Kim Oh 2: Real Dangerous Job (The Kim Oh Thrillers) Page 3
“Oh.” I stared at the unzipped backpack. I had a good idea where this was going to go next.
Donnie reached into the pack and pulled out the .357, the shiny steel one that Cole had given me. The one that I’d used to kill Pomeroy. The one that I was probably going to kill other people with.
“All right,” I said sternly. “I want you to put that down. Right now. I don’t want you fooling around with it.”
Usually my big sister routines got at least a little traction with him. This time, it didn’t.
He set the gun down on top of the backpack, then folded his hands in his lap. And kept on looking at me with his dark, accusing eyes.
I took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t want you worrying about it. I got it . . . to protect us. In case there’s trouble. There are still all sorts of bad things that could happen.”
He didn’t have to hear that from me. My little brother was pretty much on top of things. At least when it came to the bad place we had found ourselves in. He knew all about how I’d gotten fired by McIntyre. And he was partners in crime with me, when it came to hanging on to the money that had accidentally fallen into my hands, money that actually belonged to my former boss. Without me bringing in a paycheck from the job I used to have, we needed that money just to survive. But Donnie also knew how much danger that put us in; a guy like McIntyre didn’t take lightly somebody stealing from him.
But even with my brother knowing all those things, which was bad enough, there were others that he didn’t know. That I had managed to keep from him. The only things that I had even tried to keep from him. My hooking up with Cole, our plans to kill McIntyre – me, because that would be the only way that my brother and I would ever be safe from him now, and Cole for pure revenge against the man who had betrayed him and left him a cripple – and then my stealing even more money from McIntyre and killing Pomeroy to cover it up. Just running that lengthening list through my head made me feel sick. There was a whole dark world I was keeping from my brother.
“Kimmie –” He spoke up after silently regarding me for a moment longer. “That’s bullshit. You’re up to something. I know you are.”
This wasn’t the first time I felt like a fool. For thinking I could get away with something.
“All right.” I nodded. “I am. But I can’t tell you about it.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t. Please . . . don’t ask me anymore.”
He fell silent again. He looked at the gun lying on the table between us, then back up at me.
“But what am I supposed to do?” He looked scared and worried. For both of us. “When you don’t come home again? I mean . . . never again.”
I didn’t say anything. Because I couldn’t.
I didn’t have an answer for him.
“I don’t know,” I said at last. It was something that I had worried about as well.
Maybe Cole didn’t think about stuff like that, but I had to. Just another difference between the two of us. If you’re going to get into this line of work, it’s probably better if your relationships with other people were a little on the tenuous side. Otherwise, you might be thinking about them, right when you needed to be focused on the job at hand. That could be a real disadvantage when there were guns and other dangerous stuff involved.
“Well . . .” I looked up at the water-stained ceiling, as I tried to organize my thoughts. “I’ll try to make sure there’s some money here for you.” I wondered if there were some kind of insurance policy I could buy. That covered getting killed while trying to kill other people. Did that count as an occupational hazard? I’d have to check into it. “And I’ll try to get the rent paid up as far ahead as I can –”
“Kimmie –” My brother’s voice broke in. “That’s not what I meant.”
I brought my gaze down to him. I knew what he meant.
Same thing I would’ve meant, if I’d been talking about what I would do. If something happened to him.
“I don’t know,” I said again. “I just don’t know.”
FOUR
“You know,” said Monica, “if you were going to need a van today, you could’ve just told me. And I would’ve kept the one I had yesterday. It would’ve been fine.”
She was annoyed because she’d had to go schlepping out to the rental place again, this time dragging me along. That was so I could be put down on the rental agreement as an additional driver. I would’ve gone out there myself to get the van that Cole wanted, except that even if I’d had a credit card that was good for more than buying a pack of gum, I was still too young to rent a vehicle.
Which sucked – I was seriously looking forward to the day when I’d be old enough to do something besides kill people.
“Didn’t think about it, sweetheart.” Cole was more pulled together than I’d seen him in a while, complete with boots and a jacket on. We were heading out, which was the reason for the van. “You know me.”
“Yeah, I do.” The sour expression remained on his girlfriend’s face. “There’s a lot of stuff you don’t think about.”
Personally, I didn’t know how great an idea it was to bitch somebody out, who slept with a .357 beside him. So I just stayed quiet.
When we got outside the warehouse, I wondered how we were going to load the wheelchair, with Cole aboard, into the rental van Monica had left parked at the curb. It wasn’t one of those you see people with, who have what these days are called mobility issues. With all the handy stuff like the hydraulic platform that comes cranking out of the cargo area doorway, to lift somebody in a wheelchair inside.
Turned out there wasn’t any need for that. Cole motored himself along the passenger side door and yanked it open. He might have gotten a lot more gaunt since the shotgun blast to the base of his spine, but there was still plenty of strength left in his wiry muscles. He was able to reach up and grip the seat, then pull himself out of the wheelchair and wrestle himself into the van. It took a lot of gritted-teeth effort – I knew better than to offer to help – but he finally was strapping the seat belt across his chest.
