The man struggled to stay conscious. “Yeah,” he
croaked. “You must be the opposition.”
The professional nodded. “You know about me,
then? We have a mutual friend, don’t we?”
“Dexter Tyrell.” The shattered man coughed and
winced.
“That’s right, Dexter Tyrell,” he said, and smiled.
Henderson made pathetic attempts to move his broken body.
“Don’t move. There isn’t much point.”
Henderson ignored him and continued to drag his
body across the dirt. The professional wasn’t sure if Henderson’s movements were voluntary or not.
“I can’t believe the bastard brought another player into the game. You must have known there would be unhealthy competition. And now that you’ve lost there will be repercussions.” The professional paused for a moment and surveyed the dying man. “All I can say is your resume read better than it should have.”
“Fuck you,” Henderson spat.
“No, fuck you,” he said and unleashed two rounds
from the semiautomatic. The dulled hiss from the silenced pistol echoed gently off the walls.
The shots were precise. The first struck the bridge of his nose, causing his face to implode; the second shot tore his mouth open to produce an inhuman smile.
“That should make the coroner work hard for his
money. Not even a loving mother would recognize that face,” he said to the corpse.
The professional bent over his competitor and removed all identification from his pockets. He found the detective’s shield for a New York City cop called Jenks.
“Josh, you should look more carefully when you talk to strangers. Didn’t your mother teach you anything?”
He pocketed the items and the 9mm Henderson had
been holding.
The professional looked over at the Malibu.
Michaels’s prints would be all over it. It would do him no good if his target were picked up in connection with this mess. Even if Dexter Tyrell had tried to shaft him, he still had a job to do and he would do it. Josh Michaels and Margaret Macey would die, as would
Tyrell himself. It was a matter of principle.
His opposition had done one good thing. The location was perfect. It was secluded. No one was watching and no one had heard. He went to the Taurus, removed a can of gasoline and splashed it over and inside the car. With a handkerchief he removed the gas cap, then soaked the handkerchief in gas and shoved it in the car’s filler nozzle. He ran a trail of gas from the car to the dead man’s body and dumped the remaining gasoline over the corpse. He packed up the Ford, started it, turned it around and stopped a suitable distance from the Chevy. Leaving the car running, he got out and produced a matchbook from his pocket. He lit a match
and set the matchbook alight. It flared, then he dropped it onto the dead hit man’s body.
Henderson’s corpse erupted into flames and immediately ignited the trail of fuel. The flame leapt up the side of the car and spread out across its surface like spilt milk. Within seconds, the fire took hold of the car and smoke lifted from all quarters of the vehicle.
The professional ran back to his car. He checked the progress of the fire and once suitably satisfied he drove off. He was more than a block away when he heard the muffled explosion.
Josh Michaels had gone, but that didn’t matter. His fate was sealed. This inconvenience would only hasten his demise.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Eventually, Josh encountered civilization. He traversed a straight line from the derelict buildings and ended up on Broadway. Lively businesses, traffic and living, breathing people populated Broadway. Relief flooded over him and his heart slowed to a normal pace. He was safe. He was amongst witnesses, lots of them, too many of them for one killer to eradicate. He was out of no man’s land and on the right side of enemy lines. He needed more safety; he needed home. He knew the
killer could be heading there right now, but where else could he go?
He spotted the bus stop opposite the Tower Theater.
The bus was a good, safe means of transport that
would get him home in one piece. Mitchell couldn’t do anything to him on a bus. He knew his assassin
couldn’t afford to make such a brazen attempt. A bus was as good as a tank, impregnable. Josh jogged over to the bus stop.
After several moments of sitting on the bench, vulnerability struck him across the face with an open
hand. He realized sitting at the bus stop wasn’t such a good idea. What if his killer spotted him on the bench?
He might take a chance with a drive-by shooting. Josh had no idea when the bus was coming. It could be in ten minutes, thirty, an hour. He never used them regularly.
He was a sitting duck waiting to be picked off.
Nervously, he crossed the road and ducked inside the bookshop.
He flicked through paperbacks, magazines and
newspapers, never once looking at the printed pages, but instead out of the window at the vacant bus stop.
Staff and customers viewed Josh with interest, but never once challenged him. A giggle from behind jolted him from his surveillance. Realizing he was a spectacle, he placed the book back on the shelf and left.
The theater foyer offered some protection from spying eyes. After some negotiation to get inside the cinema without a ticket, he bought a soda from the snack counter. Leaning against a poster for coming attractions, he sucked on the soda’s straw.
A pneumatic hiss drew Josh’s attention, and he
looked out the window to see the mobile billboard slowing to take the corner. Emerging from the foyer’s darkened mouth, he jogged over to the bus stop, ditching the half-drunk soda in the trash as he went. The
bus stopped for him. It felt good climbing the three steps into the welcoming arms of Regional Transit.
Josh paid three dollars for the ride home, seventy-five cents over the top. correct change only the blackand- white notice pointed out. Josh didn’t care. He paid
the money gladly. He took a seat next to a teenage girl just out of high school with a ring through her nose.
She had a Virgin employee’s nametag pinned to her chest. He sat, relaxed and exhaled loudly. She looked at him, as did several other rush hour passengers on the three-quarter full bus.
“Hard day at work,” Josh explained to the girl.
“Every day.” The girl from Virgin dismissed Josh
and stared out the window.
The doors rattled shut. The air brakes wheezed and the bus eased into traffic.
From the end of the road, Josh took the opportunity to scope out his street. The vapor lights shone down on his car and Kate’s minivan. The lights were on in the house and there was no sign of the white Ford he’d seen tossing Jenks’s body like a rag doll. He recognized the cars parked in the street and driveways, so he started to walk. Someone could have staked out his neighborhood, but if they had, he’d missed the signs. Although
it seemed obvious his street and home were safe, he’d learned not to believe his instincts. With shaking hands, he opened the front door to his home.
He found the hall was neither packed with cops
waiting to gun him down nor with James Mitchell
holding a knife to Kate and Abby’s throats. Reassured, he ventured farther inside his house. His wife and child sat in front of the television.
“Josh, where have you been?” Concern and annoyance were evident in Kate’s voice. “Your car was parked
