The Killing Kind Read Online Free Page B

towels, the man laughed. “Relax, Al—I didn’t ask you here so I could whack you. We’ve had an eye on you since this guy’s Reno job a few months back; we know you weren’t anywhere near Miami two nights ago when he last hit. He popped a guy from ground level across four blocks of busy city street, if you can believe it. Turned the poor bastard into a fucking smear.”
    “These targets,” Engelmann asked. “They were La Cosa Nostra?”
    “Some,” allowed the man in the chair. “Some were Salvadorans. Some Russian. One was Southie Irish. Truth is, there’s not an Outfit in the country ain’t been touched. Which is a good fucking thing as far as I’m concerned, ’cause if any of the families had been spared, everybody who got hit would be gunning hard for them, figuring it for some kind of power play. Shit, it’s just a matter of time before one family points the finger at another anyway, just ’cause they don’t like the look of ’em. This situation is a— whaddaya call it—a powder keg.”
    “Hence the involvement of the Council.”
    “Yeah,” the man said drolly. “ Hence. Tensions among the families are running high. This don’t get resolved soon, there’s gonna be a war. Which is why we’re willing to offer you a million flat to find this guy and seal the deal. That, and whatever resources are at the Council’s disposal.”
    One million dollars.
    One million dollars, plus the combined resources of every crime family in America.
    Engelmann could scarcely contain his excitement. But he managed. One does not attain a reputation such as his without mastering one’s emotions.
    Engelmann smiled, showing teeth. “Euros,” he said.
“ ’Scuse me?”
    “One million euros. ”
    The man in the chair was silent for a moment, and then he nodded his assent, his towels bobbing.
    “Excellent,” said Engelmann. “Consider me in your employ. I’ll send you the number of my Cayman account, and you can wire the money at your convenience.”
    “No need,” said the man. “We’ve got the number.”
    Engelmann, unnerved, swallowed hard, and then changed the subject. “His victims,” Engelmann asked, “have they any commonality? Apart from their employers’ extra-legal status, that is.”
    “Yeah. They’re all hitmen. And every one of ’em was on a job when they got whacked.”
    For a moment, Engelmann thought he’d misheard, then realized he hadn’t. That one man had perpetrated such a variety of kills was impressive. That his victims were themselves all hired killers made the accomplishment all the greater.
    “You are telling me you’ve a hitman killing hitmen, and now you’re hiring a hitman to hit him back?”
    “I’m telling you I’ve got a problem, and you’ve got one million reasons to fix it.”
    Engelmann smiled again, for he in fact had more than that. For the first time in a decade, he had a job that posed a significant challenge and a quarry worthy of pursuit. For the first time in a decade, he had reason to fear for his own safety—reason to question whether he was equal to the task. Of course, this man would not have the combined resources of every crime family in America at his beck and call—but then, it seemed his wits had served him well thus far in the face of such resources.
    This man, thought Engelmann, was not to be trifled with.
    This man, whoever he was, would be an honor to square off against.
    This man, he would have killed for free.

5
     
    Special Agent Charlotte Thompson flinched as her cell phone chimed. She knew before she glanced at it the text was from her sister; she’d texted fifteen times today already. Jess was Charlie’s baby sister—just three years out of college. A waitress who fancied herself an artist and insisted her meds quieted her muse.
    Usually, when Jess was in a manic phase, it fell to Charlie to talk her off the ceiling. But today, she had neither the patience nor the time. She’d spent the past seven hours crammed into the back of