Hard Revenge Page 10

“I’m very happy I could help,” he said, warming up to the conversation.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Eban.”

  “Well, Eban, I have to run. Again, thank you for saving me. Next time I’m here, I’ll make sure I have time to visit; I want to know what you do other than clean up spilled coffee. Is this your normal shift?”

  Eban beamed. Obviously, he didn’t get much attention, and certainly not from pretty women. She’d made an impression. Good!

  In addition to making herself memorable, Michelle had learned his work schedule. Before leaving New York, she’d be back and next time she’d buy him something to eat and a cup of coffee, which would permanently cement another brick in her alibi.

  She’d done dual jobs, but this time one of those jobs served a double purpose.

  Her clandestine assignment had brought her to New York and it needed to appear like a political assassination, which required her to be invisible.

  The second job with the studio, however, felt better. But for reasons having nothing to do with the studio, Michelle needed to be seen and remembered in New York. She’d already created a paper trail by flying, booking the hotel, and doing research in her own name, which would help with her third mission: a personal project back home scheduled for later this week. That presence alone would provide the alibi she needed.

  * * *

  Michelle spent a productive morning doing research for Keisha, which had been an effective way to pass the time. The target she needed to find wouldn’t have been out much before noon, so now she had a different type of job to do.

  “Yo! Yeah, you,” Michelle called over to the overtly gay and slightly scruffy White male prostitute who pushed off the pole he’d been leaning on and walked over.

  “Say, homegirl, I don’t think I have what you’re looking for,” he said. “I don’t sell drugs and I don’t do girls. That is, unless you’re looking for a hookup for your man. I can help you with that.”

  He had a Midwestern accent with a general artsy-fartsy attitude. He’d probably come to New York to make it as an actor and probably still thought he might make it big in acting, though it looked like he made most of his money as a lower-end male prostitute. He was the second guy she’d approached. The first had been a far-too suspicious native New Yorker; if the police ever questioned him, he’d remember her. This guy was much better; he fit her needs perfectly.

  “It’s not anything like that,” she told him. “It’s also nothing illegal and not dangerous. I need someone to act a small part. My friends and I are playing a prank on a co-worker who’s getting married. I’ll need you to rent a room — that’s it, just rent a room, with cash. It’d be easier if I did it, but it has to be a man. Plus — and don’t take this the wrong way — being gay is perfect and it can’t be anyone from work. The whole thing will take less than an hour. I’ll pay you a hundred bucks, with another fifty for taxi fare to get back here.”

  “That’s all I have to do?”

  “Yes, and you’ll need to wear these.” She held up a pink Ralph Lauren knit polo shirt and a charcoal gray sport jacket. Both items looked close to the right size and still had the new tags on them.

  “Do I get to keep the clothes?”

  “Of course. Consider them fringe benefits.”

  “Okay, sure, I’ll do your little job. When and where?”

  “Now. Put these on first, then hail us a taxi.”

  A short ride later, Michelle waited a few paces up the block from the front of the hotel, which she’d checked out earlier. It was old but well-maintained, and like the male prostitute, it fit her needs perfectly. When it was new, the building had been a luxury hotel with large rooms, built back when windows opened for fresh air. The rooms had been updated with fresh paint, new carpet, and modern hotel furniture, though the bathrooms still sported the old-fashioned white floor tiles with a light blue line of tiles that trimmed the shower enclosure.

  For her purposes, the windows could still be opened, and that’s what mattered.

  When her guy exited through the lobby door, Michelle started to slowly walk away. About a half-block farther down, he caught up with her and, after confirming he’d rented a room on an upper floor with a street view, she paid him the hundred plus the fifty for the taxi. He exchanged the hotel receipt and key card for the bag with his old clothes. She continued walking down the street. He ducked into a subway entrance.

  Good. Now she had a base of operations and had established the bogus shadow assassin from Europe. She was certain the clerk would remember the gay man in the pink shirt and gray blazer. It was essential the police knew this, and possibly assume they were looking for an associate. To make an impression, she’d had him do several strange things as a part of his “acting role” — he paid cash for a week and left instructions not to be bothered by housekeeping; nobody paid cash, and nobody refused housekeeping for a whole week.

