Last Hit: Reloaded Read online

Christine steps into the room, staring in awe at Regan’s futon, the beat-up furniture, the horror movie posters she left behind when she moved. “I-I’m not sure what to say, Daisy.”

  “Just tell me you’ll use it the next time Saul loses his temper,” I entreat her, my voice encouraging.

  “You mean like right now?” says an ugly voice.

  Christine’s face goes bleach white, and she moves behind me. I turn, and there’s Saul in the doorway, a vicious look on his face.

  He’s followed us, and we’re trapped between him and the door.

  Chapter 14

  Nikolai

  As Professor Hare discusses the visual sensitivity of Escher’s tessellations and his unique use of texture created from lines and spacing, I tap the printout of the Hitman message forum. Three of the shooting deaths have created a pattern. The shooting here on campus is consistent in all else but the end result. No one here died—a break in the tessellation.

  The evidence points to a less-than-adept shooter, one who is new or perhaps has never shot a gun outside a game. I do not have the resources to find this person. I am not an investigator. If given a target, I can find everything about that person, but working backward from a clue? That is not a skill I have developed.

  I want this world to be safe for Daisy, for us. But to go to Detective McFadden with this information is to invite even more scrutiny. He will ask more questions, and I will have no answers to give.

  The single most important reason I am not the shooter McFadden seeks is that I do not miss. If my target were here on campus, that target would be dead and I would be gone.

  But I am not that man—or I am trying to be reborn. McFadden is preventing that, but he might not represent the most danger. People—boys—trying to win a false prize by taking a fake game into the real world? Those are a greater danger.

  Resolved, I send a text message to the number on McFadden’s card.

  I have something for you.

  I’ll meet u @ ur apt.

  I am in class.

  When is ur class ovr?

  He types his messages like Daisy did when she had a cheap phone that required her to use numbers instead of letters. I smile fondly at the memory of breaking it, which required her to accept the more expensive phone that I had purchased. It was more a gift for myself so that I could bask in the pictures and messages she sent.

  As all of my gifts are.

  She believes me to be generous. I have tried to explain every gift to her is a gift to me. It is not a concept she has yet comprehended.

  When Professor Hare finishes his lecture, I jog over to the Architecture and Design complex where Daisy has her classes. When she doesn’t immediately emerge as is her normal pattern, I enter the building. Her classroom is the third door down. It’s empty. The entrance is devoid of her presence, as is the study center where she eats, recently with the new girl.

  My heart rate speeds up. It’s pounding fast and loud, drowning out the sounds of the students—their chatter, the shuffling of their feet against the floor, the thud of their books and bags against tables and floors. She’s not here. I would know if she was here.

  I text her.

  Waiting for you . . .

  When I receive no response, I send her an image—a picture of a flower. Hers.

  Are you with Christine? I will wait.

  There is nothing. So I call, intrusively interrupting her space. But the fear that is gripping me is too strong to ignore.

  Her voice chirps and I open my mouth to respond only to realize it is her voice mail . . . leave a message.

  Hope fading, I open the application that I know she would not approve of and search for the location signal from her phone. It is wrong, tracking her, but we do not have ordinary lives with ordinary enemies made up of miffed former lovers and unhappy neighbors or jealous students.

  I have many people in my past who know how to snuff out life with one hand, one bullet, one drop of poison.

  The signal shows that she is at home.

  So.

  She is safe, I try to tell myself. Unharmed and likely baking even more cookies. My phone buzzes, alerting me to a text, and I flip the screen open anxiously.

  It is only McFadden.

  Ready to meet. Will head to ur apt.

  Home. It is a place to start. The phone signal means nothing. I have been fooled by this before. But it is better than searching this big city for one girl. I will start at the beginning and move forward. If I have to, I will capture McFadden and torture him in every way possible to obtain his cooperation in finding her.

  I will . . . fuck . . . I will terrorize this city until she is returned to me safe and unharmed.

