Old Wounds (Chance Assassin Book 4) Page 7

  I tried to imagine Frank here, just out of juvenile prison, still reluctant to speak, living with a father he didn't know and didn't like, and I suddenly had an urgent need to get away from the crowd. Little velvet ropes partitioning off doorways were no match for me and I let myself into the nearest dark room for a little quiet time. A lot of quiet time, judging by the content. Books.

  Now this was pure Frank. Floor to ceiling, nice but of course not as nice as the shelves I'd made for him. The entire room reeked of dust, and I vaguely remembered Old Mother Hubbard saying something about certain areas of the home needing restoration and being closed to the public. And closed off to the cleaning crew. Well I'd give them one less thing to clean.

  Walking along the lengths of the shelves, I thought about how Frank had gone through a box of my stuff in Mark's attic after dismembering him and feeding him his own dick, and decided that the last remaining photograph of my parents would be the perfect birthday gift. Well, that and teaching me how to kill people for a living. Frank was right about it not being his birthday, and he did hate gifts, but there was an ancient hardback copy of A Tale of Two Cities with his name on it that I yanked off the shelf and stuck in my coat.

  I adjusted the surrounding books so the clean line of dust-free shelf was hidden and I peeked out the door. The tour had moved on and I quickly caught up with them a few rooms away, snapping a picture of a huge stag head with my cellphone since the white pattern on its throat was distinctly phallic shaped. Or maybe smelling that old library just put me in the mood. I was about to text it to Frank when his call came through instead, and the woman gave me such a death glare that I ran out of there fast enough to avoid having my head on the wall. “Hey, I was just gonna—”

  “Get everyone back. We have a problem.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and it took me a second to properly get a thought from my brain to my mouth. Before I could ask for details he'd already hung up.

  I looked around, a quaint, sleepy little English town that suddenly looked sinister. I called Joe.

  Chapter Sixteen

  They went to the bookshop before the exhibition to drop off Sophie, letting Sylvia burn off some energy where the only thing of genuine monetary value were the contents of the cash register. In truth, Frank could've used Sophie at the exhibition since an extra set of hands to deal with the children would be appreciated, but between Sophie's murderous aspirations and the number of things Vincent had told her about Alan, bringing the two together would only create a bigger mess than even Sylvia could manage.

  “Did she behave?” Bertrand asked, but what he really meant was did she wake up screaming with nightmares.

  “Yes,” Frank said. They'd sat up together reading. They frequently did when Sophie spent the night. Every so often she would peer at him from over her book, thinking god only knew what, and then her eyes would lower again and she would smile. She'd stolen literature from the shop when they met. Now she read violent horror novels. Frank still approved of her regardless.

  He left the well-behaved future assassin with her father and drove Casey and the children to the exhibition. There was little parking to be found in the area, which was expected, and Frank was prepared with a number of guns in the diaper bag along with the guns he had on his person. Frank would have preferred to keep Casey out of the city entirely until Simon was properly dealt with, but the exhibition was small, in the artist's living room no less, and Frank had already promised Casey that he could attend. That was before they'd learned of the hit, but Casey had so little to be happy about those days that Frank could hardly deny him a simple and mostly safe pleasure.

  The location was a sniper's worst nightmare, awnings blocking every feasible shot, and the artist was a virtual nobody so it was unlikely to be publicized. Casey was only attending at all because he'd known the girl for years, some pink-haired, pierced Australian who complimented Sylvia on the costume bunny ears she was wearing as if she wanted a pair for herself. She even attempted to socialize with Frank, the presence of children making him unfortunately more approachable, and Casey grinned as he left them to it, going to greet Alan while Frank stood in the corner with both kids and the outgoing Aussie.

  “Oh now who invited him?” she asked as if Frank had any interest or control over the guest list, glaring at a man who looked not a bit out of place with his mismatched wardrobe and scuffed up shoes. She shook her head. “So what do you do?”

  Frank aimed his own glare at Casey for abandoning him. “I'm just the sitter.”

