Old Wounds (Chance Assassin Book 4) Page 17

  “They gave us addresses.” Frank smiled. “Vive la France.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The addresses were not, as they assumed, for hotels where Konstandin in France and Nigel in England were staying. They were private residences. In order to avoid having one of them escape, they would hit them simultaneously. And in order for the torture to be most effective, they'd use the torturers who actually looked the part. That left Frank heading back to England with Joe, and Vincent staying behind with Nasir, who although was possibly the only man who could outdo Frank with the murderous-even-while-enjoying-himself expression and threatening demeanor, would not be performing the torturing himself. As Konstandin would soon discover, looks could be quite deceiving.

  So could bored, underpaid Frenchmen.

  “I take back what I said,” Joe told him as they broke into Nigel's home, even though he'd told him multiple times even before Serge and Michel provided more information than they could have hoped for. Frank knew that Joe hadn't meant his comment about surrender in the first place, but he was still being petty and only responding in French. And only when absolutely necessary.

  In lieu of replying, Frank wandered around the quaint two-bedroom house. Nigel was apparently a minimalist, nothing superfluous and nothing out of place. There were a few books stacked neatly on a mostly empty shelf: a French language book and one on arboriculture from the library, and London A-Z. One set of dishes in the cupboards. Hardly anything in the refrigerator. Frank would've doubted the man actually lived there at all if not for the drawings and photographs pinned up on the otherwise bare walls.

  He walked through to the bedrooms, the larger of the two completely empty. The other room had a twin-sized bed, turned down with hospital corners, a wardrobe, several gun cases in the closet. Frank closed the closet door with disgust. “Why did we get the uninteresting one? The English one, no less?”

  “Nasir is not to set foot back in London until the investigation into Simon's liquidation has settled down. A murder like that in his neighborhood isn't going to just disappear.”

  “This isn't London.”

  “It's close enough to commute. At any rate, I thought it would be beneficial to you.”

  “In what way?”

  “Parlez-vous anglais?” Joe smirked. “You've hardly spoken a word in English since yesterday.” Joe completely disregarded the fact that Frank had hardly spoken a word in French either. “I'm doing this for you, buddy.”

  “Tu,” he corrected, only to realize that in his hurry to point out Joe's mistake, he'd confirmed their familiarity.

  Joe winked at him. “Tu.”

  “Thank you, Joseph. You've inspired me. I'm now altogether in the mood to hurt someone.”

  “Good. That's what we're here for.”

  But as they returned to the living room, their purpose seemed somehow lessened. Joe had taken down the photographs when Frank stepped away. Frank shoved his hands into his pockets, something he'd seen Vincent do on countless occasions when he was bound to break something. “Do you think I'm going to fuck this up?” he asked. He wasn't beyond doubting himself, but he'd never had Joe question his capabilities.

  “I have complete faith in you not fucking this up, Frank,” Joe said simply. “I'm just trying to proactively keep you you.”

  Frank stared vacantly at the thumbtacks that remained in the wall. “And if you can't?”

  “Then we've still got Konstandin. And you're cleaning up the mess.” He set his hand on Frank's shoulder. “Listen, to do this job, we've all got at least one screw loose. Once this is all settled, once everything is back to normal and everyone is safe, you're gonna be fine.”

  “You think so?”

  “At this point, Vincent still needs your protection on the job to some extent. That's going to go away. So is this.”

  Only, Frank didn't want Vincent to stop needing him. He didn't want to keep fucking up. His entire career, a career he now knew to be borne from deceit and betrayal, had been nearly immaculate. Some mistakes were beyond his control, but never before had mistakes been made because of his lack of control. “If I lose it, just get out of the way.”

  “Believe me, kid, I ain't hanging around for that shit show,” Joe said with a laugh, playfully jostling him.

  Frank sighed and went to stand by the door where he wouldn't be seen. Joe stood in the center of the room where he would be seen, and they waited in silence.