  The apartment building is quiet when I arrive. A cab drives off just as I pull up. The lobby lights are on, per the city codes, but inside there is almost no noise. Daisy’s father in his apartment on the ground floor makes almost no sound. Sometimes I can hear the light scrabbling of the nails of his dog against the wood floor, but most of the time it is as if Daisy and I live on an island. I have always liked it that way, finding any reason at all to reject every potential tenant. But now I wonder if isolation is wise. I have lived by myself for over ten years. Daisy is the first person I have allowed inside, not just into my heart but my life. I am jealous of sharing her with anyone, even Christine, even with another tenant whom I know she will befriend with her warm smiles and her cookies.

  Slipping off my boots, I take the stairs to the second floor. Our elevator is not working and with no tenants, I have had no desire to repair it. One less avenue of escape or entrance.

  My sock-covered feet make no noise as I glide to the door. The handle moves easily and without resistance at my light touch. Unlocked. She is inside then. Standing on the right side of the wall next to the knob, I twist it and push it open. Back flat against the wall, I wait for a gunshot, a noise, anything. But it is eerily silent. Gun out, I go in low and then rise, spinning toward the windows. Empty.

  To the kitchen. Nothing but empty cooling racks she uses for her cookie making.

  On the counter is her phone. It’s cool to the touch. The last messages are from me. I squeeze the sides hard enough to bend the metal.

  Swiftly I move through the rest of the apartment, but it is as I feared. She is not here. In hurried but economical movements, I shod my feet, pocket my gun, and snatch the motorcycle keys from the bowl near the entrance.

  As I race down the stairs, I hear a thump and then a muffled high-pitch noise as if someone is screaming behind a hand.

  There is someone on the third floor. Hurrying there, I see the door to apartment 301 is slightly ajar and light is spilling into the hallway. I nudge the door open but do not waste time.

  Another quieter but sharp sound fills my blood with terror. I charge in.

  On the floor to my right is Christine. Her head is turned away, but there is blood around her face.

  Where is Daisy?

  I hear a crack of flesh against flesh. Sounds of struggle leak out of the rear bedroom. I race toward it and kick open the door, my gun in my hand, my finger on the trigger.

  The sight that greets me is horrifying. I take it all in, barely processing each detail. A large male form is on his knees. His jeans are sagging around his ass. One hand is fumbling in front of him while the other is covering the face of my Daisy. Her feet are thrashing, but her upper legs are pinned to the ground with his knees.

  I lunge forward and pull him backward, tossing him to the side. He roars in anger at being deprived of his foul deeds. His fist glances off my cheek, but his much heavier frame takes us to the floor.

  We grapple. I am surprised at how strong he is. I strike an elbow on his head but he is barely dazed. It is then I realize his eyes are unfocused. Drugged. He will not even feel the pain. His teeth are bared and he grins at me.

  “Motherfucker, you want to dance with me? Then come on.” It is as if this violence is as intoxicating as sex.

  I glance over at D
aisy; she is huddled against the broken frame of the futon.

  Surging forward, I grab his head in both my hands. He is a drugged meathead and too slow to evade me. With a vicious jerk, I sever the spinal cord and drop his gormless body to the floor.

  In the corner of my eye, I see a whirlwind of color and I turn, just in time to catch Daisy as she jumps into my arms.

  Her entire body shakes as she sobs into my shoulder.

  “Shh,” I whisper, stroking her hair and holding her firmly against me. I will take her downstairs, draw her a bath, and this will all become a memory. “You are fine. I am fine. Feel our heartbeats.” They are both thrumming rapidly at the wall of our chests, like trapped butterflies trying to free themselves.

  “He followed us,” she sobs. “Then he hit her so hard. Is she okay?”

  Wriggling free, she escapes me and runs into the front room. And stops short.

