Killer Instincts v5 (22 page)

"You really think of everything, don't you?"

The gardener smiled. "That's my job."

We moved back into the living room, and the gardener reached into his jacket and handed me a thick white envelope. Looking inside, it was filled with several sheets of computer paper, a fat wad of used bills, and at least two dozen pre-paid calling cards.

"The first page details contact info for getting in touch with your handler. There are a list of numbers. Never call the same number more than once. Never use a pay phone within five blocks of this apartment, and never use the same pay phone more than once. Those cards should give you an hour's worth of call time apiece; never use a card more than once. The cash is five grand in mixed, used bills. Try not to use the credit or bank cards for your alternate identities unless you have to. If you need more money, contact your handler and we can get you some cash within four hours."

"All right, what about these?" There was a printout of several dozen email accounts and passwords, all free web accounts from Hotmail and Yahoo.

"Those are one-time email accounts we've set up for you. If you contact your handler and need to get information quickly, he will email you at the specified address. Log in, get the info you need, then delete the account."

"I'm guessing he'll be using one-time accounts as well?"

"Yup. We want to keep all these channels as disposable as possible."

"I was told I've got an asset in the city gathering intelligence for me. How do I get in contact?"

The gardener shook his head. "No idea. Your handler will probably arrange for the asset to contact you somehow. I know nothing about that, and it's the way I like it. Keeps it compartmentalized."

"What about my gear; the guns, ammo, that stuff?"

"Being shipped to you by courier. Should be here a couple of days. Plenty of time to get settled, get the vibe of the city back in your head."

I nodded again. "I guess that's it?"

"Yeah, I think my work here is done. Like I said, just keep your head down, focus on your mission, and follow the operational security procedures we've given you."

I offered the gardener my hand, and after a moment's hesitation he shook it.

"Thanks for getting me set up. I don't even know your name."

He nodded. "That's because you don't need to know it. Good luck."

Without another word, he left the apartment.

For the first time in six weeks, the next move was entirely my own.

I looked at the time on the VCR display; it was almost five o'clock. I went into the kitchen, made myself a sandwich, grabbed a soda, and clicked on the TV to catch some news. I hadn't watched television in close to two months, and it felt surreal to just sit back on a comfy couch, drink a soda, eat a sandwich, and watch some TV like a normal human being who wasn't planning a vigilante crime spree.

The news was the usual nonsense. More work on the Big Dig. More talk about how President Bush takes a lot of vacation time. Later I watched some
X-Files
and
The Lone Gunmen
, After a while, I shut the television off and stared at the ceiling. A sense of fitful depression overcame me. What am I doing here? Do I have the will to go through with this? Even after all that time in the desert, am I fooling myself to think I have what it takes to earn my revenge?

I needed to do something. I took a shower, changed into some running clothes, grabbed my sneakers, and went out. I didn't have a plan, I just started running, Forrest Gump style. I was not particularly familiar with the area, aside from being at a couple of Red Sox games over the years, so it was good to get a sense of the neighborhood. I just took off down Park Drive, heading towards the MFA, cutting through the park, then past the Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum and Simmons College. Eventually I made my way into Brookline, jogging down one quiet street after another, and an hour after I left my apartment, I finally jogged back along Beacon Street and then Park Drive.

The exercise definitely cleared my head. I took a second quick shower, unpacked my suitcase and carry-on, and called it a night. Looking at the clock radio next to the bed, it was only eleven o'clock, but it might as well have been near dawn, I was so exhausted. Closing my eyes and willing myself to relax, I fell asleep in a real bed for the first time in a month, and dreamed of revenge.

FIFTEEN

I wasn't immediately aware of what woke me that morning; one moment I was sound asleep, the next I was completely awake, the skin along my arms and the back of my neck prickling, a jolt of adrenaline running through me. At first I thought it was because of the strange bed I found myself in, but after a few seconds' reflection I realized there had been a sound, not a sensation, that had woken me up. Something intrusive beyond the usual noises of an urban morning.

