Jonas Saul - The Kill

“You two wanna tell me what the joke is?”

They looked at each other and then both turned their attention on her. The man who threw her in the limo said, “It’s over. That’s why we’re happy. We get to go home.”

“What’s over?”

“We have that rat bastard of a husband of yours and now we have you.”

“You have Darwin? Where?”

“We’re taking you to see him right now. Don’t worry, it won’t be long now.”

She looked out the window. If they already had Darwin, and they were taking her to where he was, what did that mean? When he said it was over, what could he mean? Home now? Where was home for these men?

Then she decided on another question.

“Was it your people who shot at us the other night?”

The man sitting across from her raised a hand to his companion. “I’ll handle her questions. This is the fun part. I like toying with my prey.”

“Prey? I’m nobody’s prey.” These disgusting brutes talked like animals.

“Whatever you think, missus. Yes, it was us.”

“Why would you shoot at us? If one of your bullets had hit me or my husband, you could’ve killed us.”

“We’re sorry. We weren’t trying to hit you. Believe me, if we were, we wouldn’t have missed.”

Confused, she asked, “Why were you trying to miss us? That doesn’t make sense, if you’re after my husband for accidentally killing that man.”

A smile played across his mouth. “We wouldn’t want either one of you to die so easily. We don’t believe in that. What kind of men would we be known as? Hit men? Hired guns? No, we like to hurt and kill people in unique ways.”

Even though she hadn’t eaten much, her stomach lurched and what little she had eaten threatened to come up. There was no way the man sitting across from her was telling the truth.

He continued. “If you’re still wondering why we would shoot at you, it was because we were hoping you’d call the police. They’d file a report and then we’d know where you were staying. All the time you’ve been in Rome, we’ve been trying to find where you two were staying. We hadn’t got permission yet from the ruling families here to do our business, so we had to wait, collect information. We knew we were running out of time, so we thought we’d try to run you over, shoot at you, get you to call the police. But that didn’t work. Then we found out you were headed for the airport, and we just got granted our permission. So we made our move, and here we are, nice and cozy.”

He was lying. He had to be. “How would having us call the police help you?” she asked.

He laughed and shook his head a little. He had bad teeth and five-day old beard. The guy looked unkempt, and yet he acted cocky and cool like he was in disguise.

“You really don’t know who we are, do you? You aren’t aware of our world? How men like us have police on the payroll? How politicians, back home in Canada, do what we want? You live in your ivory towers and look down at us, not having any idea that we’re the ones who make the world go ‘round. You fucking whore,” his voice rose in volume. “You fucking slut. You have no idea what you’re in for.”

Rosina didn’t think of herself as stupid or naive. She knew there were people like the man in front of her in the same world as her. But why would they hurt innocent, regular folk like Darwin and her. She was barely twenty-five years old. She’d never even been in a fight except for a little hair-pulling in grade school. As far as dealing with difficult people, Darwin had only ever dealt with his stepmother. But now these people were on their case. Apparently, they had Darwin. Now they had her. What was next? They would kill Darwin and her? No, she wouldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it.

No way. I will deal with this and I will walk away. Darwin and I will live a long life together and men like this will be the ones who die young.

She watched Rome flash by.

“My name is the Harvester of Sorrow,” the unkempt man said. “I’m the distributor of pain. Do you like that?”

Her disgust rose. They wouldn’t intimidate her that easily. She committed to herself that she wouldn’t show fear. She learned years ago in an after-school rape class that these kind of people relish the control they have over you. They yearn for the fear in your eyes. Don’t fight to get away. Don’t give them the pleasure. It may save your life.

“No, can’t say I like that.”

“Well, the shortest straw has been pulled for you.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“Those are lyrics from the best Metallica album ever, And Justice For All. Harvester of Sorrow is a wicked tune. I took my name from that because I’m the guy that gets to hurt you.”

“Calm down,” the man in the suit beside her said. “We don’t touch her until the boss says we can.”

The two men looked at each other. “I know that. What the fuck you think I’m doing here? You best watch yourself, Gabe. Your time’ll come, and when it does, I’ll do you something special.”

“Fuck you. I’ll be here long after you’ve rotted in an unmarked grave. Watch what the fuck you be saying to me. You’re not bulletproof.”

The Harvester sat back and smiled like he owned the world. Rosina could barely control the fear inside her. But as long as they had her husband and they were taking her to see him, she was sure they’d work things out together.

I feel stupid thinking this way, but these men are completely putting on a show. They don’t torture people and kill them anymore. Only in random cases.

It took ten more minutes of negotiating Rome’s traffic before they pulled into an underground garage. The driver wound down and into an open, empty parking area except for three black vans.

The limousine came to a stop beside the vans. Men approached the vehicle and opened all the doors in the back.

“Get out,” one of the men ordered.

Rosina decided to stay silent and do her best to show zero fear.

She followed the line of six men as they walked her to an elevator. She almost felt like she was in a Quentin Tarantino movie with six mafia men standing around in expensive suits, in Rome, the home of the Italian mafia, escorting a helpless young woman to her final meeting. Then she banished the thought as soon as it entered her head. Quentin’s movies got a little bloody at times and there would be nothing final about her meeting upstairs. Nothing at all.

Ding.

The elevator doors opened. Three men filed in and turned around. Rosina entered and then the other three followed, with the Harvester standing closest to her.

The ride was quick, a relief as the thick air in the confined elevator was beginning to get to her.

The doors opened onto a gorgeous floor. The walls were marble, the carpets plush. Before they got too far, the Harvester stuck a key into the elevator panel and twisted it, locking the elevator out of service.

I guess we aren’t to be interrupted.

The men escorted her through a pair of glass double doors and into an office that would resemble any high-paid lawyer’s domain back in Canada.

They continued down a hallway and walked, one by one, through a smaller door.

The door was small, but the room was large. It would easily seat fifteen men. Couches lined the walls, armchairs and tables sat at random places. It looked like a luncheon room for the rich.

In the far corner sat a large banker’s desk and, behind it, a man who appeared from a distance to be at least seventy-five years old.

“Come, sit,” he said, with a flourish of his hand.

Rosina was directed to a solitary chair positioned in front of the big desk. She walked up and stood in front of it. All the men fell back, some took positions near the door and others sat on the plush couches.