The Darkest Day (11 page)

Victor wrenched the giant’s head into a neck crank, not killing him but taking him out of the fight with damaged ligaments, torn tendons, ripped muscle, and hyperextended vertebrae. He heaved him forward, into Marte, turning to go for the one on the sofa as he sprang out of the seat.

Victor shot out a stomp kick at the guy’s leading knee. The leg folded backwards the wrong way. He collapsed on to the sofa, screaming.

A spinning roundhouse kick knocked the gun out of the hand of the guy with the Afro as he grabbed it before standing.

With his own gun lying useless in pieces, the second man at the table went for a takedown, but with no real technique, charging into Victor and going low, the top of his skull colliding with Victor’s abdomen, arms wrapping around his thighs.

Victor shoved the head down and to one side as he was pushed back, then, wrapping his arm around the guy’s head and locked off with a gable grip, put the guy into a face bar, his wrist bone tight across the guy’s nose and cheek. When Victor squeezed the head against his sternum the man screamed louder than the guy with the broken knee because the skull was thick and strong and could resist the enormous pressure Victor applied with the blade of his forearm, but the nose and cheekbone could not. The cartilage in the nose flattened first before the weak bone splintered and crushed and the prominent cheekbone cracked.

Victor threw the man to the floor and grabbed a seat cushion from the sofa to use as shield as the guy with the Afro attacked again, this time stabbing with a kitchen knife. The blade pierced straight through the foam cushion, and Victor folded and wrapped the cushion around the hand and wrist, trapping the knife and pulling the guy closer and into an elbow.

His head snapped back and teeth pattered the ceiling.

A sweep took him from his feet. He landed hard, semiconscious, face smeared in bright blood. Victor raised a foot to stamp his heel on to the guy’s temple, but instead lowered the foot back where it had been. Killing Marte’s men was not the plan, but resisting the instinct to finish him off tested Victor’s willpower. He’d been taught to always neutralise a threat on his terms if possible, and if not at the first available opportunity.

Now though his priority was to secure Marte’s cooperation. Killing his entire crew might encourage that, but it had an equal chance of securing defiance. And while those crew members were still alive they could be used as leverage in a way a corpse could not.

The Haitian appeared as unaffected by the violence as he seemed unafraid that no one stood between him and Victor. Which made him a good actor or insane. He was at Victor’s mercy.

‘How much money you want?’ Marte asked as he regarded Victor with an indifferent gaze.

Victor held the gaze. ‘To do what?’

Marte gestured at his five men, all alive but out of the fight and writhing in pain with crippling injuries. ‘How much do you want to go on my payroll instead of these useless fucks?’

‘You can’t afford me.’

Marte sat back in the chair and said, ‘Then what do you want?’

‘You know why I’m here. I’m looking for information. That’s all. I want to know about a woman. She goes by the handle Raven.’

‘No you don’t. That kind of knowledge will get you killed.’

‘We all have to die sometime.’

Marte said, ‘But why rush towards it?’

‘I prefer to meet death on my terms.’

‘Then you’re a fool if you believe you can decide your end.’

Victor shook his head. ‘That’s not what I said. And you’re avoiding the question.’

‘You have yet to ask me a question.’

‘Where is she?’

Marte smiled because he believed Victor had acquiesced too early, which made him feel in control of the conversation. Which was how Victor wanted him to feel.

‘Why would I even know? You think she trusts me? You think she trusts anyone?’

Victor said nothing.

Marte used a palm to wipe sweat from his face. Victor could feel the perspiration coating his own skin, unable to evaporate into the humid air.

Marte swallowed. ‘And what do I get in return for this information you desire?’

Victor said, ‘It’s more a case of what you don’t get.’

He looked at the five men moaning on the floor. Marte did the same, but with contempt. He sucked on his lower lip.

Victor said, ‘Do you still think I have no manners?’

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m two people,’ Victor answered. ‘I’m either no one or I’m the worst enemy you’ll ever have.’