I slid softly out of bed and padded into the living room. I saw the culprit immediately; a piece of folded white paper had been shoved underneath my door and slid across the hardwood. I studied it bleary-eyed for a moment or two, and then decided - fuck it - to pick it up. Unfolding the paper, I saw only a handful of scribbled words:

INTEL BRIEF

SEVEN PM HERE

SEVEN KNOCKS

HAVE PIZZA AND BEER

The handwriting was, if I had to hazard a guess, feminine. Richard had never mentioned that his "asset" was a woman, but then again, he hadn't stated anything to the contrary, either.

Hmmm, a woman? I had a sudden jolt of anxiety. I hadn't spoken to a woman for any reason other than to order a meal or ask for an airline pillow in over a month. Now I was going to be working with a woman, have her here in my new home, and I was feeling foolishly uncomfortable about the idea. At least I hadn't been here long enough to accumulate piles of dirty socks and porn, and the sink was remarkably free of dirty dishes, but I still had the anxiety any young man has when a member of the opposite sex visits his home for the first time. It was a surprisingly normal thought and it brought on a wave of bitter nostalgia, because the last time I had felt that way, I was showing Beth my bedroom while she visited my home in Providence.

The thought that my old room, along with everything else, was now just a pile of cinders put me in a dark mood for the rest of the morning. I went through the now-ingrained routine of stretches, calisthenics, and a hard run around the neighborhood. After a post-run shower I made myself a big breakfast; coffee and OJ, scrambled eggs, toast, and ham. Thanks to my extremely lean diet over the last month, I had ramped my metabolism to absurd heights, and I knew I'd be hungry again by noon.

After fueling up, I decided to head downtown. I wanted to get the feel of a city back under my skin, the noise and the smell and the constant energy and motion. It took me about an hour, but I walked from my apartment to Government Center, where Boston's city hall stood gray and monolithic over the plaza. I had no particular agenda, I just wandered through crowds, maneuvering through Faneuil Hall and around the milling tourists, past the performers and buskers. Although it was only the beginning of May it was already warm and sunny for Boston, but compared to Texas it was almost cool. Still, everyone was taking the opportunity to wear their summer apparel, and the college girls who walked by me were definitely making the most of the few weeks they had left in the city.

As I moved through the masses and soaked it all in, I couldn't help but feel a shocking degree of antipathy, even disgust, towards everyone I passed. Families walked around me, smiling and laughing without a care in the world, while my own family was buried in the dirt, their bodies broken and burned beyond recognition. The unfairness of it all, the loss of anything approaching a normal life for me, suddenly became overpowering. I wanted to punch every smiling couple in the face, smash an elbow into the gut of every proud father, hammer a heel-kick into the knee of every loving mom. There's nothing like rage and jealousy to drive fantasies of indiscriminate violence on a gorgeous spring day.

I needed to get away from all the crowds, so I took a couple of hours and slowly worked my way along the wharves and docks, past the private yachts and the condos and high-priced apartment buildings that lined the waterfront. Eventually I made my way into South Boston, past the tea party ship, out along the piers, walking by Fish pier and right out as far as I could get before hitting a chain link fence and staring out into the Atlantic. There wasn't anyone around, and although I'd see a person here and there at a distance, this part of Boston was practicaly a ghost town. Briefly I wondered if I might encounter someone looking for a lost tourist to mug. The thought gave me a thrill, and I realized I had wandered this far subconsciously looking for a fight.

Enough was enough. I headed west, only vaguely aware of where I was going, but eventually I found the Broadway T station and headed home. I remembered the note from this morning, and checked my watch; it was five in the afternoon. I walked back to my apartment, showered and changed, tidied up the living room and the kitchen some, then went out looking for pizza and beer.

