Tom Hinshelwood: The Killer

It took about a minute, longer than Victor had anticipated, and he marked their skills down a notch for the delay. He spotted them easily, first one man trying to negotiate his way through the crowd desperately struggling to get out. A moment later the second rushed into the lobby from a ground-floor corridor. The first man had blond hair, his right hand wedged into the pocket of his black leather jacket, his left outstretched, trying to guide himself through the horde of frightened people. The other guy was tall, heavyset with a shaved head and the beginnings of a dark beard. Bulky jacket. He used both hands to shove people out of his path, no pretense of subtlety. Victor therefore deduced the blond man to be higher up the food chain and hence far more appetizing.

They reached each other in the center of the lobby and conferred briefly. They made a cursory look around the room, quickly glancing into the bar as they passed through the lobby, the blond man heading for the stairs, the big guy to the elevator. Given the mass of people between them and Victor it was an understandable mistake not to spot him, but one that was going to cost them all the same.

Victor stood, timed his movements so a family exiting the elevator shielded him from the big guy’s view as they passed each other, and headed for the stairwell door. Victor was fast, coming up behind the man in the leather jacket just as he was pushing through.

The blond man saw the approaching shadow too late. He tried to pull out his gun but stopped immediately when the suppressor pushed against his ribs. Victor angled it upward, aiming at the heart. In the same instant Victor’s left hand grabbed hold of the guy’s testicles and squeezed with much of his considerable strength.

The man gasped and almost dropped to the floor under the sudden excruciating pain. Victor pushed him through the doorway and whispered into his ear in French.

“Right hand-take it out of your pocket. Leave the gun.”

The man obeyed.

“How many of you are there?” Victor demanded.

The man struggled to remain standing, fought to keep his breathing steady enough to speak. He was terrified. Victor didn’t blame him. He only managed to form a single word.

“What?”

Victor guided him up the first flight of stairs, tightening his grip on the man’s balls to dismiss any thoughts of his trying something foolish. It was hardly necessary.

“This way.”

They continued up the next flight and over to the door on the first floor.

“Through there. Open it.”

The man reached out a shaking hand and turned the handle. The door was half open when Victor pushed him through and headed down the hallway. They passed a maid hurrying along to the stairwell. An old woman, hair pulled tightly back in a bun, barely five feet tall. Victor heard her gasp-maybe it was the man’s contorted face or the hand clamped to his groin. Victor kept his own head positioned behind his prisoner’s so she couldn’t see his face.

By the time she’d told someone who mattered he would be long gone. He could kill her just for extra prudence, but another corpse in a corridor would only cause him more problems, and it wasn’t her fault she happened to be there.

They turned a corner into another corridor. It was quiet, every guest now congregated in the lobby or in the street outside.

“Open a door,” Victor ordered.

The man was trembling, his voice labored. “Which one?”

Victor put three bullets through where the lock met the door frame. A single bullet only worked in the movies. “That one.” The man hesitated, and Victor applied more pressure. “Open it. Now.”

He was slow to turn the handle, and so Victor shoved him through. He gently knocked the door closed behind him with his foot as he followed.

“Throw the gun on the bed.”

The man reached into his pocket and slowly pulled out his handgun, gripping it with only thumb and forefinger. He threw it onto the bed. It landed in the center. Not a bad throw considering.

Victor let go of the blond guy and hurled him forward. He stumbled and collapsed to the floor. He lay in a crumpled heap, almost fetal, clutching at his damaged testicles. His Casanova days were very over. He was younger than the other three, twenty-seven at most. His features were different, his demeanor more controlled. Victor regarded him curiously, recognizing that he didn’t quite fit in with the others. An outsider. Or leader.

The man’s eyes flicked toward his right foot then quickly looked away. In a black leather shin holster, barely visible where the right pants cuff had come up in the fall, was a black snub-nosed revolver. He saw that Victor had seen him look and read his thought process.

Victor shook his head just once.

He took a step forward, leveled the gun at the center of the man’s forehead. “How many of you are there?”

“Seven.”

“Including you?”

He nodded, grimacing, not able to speak for a moment because of the agony in his groin. Excluding the big guy in the elevator somewhere there were three more.

“How many cars did you bring?”

The blond man was quick to answer, spitting the word out as fast as he could. “One.”

“Just one?”

“It’s a van.”

“What’s the registration?”

“I…I don’t know.”

Victor put a 5.7 mm into the floor between his legs. It wasn’t very economical with the remaining bullets but he didn’t have time for a lengthy interrogation.

The blond man stared at the singed hole in the carpet. “I swear.”

“What make is it?”

“I don’t know…it’s blue. A rental.”

His French was good but not fluent, not a native speaker.

Victor asked, “Do you know who I am?”

He didn’t answer straightaway. Victor took another step closer and the man found his voice. “No.”

“No?”

“Just an alias, we had a picture…”

“How did you know where I’m staying?”

“We were given the name of the hotel.”

“When?”

“Three days ago.”

Then his accent clicked. Victor switched to English. “You’re American.”

He spoke back in English. “Yes.” He was from the South, Texas maybe.

“Who’s in charge?” Victor asked.

“I am.”

“Private sector?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been following me?”

“We tried to but you always lost us.”

“Why wait until now to kill me?”

The American paused for a moment before answering. “We had to wait for the green light.”

“Which you received when?”

“Oh, five thirty.”

Victor could tell he had decided to tell the truth, perhaps thinking he might have a chance if he answered honestly. Blissful ignorance.

“Why did you send those two guys in before I’d returned?”

The blond man grimaced again. “I lost my nerve. Thought you weren’t coming back. I sent them in to check.” He scowled despite the pain. “Bad timing.”

“That wasn’t very smart,” Victor said. “What about the flash drive?”

“We had to make sure you had it, then secure it and wait for instructions.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you working for?”

The man’s head slumped. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Please…”

“Who are you working for?”

He looked up at Victor, saw in his eyes that there was no mercy, no pity. He sobbed.

“How the hell would I know?”

Victor believed him.

He shot him twice in the face.

He knelt down by the body, looking for some identification, and saw a radio in the inside jacket pocket, switched to send, the light flickering. There was a microphone attached to the underside of his collar.

A floorboard creaked.

Victor froze, looked over his shoulder.