The moon was white, high above the dockland warehouse where Franco conducted his business. He furrowed his neat brow and glared at the numbers in front of him. Try as he might, he couldn’t make them work for him.
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When they hit the motorway he eased off his white-knuckle grip, glancing at the clock. “Goddammit. Goddammit. If you want to come so bad, you can come with us. It won’t be a joyride, though. Got it?”
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The sickly yellow car turned left into a garage and disappeared from view, and Tomas thumped the dashboard.
“There we are, we got him!” he crowed. “Let’s go!”
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The first shot thumped through the space her head had been a second earlier, as she rolled into the room and pulled her force pistol from her belt. Black outfits. Armoured. No markings. Kill squad. She swept the legs out from under one of them and let fly with a shot at his buddy, who ducked behind Omar’s desk. Ugh. These things were never easy…
Geist didn’t have a plan of his own to take down Hardin. He had the germ of an idea, maybe. The guy didn’t like to get his own hands dirty, clearly. It was a bad job to let some pack of amateurs do the hard part and just reap the rewards. Not against the rules, mind. Just frowned upon, unless you did it with exceptional style or hypnotism or something like that, although gimmicks were also generally considered gauche at best and a major risk of exposure at worst. He had once known an assassin who used as the basis of his contracts a series of stage magic old standards. All well and good, until you run out of the good ones. There’s only so many “saw-a-lady-in-half”s you can pull before you have to start resorting to embarrassing gags like “pulling a Black Mamba out of a hat,” which bring the whole tone of the profession down. The Astounding Malvolio hadn’t lasted long after that…
Geist shrugged and continued setting up the rifle, a safe distance back from the window pane that the black protrusion of the barrel wouldn’t be noticed from below.
“Who-” he said, and then the window cracked and a bullet impacted in the wall beside his head. He was on the ground in an instant, diving to pull Ellie down as well and rolling out of view of the window.
“He’s seen us,” he gasped to her. He risked a peep out at the crowd. They were none the wiser. The sharp crack of the glass had obviously been buried under the noise of the crowd. Small caliber bullet, went through clean as a whistle. You had to admire the craftsmanship…
The message came through the laptop with a bright sound like a bell: /IT’SREADY/. The plans. Geist never went through official channels for anything unless he had to, and this was no different. Luckily for him, he knew a guy in the records office. He slid the laptop into his bag, slipped his sunglasses onto his face, and left the hotel into the dullest weather he had ever seen in his life when it wasn’t actually raining. It was as if the sky had turned to asphalt. He folded up the sunglasses and stuffed them into his pocket, feeling naked without them…
The name of the dead man was Maximilian Bradley. Not that he knew he was dead yet. The blinking green name stood out on the black screen like a neon sign over a dive bar. Underneath it was a number with too many zeroes at the end of it. Geist had heard of Bradley, of course. Who hadn’t? He sipped the honey-coloured liquor from his glass and contemplated. This was a chance to make history. Of course, if his name showed up anywhere in the history books it would be curtains for him.
The Write Stuff 