Marcus Sakey - The Amateurs

He took another step, his eyes adjusting.

A voice said, “Hello, Mitch.”

THE FIGURE IN FRONT OF HER moved with brutal grace, rocking forward to drive a fist into Ian’s belly. Her friend made a gasping whoop, then dropped to hands and knees, leaned forward, and retched. Thin ropes of spit and vomit trailed from the corner of his lips.

“Hi,” the man said, raising the pistol in his other hand. “Don’t scream.”

The world narrowed to a long hallway, like the gun had black-hole gravity that warped space.

“Pick him up.”

She stared at the gun, and at the man beyond.

“Jennifer. ” His voice sharp. “Pick Ian up, and help him up the stairs. Now.”

Without thinking, she bent down, put her arms under Ian’s shoulders, and helped him slowly rise. His body felt thin and hollow, and he smelled of bile.

“Up the stairs.”

“Who-”

“Now.”

She wanted to scream, to run, but instead she turned around, started back to her apartment. Her vision was wet and smeary, the carpet blurring into the walls. From a great distance, she felt her mind racing, telling her that she should fight, or else bolt up the stairs and into her apartment and lock the door. But fear and her grip on Ian, all that was holding him up, stopped her from doing either. She prayed for a neighbor to come home, for someone to save her.

When they reached her door, the man said, “Open it.”

“It’s locked. The keys are in my purse.”

“Get them. Slowly.”

Jenn glanced over, fear spiking hard through her veins. The man stood half a dozen feet back, just far enough that she couldn’t reach him, not far enough that she could make it in and close the door. Not unless she abandoned Ian. “Can you stand?”

Her friend coughed, nodded. She leaned him against the wall, then unslung her purse. Keys, keys, keys, where the fuck were they? Her hands shook as she fumbled, and the purse slipped from her grasp, landing upside down. “Shit.” She bent to pick it up, a clatter of everyday things falling free: sunglasses and Chapstick and a pill bottle and her wallet and mascara and a leaf she had liked the shape of and her cell and her keys. Jenn retrieved them, fit them in the lock, and turned.

The moment the door creaked open, the man lunged forward, shoving her. Suddenly flying, she struggled to get her feet beneath her, barking her shin on the edge of the coffee table, the impact ringing straight up her legs. She staggered, managed to catch herself with a hand on the table. The bottle of nail polish from that morning tipped and fell.

Nail polish. Beside that, several files, and her pair of shiny manicure scissors.

“Join us, Ian.”

Moving before she chickened out, Jenn palmed the scissors, then turned. And found herself staring at the barrel of a pistol. The gun was maybe four inches from her face, so close she couldn’t focus on it.

Her blood felt like ice chips.

Doubled over, Ian lurched into the room. His face was a sallow, yellowish green, and he was gasping. His suit was spotted with vomit. He collapsed on the couch.

“Ian?” She looked at the man with the gun, then slowly moved away from him, keeping her fingers closed around the reassuring steel of the scissors. They were tiny, but they were sharp, and that was something. She knelt beside Ian. “Are you OK?”

He forced a brief nod, his eyes wild. She glanced over her shoulder, saw the man with the gun grimace, then walk over to the door to kick the pile of belongings inside. As her Chapstick rolled across the floor, Jenn put her left hand on Ian’s knee, and flashed her right open, just long enough for him to see what was inside. His eyes widened.

Then she heard the sound of the door closing and found that it took all she had to draw a shuddering breath.

“Now,” the man said. “Have a seat, sweetheart.”

“My name is Jenn.”

“I know.” The man gestured. “Next to your friend.”

Jenn straightened, stood perfectly still.

“Lady, I like your spirit, I do. But you ought to know that I’m a feminist. When it comes to hitting people, I don’t draw gender lines.”

She hesitated. The suddenness of everything had made the last minute a blur, but she was coming back to herself, and anger was infusing the panic. This was her apartment, her private sanctuary. And now this man, this stranger with a gun, had invaded it, hit her friend and dragged them back into her own world as prisoners. The last thing she wanted to do was curl up like some useless woman on TV. The scissors weren’t much, but maybe now was the time, while she was standing up.

Then the man raised the gun. Her knees went watery. As slowly as she dared, she eased herself onto the couch.

“Good. Now. Hands under your thighs, palms down. Both of you.”

Ian looked at her, a question in his eyes she didn’t know how to answer. Then he did as the man said, and she did the same.

“Excellent.” He slid the gun behind his back. “Thank you.”

“What are you going to do with us?”

“We’re just going to sit here for a little while.”

“Why?” Keep him talking. Maybe he’ll relax. Maybe he’ll give you a chance to…

What? Launch into a flying spin kick, knock the gun free, do a Jet Li roll for it, and blast him? Kickboxing classes at the gym were as far as her experience with fighting went. Sure, she could do some work on a heavy bag. But heavy bags didn’t hit back.

Who was he? What did he want?

One of those questions was easy to answer. He worked for Victor. The way he carried himself, his easy menace and complete calm. The way he hadn’t hesitated to hit Ian. He was… professional.

Professional what, exactly?

Something chilly slid down her spine. Another easy question to answer. But it raised a much harder one.

What chance did a stockbroker and a travel agent armed with manicure scissors have against a professional killer?

MITCH STEPPED FORWARD. There was a figure at the end of the bar, but he couldn’t make out any features. “Alex?”

“He shoots, he scores.” The figure reached for a highball. Took a long sip. In the quiet of the closed bar, Mitch could hear ice clink in the glass. “You want a drink?”

Mitch started forward. On the drive here, he’d imagined all sorts of last-second scenarios, catching Alex just as Victor pulled up, the two of them jumping out a back window. But now that he had made it, he realized he didn’t know what to say. It was partly the situation and partly a strange note in Alex’s voice. Something sad and final and yet oddly menacing. “No, I-”

“Where’s the rest of the crew?”

“On their way to the police station.”

Alex gave a brief and bitter laugh. “If you can’t win, you may as well piss all over everyone else, huh? Drag them down with you.”

“What are you talking about?” He walked closer.

“How many nights do you think we spent here?” Alex leaned back against the bar, thick arms braced on either side. “A hundred? More? The four of us, sitting right here,” he patted the end of the bar. “Our private table.”

Mitch froze. On the bar, the four plastic bottles sat clustered right next to an open fifth of vodka. Jesus Christ.

“So what’s the deal? You here to talk me out of my diabolical plot?”

“Something like that.”

“Have a drink first.”

“Listen, Alex, that stuff-”

“I said, have a fucking drink.” His tone suddenly hard. “If you don’t want vodka, we’ve got everything.” Alex gestured at the wall behind the bar, the mirrored shelves holding row on row of liquor. “What’ll it be?”

Something was wrong. He’d imagined that Alex might be surprised to see him, angry even. But this was different. He didn’t sound quite together. Not raving, but not exactly centered, either.