The King

SEVEN

Assail killed his fourth human a moment after he dropped number three.

And the Scribe Virgin help him, he was itching to off the last of the trio who had arrived with such alacrity. He wanted to discharge a bullet into the man’s gut and watch him writhe and suffer on the driveway. He wanted to stand over the dying and breathe in the scent of the fresh blood and the pain. Then he wanted to kick the corpse when it was over. Maybe light it on fire.

But Ehric was right. Whom would he question then?

“Retain him,” he ordered, nodding to the remaining human male.

Ehric’s brother was more than happy to oblige, stepping in and craning an arm around that thick neck. With a vicious crank, he bent the man backward.

Assail closed the distance to his prey, taking a puff from his Cuban and exhaling it into the bodyguard’s face. “I should like to gain entrance into that garage.” He pointed to the outbuilding, thinking mayhap they had her in there. “You are going to make that happen. Either because you supply the key or because my associate uses your head as a battering ram.”

“I don’t fucking know! What the fuck! Fuck!” Or something to that effect. The words were strangled.

Such crude language. Then again, given the Cro-Magnon cast of that brow ridge, one could assume one was dealing with very little in terms of higher reasoning.

It was easy to ignore all the babbling. “Now, will we be using a key or garage opener … or some portion of your anatomy?”

“I don’t fucking know!”

Well, I have the answer to that, Assail thought.

Turning his cigar around, he regarded its glowing orange tip for a moment. Then he moved closer and put that hot spot a thin inch away from the man’s cheek.

Assail smiled. “’Tis a good thing my associate is holding you so tight. One jerk the wrong way and…”

He pressed the embers into the man’s skin. Immediately, a scream pealed into the night, flushing an animal from the undergrowth, ringing in Assail’s ears until they stung.

Assail retracted his cigar. “Shall we attempt a reply again? Do you wish to use a key? Or something else?”

The muffled answer was as unintelligible as the scent of burned meat upon the air was clear. “More oxygen,” Assail murmured to his cousin. “So he may communicate, please.”

When Ehric’s brother relented, the man’s answer exploded out of his mouth. “Opener. Visor. Passenger side.”

“Help this man retrieve it for me, would you.”

Ehric’s brother was as gentle as a hammer to a nail head, dragging his captive around with no regard as to where the contours of the car were—in fact, it appeared as though he were using the man’s body to test the structural integrity of the hood and engine block.

But the opener was procured and offered by a shaking hand—and Assail knew better than to put the thing to use. Booby traps were something he was very familiar with, and far better for someone other than him to do the triggering.

“Oblige for me, will you?”

Ehric’s twin shoved the man toward the garage, keeping his gun within inches of the side of his head. There was rather a lot of tripping and falling, but missteps aside, the bodyguard did manage to get within range.

The man’s hands were trembling so badly it took him several tries to depress the correct button, but soon enough two of the four doors were rising up. And what do you know, that sedan’s headlights were flashing right into them.

Nothing. Just a Bentley Flying Spur on one side and a Rolls-Royce Ghost on the other.

Cursing, Assail strode toward the building. Undoubtedly, some kind of silent alarm was going off, but he was not overly worried about it. The first round of cavalry had already arrived. There was going to be a lull before a second squad came.

The construction had two stories, and given its thermal-pane windows and historically inaccurate proportions, one could only assume it had been built in the current century. And stepping into the bay on the left, he was not surprised that everything was spotless, the concrete floor painted pale gray, the walls smooth as Sheetrock and white as paper. There were no lawn care apparatuses therein, no mowers, or weeders, or rakes. Undoubtedly there was a service for that kind of thing, and one wouldn’t want that sort of dirty, smelly equipment around one’s automotive babies.

As he moved quickly out of the direct lighting, the treads of his boots called his footfalls out sharply, the sounds echoing around. There didn’t appear to be a lower level. And upstairs, there was nothing but a small office that was used to store off-season tires, tonneau covers, and other automobile accoutrements.

Heading back to ground level, Assail walked out of the place at a fast clip. Approaching the bodyguard, he could feel his fangs descend, his own hands shake, his mind hum in a way that made him think of cars roaring down the Autobahn. “Where is she?”

“Where … is … who …?”

“Give me your knife, Ehric.” As his cousin unsheathed a seven-inch blade, Assail holstered his gun. “Thank you.”

Accepting the loaner, Assail put the point right to the man’s throat, getting in so close he could smell the fear-sweat blooming out of those pores and feel the heat of the breath that pumped from that open mouth.

Clearly, he was asking the wrong question. “Where else does Benloise order captives to be taken?” Before the man could speak, he cut in, “I would urge you to be of care in your reply. If you are untruthful? I will know it. Lies have a stench all their own.”