  Keys jingled outside the door and Joe's eyes darted questioningly to Frank. He felt steady, present, but he couldn't be certain it would last. Nigel entered and flicked on the lights, pausing stupidly as he saw Joe and then reaching for his gun. Frank grabbed him, pressing him against the wall and pulling his arm back, wasting no time snapping it to get him to drop the gun. He shoved him into a chair and Joe went about tying him up while Frank held him still. It hadn't even increased Frank's blood pressure. It had significantly increased Nigel's.

  Nigel dressed like he worked in the City, and had an angular, avian looking face that Frank punched him in thinking about the annoyingly aggressive pigeons at Hyde Park. Perhaps Joe was right to choose England for them after all. Frank had never minded the pigeons in Paris.

  “How the bloody hell did you get my home address?” Nigel asked. His voice was similarly birdlike and Frank realized precisely how disappointing this torture session was about to be. He'd have to get it over with quickly just to shut Nigel up.

  “Answer our questions and maybe we'll forget your home address,” Joe said.

  Nigel laughed. Frank hit him again. “Don't speak.” Then he thought it over and wrapped Nigel's tie around his neck, pulling it taught. “Now you may answer our questions.”

  The man's tone was more frog than pigeon as he choked out, “We were sent after you and your family. Do you really think I'd ever believe that you would let it go? You're no more going to forget my address than I'm going to forget where to find you.”

  “You didn't know where to find us, which is why I'm the one holding your tie.”

  “Give us names and this may be more pleasant for you,” Joe added. He signaled for Frank to ease up, which he did reluctantly.

  “Simon. Sebastian. Yur—” Nigel gagged as Frank tugged again.

  Gripping the tie with one hand, Frank pulled out a serrated knife with the other. Joe made a show of shrugging as if this was a misunderstanding that would speedily and civilly be rectified. Nigel watched him warily, but it wasn't until Frank began sawing through his unusually stubby little fingers that he started to squeak. “Sebastian and I in London. A Spanish guy, Mateo. He alternated. Michel and Serge, and Konstandin in Paris.”

  Frank left the blade imbedded in Nigel's hand but stopped pushing it through as Joe asked, “And the targets?”

  Nigel nodded towards the now blank wall the best he could without further strangling himself. “There were a few places Simon told us about. St. Pancras. Shops we may see you at. Belgravia.” No mention of the Alcotts. Frank eyed the knife, one glance enough to get Nigel talking again. “Fifty thousand a head. You were double, alive. Yuri would pay the difference when we brought you to him.”

  Frank looked to Joe, a silent agreement that they would not, under any circumstances, tell Vincent he was only worth fifty thousand pounds.

  “Did Simon say why?” Joe asked.

  “You killed two of ours.”

  “More than that,” Frank casually reminded him. He tugged the knife out and held it to Nigel's beady eye. “And the Alcotts?”

  Without moving his head, Nigel narrowed his eyes at the name and turned his gaze upward toward the knife. “Never heard of them.”

  Frank wrapped the tie around his hand several times to shorten the leash, pulling Nigel closer by the neck while pushing the tip of the knife deep enough to draw blood.

  “I don't know them!” he croaked.

  “They're the job we're working on,” Joe said.

  “Simon didn't say anything about a job. Just that you'd be in Paris
or London, or traveling between.”

  Cutting off all remaining oxygen by lifting Nigel's body up off the chair by his throat, Frank pried out the man's eye. The rustling of clothes as Nigel struggled and a squelching of the eye coming out of the socket the only sounds he made until the quiet plop on the ground as it slid off the tip of the knife. Then he went slack, nearly passed out.

  Joe went to the kitchen to retrieve the bottle of brandy they'd found in the cupboard, unscrewing the cap and splashing it on Nigel's face. He tugged against the noose. “Alcotts,” Joe said, swishing the bottle at him. Nigel shook his head vehemently. Frank switched hands and moved to the other side.

  “I don't know them!” he yelled. “I'll tell you everything I know but I don't know them!”