  Kneeling above Christine is McFadden. He has rolled her over and is talking in his phone. Behind me I wonder if he can see the dead man. I glance at the open door. It is possible that I can be in the wind before he rises. I have my keys. This money, identity, guns in my safe apartment. The urge to flee is overwhelming until Daisy reaches out and clasps her hand in mine. Unknowingly she tethers me to her or perhaps, as she gives me a wry smile, she knows me all too well.

  There are options here. I can kill McFadden and hide him as well as the man in the back room. Given a day, I can dispose of both bodies so that no one can find them. Without a body, there will only be mysteries that will be unsolvable. Alternatively, Daisy and I can leave. We would have to abandon her father, but we could arrange for care. There are places in this world where even McFadden would not be able to locate us.

  Leaving Daisy is not one of those options.

  He straightens. “I’ve called 911. They’ll be here in ten minutes. Want to tell me what happened?”

  I step forward, angling my body slightly in front of Daisy. She will have none of it, and impatiently shoves me lightly to the side.

  “Christine’s boyfriend has been abusing her. He followed her here and he, um, tripped and fell and hurt himself.”

  McFadden rolls his eyes. “Where is he now?”

  Before Daisy can lie in an attempt to protect me, I speak. “The man was a threat. I took care of that threat. It is of no concern.”

  “Assault and battery is a crime in the U.S., Mr. Anders. It’s my job to look into these crimes.”

  His eyes flick behind me, down the hall, no doubt contemplating why Daisy and I emerged from the bedroom instead of sitting beside Christine. I do not believe I can convince him we were engaged in sexual activity. He is no fool.

  “I want to hurt no one,” I answer slowly, trying to convey to him that I am no danger to the citizens he protects, only those who would bring harm to Daisy. “We are new college students trying to find a place for ourselves. We want to learn and live in peace.”

  “And love,” Daisy interjects quietly.

  “Yes, and love.”

  Because he is not a fool, I pray that he understands my unstated message. We watch as he evaluates us, weighs our statements.

  Finally he speaks. “Do you need help cleaning up before the EMTs arrive?”

  Daisy and I stare at each other and then at McFadden, who stands patiently, his hands loose at his sides, as if he has not just offered to engage in a criminal activity.

  I nod slowly. “I have big trash in the bedroom. It should be removed before the emergency services arrive.”

  “Good thought. Do you have trash services on the premises?”

  “No.” I shake my head. Daisy has moved to kneel by Christine, but her eyes are big as saucers over this conversation. “I will have to take the trash to special dumping site.”

  “Let’s go then.” He rubs his hands together.

  Confused but not unwilling to turn aside this offer of assistance, I walk to the kitchen sink and pull out a big black trash bag. Together we move to the back bedroom. The man is there, and lividity is starting to set in. The twist marks around the neck are purpling, and blood is beginning to pool at the points of his body making contact with the floor.

  “Big piece of trash,” McFadden agrees. Together we fold the male in half and roll him into the garbage bag. I tie up the ends and heft him over my shoulder.

  “It’s not as easy getting rid of dead bodies here,” McFadden jokes as I carry the body down the three flights of stairs.

  “Bah,” I say. “In Russia, we give dash cams at the nursery parties. One can hardly piss without it being recorded.”

  The trunk of Daisy’s Audi pops up with a press of a button, and I ease the body inside. Once the trunk is shut, I turn to McFadden. “Why are you helping me?”

  “I told you. I didn’t believe you were the shooter.”

  “But you think I am something.” Even as we speak, I am moving back into the building. The bedroom will need to be remediated with bleach, and I would like to do that before other law enforcement personnel arrive.

  “Sure. You have that look.”

  I stop on the stairs and stare backward. “What look is that?”

  “You’re always watching. You know who is around you at all times. When I watched you shoot, you sensed me immediately. And, your precise shots. It all added up to something odd.”

  “I see. I give myself away then.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  “To everyone?”

  “Maybe not to regular joes, but to someone who is paid to distrust everything and everyone? Yeah.”

  Heart heavy, I climb the stairs.

