Til Darkness Falls, page 10
The body lay face up on the charred black floor, bloated and pale. The stain of blood that had bubbled up from the hole in his forehead had charted a grim course down the side of his head.
“Who was he?” Brian asked.
“Pete Karabel.” They waited as a woman wearing a Forensics jacket came over to them. She handed Angela a printout from the Violent Crimes database. “I ran a picture of his face through the computer and got an instant hit. Looks like someone lured him here with this.” She held up a small bag of heroin in her other, latex-encased hand.
“He’s Cosmino, all right,” Brian mused, “but he’s a total nobody, just a low-life enforcer. Can’t imagine why anyone would bother to off this punk.”
“Fear? Intimidation?” Angela scanned over the sheet of paper. “Someone’s clearly trying to make the Cosminos shit themselves.”
Brian read the victim’s rap sheet over his partner’s shoulder. “The same perp as the other hits, you think?”
“Yep. The ’scopes already pulled the bullet out of the wall.” The Forensics tech twitched as Angela used the hated nickname. Brian thought that calling them “microscopes” was quite fitting. “Same caliber as the others, and I’ll bet it will be just as clean.”
“Great.” Brian sighed deeply as he dragged a hand over his face. He didn’t care if he had to cheat at their customary coin toss; he was not writing this one up. “Still nothing back from ballistics on the other bullets?”
“Not yet. You know they like to be thorough.”
Which was a good thing, as ballistics was often their only evidence. But the waiting was damned frustrating. “So the only thing we know for sure is that the hit man uses a high-powered rifle and that he’s an expert marksman.”
Angela looked up at him. “Isn’t it premature to make any assumptions about the perp’s skill level?”
“Well, take a look out of the window.” She followed behind Brian as he walked around the body and the blood pooled beside it. He stepped back so she could stand in front of him as they looked up at the shattered glass. “Assuming that the bullet had to have come from here, the only direct line of sight is way over there.”
The day was heavily overcast, and Angela squinted as she tried to make out the shadow of a building in the low light. The window was filthy, so she went over to the open doorway to get a better look. There was a clear line to a building sitting off in the distance.
“Shit, that has to be half a mile away.”
“At least.”
“So we’re dealing with a real pro, not just some mook off the street. No way anyone in Milano has this kind of skill.”
Brian shook his head. “Doubtful. And if the hit man is hired muscle, it’ll be that much harder to find him.”
“Heads.”
Brian blinked down at his partner. “Huh?”
“I call heads.” She slapped a quarter into his palm. “Happy flipping.” Her chuckle floated back to him as she sauntered away.
THE captain received Brian’s report just as well as she had his last one, which was to say, not at all. The beginnings of a tension headache building behind his eyes, Brian glanced down wistfully at the crumpled piece of paper that had been hiding in his pocket all day next to the key card.
“So you got the digits, huh?”
Brian rolled his eyes as Angela snorted. Standing behind his shoulder in the most convenient spot for snooping, she read the neatly scrawled lettering written on the paper. Brian balled up the note in his hand and took the time to shut down his computer before answering. Let her suffer.
“You know you shouldn’t repeat anything you hear Sam say.” Angela’s youngest son was a notorious user of slang, and his mother found it amusing to pretend to be young and hip by parroting him at every opportunity.
“Don’t change the subject.” She poked him in his arm. “Did you see your German dreamboat again or what?”
“Good grief, woman. Will you give it a rest for two seconds?” He picked up his coat and headed for the door of the open-plan room that housed the Homicide Department. Angela grabbed her coat and purse and followed closely on his heels.
“I will not. I’ve been married for twenty-three years. Let me live vicariously.”
Brian smirked, not believing for one minute that she and Todd didn’t neck like teenagers every chance they got. He’d been an embarrassed witness more than once to their touching penchant for PDAs. No wonder her sons were so well-adjusted with such a loving home example to follow. Ignoring the small twinge of jealously that niggled in his chest, he made use of his longer legs to annoy her as he headed through the door leading to the emergency stairwell.
“Brian!” She was using her “ticked-off mom” tone, and he wisely paused at the top of the stairs until she caught up.
“I saw him again last night,” he said after confirming that they were alone.
Angela’s eyes damn near sparkled as she grinned up at him. She was clearly ecstatic that he had actually had a repeat encounter with someone and amazed, as it had never happened since she’d known him. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so happy for you!”
“We’re not picking out china patterns, Angie.” Brian turned away from her slightly as he felt his face flame.
“No, but you look at peace for the first time in a long time. That makes me happy.”
“Yeah, everybody’s fucking happy.”
“Don’t be flip, Brian.”
He had the nerve to feel sheepish at the chastisement. “Sorry.”
She smiled up at him with benevolent forgiveness, making him feel all of twelve years old. “So, how do you feel about him?”
He’d been dreading the question even as he expected it. Brian shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. I’m—” He stalled, looking down at his feet, unable to meet her concerned gaze. “All I know is that I can’t wait to see him again.”