  “Think he's telling the truth?” Joe asked.

  Frank pierced the other eye, Nigel whimpering and struggling against the restraints. “Yes.” He gestured with his head for Joe to step aside and slit Nigel's throat above the tie.

  Joe watched the blood bubble and pour over Nigel's chest. “How do you suppose Vincent's doing?”

  “I hope for Konstandin's sake that he doesn't put a price on it.”

  There was little doubt he would tell Vincent everything he knew. Joe winced, likely more for Konstandin's sake than that of V's ego. “We should probably pick up some of that clotted cream.”

  Releasing his grip, Frank let Nigel's motionless body slump forward. “There's a Tesco on the way to the station.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Trying to explain the scene from Reservoir Dogs to Nasir was worse than trying to explain it to Frank, but Konstandin got the reference even before I cut off his ear.

  “You psycho you watch too many movies!” Konstandin yelled.

  “Just be happy I didn't invoke the movie I was thinking of first,” I said into the severed ear. He didn't have to know I was really thinking of Beauty and the Beast, since he had a total Gaston vibe about him with his shirt opened strategically to reveal a pelt of chest hair.

  I tossed the ear aside, getting the why me look from Nasir that nearly everyone who had ever supervised me had perfected as the ear bounced off his shoulder. He took a small step away from it and went back to standing there like a scary statue while I did my thing.

  “You know, Konstandin...do you mind if I call you Connie?”

  He gave his own why me look and I continued, “Connie, I would've had this out of my system if I got to torture Yuri like I was supposed to, but there was an incident and...well...it's not important—”

  “Then shut up about it,” he said bitterly.

  As efficiently as Vanna White turning letters on Wheel of Fortune, Nasir held his hand out with an instrument of torture and I plucked it from his palm, smacking Connie across the face with it before realizing Nasir had given me a Snickers bar instead. Which was really more efficient than Vanna had ever been. “Thank you,” I said, and I ate it in front of Connie since that was torture in itself.

  Then I went for his other ear.

  “Crazy fuck!” He wrenched his head away so I only sliced his cheek instead. “Just tell me what you want to know!”

  It was the Snickers that did it. I had zero doubt. I also had zero satisfaction from slicing off one measly piece of Albanian. “Start singing, Connie. I'll let you know if I like what I hear.” I held up the knife, then glanced back at Nasir to check if he thought I was as cool as I did. He did not.

  “Your people killed Hans last year. And got István killed.”

  “My people?” I scoffed. “I killed Hans. Personally.”

  Connie didn't think I was cool either. I tore out a handful of his chest fur. He huffed in indignation more than pain. “What is wrong with you?”

  “He is crazy,” Nasir said with a shrug, which coming from a man as scary as Nasir made me somehow a lot scarier by affiliation.

  “Simon and Yuri were...displeased,” Connie continued. “They commissioned Sebastian and I to find you. To kill you, and bring Frank to Yuri.”

  I found myself smiling, overly pleased that he was withholding information. “You and Sebastian?”

  “Yes, Sebastian. The other one you killed.”

  “And?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Personally?”

  “Yes, personally,” I scoffed, “but that's not what I'm getting at. Who else?” Grabbing the hedge clippers we'd brought, I sat on the floor and started peeling off his socks while he tried getting his feet away from me. “How about I start taking toes until our numbers match.”

  A smile found Connie's face and when I looked at his foot I realized why. He was already missing toes. So many in fact that there weren't enough toes left to take to match the magic number: oui six. I started snipping them anyway. “This little piggy got smashed by a car. This little piggy is being tortured as we speak...”

  “Okay!” he screamed. “Lorik.”

  I tried not to let the confusion show on my face. We were here to confirm Serge and Michel's list of suspects, not get an entirely new roster. “Go on.”

  “Armando.”

  At least that name sounded closer to one we had, the Spaniard our flag wavers had already killed. I busied myself cutting through a toe from the pile. “And?”

