The Hitman: Dirty Rotters

  Vladimir’s grin disappeared.

  I smashed my knuckles hard against his pasty-white forehead. A rather large target. My right hand wracked in pain instantly. I wish I would have taken that hammer when I had the chance. I wish I would have lifted weights a lot more when I was younger too because the punch wasn’t nearly hard enough to bring the big Russian down. If anything, it just pissed him off.

  He sliced the machete at my head but I ducked, sending his head another fury of blows. My hands were like wiffle bats and his head was like concrete. I struck home a vicious uppercut to his nose and he dropped the huge blade. He ran his hand over his bleeding nose, looked at it curiously, then looked at me.

  Vladimir smiled. It was an ungodly sight. A few teeth were missing, a few more should be, and a few more I can work on now. He slipped off his fur coat slowly. It was fluffy and brown, streaked with black splotches, which could have been oil stains in the dark. The whole thing could’ve been made from rats or squirrels. But he’s careful with it, like it was Armani.

  Who the hell wears a fur coat anyway?

  A six foot, five inch, two-hundred and fifty pound Russian who stank like cigarettes and cheap cologne.

  I gave him a flurry of rights and lefts, jabs and hooks, knuckles cracking against skin and bone in a bloody mess. He took my best and didn’t stagger. I’ll give him that. Years of hand to hand combat training in Siberia gave him an edge. He swung a big round house right straight at my face with everything he had. It would have made a dent in a Buick. It would have sent every bone in my face clean out the back of my skull. But I didn’t come here to die. At least not now. Not by him.

  I ducked in time to hear his giant fist whiff overhead, nearly sat against the iron rail, and swung up hard, pushing off my legs upwards with the blow, sending my right fist into his groin. Dirty move, I know. But I wasn’t there to make friends. Plus I was doing the gene pool a favor.

  He dropped to his knees, then fell onto his face in between the train rails. He scrapped against the loose stones, maneuvering into the fetal position. His mouth opened and closed like an ugly catfish out of water.

  In between gasping, he was speaking. It was in Russian, and I didn’t understand. I took a guess that it wasn’t very nice. I may have deserved it. And if I didn’t, I would.

  I was exhausted. I stepped over to him but kept my distance just in case. He rolled onto his back, shifting loose gravel beneath him in a grinding crunch. The train stood motionless five yards behind him, blacker than the Russian’s soul.

  “I need you to answer my questions.” I said.

  “Nyet.” Russian for ‘no’.

  I stomped on his left ankle repeatedly. Something in there cracked. His eyes watered.

  “I don’t want to kill you.” I lied. “So listen to me. I’m very tired. I’m starving. My head is pounding. I probably need to see a doctor. So answer my questions then we can both be on our way.”

  Me into the train. You into hell.

  “Nyet.” He spit blood at me. He moved around in a valiant attempt to rise, but his ankle was in no condition and he remained in a sitting position. I stayed in front of him. Worst he could do now was throw stones.

  “Where are you meeting The Bear?”

  More words in Russian. I made out a word here and there, but not enough to put the pieces together. Such an ugly language. I wished he was French. Now there’s a language of beauty and elegance. Tell me to go to hell in French and I might consider it.

  “In English, Vladimir.”

  He reached two dirty fingers inside his mouth and yanked out a tooth. “I vus in the Black Dolphin for twenty years, American hero. Vwut do you think I did there? Make friends?” He laughed hard. “No. I make no friends in Russian prison. I hurt people.”

  “They should’a never have let you out. You should of rotted away there forever.”

  He laughed again and shook his head. “No, American. I vus not prisoner. I vus punisher. I verk for KGB. Verst criminals in Mother Russia come and I hurt them. I make them die.” His smile sinister. His eyes were cold. “Vwut do you think I do to American police? You are vun man only. Better vor you to run away now.”

  “Where’s the pick-up?”

  He laughed loud.

  “Where’s the pick-up, Vladimir?”

  He spit blood at me.

