Chapter 15 Kat #2
He groans in pain, and only then do I remove the gun from his hand and store it in my holster.
“So,” I say. “Tell me who you are, or you’ll join your two friends.”
I pull his arm higher; it burns heavily in the shoulders, and he screams from the pain.
He’s giving me the same silent treatment I gave him.
“I know exactly two hundred and thirty ways to make you die slowly and very painfully,” I say. “The nicest of it is to skin you alive, so I’d advise you to talk right now, or I’ll pick something extra painful,” I add in a very dark and yet amused tone.
“Let’s start with your name.”
Blood drips from my arm, but not as badly as it could. He didn’t aim to kill me. It was a warning.
“Simon,” he says weakly. “Simon Koehler.”
“And why are you here, Simon?”
“Because you trespassed on private property.”
“Not what I meant. Who’s your employer?”
“Iscariot Industries,” he says, and I snap.
“Cut the bullshit,” I tell him with warning anger in my voice. “You know that’s not what I mean.”
He laughs derogatorily, and I shoot him in the leg.
“Find your words now?” I ask when he finally stopped screaming.
What a pathetic sissy.
“You’ll kill me anyway,” he says. “Why should I talk?”
“I won’t, if you bring me in,” I say. The words just came out of my mouth.
“We don’t take women,” he says disparagingly and with disgust in his voice.
“Well,” I say, “Your choice. Bye-bye then.”
“Wait!” he roars.
“Speak, now, or we’re done,” I say.
“Take my phone. Call Wes Peter, speak to him. The number is only viable until the assignment is done, then it burns.”
So that’s how they do it.
I do as he says, store the gun in my back holster, and fumble the phone from his pocket.
“Let me guess,” I ask, “The pin is 8888?” Those wanna-be nazis are all the fucking same idiots. I have come across some of those Hitler-loving bastards over the years.
“Yes,” he growls.
I unlock the phone and call the number.
A male voice answers.
“Is it done?”
“It is not,” I say. “Not as you expect, at least.”
“Who is this?” asks the voice.
“A nobody unless you bring me in,” I say.
A mocking laugh echoes in my ears through the speaker, just like the man under my knee.
I hate men. What I hate more are men who have no respect.
“Poor Simon here told me the same, and I advise you to listen closely,” I say.
“You can either bring me in and have me as your friend and for your cause, or I’ll bring you all down.
I have all your names. I know about the pills, the Prime Minister of the UK, I know about your targets, and I know that Jared Sutton had very, very sensitive information.
You may have deleted them, but I have copies. ”
I emphasize my last words with an arrogant glee.
Silence follows.
I wait patiently. I hear no breathing, so I am sure I’m put on mute.
“Wait for transit,” the man on the phone finally says.
“Just so you know, killing me will transfer all the data to the public. I have insurance,” I say, “so don’t you dare try anything on me.”
The man growls. I interpret it as confirmation, yet I won’t trust them a second.
“I figure Koehler is still alive?” the man asks.
“Can confirm,” I say. “He is unable to move, though. And he’s leaking.”
“He’s been a liability; take care of it.”
One misstep and you’re dead. So much about God’s will.
“I understand,” I say and hang up.
“Well,” I say, pull the gun and drive a bullet through the back of his head. His body turns limp as I say, “It’s bye-bye after all.”
I get up, take all the guns just as a precaution, and take care of my arm, which is just a minor through-and-through, no major arteries hit, and will heal by itself. I also clean any traces of me.
Then I wait.
I wonder how they recognized the trespassing. So, as I get bored of waiting, I use the time to check for anything remotely security-related, but I can’t find anything. I should’ve taken my tool for finding electric cables with me.
Transit arrives, and I wait for them with a drawn gun as the door opens.
Two men appear, no guns; they point me outside. I lower my gun and follow them. A black full-size GMC SUV waits outside, and I enter.
A man in a suit sits in the back seat, his gaze as cold as curious.
His eyes tell me all I need to know: grey, disengaged, while murderously delighted.
I know a psychopath when I see one. It’s not that I am repulsed by them; I actually enjoy them because they can be very predictable and unemotional, unlike other, overemotional humans.
Can be, because the right trigger can make them emotional, murderous monsters.
It’s a thin line. I know what I am talking about.
“So, who are you?” he asks, and I recognize the voice from the phone.
“I have many names,” I say and stare outside the window. “Right now, I am someone with aligned interests,” I say.
“And why might that be?”
“Lilian Anne Knightley,” I say, and turn to look him straight in the eye.
He glances at me with eyes as slits, probably analyzing me equally and determining what to do with me.
“Your men ambushed my mission,” I say. “As a result, Knighltey’s watchdog killed them both and almost got to me, too.”
“I’d rather say it was you who crossed our paths,” he says.
“A matter of perspective. Knightley has information I need before she dies, something my employer wants very much,” I lie, just to make sure that I am not underestimated.
“Who is your employer?” he asks, naturally.
“Someone way up the food chain,” I say. “I believe in the equal caliber of your client.”
His silence on the matter confirms my theory. There is a client, an employer. Someone high profile.
“Why are we here, Mrs Nobody?” he finally asks.
“What I wonder is why she is on your target list,” I say, and let my voice trail off for a moment, staring outside to check where we are going.
“That software of hers has destabilized established orders,” he says, and I understand.
“I need a name,” I say.
“My business runs on privacy,” he says. “I am not going to divulge my clients to anyone.”
So it is his business. Meaning he is the broker.
“Your business runs on you dealing with problems in the shadows. Would be a shame if it all went public, wouldn’t it?”
His eyes narrow into slits, but I am not easily intimidated.
“I need the information,” I say, “I offer you a deal. I get the information and kill her under your name and make sure Zeus is buried with it.”
He considers me.
“Our inside man got busted,” he says, “It will be nearly impossible to get to her.”
“Not for me,” I say.
“You seem awfully confident,” he says and chuckles darkly.
“I got to you, didn’t I?” I ask rhetorically and with as much arrogance in my tone as possible.
The hint of a smirk appears on his face.
“The name of your client,” I say.
“POTUS,” he says, and reaches into the door storage and pulls out a burner. My heart sinks, because right this moment, I know there won’t be a way out.
I have walked into death, and maybe it is for the better.
“Here,” he says. “Use it only for confirmation of your success. You know who we are, so don’t even try to double-cross us. If all goes well, you may live; if not, you’ll be dead before you can please.”
“I don’t play around,” I say. “I get things done.”
The car comes to a halt.
“Use one of the guns you took from my people as an identifier, leave it. Call. We’ll clean. You vanish and never lose a word about our…temporary alliance.”
“There will be no need for cleaning,” I say.
“And why is that?” he asks.
“Because I am awfully good at burning things down beyond recognition.”
He scoffs in appreciation.
“I wonder,” I say, “How did you know I entered the warehouse?”
“One of the many secrets we hold,” he says and adds with a cunning smirk, “We don’t dare speak of the Lord’s power.”
I snort before I open the door, grab my backpack, and slip a transmitter underneath the seats. I know they’ll come to kill me eventually. When they do, I’ll see it coming and take as many of them with me as possible.
The man leans in on me.
“You have 48 hours,” he says and closes the door in front of my face.
I walk away without looking back.
People stare at me, even though I have my hood slipped on.
They let me out on the worst spot ever possible, and that is Broadway. Many people to get lost in are usually good, but not if I am hurt and stand out. My face must still be bloody and swollen from the beating I took, not to forget I’m wearing a blood-soaked jacket.
I need to get lost in the crowd and do what I inevitably have to do, the thing I should have done all along.