Lair of Killers

Murder Haven: Lair of Killers

Book Five

By

Will Molinar

Edited, Produced, and Published by Writer’s Edge Publishing 2015

All rights reserved.

© 2015 Will Molinar

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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Other Books by Will Molinar

* * * MURDER HAVEN SERIES* * *

Den of Thieves

Gallows Pole

Death’s Reckoning

Rogues Gallery

Lair of Killers

Chapter One

Zandor had the police station monitored for a few days. It was interesting watching officers come and go doing nothing. There were no prisoners or new arrests being made as far as could be seen, and perhaps the rumors were true. The police were on strike. It wasn’t as formal as all that. They had made no clear declaration, but it was obvious they were not doing their job anymore. Fascinating.

Considering they worked in one of the most crime ridden cities on the continent, it was even more intriguing. He watched close by at first, posing as a vagrant, wearing torn pants, a stained shirt, an eye patch, and dirty sandals that made his feet ache with cold and discomfort.

Wearing disguises was what most people did in Murder Haven anyway. They disguised their true natures when it suited their needs. And like the rest of them, there was a specific purpose for his dress.

Zandor sat with his back against a wall to the north side of the jail, a secondary building adjacent to city hall, used for storage. It afforded him a nice view of the jail. There wasn’t much going on, only lackadaisical officers standing around, much like the homeless that populated the area. City administration and poverty went hand in hand.

The jail was an impressive building, but he could understand them wanting a new one. With the scum they had to put away, they had outgrown the space. Considering the amount of thieves they had arrested in the last few months, of course they were bursting at the seams. But then again, they had released them all.

The building was solid stone, like most of the administrative ones nearby, but the jail was thicker, with metal banded doors made of oak. It had only low hanging windows on the ground floor, with the rest of the openings being only murder holes every so often up the length of the second and third story floors, where men could aim projectile weapons. And even those windows had metal grates stapled across the openings. It was built like a fortress.

That was interesting to Zandor because of how little power the police seemed to have in the city. The police were fools not to recognize this very obvious fact. They could hole themselves up in their jail and damned anyone they wanted to hell. Maybe the strike was the first step. Zandor now knew they had access to the single most defensible structure in the city, better even than the wealthy quarter’s gated walls.

He had a metal cup by his side where a few people had tossed a couple of coppers in during the day. There were good people here. If you looked long and hard enough, you can find whatever it is you are looking for. It’s all about perception.

Later that same night, he went near the betting tents to check in on his dealings there. He waited outside a block away for Ignacio to show. It took some time, but the man was punctual and consistent, a good reason he was picked by the late Tanner McDowell to be the point man of their operation.

Ignacio was a smallish man with alert eyes and quick body movements. He wore dark gray clothes and carried a short sword and gauntlets. Zandor knew there was a small boat stationed near the southern docks that he used to go up to McDowell’s old house, tucked away near the foothills, guarded by a single shack.

Hence it had been a simple thing for men like Zandor and Jerrod to go there and capture the six remaining men of McDowell’s. And now only Zandor got a cut from both the tent and arena. The profits were good.

“How’s it goin’, Ignacio?”

The man jumped as Zandor came out of the shadows from the alleyway. His hand went to his sword in a movement born of habit, but his eyes flicked over Zandor’s form and he relaxed. After a second, he turned away and started walking. Zandor narrowed his eyes.

He followed. “So how’s everything at the tents, tonight, huh?”

Ignacio ignored him. Zandor felt the pulse of annoyance but fought down the urge to get upset.

Speeding up, he settled in beside him. “Heading back up north already, yeah? Seems a little early in the rotation. Maybe you should put someone else on it.”

Ignacio stopped. “Was there something you wanted?”

Zandor stared at the man, trying to judge his mood and intentions. Ignacio wanted to be left alone. Something had happened. Maybe their business relationship was not terminated, but this might have been the first step into something bigger.

“Nah,” Zandor said. “Don’t want a thing. Have a good night.”

Ignacio was already moving away the son of bitch. Zandor considered the mess Jerrod would have made of Ignacio and the others. Too bad the man wasn’t available.

The place was busy. They were starting a new match as Zandor climbed the back stairs to where Desmond and Derek were stationed, as always, in their little box to view the night’s entertainment. The guard at the door stopped him.

“They’re busy.”

Zandor forced a smile. “This is important. Do me a favor and tell I’m here, will ya?”

The man frowned but turned and went inside. After a few moments, Zandor could hear some raised voices, recognizing Desmond’s high pitched dismay and Derek’s throaty drawl. They didn’t sound happy, but a second later the door opened and Zandor strolled in, on guard.

Desmond and Derek stared at him from their couch. Desmond had a look of anxiety while the sterner of the two, Derek, looked at Zandor with outright hostility.

“Howzit goin’ fellas?”

Desmond took a deep breath before speaking. “We were going to contact you, but we had no way of doing so since your whereabouts are unknown.”

Zandor snickered. “You coulda asked some of my boys. They work the floor, ya know.”

“Not anymore,” Derek said.

Zandor sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Is that right? Is there a reason, or should I guess?”

“They will be told to leave after tonight, since you are….”

Desmond shushed him. “Oh, be nice. Zandor, I’m sorry but we have found another person to do our security. It’s nothing personal.”

Desmond scoffed and shifted his bulk on their couch. “It is so. Don’t sicken the man with sugar. There were accusations, and we will be dragged down.

“Oh, stop, Derek! If you….”

What followed was a short exchange, and Zandor shook his head. “If you won’t tell me, fine. But I’m sure we can come to some understanding.”

They wouldn’t listen. Further details were slim, but he gleaned someone had accused him and his men of skimming with some of the floor managers. He asked for a reprieve, for some time to prove he was innocent, but they were stubborn.

