NORMALLY DEREK ENJOYED being right—what sort of masochistic asshole doesn’t?—but frankly, he would have preferred it if this particular hunch had panned out to be nothing more than paranoia. Standing in front of Motes’ office door, staring into the whorls of dull blue and purple behind frosted glass, he felt only the profound weariness of a man confronting a big and unsightly mess, none of it of his own making.
One small mercy: Luka had finally accepted that the professor had bailed. Things would go a lot smoother if they didn’t have to drag the moron’s petulant doubts behind them everywhere.
“He ain’t on campus. I’d smell him.”
Too bad your sniffer wasn’t up to the task twenty minutes ago. Derek checked the nameplate next to the door. It read: E. Motes, Languages Professor.
“E. Motes?” He shook his head. Outfoxed by a man with a goddamn pun for a name.
Below Motes, the sign continued: Iman al-Qaddari, Research Assistant. His killer’s antennae twitched. Derek kept them well-honed, and he trusted their calibration implicitly. He pointed to the name. “You know anything about this girl?”
“What, the assistant chick? She’s a Paki or something.’ Not bad lookin’, though.”
“How old?”
“Mid-twenties, I guess. Way younger than Motes.”
“Are they close?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
Derek tapped his chin with his index finger. Loners find friends in unusual places. And even if not, an assistant would be just the sort of person who’d know the guy’s travel plans. It was the best lead they had.
“Wait here,” he told Luka, who grabbed his wrist and squeezed, stopping just short of causing pain.
“I think you’re forgettin’ your place here, Matchbook,” he whispered.
Derek met Luka’s gaze easily. He replied at a normal speaking volume. “You want to find Motes or not?”
The pressure on Derek’s wrist tightened. His veins thrummed against the added pressure, bulging like kinked hoses. He swallowed a grunt and held still until Luka’s grip relaxed.
“Show me what you got, bro.”
He found a payphone on the first floor, checked the phonebook, and was less than surprised to find no one named al-Qaddari. Luka had said young, and people under thirty almost never listed their numbers. Landlines were for dinosaurs like Motes. He laced his fingers together and pulled gently downward on the back of his head. The pressure against his scalp helped him focus.
Back upstairs, he wandered the halls near Motes’ office until he found a room marked Administration. He ambled inside and waved to the woman behind the desk. Her mohair sweater heaved allergens into the air with every twitch of her hand on the computer mouse. An itch burrowed into the back of Derek’s throat. He ran his tongue fruitlessly over the tender skin there and swallowed a cough.
“How you doing?” he asked, all smiles and workaday camaraderie. “I’m wondering if you could help me.”
“Sure,” the woman said. “What do you need?”
“I’m having some trouble with the pay system. Apparently someone from your department has stopped getting her direct deposits.”
The woman clucked sympathetically, a good sign. “Oh dear, that’s frustrating.”
“Don’t I know it. We’re migrating systems, and this sort of thing happens sometimes. I’ve got the lady’s name and room number, but I think her employee ID might be copied down wrong. It’s giving me a bum result.”
“Okay.” A little more cautious now.
“I’d check with her myself, but she’s not in, and if we don’t make the change today the server won’t be able to process her cheque until the next pay period. I was wondering if I could maybe grab it from you?”
The woman bit her lower lip. “Yeah, I guess that’s okay. What’s the employee’s name?”
“Iman al-Qaddari.”
“Jeez. Iman never told me she wasn’t getting paid. That girl needs to stand up for herself.”
“She seemed polite in her email. We’re sorry we didn’t catch it ourselves.”
The woman brought up Iman’s account details. She began reading the ID out loud.
“It’s okay,” Derek interrupted. “I got it.”
He leaned over the desk and ran his finger conspicuously underneath the employee number, muttering digits to himself low enough to obscure the fact that they bore no resemblance to the numbers on the screen. During this bit of pantomime, he studied the address listed in the lower left corner and jotted it down in a single spaceless line. The woman looked a little put out but didn’t say anything. Derek didn’t give her time. He tucked the paper away.