  “Not everyone is going to assume that you are something bad,” he calls after me. “Just not a regular art student.”

  Halfway up the third floor stairs I remember the printout. It’s a way for me to even the scales. “Come then. I have something for you.”

  Outside the door of my apartment is my abandoned backpack. In it is the sound amplifier. There is a gun in my pocket and knives in my boots. The entire building is one that I have purchased with money I earned as a paid assassin. No, I am not a regular art student. I will never be one.

  Inside the front pocket, I pull out the sheet and hand it to him. He peruses it silently as we move to the third floor and into the apartment. I bring with me cleaning supplies and begin to spray the floor of the bedroom with a mix of bleach, lemon, and water.

  Behind me I hear him suck in a breath. “A game?”

  “Da, I do not know who these are. Which are playing the computer game and which ones have taken it off-line. It appears the Mall of America will be targeted next.”

  “Biggest public space,” he muses to himself. “Did you break any laws to get this?” He shakes the paper at me.

  I pretend to look offended. “Nyet. It is out in the open. They speak in loose code and believe they are clever.”

  “Stupid assholes,” he mutters. He pulls out his phone. “Pierce. McFadden here. I’m looking at an online forum for the new game Hitman. No, I’m not playing video games. I think some punks are playing Hitman in real life. Next stop MOA. I’m finishing up a DV and will be in soon.” He pauses to listen and then says, “No, the perp ran when the boyfriend of a friend interrupted.”

  He ends his call just as the sirens signal the arrival of the emergency services.

  Before he leaves, I have to know what kind of threat he poses. “Why do you not arrest me?”

  “I’m interested in justice and keeping the streets safe. How that’s done? I’m not really interested in the details. I didn’t become a cop because I believe in the badge. I became a cop because it’s the way I can keep those safe who need to be safe, and I get the badge to cover it.”

  We speak the same language.

  “You have a Daisy then?”

  He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t want a Daisy. No offense. I’m not into relationships and permanent entanglements.”

  “Then what are you fighting for?”

  He shrugs. �
��What do we all fight for? To make the world a safe place for those we love.”

  “So you have a Daisy but she doesn’t love you back?”

  At this he scowls and turns away, stomping into the living room. No answer is voiced but none needs to be. His actions speak more loudly than his words.

  Chapter 15

  Daisy

  Trembling, I try to stay out of the way of Nick and the cop as they get to work. I don’t like the way this man moves so casually, helping Nick dispose of a body.

  He’s got something on us. He could stop our happiness.

  My mind’s racing with wild thoughts. I want nothing more than for Nick to stop what he’s doing and come hold me. I want him to come and comfort me, to tell me it’s all right, that the man holding me down would never have raped me. That my throbbing cheek won’t turn into a bruise where he struck me. That the idea of him showing up five minutes later was impossible.

  Nick would have been there. I know he would have. But I still want him to hold me.

  Unfortunately, he’s cleaning things up, and so I have to be brave. I move to Christine and try to rouse her. When Saul found us, he refused to listen to Christine’s excuses, her entreaties as to why she was with me. Saul immediately decked her in the face, knocking her out. Part of me hopes he didn’t kill her, and a small, ugly part of me hopes that he did. Because if Christine is not dead, how do we explain that Nick killed Saul for her own good? It’s clear to me that she still loves that horrible man, even though he attacked her and then me.

  There’s a throw pillow next to her head, and I stare at it long and hard. It would be so easy to push it over her face, to hold it there until she stopped breathing. She’d never gain consciousness. Never be able to point a finger at Nick and accuse him. We’d be safe.

  I could kill her, like I killed Sergei.

  The thought is ugly, and it leaves an awful taste in my mouth. I push the pillow away, as if doing so can make the thoughts leave my head. I would gladly kill for Nick again, but Sergei was evil. Christine is just a victim.

  I tap her cheek to wake her, making my decision.

  She rouses, and I help her sit up. “Are you all right?”