They sat on their couch and turned away from him. The guards kept their hands on their hips, within easy reach of their weapons. There were four of them inside the room, another outside, and many more within earshot. Zandor considered for a second the amount of havoc he could’ve caused them but decided it wasn’t worth it.

There was something going on with Ignacio as well. Jerrod couldn’t have been responsible. He was dead in his smoldering cabin or about to be. Zandor had been too busy of late. There was too much going on. He needed to trim some jobs into a more coherent, simpler scheme. To hell with it. The jail and police strike was more important.

A few children played in the alleyway next to his location as he wore the same disguise the next day. There were quite a few families in Sea Haven, but if they were smart, they wouldn’t let their kids play in the street. Around city hall was safer but still, most were in the orphanage.

One of them, a little girl, ran over to where he was leaning against the building, chasing a rock they were playing with. It landed by Zandor’s feet, and the girl stopped short and stared at him.

“What happened to your eye?”

Zandor cupped a palsied hand over his ear. “What’s this now?”

“Your eye. What happened to it?”

“What’s that? My eye? It got poked out, long time ago.”

“Who did it?”

“What’s that?”

“Who poked your eye out?”

“Oh, now that’s a long story, my dear, in’t? Not for young ears likes yours, methinks.”

The young girl looked over at her friends as they yelled for her.

“C’mon, Gertie!”

“Get the thing and let’s go!”

An older boy ran up and grabbed her arm. “We don’t have much time. They’ll be looking for us soon.”

He glanced at Zandor, suspicion glaring from his dark brown eyes. ‘Good for you, kid,’ Zandor thought. The boy picked up the rock and pulled her away.

“C’mon, let’s go, Gertie.”

“Bye, bye now,” Zandor said and waved them on to whatever form of bondage or torture they would suffer for being truant He sat back and watched them play with their rock. It should have been so much easier for them to find something softer, like a piece of wood or something.

These were the same streets the poor bastard Jerrod grew up on. The stupid sod had a lot in common with these children. Zandor wondered about that from time to time, what that meant to a person and to Jerrod in particular. With his special set of physical skills, far superior to any of his peers no doubt, Jerrod must have learned how much bigger, stronger, and faster he was compared to the others.

Zandor could imagine how it all started for a young Jerrod, him bringing together a small gang of similar youths, rousting people for money, perhaps starting to work for some small time boss that recognized Jerrod’s potential. Then, years later, he would garner enough of a reputation on the street to catch the attention of a preeminent assassin named Zandor. Then Jerrod’s real training would begin, and he would take his skills to an even higher level of expertise.

The miserable cur would have never admitted it, but Zandor was as much a father to him than he had ever had. Jerrod preferred to think of them as partners, even when they trained together with Zandor in the lead, but that was not true. Much of Jerrod’s knowledge came from what Zandor taught him.

But then Jerrod had not become a true assassin in Zandor’s eyes. The guy had serious, next-level skills, no doubt about it. He killed people well and with great efficiency, but he wasn’t built for the skulking, sneaking attacks most assassins did so often. Skulking in the shadows was not where Jerrod was at his best. He was a blunt tool, a hammer used to smash people, an enforcer.

A few other vagrants milled about. It was mid-afternoon, a warm day for the season, and many of the homeless were brave. They went closer to the precinct and asked the officers for handouts. The police were friendly enough, whereas sometimes they would have told them off, other times they would hand out a few coppers to the more pitiful looking men and women that looked so hungry and starved they might collapse.

Some of the officers spoke with the homeless as if they were old friends, laughing, and slapping them on the back before giving them food or coins. Zandor smiled to himself.

The whole city was a patchwork of different sections, each with its own rules and stipulations, like a tree with a multitude of branches all traveling back to the trunk. It being the merchants’ guild. They drew a lot of respect and influence, even fear in some circles. Zandor was under the belief that in a city of few laws, the men that could enforce should have the real power but only if they used it.

The politicians didn’t realize the full extent of what the police could do if they put their minds to it. It was like the force was an affectation, a group of men they had because that’s what cities did. They had cops who enforced nothing. Theft was illegal, so was murder, but you wouldn’t know it by the way things worked. Sea Haven, with no magistrate to speak of, no judge to preside over any rulings, but the street law had a tendency to keep most people in line, for fear of reprisals from the gangs or common criminals.

If Zandor and his boys were on one side stirring up the thieves and miscreants, and he found a way to cripple the police even more so they were out of way, then the wealthy in this town would understand the role the police played.

Zandor needed to set them on a full strike, then make the rich pay attention, then exploit that. But the police lacked the manpower and the will. They needed a solid push in the right direction, someone to support them, to make them realize what kind of power they wielded.

Rumor had it Captain Cubbins had left town with some foreign man and traveled far to the south for rest and relaxation. Zandor didn’t buy that. No one went on vacation in this town. They were too busy being paranoid about protecting their property or positions.

Cubbins was gone forever. He wasn’t coming back even if he was alive. It meant the cops had a dearth of leadership that Zandor could exploit. The first step was to see if he could get arrested. He stood and walked over to the front of the jail, stumbling, throwing his arms up, and shouting.

“Hey! Hey, now! You there!”

Zandor pointed and titled to the side. A few policemen stood outside. He saw them stare and felt their heightened tension. They got annoyed easy enough, and that was a good sign.

One of them approached him. “Go on, now. Shoo, fella, shoo!”

Zandor dodged to the side when the man tried to shove him back.

“You don’t tell! You don’t, no!”

Zandor stepped closer and breathed in the man’s face, his breath rancid from eating onions and alcohol. The man scowled and shoved him back, a good stiff push.