88 Killer Read Free Page B

going through his other checks. The first was his weapons check. He pulled out the small pistol, examined the magazine, removed it, took the bullet out of the breech, clicked the trigger twice, replaced the magazine, levered the bullet back into the breech. Then he took out his army combat knife, a small four-inch holed blade. He unsheathed it, felt the blade, sheathed it and put it away. Next he took out his flashlight. It was combat standard, strong and simple to use. He flicked on the beam and picked out the shadows opposite, then quickly switched it off and replaced it in his pocket. He took out the gloves. They were industrial gloves, so that he could handle the barbed wire. He was ready. He opened the window a couple of inches and pulled out a cigarette. A match flamed in the darkness; he dragged deeply and felt the rush of nicotine in his blood.
    Soon, it would be time. He held the anger in and felt it spread throughout him, the rage forming in each muscle in turn, mingling with the nicotine. He didn’t just hate. Hate was for part-timers. He was hate. It was his DNA, his purpose, his sole trajectory.
    Hate was a bloodline. It had grown in his cells like anything else: blue eyes, brown hair, muscularity – and hate. Hate was his inheritance, his birthright – and his duty.
    He stared across, blew smoke out of the window and repeated the eighty-eight words softly to himself.

Chapter Three
    Salsa Club, Upper East Side
    March 6, 11.50 p.m.
    I nside the basement salsa club, the dance floor was heaving with bodies, the walls running with condensation under dark red lights. The series of small rooms reverberated with the high-pitched hoot of the trumpets and the rhythm of the bongos. A barely audible singer led the song in Spanish.
    David Capske was twenty-seven, engaged to be married and very pleased with how life had changed for him. He put his arm around Lucy, pulled her in tight, sipped his fifth Corona and stared at her. She was so perfect. Lucy’s eyes followed the dancers; David, too, turned to watch.
    The couple on the dance floor were breathtaking. The woman twirled in a tiny silver dress, flicking her long legs around on high heels, her elegant arms draped across the shoulders of her chisel-jawed partner. He was tall and taut in every movement – like a fixed bar against her fluidity.
    The dancers moved quickly, their legs and hips lifting and falling to the rapid thump of the beat. David stared transfixed. Then he felt something on his thigh. He looked down and saw Lucy’s hand slowly moving across it.
    ‘You want to dance?’ he shouted over the noise.
    ‘I see you like to watch her dance,’ she teased. ‘You getting excited?’
    David grinned. ‘I was admiring her technique. She’s got great upper-body isolation.’
    ‘That’s why you were staring so hard at her upper body region?’
    ‘What’s to look at? She’s not half as beautiful as you and she’s not even got the moves you’ve got.’ He reached out and tried to kiss her. ‘Now your upper-body isolation is second to none.’
    She pulled away and smiled. ‘I need proof.’
    David leaned closer. ‘That’s not a problem.’
    ‘How are you going to prove it to me?’
    ‘By taking the most beautiful woman in this place home and showing you,’ he said.
    ‘Flatterer! Anyway, that might be second-hand excitement. You might be thinking of anyone. I want better proof than that.’
    They stared at each other. This was happiness, David Capske thought. Whatever more was to come, couldn’t compete with the feeling he had when they were together.
    ‘My family have disowned me, is that not proof enough?’
    Lucy laughed and stood up. ‘They just want you to meet a nice Jewish girl and not some—’
    ‘Talented and brilliant young writer.’ He gazed into her blue eyes. He meant it. She was the one. True, Lucy Steller was not what his family had in mind for their firstborn. They were part of the wealthy establishment and she was still