  She playfully smacked his arm, then straightened up at his hostile glance her way, clearing her throat and excusing herself.

  “You're not the sitter,” Sylvia said in Portuguese, dangling from his arm with her hand in his while he stood perfectly still. She was learning French and English as she got older, but she was born in Portugal and Frank was adamant about keeping her connected to her culture even if neither of her parents spoke the language. Plus it let them be co-conspirators.

  “No, but you shouldn't talk to strangers.”

  “She was strange,” Sylvia giggled.

  “Your father once had that hair color,” Frank said, which made her laugh more. But Frank had turned his attention to Casey, who was smiling politely at the questionable invitee and not getting a smile back.

  “Ow.” Sylvia pouted and pulled her hand away.

  Frank sighed, having unintentionally tightened his grip in response to the guest's rudeness. “Sorry.” He picked her up instead and brought both kids back to their father. He was too edgy for babysitting. “I need a cigarette.”

  He went outside, cautiously looking down the street for danger before staring down at his hand. At the moment, Frank was the only danger that could come to them. He knew he hadn't seriously hurt her, but what killed him was that he didn't know how seriously he could have.

  Looking up as the door opened, Frank watched the uninvited artist leave in what appeared to be an agitated state. He flicked his cigarette after him, catching the back of the young man's coat but not his attention. Frank hadn't realized his little show of aggression had an audience until he saw Alan standing in the doorway, agitated for a completely different reason.

  “The things you do, darling,” Alan said, fanning himself as he walked by. “They're almost done. Until next time.” He blew Frank a kiss and hailed a taxi. Frank kept a lookout for any cars tailing the cab but nothing seemed amiss. And yet, he had the strangest feeling...

  It wasn't a threat, not exactly, but it was familiar. He'd felt like this before.

  Walking towards the street to better see across it, Frank scanned the faces of pedestrians and drivers in parked cars. Nothing.

  He heard Sylvia call to him and he turned back, taking her hand again, all forgiven. Casey followed him, summarizing his visit with Alan while his daughter gave her bunny ears further authenticity by hopping at Frank's side. “He didn't recognize Simon. Or any of the others. But he's confident you could take him.”

  “Take him where?” Sylvia asked, and Frank wondered how old he'd been himself when “take him” changed meaning.

  “Home!” Casey announced proudly, skipping ahead so she would chase him while Frank trailed behind, the three of them the very picture of youthful exuberance. Perhaps Casey really was okay. And better with Frank in his life. Even the baby was smiling, and Frank found himself smiling back. Casey stopped and laughed, adjusting the baby in his arms. “Actually, can we, uh, stop for a sec.”

  Frank nodded towards a cafe where Casey could change the kid, planning to just wait for him but Sylvia climbed into a booth and said she was hungry so Frank sat as well. Then Frank recognized what the feeling was.

  Miko.

  Frank started to stand, all civility between them gone as Miko came into the cafe. Having the non-German speak with Vincent in the convenience store had been bad enough, but coming near Frank's niece was utterly unacceptable.

  Miko had not noticed the girl immediately and looke
d clearly terrified when he did. “We have problem,” he said, swallowing hard.

  “I'd say so,” Frank answered in German, nowhere near sympathetic to Miko's well-founded fears. Miko innocently held his hands in front of himself, unarmed, shaking his head. Frank sensed Casey behind him, and he switched to French, telling Case to take the kids and get out without turning around.

  “Nein!” Miko said desperately. “He is not safe.”

  Frank twitched. He is not safe. Casey is not safe. This was a job. Momentarily blinded with rage, Frank took a deep breath and reminded himself that there were children present. Narrowing his eyes, Frank instructed Casey to sit down and then demanded Miko to get over here. He was so angry that he was trembling but he could see Miko was trembling as well, and acting submissive enough that beating him to death would be like punishing one of the dogs for having an accident on the carpet.

