Jan Burke - Nine

Julio had no respect for them at all. He had done his share of killing, but he had killed to live, because his life was worth something. Somebody came toward the man he was protecting, he knew it, he was there. He was ready for you-bring it on.

At least, that’s the way it was before. Now, who knew what he’d do when he was done with this job?

Well, he’d deal with that when the time came. But no matter what happened to him, he’d never blame God. The way Julio figured it, God was this guy at the show, and when it was your time to leave the stage, adiós. While you were on the stage, go for it, but just keep in mind you weren’t writing the play-He was. And He loved a good laugh. As for encores, well, Julio would wait and see.

He’d had a lot of time to think about these things lately, whenever he wasn’t playing video games or watching porn.

He watched the news, too, which was usually just about as repetitive as the porn. When he kept hearing about the dead guys from the Most Wanted list, he figured he was fly to the time of day. His new bosses were sick of the cops being so lame. They were rich boys trying to prove they had balls. He wasn’t sure they were all that different from the prisoner. Really, didn’t they get that there were just going to be ten more brand-spanking-new assholes on the Most Wanted list? There were already new ones taking the places of Adrianos and the others. What did they think was going to happen-the country would run out of criminals?

Crazy.

But he didn’t mind taking their money to help them do their bit while they were front and center stage. No one was going to connect him with it, or by the time they did, he’d be long gone. Even if he was caught, what could they accuse him of-holding this guy hostage? A guy who planted a bomb on an Oceanside bus-a bus that he knew young marines often took to get back to Camp Pendleton at the end of leave? Who killed three kids and half a dozen retirees at the same time? Shit, Julio thought. More likely he’d get a medal for keeping the bastard from planning some other fucking bombing.

He was pretty sure his bosses would get away with it somehow, too-they had money. He hadn’t seen a hell of a lot of wealthy people punished in his day, unless they fucked with other wealthy people. These guys were killing people everybody hated.

To keep himself from going in and killing Farid just to make God laugh His ass off, Julio always tried to call Farid “the prisoner” in his mind. He figured he earned his five mil by self-restraint.

He stood up and stretched, and got ready for a visit from one of the four. Chill-his name for the boss of them all, as cold a bastard as he had ever met-had called but hadn’t said who would be coming by. He never did.

Julio went up to the roof. The prisoner didn’t have a prayer-no matter who he prayed it to-of getting out of his cell, and there wasn’t a thing in there that could be used for a suicide attempt. But Julio took a little portable monitor with him anyway.

He watched until he saw a van approaching. It wasn’t the usual one, but he caught a glimpse of the driver and recognized him. So, it was the Surfer this time. Julio went downstairs.

The Surfer was wearing a suit, looking exactly like a guy who puts on suits only for funerals and weddings. But Julio didn’t think that was what was bothering him as he watched the prisoner on the monitor.

His voice was kind of high-pitched when he said, “I thought he was supposed to be drugged.”

“My instructions were to sober him up,” Julio said.

The kid-really, he was no more than a kid-looked at him, and Julio saw that he was scared shitless.

“What’s supposed to happen here?” Julio asked, his tone inviting confidences.

“I’m supposed to kill him.”

God, the kid looked like he was gonna barf just saying it.

“You ever done anything like that before?”

He thought he knew the answer, but the kid surprised him. “Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but-I just helped.”

Julio found himself suppressing an urge to laugh. “You want me to help you? It would be my pleasure.”

For a moment, he thought the kid was going to say yes, but in the end he shook his head.

“What would you like me to do?” Julio asked.

“Just let me in there, and-and watch. If there’s any trouble…”

“Help you out.”

“Yes.”

The entrance to the prisoner’s cell was through a triple set of doors, each with a short hall between them. The doors were heavily reinforced. Julio let the Surfer into the first door. The Surfer waited in the hallway while Julio closed and locked the first door.

Julio went over to the monitor closest to the door and watched.

The Surfer entered a code that released the electronic lock on the second door. He closed it behind him, and entered the code again, locking it. He stepped up to the third door.

On the days when he was not fed intravenously, the prisoner received his meager rations through a slot in this door. The Surfer leaned over and called through it, “Mr. Atvar? I’m an attorney with the ACLU.”

Julio wondered if it was the drugs that made the prisoner start crying. He was shouting some stuff that Julio thought might be prayers, and saying, “Help me, help me, please.”

“Maybe some of those people on that bus wished someone would help them,” Julio said.

But when the Surfer stepped into the room, the prisoner said, “You? You are no lawyer. You are too young.”

“Mr. Atvar, settle down, or I’m walking right back out of here.”

That put an end to Atvar’s rebellion. He began scratching himself. Over the ten weeks he’d been here, Julio had followed a program that had turned his prisoner into a morphine addict. Julio had no regrets about that.

The Surfer started pacing. Get on with it, Julio silently urged. At the same moment, his attention was drawn away by the sound of a motor. He checked the monitor that gave him a view of the parking lot entrance. Someone else was approaching. He was driving a Maserati Bora.

No one comes around for a week, and now the whole world shows up. Damn it, he wondered, now what should he do?

He made certain that he had easy access to his weapon, but he was fairly sure that anyone approaching in a Maserati was one of the rich kids.

Julio turned back to the screen just in time to see the kid make his move-an awkward attempt to garrote the prisoner.

It wasn’t pretty, but he did get it around the prisoner’s neck, probably because the prisoner was in a weakened state. Still, Julio had to admit, the prisoner was fighting like hell. He bashed his head back into the Surfer’s, making his nose bleed. Julio almost went in at that, but the Surfer was holding on, even though the prisoner kicked and twisted.

Tighten it, kid. Pull on it!

The buzzer for the door rang, and Julio looked at one of the other screens and saw, to his relief, that it was one of his bosses. The dark-haired one. He was dressed in dark leather and was wearing driving gloves. Julio had mentally dubbed him the Mechanic, because he had seen his kind many times before. He figured this one had a love of his work that even Chill was missing.

He hurriedly let him in, then said, “I think your friend needs some help. Want me to go in?”

“No,” this one said. “That’s why I’m here.”

Julio opened the door for him, then locked it. On the monitor, he watched as the prisoner pissed himself. It got all over the Surfer’s suit. The Surfer swore and loosened his grip, and the prisoner took advantage of this to free himself. He had just thrown himself on the thin mattress on the floor when the door opened.

“Cameron?” the Surfer said. “What are you doing here?”

The prisoner began to stand up. Cameron-the Mechanic-pulled out a.38 and shot the prisoner in the kneecap.