. He had no trouble entering the apartment. He even hesitated slightly when he noticed there were no security measures. Apparently, the owner felt overly confident in this district. What did he have to fear? They were all their own people. Everyone knew each other here, and no one expected guests like him. Niklas smiled ironically. No one ever expected anyone like him. And that was always his chance.
Because who would notice someone as inconspicuous as him? Small, without any noticeable muscles. With a face no one could remember! In clothes that were unremarkable.
Just an ordinary man, someone no one really noticed. These were his most valued clients. And he couldn't complain about their lack of clients. In fact, the first available appointment he could book was three months in advance. So he didn't have to worry about work. His office, organized to avoid attracting attention, never suffered from a lack of work. Therefore, he had a wide selection of offers. Some attracted his attention with the promise of a hefty fee, while others were appealing due to their unusual nature. This particular one belonged to the latter.
About two weeks ago, taking advantage of some free time between assignments and wanting to tidy up his own affairs, he'd visited his so-called office, where, as a rule, only an answering machine waited, recording orders. Once a week, a woman he'd hired would visit, who, while cleaning, would also take a cassette of the recordings. He'd then meet her in a small office in the heart of the city, pay for the service, and collect the cassette. He himself was there very rarely, only to attend to purely technical matters.
And it was while he was checking the status of the answering machine that the phone rang, and after a few hesitant rings, he finally answered.
"Excuse me!" he tried to make his voice as impersonal as possible.
"Mr. Smith!" the voice was clearly delighted at the opportunity to speak to a human being. "I'm so happy! I hate talking to a machine!
" "Excuse me!" "Here we go," he urged, impatient enough to be about to slam the receiver back on its old-fashioned cradle.
"I know you don't have much time, Mr. Smith," the voice said, as if guessing his thoughts. "But I won't take up much of your time. In fact, I was hoping to find you just now.
" "Were you hoping?" He couldn't hide a hint of surprise, and at the same moment the urge to hang up vanished. Someone who knew such things could be a potential threat, best nipped in the bud.
"Don't be afraid!" the woman seemed to read his thoughts again. "I pose no threat to you. You'll be able to find out for yourself when the time comes! Someone like me can't be a threat to you." The woman paused for a moment to add a comment that impressed even Niklas. "Because I'm dead, Mr. Smith!"
"Please don't talk nonsense!" he said nervously, nervously twiddling his thumbs. "And what's more, you're crazy," he thought, and then said aloud. "You've come to the wrong place! I don't believe in ghosts!
" "I know, Mr. Smith!" she laughed brightly. "You only create them, right? But I'm not talking about that, Mr. Smith," she added quickly. "I don't think it matters to you who you accept the order from. And I have a very specific order!
" "So I'm listening!" he said nervously, crossing his fingers and promising himself that this joker would soon be truly dead. He would see to it.
"I want you to kill someone for me, Mr. Smith," he said, without a trace of mockery, but this woman clearly didn't know the rules.
"Ma'am!" he yelled into the receiver. "I'm not killing anyone! You've mistaken me for someone else.
" "Has I been misdirected?" This time, the woman's voice held a distinct sarcasm.
"You were directed to me because I eliminate problems," he whispered stage-style. "Isn't it? And that's exactly what I do.
" "And that's exactly what I want!" the woman replied in the same tone. "I want to eliminate problems. And the main problem lives on Akacjowa Street, number 8. Remember? You enter from Polna Street, you know?" she chirped, and Niklas's blood began to pound. He felt he would accept the assignment, though he also promised himself that the owner of the voice would bitterly regret having approached him.
"Is the problem properly secured?" he asked, modulating his voice professionally. "Do you understand what I mean?
" "There's some kind of alarm! But you'll handle it calmly!" A shimmering laugh echoed on the other end, and a thought flashed through Niklas's mind: is this how the dead laugh?
"I'd like to know more, ma'am!" he said, stifling an outburst. "If I'm going to accept a commission to solve a problem, I like to know what it's about.
" "I don't think the commission will pose any major difficulties for you!" the woman assured calmly. "It's a quiet neighborhood. Maybe because it's mostly people like me who live there! I don't think they'll cause you any trouble.
" "And the reason for the trouble?" he tried to remain professional, though his nerves were already failing him. He didn't envy his interlocutor's future fate. As a rule, he tried to avoid cruelty towards his victims. Here, he promised himself to use the methods he'd learned during his time in Africa. And these were truly cruel ways of dying.
He preferred to quickly forget the rest of the conversation. He'd never heard such a load of nonsense in his life. Finally, however, he learned who his future victim was. And when he heard the name, he froze for a moment. Because it was the name of a man who rocked the entire local underworld. Even his skin crawled for a moment as he realized that this time the target was Samuel Johnston himself. A man who terrified not only ordinary people but also the city's most bloody hit men, even FBI agents. Apparently, most of the murders in the city weighed on his conscience.