  Next, Michelle needed to set up the room with lunch scraps. Better if it all belonged to someone already in the police system. Someone with a record.

  That was easy. Take a pleasant stroll through the park at lunchtime, note who looked the type to have a long record, and then wait for them to finish eating. Most likely it’d be a guy. The women, even the druggies and the bangers, tended to clean up their trash. It was a safe bet the right kind of jerk would oblige her by leaving his trash behind.

  She spotted a couple of possible candidates dressed in banger-style clothes, with quack tats mixed with some pro, if not quality, ink. The first guy threw his trash in a can close by. Michelle blamed his mother for training him well as a kid. The second one, however, didn’t. Always, an inconsiderate jerk was around to make her task easy.

  Michelle sat down on the bench where the man had been a few seconds before and picked up the chicken scraps and a box covered with greasy fingerprints. Three steps away sat a trash can.

  Some men are such assholes.

  Then she chuckled. That asswipe had left his trash for someone else to clean up, and from the looks of him, it was a pretty sure bet his fingerprints were in the criminal justice system. The police would soon bust down his door for a murder he hadn’t even been aware of; the guy would probably be at work when she did the hit. A severe payback for littering, maybe, but all signs pointed toward him being a habitual jerk anyway. In the end, it wouldn’t matter if he was a saint. She needed the distraction for the police — she just liked that an asshat would get a little of what he had coming.

  Eventually, the police would recognize the trash as an obvious plant, so even if he didn’t have a good alibi, he’d get off sooner or later. He looked like the kind who’d steal a car or slap his wife around, not an international assassin sporting an expensive French sniper rifle. At most, he might be considered an accomplice. Point was, she had to make the police spend time running around in circles. In time, they’d conclude it’d been a European professional who’d done the deed.

  Other than the planted trash, the room would be clean — no other prints or DNA. The cops would find the expensive French-made FR F2 silenced sniper rifle and NATO ammunition, along with the German binoculars not normally imported to the States. Two French cigarettes placed behind the bedside stand would clinch the sniper’s European identity.

  Setting up an identity wasn’t the norm. Most times, the employer wanted everything and everyone to disappear, but occasionally, the message in the aftermath was as much a part of the operation as the actual hit.

  The short, aluminum step stool had come from a local department store, and staged correctly, it would indicate a man over six feet tall had stood on it to make the shot. Michelle, of course, would stand on the much taller table to give her the right angle.

  Ever-mindful of forensics and cameras, Michelle was careful at all levels — she only came in through the service stairwell leading from the roof where there were no cameras; gloves kept prints off everything brought into the room, even the ammo. A scarf worn under her hoodie hid the
close-weave hair net, and she never removed any clothing inside the room.

  No, the room would not be clean — it would tell the story Michelle wanted it to tell.

  * * *

  All set and nothing to do but wait. That was always the hardest part. Michelle never understood how anyone could be a couch potato; she strongly preferred action to waiting. At this point in the assignment she had a lot of nervous energy. Over time she’d learned that, while through discipline and meditation she could get to a zero-calm state, starting with exhaustion from strong physical action helped immensely.

  If there was time, for many reasons, sex was the best exercise. The first time she had sex prior to an assassination, she’d worried that she’d lost her humanity and become a complete monster. Later she realized it was the opposite. Now, the upcoming, fully planned assassination impacted her deeply, and she accepted using sex simply for the calming effect it had on her nerves.

  Fortunately, she was in New York and had the perfect answer to her needs.

  “Gillie’s Italian Deli, Pepi speaking. What can I get you today?”

  “Is Marro there?”

  “Yeah, you wanna talk to him?”

  “No, I called because I thought my grandma would be there.”

  “Yeah, all right. Hey, Marro!” the clerk called over to him, voice muffled through the phone line. “Some smart-mouth broad’s on the phone for you.”