Angela placed a comforting hand on his arm. “I know I don’t have to tell you what that sounds like.”
“Oh, come on, Angie!”
“I won’t say anything more,” she said, interrupting his sputtered denial. A door opened somewhere above them, heralding noisy voices that suddenly echoed in the stairwell. She turned away and continued down the stairs toward the ground floor. “So I guess you aren’t available for pizza night?”
Brian sent a silent thank you to the pepperoni gods, though he knew the reprieve was only temporary. He wondered how long it would take her to invite her favorite new topic to dinner. No way she’d pass up an opportunity to size up his new boyfriend for herself. Boyfriend? Brian shook his head, amazed at how easily the term had popped into his head.
“Actually, he’s busy with work tonight, so I’ll be there.”
“I’m guessing you finally asked him his name.”
“Alrick Ritter.”
Angela nodded approvingly. “Nice. You can tell a lot about a man from his name, you know. So, can we expect Mr. Ritter to join us for pizza night next week?”
Brian laughed, congratulating himself for his clairvoyance as they reached the door leading outside.
THE two men sat in the nearly empty room, the smoke rising from their cigarettes an ineffective shield against the cold. Their stylish coats were equally useless in protecting them from the frigid temperature, the unheated building making their wait seem even longer. The taller man sat on a large metal desk, a relic from some circa-1950s office and the only piece of furniture in the room besides the folding chair, where the other man was huddling for warmth. They’d been there for nearly twenty minutes, and it was ten minutes past the time of their scheduled meeting.
“Damn it, Gio, I thought you said this guy was a pro?”
Giovanni Rivella—“Gio” to people who were afraid of him—glared at the older man. “If I said it, it must be true. So shut up, Mick. He’ll be here.”
“Why did you even bother hiring outside help? You’re a pretty good shot yourself.”
“Are you really that dense, or did your mama drop you on your head as a child?” Gio growled. “Like I’d want to have any direct tie to the shootings.” He shrugged. “Besides, I might be able to hit more than the broadside of a barn, but I don’t have anything on this guy. He’s scary good.”
“I gotta admit, those Cosmino bastards don’t know whether they’re comin’ or goin’ these days.” Mick’s phlegm-filled laugh rapidly devolved into a cough.
Gio looked away from him as his stomach turned. He took another pull from his cigarette, his attention fixed out the window on the entrance to the building a floor below. “By the time they figure it out, most of them will be dead, and the Milanos will have the run of this city like back in the old days.”
Mick didn’t bother to tell Gio that he wouldn’t know “the old days” if they dropped on him like a ton of concrete. He couldn’t stand the young upstart who somehow thought he was capable of running the entire organization. But Gio Rivella was the big man’s nephew, so even though the little punk was only twenty-nine, Mick had to kiss his ass. In this business, sometimes blood mattered more than brains.
When Mick was coming up through the ranks, the Milanos had been the biggest game in town. Nowadays, they were playing second fiddle to the Cosminos, who had taken over the most lucrative underworld industries through sheer ruthlessness. Still, with Gio’s plan, things were looking up. Mick grudgingly gave the kid credit for coming up with it and for convincing his uncle that it was their best chance to regain control of the city.
“Yeah, this guy you hired is slick as shit on ice. But what’s with his handle? Todd’s Angle? What the fuck does that even mean, anyway?”
“It’s Todesengel. It means Angel of Death.”
The accented voice dripped with condescension. Both men jumped and spun toward the door to face the newcomer. Neither of them had heard the man come up the stairs, which was surprising considering how the old building creaked and rattled like an old whore at the slightest disturbance.
The lack of light in the hall seemed to emphasize the man’s already imposing figure. He wasn’t wearing anything that might hide his identity, merely a long, dark coat to block the wind. His hair was so fair he seemed to glow in the darkness. It had to be a liability in his line of work, but he’d just proven his ability to move with stealth. The man walked further into the room, his icy-blue gaze sizing them up with a single glance. It was clear that he wasn’t impressed.
Gio was the first to recover himself, hiding his discomfort behind his usual bravado. “Hey, man, we were just talking about you.”
“So I heard. You were pleased with this last job?”
“Yeah.” Gio rubbed his hands together. “Perfect as always. But this next one’s really gonna knock their socks off. It needs to be done tonight.”
“As you wish.” The man glanced down scathingly at the envelope Gio held out toward him. He’d expressed his dislike of the paper trail these dossiers created, but he accepted that his current employers were too low-tech to do much better. As usual, he took it and placed it under his coat beneath his arm without looking at the documents inside. “Will that be all, gentlemen?”
Gio hopped off of the desk and walked over to the tall blond. “What’s your hurry? You’ve been doing such a good job, I thought maybe we could buy you a drink. You know, to show our appreciation.” He chuckled, knowing the six-figure per hit fee they were paying him was more than appreciation enough. He reached out to put a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder, but the frigid glint in the assassin’s eye stopped him cold.