‘The cartel runs this island. They protect me.’ He used a thumb to point at himself for emphasis.

‘Then where are they now?’

‘You can’t touch me,’ Marte said, defiant.

‘I can do whatever I choose.’

‘If you do, they’ll take your head,’ Marte sneered, drawing an index finger across his throat.

‘It’s right here,’ Victor said. ‘What are they waiting for?’

Marte reached for his packet of cigarettes.

‘Don’t,’ Victor said.

Marte looked up at Victor and then to the cigarettes. He kept his fingers on the packet for a moment in silent debate, but then withdrew the hand. Which meant Victor no longer needed to break it.

He took two steps and stamped down on the right hand of the guy with the Afro, who had been reaching for the gun Victor had kicked across the floor. The man wailed through his smashed teeth. Victor picked up the pistol and tucked it into his waistband.

‘I only want information about Raven,’ he said. ‘This never had to get ugly. I would have paid you well. You might even have gained yourself an ally in the process, which would have been particularly useful to you as you’re going to end up losing one.’

Marte considered this.

‘What’s to think about?’ Victor asked. ‘You don’t have a choice. Any delay, any withholding, is only going to end up being bad for you, not me. I have all the time in the world.’

‘She’ll kill me for betraying her.’

‘She won’t,’ Victor said.

Marte sneered again. ‘And why wouldn’t she? She demands loyalty. She will not forgive this betrayal.’

‘She won’t kill you because I’m going to kill her first.’

‘But why? What has she done to warrant your wrath?’

Victor said, ‘Does it really matter to you why?’

Marte looked at the ceiling and shrugged. ‘I suppose not. I doubt the reasons of a man like you would make any sense to me. I always liked her, though.’

‘I’ll tell her you said so if that makes you feel better.’

‘A little.’ Marte sighed and examined his hands, as if looking for some answer only they could give. When he looked back to Victor he said, ‘I don’t know where she is. She would never tell me that. So I can’t help you.’

‘You’re a fixer. She’s a killer. So you got her documents, passports, things like that. Yes?’

‘That’s right,’ Marte said.

‘I want the names of those identities. Copies or any photographs, if possible.’

The Haitian shook his head. ‘No copies. No photographs. She had me burn any evidence.’

‘And you kept nothing for insurance in case she turned on you?’

‘She would never turn on me.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘Because she has honour,’ Marte said. ‘Unlike you.’

Victor remained silent.

Marte studied him. ‘You’re really going to kill her?’

‘As sure as night follows day.’

‘And you believe you are capable of such a feat? People have tried before.’

Victor said, ‘Everything made of flesh can, and will, die. Raven is no different.’

‘You make it sound so simple. You make it sound so very easy.’

‘She’s not bulletproof, is she?’

Marte smirked, then nodded, to himself as much as Victor. ‘Okay, you win. I’ll write you a list. Every identity I’ve ever created or sourced for her. Will that do?’

‘If you miss out any names, or if any of that information proves false, or if you try and warn her —’

‘I know,’ Marte said with a heavy sigh. ‘I’m scared of her, yes. But now I’m scared of you more.’

Victor said, ‘Then you’re smarter than you’ve acted so far.’

Before leaving the island, Victor called Halleck from his hotel room in San Domingo and read out the aliases Marte had supplied to Raven in the last twelve months.

‘I’ve got a hit,’ Halleck said when he called back. ‘Angelica Margolis flew into LAX three days ago on a flight from Paris.’

‘That doesn’t help me a whole lot,’ Victor replied. ‘The US is a big place. She could be anywhere by now.’

‘There’s more. A private landlord in New York ran a credit check on Miss Margolis three months ago.’

Victor said, ‘Tell me the address.’

It took two whole days to reach New York. Flying direct would have taken a little over five hours, from San Domingo to Miami, Miami to New York. But Victor didn’t travel in straight lines, least of all when entering the United States. He caught a flight from the Dominican Republic to Jamaica, and then to Nicaragua and then Mexico. He crossed the border into the US in a rental car. Then domestic flights bounced him across the country until he disembarked in Newark, New Jersey.