“All right,” he said. “Pack up the chair and let’s get moving.”
Even without Cole in it, the motorized wheelchair was heavy enough that it took some doing for me to get it into the back of van. Cole adjusted the rearview mirror so he could watch me. I got it in at last, locked the wheels, then went around to the driver’s side and climbed in.
“You forgot something.”
With my hand on the ignition key, I looked over at him. “Like what?”
“The duffel bag.” He leaned back in his seat. “Did you think we were just going for a joyride? We got work to do.”
I climbed back out, went back inside the warehouse, and slung the bag’s wide canvas strap across my shoulder. It wasn’t as heavy as it could’ve been, but there was still some ominous weight clanking around in it.
“There.” I started up the van’s engine. As long as we didn’t get pulled over, I figured we were good. Then again, any traffic cop who looked inside that bag, the one I’d just carried out from the warehouse and slung into the rear of the van, would probably have a heart attack, so it didn’t really matter anyway. “Where to?”
Cole gave me some directions, and we headed out of town.
Maybe an hour later, the van was jouncing down some narrow country lane, so cracked and rutted that the last time it had been paved must’ve been when my family had been running from General MacArthur’s troops landing at Inchon.
“Where the hell are we going?” Just holding onto the steering wheel was an effort. I had to wrestle it to keep from going off into the ditch at the side of the road.
“To Grandma’s house,” said Cole. “Just keep on driving.”
We wound up at an abandoned rock quarry. There were trees with moss-thickened branches right up to the quarry’s ragged cliff edge. A broken chain with a beat-up metal Keep Out sign lay across the even narrower and muddier path sloping down to the bottom.
“Trucks used to go down and back here.” He dropped his hand to scratch beneath his jacket. “Just take it slow, and you’ll be fine.”
Lurching along in first gear and riding the brake, I got the van down to the base of the quarry. The crumbling stone walls, with leafy patches rooted in the clefts, towered above us.
As I was wrestling the wheelchair out, I nearly slipped in the muddy ground at the rear of the van. I just barely managed to keep it from landing on top of me, then brought it around to the passenger’s side. By now, even if Cole had asked me to help him, I wasn’t going to. I stood there with my arms folded and watched him awkwardly lower himself into the chair.
“So now what?”
“Now we work on sharpening your skills a little.” He pointed to the van. “Bring me the bag.”
I carried the duffel bag from the rear of the van and flopped it down at his feet.
“Let’s see what we got here.” He leaned forward in the wheelchair and unzipped the bag. “Take this.”
He handed me the short-barreled assault rifle, then one of the magazines for it.
“Just like I showed you, back at the warehouse.”
After some initial fumbling, I got it put together and stood there waiting, the weapon filling both my hands.
“This is just for practice,” said Cole. “Just to get you started. See that can over there?”
“Where?”
“Right there.” He pointed.
I finally spotted a dented, rusty speck at the side of the quarry. Probably a beer can, from some teenagers’ drinking party down here.
“Okay, single-shot mode. Just aim and fire one off.”
“I won’t hit it.”
“I know you won’t. That’s why it’s called practice. Come on, you’re wasting time.”
For some reason, just holding the assault rifle and thinking about firing it set off an attack of nerves in me. I couldn’t even raise it up, but just stood there frozen.
“For Christ’s sake.” Exasperated, Cole took the assault rifle out of my hands. Swinging it around, without even aiming, he popped off a shot. In the distance, the rusty can somersaulted into the air. Above us, crows flapped from the trees lining the quarry’s edge. “Like that.”
He handed the assault rifle back to me.
The can, now with a hole blown through it, had landed farther out in the open, so I could actually see it better. I raised the weapon and sighted down along its stubby barrel.
“Come on,” said Cole impatiently. “Don’t be such a girl. Just take your shot.”
That pissed me off. I clamped my jaw hard and squeezed the trigger . . .
I couldn’t tell if I hit the can or not. I found myself on my back, looking up the clouds scudding by, the rifle still in my hands. Turning my head, I saw Cole in his wheelchair, shaking his head.
“The deal’s off,” he muttered. “It’s off, it’s not gonna happen . . .”
“It’s the mud.” I sat upright. “I slipped, okay?”
“Sure, that’ll work. Maybe we could get McIntyre and his bodyguards to die laughing.”
“Gimme a break.” When I stood up, I had limited success brushing the mud off my jeans, holding the AR-SF with one hand. “You said this was practice.”
“Good thing for you.” He scanned around the quarry. “Let’s try a target Helen Keller could hit.” He pointed again. “There. See that scrap of plywood? No, over there. That’s probably about a yard square, maybe more. Give it a shot.”
I raised the assault rifle again.
“It’s easier with your eyes open.”
“All right, all right –”
A moment later, with more crows flapping and wheeling above us, Cole nodded in appreciation.
“Cool,” he said. “That’s progress. At least you’re still standing. Now try to hit it.”
Four shots later, with my hands already starting to ache, there was the oddly satisfying thunk of a bullet hitting wood.
