The Killing Kind Read Free

arms embargo. Though nothing was made of these revelations publicly—due to his firm’s ties to not only French defense but to many other NATO nations as well—his actions led to his company losing seven billion dollars’ worth of contracts.
    He’d thought he covered his tracks such that his involvement would never be discovered.
    Vian could only nod, certain it was far too late for him to deny it. At least, he thought, I will not die denying the only decent thing I’ve ever done.
    “Good. I’ve been further instructed to glean from you, if possible, whatever I can about who else may have been involved in your unacceptable performance.”
    “Why on earth should I cooperate with you?” Vian spat. “You’ve already told me you plan to kill me, and my wife is too public a figure for you to harm, which means you’ve no longer any leverage.”
    “That’s not entirely accurate,” the stranger said, and then he shot Vian in the knee.
    Vian shrieked. Every muscle in his body tensed at once. He jerked out of his chair, spilling onto the floor. The pain in his knee was white-hot, exquisite. It spread up through his groin and settled like lead in his stomach. Waves of dizziness and nausea shook his body, and unconsciousness encroached, spotty black at the edges of his vision. And all the while, beyond the soundproofed walls of his office, the party continued unabated—his guests oblivious to his suffering.
    Somewhere, a thousand miles away it seemed, a mobile phone chirped. The stranger looked startled for a moment, and then reached into his suit coat, removing from his inside pocket a cheap, pre-paid burner phone.
    “Yes?” the stranger snapped, impatience hiding puzzlement.
    “This Engelmann?” The voice was coarse, uneducated— American, to his ear.
    “Where did you get this number?”
    “My organization has worked with you before,” he said.
    “You’re with the Council?” Engelmann asked. They were the only Americans for whom he’d ever worked. The Council was a group of representatives from each of the major crime families operating in the United States—Italian, Russian, Cuban, Salvadoran, Ukrainian, you name it. Though their organizations were often rivals, Council members convened on occasion to handle issues on which their respective organizations’ interests aligned. American organized crime was often too parochial to tap someone such as Engelmann; each family had their own little fiefdom, their own way of doing things—their own hitmen should any hitting be required. Only rarely when they came together did they deign to hire outside themselves—and even then, Engelmann suspected, it was simply so they needn’t decide which family got the job, the risk, the blame should the hit fail, or the glory should it succeed.
    But on the rare occasion they did hire out, they paid very, very well.
    “That’s right,” said the American. “We’ve got a job for you.” He paused a moment then, noting for the first time Vian’s anguished wailing in the background. “I, uh, catch you at a bad time?”
    “Not at all,” said Engelmann. “In fact, you’ve just rescued me from the most dreadful party.” Then he held the phone to his chest, covering the mouthpiece, and said to Vian, “I’m sorry—I have to take this.”
    The silenced firearm jumped three times in Engelmann’s hand—each report no more than the popping of a champagne cork—and Vian’s cries ceased. Such a waste, thought Engelmann; given time, Vian would have told him anything he asked. But in reality, the loss was minor—Vian was hardly the worthiest of subjects for Engelmann’s more esoteric ministrations, and the bonus he’d been promised for any information obtained would doubtless pale before the sum the Council would likely offer.
    “Now,” Engelmann said into the phone, “where were we?”

3
     
    A single drop of rain smacked against the windshield of Evelyn Walker’s Jetta as she turned off the narrow country road