He walked through the airport terminal. People saw him, but they didn’t see him. They went about their business, not paying attention to the man in the charcoal suit who walked among them. His height would have made him stand out a little, but the lowered chin and lax posture shrank him enough not to be noticeable. The bland clothes, pale skin, cheap haircut and non-prescription glasses meant features that might otherwise be considered appealing seemed ordinary. He neither walked fast enough to catch the eye nor slow enough to generate annoyance. His expression was neutral. No one would wonder what he was thinking. No one would smile at him.

The only thing that could be considered notable were his eyes, which never stopped moving.

Outside, while waiting for a cab, he stood near a professional couple in sharp suits and lots of hair product as they argued with obvious passion about nothing Victor could understand. In his experience, relationships made people miserable. He didn’t understand what kept people together when they were unhappy. He was used to being alone. He reminded himself that wasn’t the same as being used to loneliness.

The cab driver wanted to talk about baseball. Victor was no sports fan. They settled on politics as a middle ground. To make the ride as smooth as possible Victor agreed with everything the driver said.

By the time they had passed through the Lincoln Tunnel the weariness of two days spent travelling was catching up with Victor. He had the driver drop him off outside a hotel, waited until the cab had turned off the street, and walked for three blocks until he found a hotel that felt right. They had plenty of rooms available. Victor asked for one on the second floor.

He placed his attaché case on the bed and performed a sweep of the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary and memorising the layout, position of furniture and objects that might be useful as improvised weapons, should they be needed. The window opened a fraction and he let in cold, polluted air. Sirens sounded somewhere in the distance in a muted, half-strangled whine. A thousand lit windows stared back at him.

He would have lingered to enjoy the view, but a sniper could be at any one of those windows.

The wardrobe was set into the wall and could not be positioned in front of the door. Instead, Victor used the heavy desk as a barricade. It wouldn’t stop a determined assault, but it would buy him time to slip out of the window. Two storeys up wasn’t a long way down; high enough so someone could not heave themselves up with any degree of ease, but not so high that Victor would have to spend a significant amount of time scaling down when his life depended on it.

He lay on top of the cover, still wearing his suit and shoes, and slept.

When he awoke, it would be time to go to work.

The address Halleck had given Victor for ‘Angelica Margolis’ corresponded to a rundown tenement in a bad neighbourhood in the Bronx. It took Victor two hours to make the forty-minute journey because he spent extra time on counter surveillance to reduce the chances he was being shadowed.

He knew enough about Raven to increase his odds of spotting her, but she knew more about him. She had tracked him down before he even knew she existed.

The neighbourhood was a mix of dilapidated social housing and the commercial enterprises that served the residents – thrift stores, pawnbrokers, fast loans, 99c stores and ambulance chasers. Every one had security gates ready to be rolled down. No ground-floor window was free of bars. Drug dealers hung around on the corners of alleyways and in the shelter of doorways. An abandoned church was boarded up and falling down. Graffiti marked any area of defenceless brickwork. Razor wire protected every low wall.

Victor walked by a disused basketball court. The backboards were cracked and the hoops were missing. A homeless guy slept in one corner under a blanket of nothing but damp cardboard boxes. Victor could see a hand-scribbled sign near to where the man lay and just about made out the word
veteran
.

To the south, multibillion-dollar skyscrapers were backlit by a pale afternoon sun.

He circled the block on which the tenement stood, taking the pavements opposite, checking out the locale for signs of anything out of the ordinary. No one waited longer than they needed at any bus stop. No construction workers or repairmen were busy doing nothing. Watchers disguised as dealers and degenerates would be hard to identify, but he trusted the genuine loiterers would do that for him. They would scatter if they noticed someone who didn’t belong amongst them, suspecting cops.

There were a few anonymous vehicles parked in the area – a dirty red Impala, a midnight-blue panel van with a delivery-company logo on the side, a modified Dodge pick-up, and a rust-spotted grey cargo van – but he saw no people waiting inside any.