Niklas smiled beneath the thin mustache he'd recently cultivated with great difficulty. But Johnston, on the other hand, was terrible at security. He probably hadn't expected anyone to dare attack him on his own property. Especially considering the unique nature of the house he'd broken into.
The killer looked around. This wasn't how he'd imagined a funeral home. It had always seemed to him that such buildings were filled to the brim with dead bodies and coffins. Yet, at least so far, he hadn't seen anything that evoked the image of "our dearly departed." Just an ordinary house, the kind that might belong to, say, the principal of the local high school. The hallway was full of knickknacks, cheap paintings, and worn-out carpeting. "
It could use a facelift," Niklas thought. "What does Johnston spend all this money on, brought to him by illegal gambling dens, the extortionists and wet-workers who work for him, and the modeling agencies?"
He shook his head and tightened his grip on the flashlight he'd brought with him out of habit rather than necessity. Indeed, the house wasn't shrouded in darkness. Discreetly placed small bulbs provided enough light to keep him from tripping over his own feet.
Niklas, as instructed, located the small door, painted a dingy brown, which the woman had suggested would lead directly to Johnston's private apartments.
The door creaked barely audibly. Nevertheless, he hovered over the handle and carefully surveyed the surroundings. If anyone had noticed his presence in the house, they hadn't given it a second thought.
The stairs were old, or at least they looked old. Only when standing on them did Niklas realize they were clad in some unusual material, muffled by every footstep and molded perfectly to his feet. A bluish glow, seemingly emanating directly from the walls, illuminated the stairs leading steeply downward.
He set off without a backward glance.
He hadn't expected an ambush. He knew people well, and the woman he was talking to truly wanted revenge on Johnston. He could tell by her voice, by her manner of speaking. He had never been disappointed by his razor-sharp instincts, even though the FBI itself had tried to trap him dozens of times. And he couldn't count the attempts of his rivals. Most of them, after his efforts, weren't even suitable for such establishments as this. There simply wasn't anything to put in the coffin.
He was ripped from his thoughts by a sudden sound from somewhere down the stairs. He automatically tightened his grip on the tried-and-true 9-gauge shotgun, which he always carried for missions, though despite its modern silencer, it always made too much noise. With it, however, he felt more confident.
His movements immediately acquired the feline agility honed in the jungles of Nicaragua. He climbed the final stairs with such tense attention that nothing escaped Niklas's notice. The sound repeated, but this time he could pinpoint its source. It was a small compressor, the kind painters typically used to spray paint. What purpose it served here, he preferred not to imagine.
But if it was working, hissing in occasional gulps of air, it meant nothing more than a presence. A very unwelcome one, from his perspective.
Instinct told him that danger might come from the large metal doors that darkened at the end of the long corridor, and although he was instructed to turn left, which would lead him to Johnston's bedroom, he chose the opposite direction. With a shiver of emotion, he headed toward the double metal doors, behind which danger might lie.
Niklas felt a quickening throb in his temples and the warmth of released adrenaline as he gently pressed the cool doorknob. The door swung open without resistance, revealing a coffin shrouded in black shroud.
A quick glance confirmed his initial suspicion. He found himself in the place where bodies were prepared for public display. An unfamiliar chill ran through him. He couldn't quite grasp it. And when he suddenly heard a woman's voice behind him, he couldn't even bring himself to reach for his trusty nine.
"Easy, Mr. Smith!" the woman laughed heartily. "Easy! I was sure you'd stop by first. In fact, I even wanted you to.
" "Is that you?" Marius feigned surprise, though he'd expected his employer to be here from the start. She knew the house too well to be a regular. He intended to take advantage of this later.
He glanced at his interlocutor, who seemed utterly at home there, perched on the metal bed, unceremoniously pushing a plump man who was staring fish-eyed at the distant ceiling off it. Contrary to his expectations, she was young, though perhaps not particularly beautiful. Nevertheless, she commanded attention, and no man could pass her by indifferently. But what exactly was it? He couldn't answer that question.
"I suppose you're surprised I'm here?" The woman smiled mysteriously, revealing a row of upward-curving teeth that gave her an added allure. "Me at the scene of a crime? That's against all the rules!
" "Indeed!" he managed to choke out the first word with difficulty. "For your own good, it would be better if you were somewhere far away.
" "You see!" The woman jumped down onto the slippery floor and slowly approached Niklas. "No one will suspect me! You don't have to worry about that." Even if I were found next to Johnston, I'd still be above suspicion." The woman laughed again, and the killer thought it was probably inappropriate to laugh like that in a place like this. But she clearly had no such reservations and continued laughing, dragging the killer toward the oak coffin. "And I'd have a motive!" she snorted. "I'd have a damn motive! Look!" Her arm twisted violently, almost forcing Niklas to peer into the coffin.