  Miko came closer, obeying Frank's silent gestures and sitting beside him in the booth. “I think I am set up,” Miko said, obediently continuing the conversation in German because Frank was. Frank said nothing. A setup sounded more likely than someone wanting Casey dead, but maybe it wasn't Miko being set up. Miko continued, “I could not do in front of little girl and she had ears and then I saw you and knew he was your friend and I was set up.”

  “Simon?” Frank asked, the fact that Miko's train of thought led him to speak quickly and nonsensically not even fazing Frank since it was no different than one of Vincent's rants.

  Miko nodded, practically on the verge of tears. “He wanted the book and I smacked him in his smug face and now he wants me killed.”

  For not seeming particularly intelligent, Miko had come to a very solid if not disjointed conclusion: if Miko killed Casey, Frank would kill him. The urge to kill him was only then starting to wane as it was, and all Miko had done was shown up uninvited. It was the kind of plotting Silva would've accomplished successfully, but Simon was clearly nowhere near the man Silva had been. Which meant that like the Alcott job, this really could be a genuine hit. “Who is the client?”

  “I do not know,” Miko said. “They wanted a witness to be there when it happened so they were nearby.”

  A witness. Someone who knew where Casey would be, and when. Someone who despised him.

  Before Frank recalled the name of Alan's sculptor he recognized his face, the young man Casey's age who'd been at the exhibition. The man entering the cafe with a gun pointed at them.

  Frank was only vaguely aware of the other diners fleeing in terror or cowering under tables, whether from Marcel the sculptor's gun or from the look on Frank's face. All he could see was Marcel, honed in on him like a hunter with his prey and everything else in his peripheral. But he found his path blocked by Miko when he tried getting out of the booth, who had also stood but was leaning towards the children rather than towards their possible assailant like he would protect them. Frank tried getting past him but Miko moved too suddenly to let him through and Marcel panicked. It happened so quickly that Frank registered the sound of the children screaming before he'd heard the gunshot, and as he anticipated the pain he realized Miko had leaned somewhere else.

  Marcel's mouth was wide with shock and he turned and ran out. Frank was too stunned to follow, gaping at Miko incredulously. He held Miko's shoulder and looked down at the blood spreading across his white button-down shirt, then at the smile spreading across his face. Miko wasn't scared anymore. He looked proud. Happy. If he had a tail it would be wagging. The poor German didn't even seem to have noticed that he'd been shot. Or he didn't care.

  “It is okay, I am wearing Kevlar!” Miko said joyfully, but his face fell as he followed Frank's eyes to the blood on his shirt.

  “It missed,” Frank said plainly.

  “Oh.” Miko swayed on his feet like he was about to pass out and Frank quickly sat him down. “Ow.”

  “Everything is okay,” Frank said to himself more than anyone else, avoiding looking at Casey because he wasn't sure just how much he had already seen. He felt manic, felt like it would be quite apparent on his face that he'd lost control. Frank was still disoriented with rage but the shrieking of the children was keeping him focused and centered. He could only imagine how much more they'd be shrieking if Miko hadn't gotten in Frank's way and prevented him from making a mess with Marcel.

  There were too many witnesses for them to get out of there without police intervention, and Frank surveyed the scene, trying to determine the best course of action for being questioned and more importantly, whether there was a possibility of still getting his hands on Marcel. “Why are you wearing Kevlar?” he asked, glancing back to the door to see that they had the place to themselves.

  “I like it?” It wasn't so much of a question as a statement rife with self-doubt.

  “Of course you do.” Given the circumstances, that made perfect sense. “I need to get it off of you. No one is going to believe you wear Kevlar for fun and just happened to get shot. Not even if you are German.”

  “I am not.”

  “I know. Pretend to be.” He worked Miko's suit coat and shirt off of him as carefully as possible, leaving him in just his undershirt. Then he unstrapped the vest, shoving it into the diaper bag and giving Miko a diaper in exchange to staunch the bleeding. Frank helped Miko lie down in the booth. The wound didn't appear very deep and Miko wasn't having any trouble breathing, or talking, rattling on in German with an enthusiasm that was very uncharacteristic of the German people.