Watchers could be hidden in the back of either van, but the cargo van had no rear windows and the panel van was parked side-on to the tenement, so anyone in the back wouldn’t be able to watch it.

Victor saw why Raven had picked the area for a safe house. It wasn’t because she was short of money. Professional killing paid well, and for the best the rewards were huge. Raven was good enough to get high-profile contracts. If she wanted to she could afford to live in five-star hotels, as Victor did more often than not. The area offered other advantages beyond money.

For all the dereliction and obvious criminal activity, he had not seen a single cop. With more crime than there were cops to combat it, there weren’t enough resources available to serve those who hung on to the edges of society. Residents here would keep to themselves and even if they did become suspicious of the comings and goings of a certain individual, they were not going to rush to inform the police any more than the police would rush to investigate.

A landlord here would be happy to take cash payments for rent and a few extra bills in return for ignoring a lack of references or credit history. She might not even need to show any ID at all. She could keep her safe house operational with a minimum of funds and maximum of anonymity.

Victor found himself nodding as he made his way down the alleyway at the back of the building. There were trash cans and dumpsters and piles of garbage bags. A teenage girl was sitting on the ground examining her nails. When she heard him approach and looked up he saw she had a black eye. She scrambled to her feet and ran.

When she had gone, he examined the fire exits and windows and plotted escape routes should he need to make a fast exit. He was here on reconnaissance, but the only thing he had to lose by planning for the worst was time, and that was one thing he had in abundance.

A woman was leaving her ground-floor apartment as he headed for the stairs. Her greasy hair was tied back with a rubber band and ash fell from the cigarette between her lips as she dragged a pushchair through her doorway. The baby it contained was crying. She didn’t look at Victor once.

There was no sign to say the elevator was out of service, but Victor always took the stairs if the option was there. Maybe not if the alternative was forty flights of stairs, but stepping into an elevator was as close to volunteering to trap himself in a steel coffin as he was ever going to get. There was no telling who or what was going to be there when the doors opened again. The last time he had been inside an elevator, the doors had opened to reveal an assassin who had come closer to killing him than anyone had before or since.

Victor flexed his left hand as he reached the top floor. He wasn’t surprised Raven had chosen to rent an apartment on this floor and not one below. Having people above as well as below was no fun for anyone, least of all assassins looking for security and privacy. As such, he expected to find her safe house would be a corner apartment, so she would only have neighbours to one side. Windows on two walls gave snipers more options, but armoured glass or even blackout blinds could negate that threat, and more windows meant more means of escape.

He made his way down a narrow corridor to the front door of Raven’s safe house, which occupied the building’s southwest corner. Had their roles been reversed he would have chosen the same one. South-facing windows would reflect the most available sunlight, making it harder for watchers and snipers to see through.

Her front door was coated in resilient green paint like the rest of the front doors. And like them it had been used enough to have gained scratch marks around the keyhole and scuff marks where it had been toed open, though less than the other doors. Which made sense. Raven was using it as a safe house, not a residence. She wouldn’t be here anywhere near as often as those who lived within the building. If he conducted a building-wide comparison study of scratches and marks he knew he could form a rough estimate of how much time Raven spent here, but he didn’t need to know her life in that much detail when all he planned to do was end it.

He was surprised to find only two standard locks securing the door, but he reasoned her primary layer of defence was the anonymity the apartment provided. The kind of enemies that would find her safe house would not be defeated in their intentions by any lock, no matter how sophisticated.

Victor had been picking locks long before he took his first contract as a professional killer. He had learned to shimmy open car doors before he had learned to drive. He had mastered the intricacies of raking tumblers long before he owned a property key of his own. If he had to, he could crack a safe with nothing more than graph paper and a pencil. The two standard locks fitted to low-cost urban housing were nothing he hadn’t beaten countless times as an adolescent delinquent. He had Raven’s front door unlocked in less than ten seconds.

He turned the handle and stepped across the threshold.