I lowered the assault rifle and stared ahead of me in amazement. “I hit it.”
“Big deal,” said Cole. “Anybody could’ve made that shot.”
I didn’t care. This was a happy moment for me.
“Wipe that smile off your face.”
Apparently, I was violating some professional hit man dress code by showing some honest human emotion. Gotta be all hard and stuff.
“Let’s keep working . . .”
By the time Cole let me take a break, the shadows of the trees were reaching across the quarry, setting the base where we were into gloom.
“I don’t know if this is really productive.” I lowered the AR-SF down to my side. “Progress-wise, I mean.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” The mud around Cole’s wheelchair was littered with cigarette butts. “You hit it a few times. If McIntyre’s guarded by sheets of plywood, you’ll be able to take out some of them.”
I shook my head, feeling discouraged. “I’m just not getting any better at this.”
“That’s because you’re shooting at a piece of wood. Now try shooting at McIntyre.”
“He isn’t here.”
“Lucky for him,” said Cole. “Because if he were, he’d be a dead man. Give it a try.”
“Give what a try?”
“You gotta see McIntyre over there.” Cole nodded toward the quarry wall. “I can show you everything you need to know. I can show you how to aim, I can show you how to control your breath, how to keep your hand from shaking, the whole bit. But it’s not going to do any good, as long as you don’t see what you want to hit.”
I didn’t say anything, but just listened to him.
“You didn’t come this far to blow away plywood. You want to get McIntyre. Okay, then let’s do it.”
I raised the assault rifle and braced myself, feet spread apart in the mud.
“Take your time,” Cole said quietly. “You won’t have time when it really comes down – but right now you got time.”
His voice had taken on a smooth, hypnotic quality. I brought my eye to the assault rifle’s sight.
“Okay, you gotta see him. Right there in front of you.”
I locked on the target. I couldn’t even hear the crows any longer.
“He’s right there in front of you. He’s looking back at you. And he’s smiling.”
All I heard was Cole’s voice.
“He’s right there, just the way he was the last time you ever saw him. When he said that you were shit . . . that you were nothing . . . that he was throwing you out in the alley like a sack of trash . . .”
My breath stopped. I could feel my face turning hard as stone.
“He’s right there. You can see him. And what are you going to do about it?”
I don’t know if I saw McIntyre or not. Maybe I just saw his smile. But my hand tightened on the assault rifle’s grip, squeezing the trigger . . .
A moment later, I could hear Cole’s voice again.
“Nice job.”
I lowered the rifle. In the distance, at the far wall of the quarry, there wasn’t a piece of plywood, pocked with a few bullet holes. Not anymore. Now there were just splinters scattered across the rocks and mud.
“That is . . . for a beginner.”
I looked over at him. “Screw you.”
FIVE
While Cole and I were having so much fun out in the rock quarry, doing head trips and blowing away our imaginary ex-boss, other things were going on back in the city. Things that weren’t so much fun, that we heard about later. Much later.
After we had left the warehouse, Monica had gone to work. Over at that sleazy club where I had first seen her.
Places like that, the management expects the girls to not just dance, but to socialize with the customers as well. Which is one term for it.
Middle of the day shift, not a lot of customers in the place. There was one big fella sitting by hims
elf in one of the booths, hunched over his drink, back turned toward the empty stage. In her working outfit, Monica had gone over to him and draped her arm across his wide shoulders.
“Feeling lonely, pal?” That was how conversations were started there. “Maybe you’d like to chat with me. Hm?”
When he swung his coarse-shaven face up toward her, she recognized him. It was Michael.
“Sure thing.” He caught her wrist and pulled her down into the booth beside him. “Yeah, let’s . . . talk.”
He took a sip of the beer in front of him, then turned and regarded her again. “So how’s things been, Monica?”
“Fine.” She rubbed her bruised wrist. “Couldn’t be better.”
“You know –” He looked past her and around the empty club. “It wasn’t Mr. McIntyre who got you this job. It was me.”
“Thanks so much. Every girl’s dream.”
“You must be doing pretty good here.”
“Oh, yeah. Lot of big tippers come in. Like you.”
“I bet.” Michael gave a slow nod. “Well, that’s good. I mean – good that you’re making some money. Or maybe a lot. Because I’ve been hearing things about your boyfriend Cole’s spending habits.”
“Like what?”
“Like he’s been spending a lot of money lately. That’s what some people have told me. People that he’s bought some stuff from. Expensive stuff.”
“So?” Monica shrugged. “He’s got hobbies.”
“Of course, he does.” Michael showed his ugly smile. “Because he’s got so much time on his hands these days. Not working and all. Maybe he’s become a toy collector. Because that’s what I’ve heard he’s been buying. Really nasty toys.”
“I wouldn’t know. We don’t talk about that kind of stuff.”
“Yeah, probably not. But maybe that’s why you should be listening to me.”
“And maybe you shouldn’t be listening to those friends of yours.” Monica glared back at him. “They’re handing you a line of shit.”