  Frank tuned him out. He could hear the sirens, the sound pulling him back towards that place of madness, and he realized that it wasn't just the bullet that Miko had saved him from. Self defense stops when your assailant dies. Frank wouldn't have stopped there. He was out of his mind and would've continued mutilating Marcel's corpse in front of onlookers. In front of Casey and the children. In front of the police if they got there before he was finished. But Miko had stopped him. And that made Frank realize something else: he hadn't lost it with Miko. It wasn't just that Miko had escaped his notice, had been a blind spot the previous times they'd met, Frank had never had a reason to notice him. He'd been angry when Miko approached, had become territorial, but instinctively he knew Miko wasn't actually a threat.

  He closed his eyes for a moment in an attempt to clear his head of violence before returning to his familial duties. But as horrifying as he imagined he must've looked, Casey wasn't looking at him at all. His attention was entirely consumed by his children, rocking the baby and stroking Sylvia's hair, her head in his lap and her thumb in her mouth.

  “Are they okay?” Frank asked cautiously, knowing that a normal person would never need to ask such a thing. Of course they weren't. Guns were terrifying. Seeing someone shot was terrifying. The baby may be young enough not to remember but Sylvia must've been traumatized, and all Frank could think about was doing something that would traumatize her even further.

  “Everything is okay.” Casey repeated Frank's words in French as if he were in a trance. He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed before opening them again and looking up at him with the same expression he'd had after his parents were murdered: utter helplessness, pleading with Frank to fix it and knowing he couldn't. Casey blinked and turned his attention back to Sylvia. She had calmed down, distracted by Miko who was making peekaboo faces at her underneath the table. The baby had also stopped screaming, fussing now as he drifted off with exhaustion. “You need to tell me what to say because I have no idea what's going on and you're really not in a good place right now to talk to cops.”

  Frank hadn't imagined that Casey would be in the right mindset after this to cover for his wrong mindset. “I'm still making murder face, aren't I?”

  Pursing his lips, Casey said, “Yup.”

  “Sorry.” Frank tried forcing a smile but Casey just shook his head as if that had made it worse.

  “Maybe you should try thinking about kittens or something?”

  Frank assumed Casey hadn't meant killing with kittens. “Just tell the
m the truth.” It wasn't as if Casey could lie anyway.

  “What do I say about him?” Casey nodded towards Miko.

  “He's a friend of mine.”

  “Is that true?”

  Frank glanced down at Miko, doing everything in his power to reassure a scared child while staying obedient to Frank's request and not speaking English. “Yes it is.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  They were still being questioned by the police when the ambulance took Miko away, and it was another twenty minutes before they were free to go. One of the officers drove them back to where Frank had left the car and Frank watched them leave, a sense of relief but a greater one of loss, knowing at this point it was far more likely that Marcel would be arrested than murdered. Just like Roger Foster. The police would visit Alan to find out more about Marcel, and Frank felt a hunger growing in him that could not be satisfied without bloodshed.

  “So what, um...what was all that?” Casey asked as Frank drove. The children were asleep in the backseat, worn out. Casey looked worn out as well. His statement to the police, that he had no idea why Marcel would want to kill him, hadn't been a lie. Even after he'd buried his mother, buried Gideon, Casey wasn't capable of understanding it. All he knew of murder was learned from Frank and from Bella. When a bad person wanted another bad person dead, they made arrangements with men like Joe.

  Frank rubbed his face. “Simon is trying my patience.”

  Casey started nodding, too overwhelmed with everything to do more than accept Frank's answer. But then he caught himself and shook his head instead. “Marcel is part of Assassin War?”

  “What? No.” With a pained scoff, Frank wished yet again that Vincent would stop calling it that around Casey. “Marcel is...” he began, but every word he could think of was likely to frighten Casey even further. “No longer your concern,” he continued, somewhat pleased with himself until Casey faced straight forward and Frank realized that a euphemism may not have been best after all.