Death Echo

18

DAY THREE

ON THE REZ

1:35 A.M.

A stiff breeze blew through the mixed forest, making needles whisper and leaves rattle. Demidov was just another shadow moving among shadows, sliding between the scrubby trees with an eerie kind of grace. It had taken him an hour to discover the overgrown dirt lane leading into the forest. The “address” he’d found in the Blue Water Marine Group’s office was more of a general direction than any specific guide.

The reservation reminded him of the farthest fringes of Vladivostok, where cart roads became footpaths that unraveled into the wild, ragged land, places where somebody’s location was a matter of spirited discussion among natives.

The wind helped Demidov find his destination. He followed the odor of feces and burning trash to the moonlit clearing where bottles and plastic bags studded the wrecked vehicles in bizarre decoration. Again, it reminded him of Vladivostok. Even the can of kerosene he carried brought back memories.

There was one light burning in the sagging trailer at the far side of the clearing. Demidov circled the trailer once, then again, before he climbed carefully up the broken steps at the back door. After listening for a minute, he caught the stem of the handle in a pair of grip-lock pliers, and twisted. The lock came apart with the small whine of inferior metal.

He slid back into the shadows and waited. One minute. Two.

Ten.

The trailer remained quiet, motionless but for the occasional quiver beneath the rising wind.

Demidov waited some more. If he was a religious man, he would have prayed, but his only god was power, so he simply waited, listening.

No noises came from inside the trailer.

Quietly he skimmed over the broken steps and through the door, a shadow dancer taking his place on a shabby stage. Any small noises he made were simply part of the performance, the night and the wind and the forest dancing together.

The inside of the trailer smelled like the clearing, with an overlay of sour pizza and beer. His target was facedown on a lumpy couch, snoring into the crook of his arm. Crushed beer cans lay scattered on the floor like a fallen house of cards.

A loaded, cocked pistol waited among the cans.

This becomes more like Vladivostok with every moment, Demidov thought in wry disgust. Fear makes them drink. Too much alcohol makes even the smartest of them a fool.

Easy.

Demidov had planned to question the target, but experience told him that even intense pain couldn’t cut through some alcohol stupors. He set the kerosene can aside, picked up Tommy’s gun, and frowned.

A man would have to put this.22 caliber toy up a target’s ass to make any impression.

Worse, my silencer won’t fit this barrel.

Damp salt air magnified sound like a megaphone. Demidov wanted to be off the reservation and out of sight before any alarm went out. He put the little pistol out of reach without bothering to wipe it. There was no chance of fingerprints; his thin, black driving gloves covered all manner of problems.

Demidov reached into his long leather coat and pulled out one of his own guns, an SR-1 Vektor. Eighteen rounds, quite reliable as long as the safety was put out of commission with thin tape. With the correct ammunition, the Vektor was capable of penetrating body armor, cars, walls, and light armor plate.

But tonight he was loaded for a much more fragile target. Swiftly, silently, Demidov walked forward. Habit, not necessity. The target’s snores were louder than the wind. With his gloved left hand, he reached between Tommy’s legs, found his testicles, and squeezed hard. Sometimes a sudden, brutal shock of pain could wake up even the most sodden drunk.

Tommy made a sound rather like that of the back-door lock giving way, but his eyelids didn’t open.

Demidov gave another crank, twisting as he squeezed.

With another whine, Tommy tried to curl protectively around himself. His body didn’t respond. He was under too deep.

His eyelids quivered and stayed closed.

I don’t have time for this drunken shit-eater.

With a word of disgust, Demidov released the other man’s slack flesh. He knew men who would have enjoyed trying to wake Tommy up, but Demidov wasn’t one of them. To him, torture was a means to an end, like kerosene or a silencer. A tool, not a pleasure.

If he had been worried about misleading the authorities, he would have simply poured kerosene and let them decide if it was accident, suicide, or murder. But all he was concerned about was making sure the job got done. Once, such a weapon as his had been rare outside of Russia, too distinctive to use overseas. The modern weapons trade had changed that. Using a Vektor was no longer like leaving his name written on a corpse.

Demidov took out his 9 mm pistol, pulled a sofa pillow over the target to limit the back splash of gore, and shot Tommy twice in the head.

Moving quickly, Demidov poured kerosene on and around the body. He lit it with matches the dead man had dropped. When he was sure that the fire would take hold, he went out the same way he had come in, a dark dancer moving through the forest.