outside—that would be taken care of inside the restaurant. I knew what these men were here for. They were buying weapons. I just didn't know for what war. I didn't really care.

I wanted to get a good look at the buyers before they went inside. I needed to be sure I could differentiate them from my targets. I stepped forward for a second and casually looked both ways along the street, pretending that I was looking for someone. As I did I glanced over the faces of the buyers. There were four of them. They were wearing similar outfits. Each had on black slacks, a dark shirt, and a bright tie. They each wore a black leather jacket in lieu of a suit jacket. All had dark hair. They looked like brothers. Once I caught a quick glimpse of them, I stepped back into the shadows. Mistaken identity wouldn't be a problem. My only worry now was that they'd be armed. If any one of them had a gun and decided to play hero, I was in deep shit. I wasn't Dirty Harry. A gunfight wasn't something that I was prepared for.

I stood there for a few moments, my back leaning against the brick wall behind me, and listened, waiting to hear them go inside. I wanted to see them being seated so that I knew which side of the restaurant they'd be on. The left side would be easier, as it provided faster access to the kitchen, but either would do. It was only important that I knew. After walking in and shooting someone in the head, walking to the wrong private room would be a disaster. I waited until I heard the last footsteps on the stairs leading up to the restaurant's front door, then I turned the corner and peered inside through the front windows. The restaurant was rather small. The building itself was bright red, with a dragon carved into the archway above the door. The entire front of the building had waist-high windows that opened up onto the street on the hotter days of summer. I looked through those windows and watched as they showed my mark to his table. I was in luck. The new bodyguard entered the building last. As the last in, he'd be sitting in the general seating area. While the larger party was being escorted to the private room on the left side of the restaurant (luck appeared to be on my side), another waitress motioned the blue-eyed bodyguard to an empty table in the back right-hand corner of the main dining area. He nodded and took his seat.

I could have still called it off. We could have run. I could have skipped the hit and gone back to get you and we could have left that afternoon. We'd still have a little bit of a head start. It would probably take them a day or two before they realized that I wasn't going to do the job. It would take a day or two before the manhunt started. We could get pretty far in two days. We could have flown to Europe or Asia. We could have gone to visit the big Aussie back in his hometown. The world was small. A day or two might have been enough time to run and hide, but our trail would be fresh. Our scent would still have been on everything we touched. It didn't matter where we could get to because they could get there just as quick. We needed more time. We needed time not just to run away but to get lost.

I took a deep breath. One job. That was it. I took the gun out of my backpack and placed it in my jacket pocket. I slung the backpack over my shoulder. The backpack now contained the other two magazines for my gun, three passports in three different names, and a few hundred dollars in cash. I was ready to leave this job and be gone forever. I hoped it wouldn't come to that, but I was prepared. I stuck my hand in my coat pocket and wrapped my fingers around the gun. I slipped my index finger over the trigger and caressed it lightly. The silencer was still on the muzzle. I had never removed it. The safety was off. It was time to go.

I walked straight toward the restaurant's front door. I walked up the steps, pulled open the door, and walked toward the hostess. As I walked, I stared straight ahead, but out of the corner of my eye, I watched the blue-eyed bodyguard. He was watching me too. I took two steps toward the hostess. She smiled at me and was about to ask me how large my party would be. Before she could get the words out, however, I saw the bodyguard move. He gently took his napkin off of his lap, and folded it on the plate in front of him. It was odd. Why would he take the time to fold up his napkin? I stepped quickly past the hostess. I saw the confusion on her face. I took a few large steps toward the new bodyguard. By then he was on his feet. He had an object in his left hand. I stepped closer to him. He began to move his left hand toward me. I made it to about ten feet from him before I pulled the gun from my jacket pocket. I moved quickly, quicker than he did. I lifted my gun toward him and fired. One shot. I hit him in the head. Not between the eyes, but in the head nonetheless. He had gotten his arm about three quarters of the way toward me. Some blood squirted on the wall behind him and he fell to the ground.

No one in the restaurant moved. The hostess, sensing that something was wrong as soon as I walked past her, stifled a scream. Other than that, the place was a museum, a funeral home. I'd expected everything to move slowly. I'd expected time to slow down. I'd expected to see everything in slow motion. For a few moments, it was like that. Once I pulled the trigger the first time, however, everything went into hyperspeed.

I walked immediately across the restaurant, toward the private dining area. No one in the restaurant moved. I tried to stay focused. All the images outside the small tunnel of my vision became blurry. I walked holding the gun out in front of me. I pushed the hanging beads in the doorway aside with my left hand and stepped toward the long rectangular table. All six of the diners looked up at me. My mark and his bodyguard were seated against the wall facing me. The four buyers were in chairs with their backs to me, but they turned to look at me when I entered. I didn't bother to make eye contact. I lifted the gun again and fired one shot directly into the chest of the American bodyguard. He looked at me for a second and then looked down at his chest, confused. Then I turned toward my mark. I aimed my gun at his head and fired. Then I fired again. Then again. I don't remember how many times I pulled the trigger. The first two shots went into his head. After that, I just riddled the bullets into him. With each shot his body jerked and each time his body moved I lost confidence that he was actually dead. Everything hinged on his being dead. By the time I was done pulling the trigger, I could have killed five of him.