“Thanks a bunch!” he said, disappearing around the corner.
Neither Luka nor Derek had a smartphone, so they fumbled their way to the al-Qaddari girl’s house using a roadmap they found in the glove box. They pulled up to it as the sun was setting, a ramshackle manor jury-rigged into multiple apartments.
“He’s in there,” Luka said, his face lengthening in a lupine snarl. “I can smell the cowardly little fucker.” He stepped forward. Derek restrained him with a hand on the shoulder. Luka whirled, his lips pulled back to expose overdeveloped incisors.
“Hold up, Luka.”
“Not your call, bro. I’m gonna go in there and tell that Ivy League piece of shit what’s what.”
And leave a carpet of corpses for the morning, I bet. “There’s a better way, man. Let me take a stab first, see if I can sneak my way in. Maybe we can pull this off without leaving any bodies behind.”
Luka flashed a condescending smile. “You gettin’ squeamish, Matchbook?”
“Fuck that. In my line of work, you don’t do the deed ‘less you stand to gain from it. We drop some bodies for the fuck of it, the PD cranks up the heat on us.”
Luka shrugged. “Whatever turns you on, bro. Take your shot.”
Derek gave a thumbs up. Inside, he was less pleased. By the look of it, Luka had acquiesced not because he saw the sense of Derek’s plan, but simply to avoid an argument. If Derek had proposed shooting up the whole street, the big man would’ve been just as likely to go for it. That kind of indifference to carnage was more than a little troubling. The crazy asshole couldn’t see more than a week or two ahead. The way he acted, it was as if anything beyond that point was irrelevant.
Derek scoped out the building. The place was surprisingly tough to crack. The front door was solid oak, and if Derek finessed it open, there’d still be the apartment door inside to contend with. The apartment he wanted was number three, which logic placed on the topmost floor, making window entry impractical. He could try getting buzzed in, but under what excuse? A locked-out neighbour? Pizza delivery?
He spotted the balconies. They were ugly things, two-by-fours bolted into brick, but they provided decent handholds, and a brief tug proved them sturdy. Stepping back, he walked himself mentally through the climb until he reached the top floor. Slip inside if the door’s unlocked, kick it in if it’s not. Round up the professor and his little study buddy at gunpoint and buzz Luka in for some quick interrogation. It could work.
Derek spat into his palms and rubbed them together. He grabbed the highest support beam he could reach and hoisted himself aloft. The tips of his shoes found footing in the brickwork. Dislodged pebbles and bits of crumbly mortar tumbled into the garden below. He clambered from strut to strut, legs bicycling through the air in search of purchase. It crossed his mind how conspicuous—not to mention stupid—he looked to anyone who might be watching in the next building, but the thought didn’t worry him much. He could easily be a locked-out tenant or innocuous eccentric. A bigger issue would be falling, which at his current height could easily break his leg or worse. Somehow, he didn’t think the Volchyin pack had much in the way of health benefits. A bullet to put you out of your misery probably covered it. Why do I always end up working for guys who like to shoot people in the head?
The balconies sprouted out around existing apertures in the brick—expanded former windows, by the look of them—and didn’t line up neatly atop one another. Derek pulled himself onto the second-floor balcony, poised, and leapt for the third. His fingers closed around a support beam. He wriggled his lower body until his feet found a protruding brick, and used it to shimmy upward. Another few feet and he’d be there.
Movement overhead caught his eye. He looked up to see a young Middle Eastern woman staring down at him.
Derek had spent half his life crushing panic beneath his heel. He did so now, calmly shifting his weight onto one arm to allow himself to draw the Governor.
“Nothing’s ever easy, is it?” he sighed, pointing the barrel squarely at the girl.
The girl backed up. That was bad; if she got out of his line of sight, he was fucked. He waggled the gun and tutted. The girl froze.