The man’s eyes bounced around as if he were making an assessment of his survival chances. “I don’t know I don’t know I don’t—”

Assail dug the knife in until it broke the skin surface and red blood welled onto the blade. “That’s not the right answer, my friend. Now tell me, where else does he take people?”

“I don’t know! I swear! I swear!”

This went on for quite some time, and tragically, there was no scent of obstruction.

“Goddamn it,” Assail muttered.

With a quick slash, he silenced the nonsense—and the fifth useless human dropped to the ground.

Pivoting around, he glared in the direction of the house. Against its backdrop of roofing angles and chimneys, past the skeletal trees on its far side … a gentle glow had appeared in the eastern sky.

A harbinger of doom.

“We must needs go,” Ehric said in a low voice. “Upon the nightfall, we will resume finding your female.”

Assail didn’t bother correcting his cousin’s choice of words. He was too distracted by the fact that the shaking that had started in his hands had moved upward, a weed spreading throughout his flesh until even his thigh muscles were twitching.

It took him a moment to label the cause, and when he did, the largest part of him rejected the definition.

But the fact of the matter was … for the first time in his adult life, he was afraid.

“Where the hell is this place? Fucking Canada?”

Behind the wheel of the Crown Vic, Two Tone was ready to eat a bullet as the bitching continued. This five-hour drive through the middle of the night had been bad enough, but the waste of skin beside him in the passenger seat?

If he wanted to do the world a favor, he’d point the gun in that direction, not his own.

There would be such satisfaction in putting out the fucker’s pilot light, but in the organization, the role of supervisor only got you so far—and the right to coffin a chatty bastard was just over that line.

“I mean, where the fuck are we?”

Two Tone bit down on his molars. “We’re almost there.”

Like the SOB was a five-year-old on the way to Grandma’s house? Jesus Christ.

As he drove deeper into the absolute frickin’ boonies, the sedan’s headlights captured the immediate distance ahead, pulling the rows of pine trees and the two lanes that curved in and around the base of a mountain out of the night. Dawn was coming, however, a faint peachy light appearing over to the east.

Great fucking news. Sooner, not later, they were going to finally be off the road, and then they could deal with the merchandise, and get some goddamn rest.

Squinting, he leaned forward over the wheel. He had a feeling they were coming up to the turnoff …

Two hundred yards later, an unmarked dirt road appeared to the right.

No reason to hit the directional signal—or slow down. He nailed the brakes and wrenched the wheel, their cargo thumping in the trunk.

If she’d fallen asleep, she was awake now.

The ascent was steep and the going got much slower: December meant a crap load of snow had already fallen on the ground this far north.

He’d only been to this property once before—and it had been for the same purpose. The boss man was not someone you wanted to piss off, and if you did, it got you snatched and brought up here where no one would ever find you.

He had no clue what that woman had done to offend, but that was not his problem. His job was to get her, disappear her—and hold her until further instructions.

Still, he had to wonder. The last asshole he’d delivered to the hidden place had embezzled five hundred thousand dollars and twelve kilos of cocaine. What the fuck had she pulled? And shit, he hoped he wasn’t up here for as long as that other job had lasted.

He’d also gotten a rotator-cuff injury courtesy of that assignment.

The boss didn’t like to do the torturing himself. He preferred to watch.

Hard to claim New York State worker’s comp for the shit he’d done to the guy.

But, whatever, Two Tone didn’t mind that part of the job. He wasn’t like some guys, who were into it, and not at all like the big man, who didn’t like getting his hands dirty at all. Nah, he was in the middle, happy enough to take care of shit provided he was paid well for it.

“How much farther are we—”

“Another quarter mile.”

“It’s fucking cold up here.”

Gonna be colder when you’re dead, motherfucker.

The boss had hired this asshole about six months ago, and Two Tone had been saddled with him a couple of times. He kept hoping that the dumb shit would be fired the good ol’-fashioned way, but so far, no luck.

Bastard would make an excellent floater in the Hudson River.

Or in a hole. Matter of fact, wasn’t his name Phil?

Talk about inspiration.

After a final bend in the road, the underwhelming goal was reached: The single-story “hunting cabin” blended perfectly into the landscape, the low-slung building all but disappearing in the midst of the snow-covered underbrush and fluffy evergreens. In fact, the exterior had been deliberately constructed to look run-down. Inside, though, it was a fortress with a lot of fucking dark secrets.

And what was in the trunk was going to be added to that tally.

He’d never heard of a female being brought here before. Wonder if she was hot? Impossible to get a read on that when they’d been carrying her deadweight out of that house.