  “Who is it?” Marro shouted back.

  “Didn’t say.”

  After a slight pause, Michelle heard him say through the receiver, “Marro here, how can I help you?”

  “Is your wife working today?” she asked.

  “She’s at the end of the counter.”

  “Still pregnant?”

  “Always,” Marro said.

  “I’m in town and thought I’d get some Italian sausage this evening. Do you deliver?”

  “Of course we deliver. I can have Pepi bring your order now. Or, if you prefer, I can bring your order by after I close this evening. Where would you like your delivery?”

  “Same place as always. About nine thirty?”

  “Make it closer to ten,” Marro said. “I’ll wrap it up special for you after we close.”

  “Don’t bother with the wrap,” Michelle said. “Just bring the sausage.”

  Eighteen: Payback

  TIME TO SCOOT. Michelle had a plane to catch, but first, she needed to change her style. She was in New York as herself but wouldn’t travel that way; she’d be going as Jenny Santiago, a soccer mom with an ID from Texas. Sporting long, medium brown wavy curls that matched her lighter foundation makeup, large glasses, and a padded bra for a fuller figure, Michelle looked the part.

  This would be a short trip with a quick turnaround — take the redeye flight into L.A. for a fast bit of business, catch the first morning flight out. She’d be back in New York without missing a day and with no one the wiser.

  * * *

  Standing in the open doorway to Jerome’s bedroom, Michelle turned on the overhead light. Like the rest of his small apartment, it was surprisingly tidy. She thought he’d be sloppy.

  Like Momma used to say, God doesn’t leave you broke. Everybody’s got something. Jerome may be a prick, but at least he’s a neat prick.

  Took a moment for the light to rouse him. Some people snapped to full awareness immediately, while others woke up in steps. Jerome, it turned out, was a slow one — first he gave a little rustle with a bit of a pause, then he jumped up in realization that someone else was in the room, ending with the always predictable, “What the fuck! What the hell are you doing in my room, bitch?”

  “Sit your stupid ass still and shut the fuck up.” Michelle clutched the same silenced Ruger .380 she’d used before. She liked the .380, or baby nine as some people called them; the petite pistol fit right in her small hand. Too bad she had to put this one in the drain after tonight.

  “Fuck you, bitch,” he said. “You won’t do nothing.” Yet he didn’t move.

  “Jerome, you’re a skanky bitch,” she said. “That’s right — you’re nothing but a punk-ass with no balls. Any man punk enough to hit a woman is a sorry-ass chickenshit bi-otch. Any chickenshit coward who kicks someone when they’re down is an asswipe punk bi-otch. That makes you a punk-ass bitch through and through. Now, you’re my bitch. You got something else to say — bitch?”

  “Suck my dick.”

  “Now that’s original, especially coming from a dickless asshole like you. That lame shit is exactly what I expect from a lop-ass chickenshit. Now, bitch, this what we’re going to do: lift your left hand up over your head, you stupid shit.”

  Jerome looked down like a sullen little boy. “I don’t gotta do nothin’ you say, bitch.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  Puhffiitt!

  Jerome flinched as the bullet bore into the mattress next to his leg.

  “First and last warning,” she said. “Now lift your left hand.”

  He raised his hand over his head like a school kid asking permission to speak.

  “Good. Now, with your left hand, reach over, pick up the TV remote and turn on the news.”

  Jerome did as he was told. He got the message — Michelle was in no mood to play.

  “Turn up the sound a bit.”

  Jerome punched up the volume just loud enough so they could still talk. If someone walked by the apartment door, they’d only hear the TV.

  “Now listen carefully, asshole. You’ll live through this. I don’t understand why, but Deja would be upset if I killed you, so I only have the pleasure of putting a couple caps in your ass. Up to you if it’s two or three. Cooperate, and you’ll only get two bullets, and I’ll go easy. You fuck around and don’t do exactly what I say, you’ll get some extra. Each time you piss me off, you’ll get shot. If I shoot you when I’m pissed, it’ll be worse. You feel me?”