“Easy there, kid. We’re gonna do this thing slow and safe, otherwise someone’s gonna get hurt. First, you’ve gotta give me some room here. Take two steps back, no more, no less. Stay in my line of sight now. No sudden movements, no screams. There’s a girl.”
Derek hoisted himself up until his arms hugged the railing. He kept one hand cocked out awkwardly, the gun aimed vaguely in the girl’s direction. This was the trickiest moment. If she darted for the door, he could do fuck all about it—his aim was hopelessly compromised, and if he tried a shot, he’d risk dropping the gun or snapping his wrist from the recoil. She stood motionless while he threw a leg over the railing and came down securely on the balcony, gun once again trained on her solar plexus.
“I don’t suppose you’d invite me inside, eh?”
Silently, the girl opened the door. She made no move to run or lock him out. He pushed his way in and took a quick survey of the room.
An Asian kid about the same age as the girl sat on the couch. His body seized up at the sight of the Governor. Derek could tell he wouldn’t be any trouble—he had the doughy, knock-kneed posture of a kid averse to any sort of conflict. The girl was harder to read, but her paralysis struck him as a good sign. If he kept her scared, she’d do as she was told.
Motes was the X factor. He sat on an ottoman, a book open in his lap. The guy wasn’t much to look at—reed-thin beneath a tweed jacket, hollow-cheeked and myopic—but desperation could harden the softest men. What’s more, he was apparently afflicted with Luka’s strange illness, which might convey all sorts of unexpected advantages. The silver slugs lay in the Governor’s back chambers. Derek was loath to use them up, but they comforted him all the same.
“Evening, professor.”
Motes jabbed Derek with a look of utter contempt. “Am I supposed to know you?”
“Not by name, maybe. But a smart guy like you should be able to figure out why I’m here.” Derek found the intercom and pressed the button marked “door.” The speaker buzzed. He flicked open the deadbolt, pulled the chain from the door, and crossed back to his original spot between his captives and the balcony.
The girl moved toward the futon. Derek blocked her path with his hand and motioned for her to sit at the kitchen table. He wondered if they had any duct tape. Things would go smoother if he could bind them up. He’d probably still have to kill them at this point, but he could do it quietly, use a kitchen knife. A mask would’ve been good, too. Motes would know Luka, but there was no need to let him ID Derek as well. He kicked himself for not stopping by a hardware store on the way over.
Luka came upstairs. His anger and agitation were gone, drowned beneath a wave of sinister glee. “Motes, what’s up, bro?”
Motes swallowed.
“I went by your house, but I couldn’t find you. Your office, too. I didn’t think you were the kind of guy to dip your pen in the company ink.” He pointed to the Asian kid, who sat as still as possible, hands buried in his lap. “And a three-way, too! You dirty bird!”
“These two have nothing to do with our arrangement. I’ll come with you, no questions asked, but leave them be.”
“You’ll come with me, all right, but what I do to them or not ain’t on your say-so. I’m in charge here, not you.”
“Wrong.”
A woman stepped into view through the narrow hallway, Beretta pointed at Luka. Derek recognized the outfit before his eyes happened on the badge pinned above her heart.
Oh fuck, squeaked a voice in his head. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. A cop?! A goddamn cop?! It wasn’t fair! How could this asshole have police protection? What cop in her right mind would believe his story enough to bother?
The sort that got attacked by a half-wolf-half-human and lived to snub the papers about it, sneered another voice in rebuttal.
Luka grinned at the officer. “Hey, baby, I remember you. How’s your boyfriend? I hear he got beat up pretty bad.”
“Detective Moore? He’s fine. Had a vermin problem, but it’s sorted.”
“Is it?”
“It is. You’re under arrest, both of you. Breaking and entering, assault, and forced confinement for starters. We’ll see what your rap sheets have for you from there. I’d advise you to drop the gun, blondie, and put your hands behind your head.”