Mick coughed reflexively, the sudden tension in the room tightening his overtaxed lungs. He thought about reaching for his gun in case the hit man made a move, but something told him he wouldn’t get far before he got shot for his trouble. Like he’d told Gio, this guy was slick as shit on ice.
“It would be most unwise for us to be seen together in public. My survival depends on our ability to act with discretion. I am sure you understand.”
Gio swallowed as he backed away slowly from the blond man. Any sudden moves and he feared he might pull back nothing but a bloody stump. Clearing his throat, Gio took refuge behind a mask of brashness.
“Yeah, yeah. Sure, man, I gotcha.” With a few feet of space between them, his confidence began to return. “I should have your next assignment for you in a couple of days. Let’s meet at, say, ten p.m. at that old warehouse over on Twelfth Street.”
“Fine.” The tall man turned to leave. “I will expect the remainder of my payment for this last assignment no later than noon tomorrow.” The man swept out as suddenly as he’d arrived.
Mick gave into the shiver that crept over him. He never heard a sound from the stairs. “Come on, Gio. You can buy me that drink for draggin’ my old ass out in the middle of the night.”
“Whatever.” Gio gave the other man his most charming smile. “Maybe you should find some sweet young thing to remind you how to use your dick, huh?”
The stairs creaked and groaned noisily as they started down them. Gio slapped Mick on the back, determined to take his own advice. Anything to forget about the “angel” who’d managed to scare the collective shit out of them.
THE lock succumbed to the skillfully applied piece of wire with a quiet snick. The door was not so circumspect, but there was no one else around to hear the rusty creak of its hinges. Alrick looked about cautiously, confirming that he was alone as he walked out onto the level surface of the roof. His black clothing provided excellent camouflage in the darkness, a knit cap hiding the flag of his white-blond hair. The building was abandoned, and he gave a grudging compliment to his employer for providing good information.
Spring was only a few weeks away, but the air was still bitingly cold this time of night. Alrick pulled the door closed behind him and blew onto his hands, working the left one to relieve the growing ache. He’d normally have worn gloves in weather like this, but he needed to have them completely unencumbered for his work. Walking as closely as he dared to the unprotected edge of the roof, he scouted the circumference of the building until he found his target.
He would so much rather be in bed with his new lover than out on this damn roof in the middle of the night. But this was the job, and it would pay very well. He couldn’t afford to scoff at the money this assignment promised to bring. A gust of wind buffeted him from the side, and he hitched the strap of the gun case higher as he hunched his shoulders.
He hadn’t completely lied to Brian that morning. He’d spent several hours writing for the magazine that provided him with such a convenient cover. Working freelance allowed him to travel to wherever his less public work took him, enabling him to stay however long he needed to in a certain place without raising any questions or alarms. The article was a critique of a small-town orchestra and the halfway decent performance of Carmina Burana it had given the week before last. He wasn’t a huge fan of Carl Orff, but he appreciated the man’s attempt to make a statement against the madness that had swept through his home country during the early twentieth century. He wished that he had half of the man’s courage.
As they had so often during the past two days, his thoughts doggedly returned to Brian. The delicious scent of his honey-toned skin, the comfortable feel of his body, the beautiful sight of his easily aroused blushes. The man was a veritable symphony to his senses, stirring his emotions like one of Brahms’s sweeping melodies. Alrick found himself humming softly as he swung the case off of his shoulder and laid it carefully on the ground.
A jaw-popping yawn interrupted the music, the bracing nighttime air doing little to alleviate his tiredness. Knowing he’d be up late, he’d tried to take a nap after finishing the final draft of the article, but it had been less than restful. His sleep was disturbed not only by delicious memories of Brian, but also by the dream that had been plaguing him for some time. Only lately, rather than the flashes of images of that he usually remembered, the dream had become strangely intense and vivid. He knew enough to recognize the scenes that flitted across his mind as belonging to the Egypt of the ancient world, but he had no idea why his subconscious was determined to dwell on such a seemingly random subject.
Shaking his head to clear it, Alrick opened up the gun case and looked down at the disassembled parts lying within. Putting aside the disturbing dream and the far more pleasant memories of Brian, he allowed the cold to seep into him. As he removed the various pieces of his weapon from the case, the chill of winter slowly replaced his emotions with ice. It was a ritual that he endured every time he took up the mantle that was both his salvation and his curse.
Todesengel.
He’d fallen in love with the Arctic Warfare from the first moment he’d seen it in his marksman classes. The matte black surface seemed to absorb all light, diverting the eye with its simplicity and deadly beauty. It was not an elegant weapon. The Swedes had originated this particular version, the Psg 90, and they had chosen to emphasize function over form. The stock fit perfectly against the shoulder, the solid piece of metal broken only by the trigger and an opening where the thumb could grip to provide stability. The stock flowed smoothly into the long, straight barrel. There were few extraneous parts, the only piece not directly concerned with firing being the bracket designed to support the telescopic sight.
Alrick felt his humanity slip away as he assembled the weapon. As each piece fit into its place, he became the gun. He might not enjoy killing, but he was damned good at it.