Just then I heard a loud popping sound coming from behind me. It broke my trance and I stopped firing. I looked around the table. The American was just sitting there, his eyes glazed over, not moving. My mark was hunched over in his chair, his face nearly touching his plate. All the planning and work that went into the first attempt on his life and now he was dead just like that. It really had been that simple. Then I looked over the stern, ugly faces of the buyers. They looked stoic. They weren't about to involve themselves in someone else's battles. One reached down for his spoon and continued eating his soup.

I heard another pop from behind me and suddenly felt a searing, burning sensation in the back of my left leg. I turned and looked back through the beaded curtain. There was the blue-eyed bodyguard, standing, holding his gun out in front of him. Half his face was covered in blood. He kept one eye closed to avoid getting blood in it. He stumbled forward and pulled the trigger again. This time the bullet buzzed by my head and entered the wall behind me. I heard someone scream and saw a few people run toward the front door. The bodyguard lifted the gun again, but before he could pull the trigger, I pushed my way through the beads and headed toward the kitchen. Until I took my first step, I had forgotten about the pain in my leg, but as I walked the leg screamed out in agony. I had been shot in the back of my thigh, luckily a few inches above my knee. I made my way toward the kitchen as fast as I could. I heard another popping sound and a whizzing by my ear. I had to get out of there.

I walked quickly through the kitchen, holding the gun up by my head. The kitchen staff stayed out of my way. I limped toward the back door. I exited the building near the Dumpsters in the back. It smelled like rotting meat. The scent from the garbage combined with the searing pain in my leg almost made me sick. I swallowed hard. I had to keep moving. I had to get away from the scene. I made it about a half a block down the back alley when I heard the kitchen door open behind me. I looked back and there was the blue-eyed bodyguard stumbling toward me like a zombie from a low-budget horror movie. He was a walking nightmare. I could see where I had shot him, grazing the top of his head and blowing off a piece of his skull. It wasn't a direct hit. He lifted his gun toward me and fired again. The bullet whizzed by me and I heard glass shatter. The bodyguard's aim was gone. He was losing blood, getting weaker. His one closed eye must have been wreaking havoc on his depth perception. Still, throw enough darts with your eyes closed and you're bound to hit the bull's-eye eventually. I wasn't going to stand around and let him use me for target practice.

I tried to run around the next corner and disappear, but I couldn't push off with my left leg. Instead I wobbled toward the turn, the walking nightmare following close behind me. Despite his injury, his legs were in better shape than mine. I turned the corner before he got too close to me. Then I waited.

I could hear him walking, both his feet dragging along the ground like a drunk's. I looked down at my jeans. Everything below my knee on the back of my left leg was a dark purple. Fuck, I thought. This wasn't good. The monster stepped closer to the corner. He came relentlessly. If he'd had any sense, he would have taken another route, or he just would have given up and tried to save himself. He came nonetheless. His left hand, extended with his gun out in front of him, crossed the edge of the building first. I reached out with my hand and grabbed his wrist. I pulled his hand, holding the gun, far above our heads to keep him from being able to point the gun at me. The motion ended up pulling his body toward mine. Our chests collided and our faces were now only inches apart. He was weak.

I looked directly into his eyes and saw death. How many times had I seen that before? He returned my gaze. Only God knows what he saw. Then he spoke. “They brought me here to kill you,” he said to me, the blood pouring down his face. As he spoke blood ran into his mouth and collected in the corner of his lips. The thickness of the blood muffled his words, making him sound as if he were half underwater. He stared directly into my eyes. “They brought me here to kill you. They knew you'd come back. They knew.” With each word, I could feel more strength slip from his body. I lifted my gun and pointed it into his chest. Even in his weakened state he wouldn't take his eyes off mine. I jammed the muzzle of the gun into his ribs. I'm sure he felt it, but he continued to stare at me coldly. “They brought me here to kill you,” he repeated again, spraying blood on me as he spoke. I pulled the trigger, sending a bullet into his heart. He gasped one more time after I fired. Suddenly, we were no longer struggling. My hand was still wrapped tightly around his wrist and I was holding him up. I had seen death before and his was imminent. I kept holding him up. I decided to let him die on his feet. With his last gasp of life, he looked at me again. His eyes were now confused, as if he couldn't understand what was happening, as if he'd completely forgotten who I was. Then his body shuddered and he was gone.