Derek’s mind shook like an overheating engine. The Governor was still in his hand, though he’d let his aim drop once the girl was seated. The cop could get a pin on him and fire before he raised it—assuming she was a halfway decent shot—unless Luka distracted her. She was savvy enough to keep both of them in the same line of sight. He could try a rolling shot, but that was risky, and there wasn’t much in the way of cover. The other option was—
Luka short-circuited Derek’s thinking by pulling out a gun of his own and firing at the cop. The cop shot him twice in the process, two slugs to the chest that knocked him back against the door. He shuddered like a man swallowing something unpleasant before taking aim and firing again. The first shot went high. The second would have connected if the cop hadn’t dropped to her knees and slid behind the futon. The Asian kid leapt aside to get out of the crossfire. He tripped over the coffee table and hit his head on the floor with an alarming thud. Motes threw his arms over his head and dove for the corner.
The cop peeked over the futon, taking time to sight a headshot. Derek didn’t know if that would be enough to kill Luka or not, but he wasn’t keen to find out. He raised the Governor and fired twice, taking the cop in the hip and shoulder. She fell to the side, screaming through gritted teeth, and crawled from view.
I shot a cop, thought Derek, stunned. I’ll be a goddamn folk hero at the Copper Penny. Assuming I make it out of here alive.
Clutching his bleeding belly with one hand, Luka lurched after Motes, who skittered away on his hands and knees. Luka kicked the professor onto his back and dragged him upright, firing sporadically over the couch to keep the cop pinned down. The Asian kid tried to dart out the front door, but Luka tripped him with a deftly-placed ankle. He tossed the professor onto the kid and planted a foot atop them both, stomping down every time they struggled.
“Let’s go, bro,” he said, casual as anything. As if he were leaving a party and didn’t want to be late getting home.
Derek studied the gap between the futon and the wall. He’d fired twice and hit both times. The cop was probably dead or dying, but Derek wanted to be sure. The only thing worse than shooting a cop was shooting one who lived. Two more shots should be enough. He wanted to save his silver bullets for tonight in case things went south. More than they already had, anyway. Christ, if they go much farther south than this, I’ll be chilling with the penguins.
“Hold on,” he said.
He rounded the kitchen table, putting himself in view of the cop. A trail of blood marked her progress to the far end of the couch, where she’d hoisted herself to a hunched sitting position. Her gun wavered just below the lip of cushions, trying for a clean shot at Luka. She didn’t notice Derek until he’d squared her in his sights.
A sharp pain bored into Derek’s temple. He stumbled sideways, discharging his gun into the wall with a puff of exploding plaster. His fingers flew to his skull, expecting to come back sticky with blood and brain matter. The skin was tender but unbroken. He looked down and saw a frying pan at his feet, still tottering with the momentum of its landing. The girl hefted a pot from a kitchen drawer, wound up, and hurled it towards him. Derek fired at the girl, forcing her into the bathroom and nearly losing the top of his skull as the cop lit him up. The hornet buzz of passing bullets filled his ears, louder in a sense than the report of the shots. Displaced air buffeted his scalp.
“Bro, give it up,” Luka barked. He had Motes under one arm and the Asian kid under the other. Derek ran for the door and helped Luka manhandle the two men down the stairs. Motes put up a struggle, albeit a feeble one, but the kid seemed to have lost what little fight he’d possessed. Carrying him was like lugging a fleshy mannequin down a flight of stairs.
They loaded the professor and the kid into the trunk and slammed the lid. All the while an internal siren bellowed its shrill warning in Derek’s ears. The cop’s still alive! She could ID you! The cop’s still alive! Leaving witnesses to their failed massacre was insane, but what was he supposed to do? They had five minutes, tops, until more cops showed up.
An aluminium shed hunched beneath the shade of an oak tree. Derek ran to it and delivered a sharp kick to the latch. The thin metal buckled. He had one shot at this. If he was lucky, his problems might be solved. If not, they’d just have to book it and hope for the best. Tearing the door from its hinges, Derek scrambled inside and scoped the shed’s contents.
A smile floated to his lips.