My gardener had been kind enough to leave several take-out flyers stuck to the refrigerator, and I was able to find a place right around the corner, a little hole-in-the-wall pie shop just down from a tiny, dingy hole-in-the-wall liquor store. I put in an order for a large pizza with loaded toppings, then went next door and picked up a six-pack of Bass ale. By the time I returned to the apartment it was six-thirty, and with little to do but wait I set the pizza on the kitchen counter, popped the beer in the fridge, brushed my teeth, checked my hair, and changed my shirt twice.

There was no warning before the knocks, no buzzer for the front door, no sound of footsteps on the hard tile in the corridor. One moment I stood in the living room listening to nothing, the next moment a hard-knuckled series of seven fast raps struck the door. Taking a deep breath, I stepped softly to the door and looked out into the hallway. I didn't see anyone. Whoever it was, they stood to the side of the door, cautious about being seen. It struck me that I was unarmed. In order to keep the cover of the apartment secure from the landlord, there were no weapons left here, and my hardware was still on its way from Texas. A stupid thing to worry about, seeing as I had no reason to suspect my plan was known and someone was acting against me, but I realized now that Richard's paranoia had worn off on me.

"Hey, asshole. Let me in. This is getting awkward."

She whispered it into the crack of the door, just loud enough for me to hear.

"Then stop hiding away from the peephole," I replied.

"Fine..."

She stepped into view from the right side of the door. She was short, dark-complexioned, with long hair and wearing casual street clothes. She had a big bookbag over her shoulder, but her hands were empty.

"Gimme a sec." I unlocked the deadbolt and slipped the chain, then stepped clear and opened the door for her to come inside.

"Thanks." She stepped into the room, and although it wasn't obvious, I saw her eyes move around all the entrances, scanning and cataloging the room. I could tell she was looking for blind spots, available cover, windows and doors to observe. She had either received training, or she was naturally very observant and paranoid.

She looked to be Hispanic, somewhere in her mid-20's, a few years older than me. Attractive, cute even, but not a girl you'd immediately think of as hot or sexy. She was slim and athletic, with strong looking arms and shoulders, a small, high bust and lean legs. Her hair was black and straight, worn long and loose, about mid-way down her back. She stood with an air of assured strength; not afraid, just cautious and ready to act if need be.

"I smell pizza," she said.

"A loaded pie from down the street. I've never ordered from there, so I hope it's good."

"And beer?"

"Picked up a six pack of Bass from next door, hope that's good enough?"

"A little heavier than I like, but not bad."

"You hungry now?"

"Yeah, starved."

"Drop your bag on the couch, let's eat."

I fetched plates from the cabinet and napkins from the counter. While she grabbed a slice for herself, I grabbed beers from the fridge for both of us before fetching my own slice and joining her in the living room.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, devouring pizza and washing it down with beer. I glanced at her now and then out of the corner of my eye. She seemed extraordinarily at ease for someone sitting alone in an apartment with a man who was on a mission to kill a number of other human beings in cold blood. I was guessing this wasn't her first rodeo.

Once we plowed through the first slice and the first bottle, we both paused for a minute.

"Want seconds?" I asked.

"Sure. I'll get out your materials while you do that."

By the time I had loaded the plates and uncapped the bottles, she had pulled several folders from her bookbag and arranged them on the table. Opening them up, I could see she had photos, diagrams, charts, notes...she knew what she was doing.

I sat down next to her again, and she began taking me through it all, one folder at a time.

"Okay, here's the deal. The Paggiano family is one of the last Italian crime families of any real weight in the Boston area. They still cling to the old ways of doing business; muscle, hustle, fear, intimidation. The Irish, the Russians, the Chinese, various black and Latino gangs, that's where organized crime is at in Boston right now. But the Paggianos survive, mostly because they are a bunch of ruthless motherfuckers, and they have a lot of old, long established connections with families in Rhode Island, New York and New Jersey. They are the mom and pop store of organized crime, still doing business in a world of Wal-Marts because they have a rent-controlled storefront and a loyal customer base that keeps coming back for more."

"So what are we looking at?” I asked. “How many triggermen? I need to know numbers, quality, resources, hardpoints."