Ava Gray - Skin Game

The small bathroom, done in plain white ceramic tile, held a shower stall, an economy toilet, and a pedestal sink. The kitchen was nothing but two burners, four cupboards, and a sink. Most important, it would be impossible to get in here without him noticing. He’d bed down upstairs for better security; there was no way he’d sleep through anyone coming up that ladder. Nobody should know he was here—he hadn’t even confirmed with the client yet—but he hadn’t survived all these years in this line of work by being less than cautious.

A long nap left him feeling better mentally. Reyes took a quick shower and headed out. As he typically did, he bought a prepaid cell phone to use with this particular client. Once the job was done, he would discard it. He visited an Internet café and sent an e-mail with the number, nothing more. Reyes was sitting in a restaurant eating a hearty bowl of soup when his cell went off.

“Mack,” he answered.

“You take job?” The heavily accented voice belonged to the bereaved father.

Reyes remembered a picture of a young girl, facedown in her own vomit. He’d done the research, no margin for error. “Yes. I’m sending you some numbers. Wire the funds, and I’ll take care of the problem by tomorrow.”

“Promise to God?” Maybe he didn’t speak the language fluently, but he’d understood yes at least.

The call completed, Reyes went to a different Internet café. He added instructions in Hungarian to complete the transfers. Two e-mails later, he had an address. His client was smart; he didn’t put anything incriminating in his messages, just the bare details. The grocer knew where to find the skin peddler. He just didn’t have the skills to take him out.

Not tomorrow. Today. Now. He needed this. Needed to feel clean again by doing something worthwhile, make the world a better place by taking a scumbag out of it. And maybe the expiation would take away some of the pain that throbbed through him as if his whole body had become a rotten tooth.

Reyes stopped by a pawnshop and bought a knife. They were easier to lay hands on in Europe. He could kill with his bare hands, but it was likely he was walking into heavy artillery. He wasn’t suicidal; he wanted to walk out again. However much he hurt, he wasn’t ready to call it quits. Time would heal this over. He’d get used to being alone. He just needed to immerse himself in routine again. Remember his life without her.

The club was down by the river, a shoddy building made of crumbling red bricks. Reyes strode through the alley, circling around behind. It was littered with empty cans, broken bottles, and discarded needles. This was how he lived, cleaning out the gutters.

Two men were unloading a shipment of liquor as he passed by. They didn’t question him, as he strode through the back door as if he owned the place. He passed through a filthy kitchen, where an elderly woman was making soup. The dance floor looked strange and deserted, swimming with shadows. Toward the back, a stage stood empty. Later, some naked woman would wrap herself around the pole. Upstairs, there was a red velvet room, where men pushed little girls to the floor and made them weep, and someone else recorded it.

This was his world. It had never seemed so strange, so alien, before.

Only one table was occupied. Four men were playing cards. He recognized Nicolao Vadas from his mug shot: tall and thin with a scar on his left cheek, a beak of a nose, and full lips that he constantly wet with his tongue. He’d been arrested many times, but his lawyers always got him out. Like a cockroach, he’d keep coming back until someone stepped on him hard enough to break him.

“What are you doing here?” Vadas demanded in Hungarian.

In answer, Reyes spiked a knife up through his jaw and into his brain.

His three men scrambled for their weapons. The pistols lay among scattered cards and poker chips. He felt disconnected, as if they could shoot him, and he wouldn’t even feel it. Lightning fast, Reyes grabbed the closest guy’s hand and slammed it to the table. In the same motion, he used the bastard as his personal shield. He took his HK away and leveled it on the thug across the table with his fingers edging toward his gun.

“I was only paid to kill him,” he said in badly accented Hungarian. “Do you three want to walk away?”

Whatever they saw in his eyes, they decided not to fight. The other two backed out of the club slowly, showing their hands. They’d just find some other asshole to work for, but until someone else judged them bad enough to put down, he wouldn’t touch them. If he went around killing everyone he thought deserved to die, he’d skip far beyond the thin line that kept him sane. He pocketed the HK.

Reyes let go of the third guy, who ran, slipping and sliding in his haste, toward the exit. He stared down at Nicolao Vadas, who would never hurt another kid. His dead eyes gazed at nothing. Was there expiation in that filmy look? Drawing a cloth from his jacket, he cleaned the handle, but he left the blade in place. He hadn’t touched it.

Maybe this would make up for what he’d almost done, the woman he might’ve killed. Maybe in time, the ache would go away.

He took out his throwaway cell phone and snapped a picture. He’d send this by courier to the grocer as proof of a job well done. Reyes met no opposition as he left the club. If he’d been a different sort of man, he might’ve burned it down.

Instead he wiped down the phone, and went out into the street, where a light rain had begun to fall. Passing cars splashed him, and a kid in a Citroen flipped him off as he crossed. He walked, head down, one of the few without an umbrella.

At a small office supply store, he bought a brown envelope, and then went to a third Internet café. He used the web to request a pickup from Kenguru Boy courier service. Choosing immediate and express got him service right away. He’d only been there half an hour when the young man showed up on a motorcycle. Cash changed hands.

The courier spoke lightly accented English. “Thank you, sir. We will make sure your parcel arrives within two hours. This address is not far.” His eyes said it would’ve been easy for Reyes to deliver it himself.

Yeah, he knew that, but clients never saw his face.

Except Serrano at the end, and he took it to his grave.

Ruthlessly, Reyes pushed the memory down. He didn’t want to remember that job or how it ended. He preferred to forget what he’d done to tie up loose ends and the anonymous call he’d made to Sagorski, who was doubtless rubbing his hands together in glee over such a juicy case.

Now he had only one more task left in Budapest.

In truth he had no heart for it, but if he didn’t make an example of Monroe, people would think they could get away with crossing him. According to Intel for which he’d paid a premium, Monroe was hiding out in a squat down near the Danube. Unless he’d scrambled since then, this would be quick.

Reyes rented a motorbike so he could travel fast, weaving in and out of city traffic. Down by the river, it smelled of damp wood and rotten fish. There was a web of warehouses and abandoned buildings in this section, but the one he sought had some unmistakable graffiti on it: a blond woman wearing a red shirt and a mournful look, naked from the waist down.

He found it on his second circuit. After parking the bike, he pulled the HK out of his pocket and disengaged the safety. He hadn’t come to talk. The gray building had many broken windows. A gate across the doorway was supposed to discourage trespassers, but it was possible to edge it outward enough to slip past.

Inside it stank of urine. He searched three floors methodically, ignoring the presence of other squatters, who peered at him with starving eyes, their faces withered with hunger and drink. Deep down he’d never doubted he would find Monroe on the top floor, having claimed the best digs even in a place like this.