Maybe he could have some fun as he passed the time.

“What the fuck is this place? It looks like a fucking outhouse. Does it have heat?”

Two Tone closed his lids and ran through a number of fantasies that involved bloodshed. Then he cranked open his door and stood up, stretching the kinks out. Man, he had to take a piss.

Walking over to the door, he muttered, “Get the thing out of the trunk, wouldja.”

No keys to worry about. Access was fingerprinted.

As he went along, he had to use a flashlight to zero in on the pseudo-decrepit entrance. He was about halfway to goal when he turned back, some instinct talking to him.

“Be careful opening that up,” he called out.

“Yeah. Whatever.” Phil went around to the trunk. “What the fuck can she do to me?”

Two Tone shook his head and muttered, “Your funeral. With any fucking luck—”

The second that latch was released, all hell broke loose: Their captive exploded out of there like her ass was spring-loaded—and she’d found a weapon. The red glow of a flare pierced through the darkness, illuminating the cluster-fuck she dealt out as she buried that brilliant tip right in the face of Two Tone’s idiot backup—

Phil’s howl of pain flushed an owl the size of a ten-year-old kid out of the tree right next to Two Tone and he was forced to hit the deck or lose his own head.

But then he had to be back up on his feet.

That woman took off at a dead run—proving, like that flare shit didn’t, that unlike Phil she was no dummy.

“Son of a bitch!” Two Tone tore after her, following the ripping and tearing sounds as she went seriously off-road. Switching his flashlight to his left hand, he fumbled to get his gun out.

Not how this should be going down. Not in the slightest.

The bitch was fast as hell, and as he lumbered after her, he knew she was going to outrun him—and the last phone call he wanted to make to the boss was, “Oh, hey, I lost your project.”

He could end up being the next person taken into the “cabin.”

Discharging his weapon was the only shot he had. Ha-ha.

Skidding himself to a halt, he latched onto a birch tree, upped his muzzle, and started pumping off rounds, the shots echoing through the early dawn.

There was a higher-pitched curse—and then the sounds of running ceased. In their place? A concentrated rustling, like she was writhing on the ground.

“Fuckin’ A,” he panted as he jogged forward.

If it was a terminal wound, he was screwed nearly as badly as if she’d gotten away.

The flashlight skipped around the landscape as he closed the distance, highlighting trunks and branches, underbrush, the snowed-up ground.

And then there she was. Facedown in the needles, gripping one knee to her chest. Except he wasn’t falling for it. God only knew what else she had up her sleeve.

“Get up or I’ll shoot you again.” He put a fresh clip into the butt of his gun. “Get the fuck up.”

Moaning. Rolling.

He pulled the trigger and put a bullet into the ground right by her head. “Stand up or the next is through your skull.”

The woman pushed herself off the ground. Debris hung from her black clothes and parka, and her dark hair was fuzzed up. He didn’t bother rating her on his fuck scale. First and foremost was getting her into the secured location.

“Hands up,” he ordered, training his weapon at the center of her chest. “Walk.”

Her limp was bad, and he could smell the blood as he fell in behind her. No more sprinting for her.

It took them four times as long to get back to the car, and when they did, he found Phil still on the ground and not moving. Breath was going in and out of his open mouth, however, the subtle wheezing sounds suggesting that the pain was all-consuming.

As they passed, Two Tone checked out that face. Oh … shit … third-degree burns all over, and one of those eyes was not coming back. Except the bastard was probably going to live.

Right?

Fucking great. But he’d deal with that later.

When the pair of them came up to the door, he knew he needed to retain control of this situation.

With a quick move, he grabbed the back of her neck and slammed her headfirst into those hard-ass panels.

This time, as she slumped to the ground, he knew she wasn’t coming up for air for a while. But he still gave her a chance to twitch it out before he put his gun away, pressed his thumb into the fingerprint reader, and opened the way in.

Flicking the lights on, he took hold of her armpits and dragged her inside. After locking them in together, he pulled her across the concrete to the stairwell … and then carried her down into the basement below.

There were three cells filling out the lower level, just like the ones on TV with iron bars, concrete floors, and stainless-steel pallets for beds. The toilets were functional not for the comfort of the prisoner(s), but for the boss’s sensitive nose. No windows.

Two Tone didn’t take a deep breath until he had her in the first of them and had locked the door.

Before he went aboveground to confirm capture with home base, put the camo tarp over the Crown Vic and deal with Phil, he went to the cell next door and urinated for what felt like an hour and a half. Zipping up, he stepped out and looked at the stained wall across from him.

The pair of shackles that hung from the two sets of steel chains were going to get used soon.

Complications with Phil aside, he almost felt sorry for the bitch.