  “Fuck you. I ain’t feeling shit.”

  “We’ll see about that. Now stand your punk-ass up, stay by the bed, and face me. Take one step this way, you’re a dead muthafucka.”

  Dressed in only his pajama bottoms, Jerome got up and stood by the bed.

  “Now let’s see who has balls and who doesn’t. Pinch the skin on your right side and pull it out real wide-like.”

  “What? You’re crazy.”

  Michelle cocked her head, silently pursing her lips.

  “I ain’t doing shit.”

  Michelle dropped her quizzical look, replaced by a flat-eyed stare. “Then you die,” she said and the aim of the .380 moved from his torso to his face.

  “Yeah, what the fuck . . .” He stretched the skin out on his right side at his waist.

  “More.”

  He glared at her—

  Puhffiitt!

  She shot him in the side, right where he’d pulled the skin taut.

  “Goddamn!” he yelled. “Fuck! Fuck! Oh, shit!” With hard breaths and a wince, Jerome sat back down on the bed.

  It was only a flesh wound, but still a painful through-and-through. For a guy who’d never been shot before, this kind of gunshot would be very frightening, and since Jerome didn’t have any old bullet scars, Michelle assumed he’d be scared shitless over this. She could have just creased him in the side like before and done about the same damage, but in forcing him to pull out his skin, she made him into her bitch. She wanted him to know, deep in his heart, he belonged to her.

  “You crazy motherfucking ho.”

  “Yeah, I shot you. Now stand your coward-ass up before the next one goes between your eyes.”

  “I’m bleeding; I need to stop the blood.”

  “You’re not bleeding that bad. Now stand up.”

  Michelle aimed her baby nine straight at his red-rimmed eyes. There’d be no jumping to get her; no matter how fast he moved, he’d be dead. He knew it. She knew it. Holding his side, Jerome stood up.

  “One step, muthafucka, and you’re dead.”

  “I’m gonna get you,” he said, standing
as still as a statue, gaze darting around the room.

  “No, Jerome, you’re not going to do shit. You’re the same bitch you’ve always been — all mouth and no courage. Fuck around, and I’ll take you apart, piece by piece. Now pull out the skin on the other side.”

  “Fuck you, you crazy bitch. You done shot me once; it won’t happen again.”

  Puhffiitt!

  His right shoulder kicked back, and he grunted, staggering backwards in shock.

  “You were saying?”

  When Jerome again raised his head, Michelle trained her Ruger on his face, and his eyes bugged out in deep fear. Finally, the message had sunken in: not only would she pull the trigger, she could kill him — easily.

  “The other side now,” she commanded.

  His legs shook, and tears ran down his face. Could he remain standing? Had this been just about fear and dominance, she would have already accomplished that. Although this next shot wasn’t necessary, she was pissed; she wanted him to pay for hurting her friends.

  With a trembling hand, Jerome reached down and pulled out the skin on the other side, stretching it as tightly as it could go.

  Puhffiitt!

  Another through-and-through. Both shots would leave some nasty scars — good for bragging later on — but in the end, they were really only flesh wounds.

  “Sit down and look at me,” she said.

  Jerome collapsed onto the side of the bed, hiccupped, then caught his breath; his sobs reduced to small whimpers as fresh tears ran down his face.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen next. You’ll drive your sorry ass to the hospital. You don’t need an ambulance. You can say you shot yourself cleaning your gun or got jacked; that’s up to you. You don’t say anything to the police. Most importantly — and I can’t stress this enough: keep your goddamned hands off my friends.”

  He stared blankly at her.

  “What did I just tell you?”

  His eyes refocused, and he said, “Keep my hands off your friends.”

  “If you tell the doc or the police what we discussed here, you’ll have real trouble. If you snitch, I promise this here will seem like a day at Disneyland. If you hurt any of my friends again, I’ll be back and you won’t see me coming next time any more than you did this time. You do right and keep your bitch mouth shut, you’ll live to tell stories to your grandchildren. You feel me?”