The girl was young, probably not even twenty yet. But death had already taken root on her oval face.
"There's my motive!" The woman lowered her eyes, then snapped her head up as if on a sudden impulse. "That's my little sister! And over there lies"—she pointed to a nearby metal table—"my best friend. Who do you think snuffed out their young lives, Mr. Smith? A sudden illness?" An unfortunate accident, or perhaps a drunk driver? What do you think, Mr. Smith? She gripped the man's arm tightly. Niklas felt a bead of sweat working its way down his back. "Come, I'll show you what caused their deaths!" The woman's fingers were icy cold.
Niklas submitted to her will without resistance and allowed himself to be led towards the white sheet.
The blonde stared sightlessly at the ceiling with pale blue eyes, large hospital lamps finding a home in her lifeless pupils.
"Look here, Mr. Smith!" The woman's finger easily entered the blonde's forehead. "On this side, it's only a finger hole, but on the other side, almost half is missing!" she said sadly. "My sister had it worse; they hit her in the lungs and she suffered for a long time. I heard!
" "Did Johnston do it?" Marius asked quietly.
"Well, not him alone!" the woman nervously rubbed her forehead. "He's not one for dirty work! He doesn't dirty his hands! He just orders bodies brought here later, and sometimes he takes care of them himself. Do you understand, Mr. Smith? He took care of me too!
" "I understand!" the killer nodded. "Where is he, ma'am? I'll bring you his head!
" "A heart will do!" he heard a quiet remark behind him.
The corridor he found himself in felt cold, and only after a moment did he realize with horror that he was soaked in sweat. He gripped his trusty number nine tighter in his slippery hand. He felt no fear. More like rage. Or so he thought.
He turned into the left corridor.
It was immediately obvious he had entered the living quarters. A soft carpet, probably worth more than the annual income of many local residents, draped across the floor. Johnston, despite everything, behaved like a nouveau riche.
But Niklas wasn't thinking about considering his host's taste at that moment. He was increasingly plagued by a different kind of anxiety. He had never acted on emotion before. Coolness in every situation was his motto, one he stuck to in every situation. And here?
He had been so easily outmaneuvered, and he was angry with himself for it. He had to get this over with as quickly as possible and get the hell out of here.
This house itself was terrifying enough. Niklas instinctively looked around as if searching for the invisible inhabitants of a funeral home, but of course, he found none.
Meanwhile, the corridor ended abruptly, and the assassin stood before a large, carved door. His gaze was momentarily drawn to a strange figure dressed in a flowing robe, who seemed to be watching over the peace of those on the other side. A man whose sharp features betrayed his Eastern heritage looked at Niklas with fiery eyes.
He knew him, but he couldn't recall anything about him.
Again, his hand tightened on the weapon. The cold metal brought him back to his senses. After all, it was only a bas-relief. He couldn't be in any danger from it!
"Time to finish!" the assassin said in a low whisper, and with a quick movement, he pressed the brass doorknob.
And here, a surprise awaited him.
"Hello, Niklas!" the voice came from somewhere far away, but years of practice allowed the assassin to immediately locate its source.
Instinct kicked in almost without hesitation. He felt the tug of his hand, saw a nearly invisible wisp of smoke, and was certain that the man whose outline loomed in the depths of the room would soon collapse and never rise again. No one had survived this before.
However, to his utter surprise, instead of falling, the shadow moved slowly toward him.
He aimed another shot at the place where he imagined the head loomed, instinctively thinking of the vest. But even that didn't help. The shadow drew closer, slowly emerging from the darkness that enveloped the room. He screamed when he saw the face. It was the man from the bas-relief. And suddenly, a wave of memory came. That long, elongated face came from his past. The one he wanted to erase from his memory. Just like his real name, which he had completely forgotten. Causescu! The Eagle of the Carpathians!
He understood!
Now he was going to pay! For all the evil he had committed. Not just in this life! That face came from his worst nightmares. It was he who, years ago, had offered him a deal that offered a chance at a new life. Now it was time to keep the terms of the agreement. He remembered that last moment, when it seemed he wouldn't escape the bullets of the firing squad. Poor Irina!
And then HE appeared, and in exchange for a small promise, he gave him this chance. The chance to be an assassin. A delivery boy! But in return, he was to never be tainted by any emotion. He was to be a killing machine, alien to humanity.
And so, foolishly, he fell into the trap.
And then, for the first time since his carefree childhood, he laughed. Loud and hearty!
Now he could!
Brak komentarzy:
Prześlij komentarz