  “Ermir.”

  Now I glanced back at Nasir to check if he felt as bewildered as I did. He did not. “Those are Albanian footballers he's naming,” Nasir said with a pitying look. “That was a foolish idea, my friend.”

  “I'm gonna cut your fucking balls off.” I started toward him only to have a knife swing past my face and hit my intended target. I gaped at Nasir while Connie screamed.

  “You're married,” he said innocently, and offered another Snickers.

  I let Connie squirm while I ate, offering a bite to my sidekick that he fortunately knew better than to take me up on. Then I mimicked Frank's speech from back in Oklahoma when we tortured Miranda's kidnapped officer: “I am going to hurt you, and then you can tell the story again properly. Shall we get started?”

  Nasir nodded at me approvingly, and since he didn't know that it was Frank's speech I accepted the compliment over my coolness. I left Nasir's knife where it was and sliced his other cheek with my clippers to match. “I'm gonna give you some advice, Connie.” I leaned in and whispered in his remaining ear, “Serge and Michel have already talked to us. You guys were in a race to get to us, and they beat you to it. So you can fill in the blanks honestly, or I can show you all the other things I've learned watching too many movies.”

  “Nigel. He's an Englishman.”

  “That little piggy's already been to slaughter,” I told him, holding up the toe that symbolized Nigel. Or at least what was left of it.

  “Mateo. He's Spanish.” The indignation returned when I snipped the next toe, though the pain was worse this time around. “You're not supposed to chop when I give them to you!”

  “Supposed to?” I balked, snipping the last toe and naming Serge, then moving onto his fingers for oui Michel. “Who else?”

  “That's it!”

  Holding the clippers to his ring finger, I put my hand on my hip the way Maggie would. Except without the torture part. “You sure?”

  “If they told you anyone else they were lying!”

  “How much were you paid?”

  “Fifty thousand pounds a head—” he groaned as I severed the finger.

  “Fifty thousand? Fifty?”

  “I think your head would count as at least two,” Nasir tried. It might've worked if he had more candy to offer.

  “Where were you looking?”

  “Fashion shops. Train stations. Simon said you were traveling back and forth.”

  “What about the Alcotts?”

  “I don't know this name.”

  I went for the middle finger and he shouted in desperation, “I am not lying!”

  “Alcott,” I said again, moving down his hand.

  “I don't know!”

  When I was just about to snip,
Nasir called my name. Now I put both hands on my hips. “What?”

  “Move to the other hand. That one will start to go numb. Back and forth, like he said.”

  I doubted Connie was trying to give me torturing advice, but I thanked him as well as Nasir and switched back to pinkies. “I'm gonna ask you again.”

  Connie lowered his head. “You, Vincent. Frank. Bella. Joe Russell. Casey Evans. There was a man, Alan Barker, who you may meet. No Alcott.”

  Nasir nodded when I turned back to him and I moved onto the next line of questioning. “When did he give you the assignment?”

  “Over a month ago. He called us all to his flat. Told us to check in, from payphones. He wanted frequent updates.”

  “And what updates did you give him?”

  “Nothing. I found nothing. I don't know what the others found. What they saw.”

  “How much was I worth?”

  “The most,” he said without missing a beat.

  “Now we're talking.” I patted his bloody cheek and slipped the clippers into my pocket. “When you found out Simon and Yuri were dead, why not give up the search?”

  “I was displeased,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Well, you picked the wrong team, didn't you?”

  He sighed. “So it would seem.”

  “What's Frank's last name?”

  He tiredly shook his head. “I don't know. Alcott?”

  I grabbed my knife again and set it to his chin, making him raise his eyes to me. “Moreaux,” I said, watching for any recognition. There was none. “It's actually Sullivan-Moreaux.” Sticking the knife in the fleshiest part of his shoulder like sticking a pin in a pin cushion, I wiped my hands on his shirt. Then I punched him in the mouth. “He is not an Alcott, thank you very much. Don't be insulting.”