  It was almost midnight. The air was chilly and there was no wind. Somewhere above the city lights and past the smog was a blanket of stars. Millions of them. The Andromeda Galaxy was buried there someplace. A sight to behold. When I was young, living in the country, on any given clear night, I’d be lying in a field with my hands for a pillow staring out into space. I’d do it for hours. I saw hope out there. It made all my dreams seem small and insignificant.

  I wished I had those nights back. I wished dreams came true. But life was ugly. That fact was staring me down.

  “Vwut is wrong? Not going to hit me more, American?”

  “I’m going to tie you down and drive that train forward, nice and slow.”

  I saw the uncertainty in his eyes. My knuckles may not be able to crack that thick skull of his but that train sure could. The look I gave him left no doubt of my willingness and he shifted uneasy. He made another attempt to rise, but failed poorly. It was useless. He was finished walking.

  He sat quiet for a moment, doing nothing but staring down at the rocks between his legs. He was considering something. Weighing the odds, maybe. But they were not in his favor. He was out of luck.

  And I was nearly out of time.

  “Do it.”

  I stared down into his pale grey eyes. The fire was gone, the fight and madness vanished. His stare was hollow and empty. He had made his decision.

  I did nothing.

  “Do it, American police.”

  His voice was a mere whisper, just as empty of life as his gaze. I kicked my right foot into the ground, peppering him with rocks. He made no move.

  “Do it, American! Do it and be big hero!”

  “Dammit, Vladimir!”

  No response. He just sat there, slumped slightly forward, staring with a blank, defeated look. I met his gaze and held it. I remembered then, the look, the emptiness. I saw it before, years ago. I felt it then, and understood it now. The Russian wanted me to kill him.

  “I’ll let you keep the money,” I lied. “Tell me the pick-up.”

  Vladimir stopped laughing right then. The spark in his eyes flamed once again. “I cannot trust you, American.”

  “I can send you without it.”

  “Vy?”

  “What’s the Bear going to think when you arrive with no money? He’ll think that you’ve double crossed him. He won’t think twice about shooting first. Right?”

  Silence.

  Someplace in that grey muskmelon of a brain he was doing some considering.

  I got him. He knew the Bear better than I, and what I knew was that he had little understanding or compassion. He would shoot Vladimir the second he realized there was no money for the exchange.

  “Better vor you boy to vun avay back home and pray to God that vee do not find you.”

  “I am going to count to ten. If you haven’t told me where the stop is by then, I am going to take your money and put you back on the train and let the chips fall where they may. That’s English for you’re screwed.”

  He laughed like the notion was absolutely ridiculous.

  “One…Two…Three…”

  “Better vor you if you kill me on train tracks.”

  “Four…Five…”

  “You cannot do this, American boy. It is big game you play and you have only one chip.”

  “Six…Seven…”

  “Go before it is late vor you.”

  “Eight…Nine…”

  Big production then, like saying ten was definitely going to be the last straw. He became flustered and spoke quickly, like a desperate man.

  “Okay, American. I tell you. I tell you then I take money back to Ru
ssia and you go get killed. It is vine. Your plan is vine with me.”

  “Where are they?”

  He laughed, as if it were the most obvious answer ever given. “Vare they alvays are, American.”

  It hit me then, sudden and hard. When I was in Jeff Dimeglio’s trunk I could smell it. I was right there. Right where it had all started. I felt stupid for not putting it together before.

  I took two steps forward and used my momentum and kicked Vladimir in the side of the head. He flopped to the side, motionless across the cold iron rail. I probably broke a toe or two.

  I gripped his wrists with my hands and tugged hard, nearly hard enough to pull his arms out of their sockets but not hard enough to move the big Russian quickly. I continued, inch by inch, and moved his bulge off the train tracks. I wished my conscious would have just let me run him over and be done with it.

  It took me a full ten minutes to move his body ten feet away from the tracks into the narrow strip of land in between the other set of tracks. The weeds were high enough to cover his body.

  I felt time slipping away. I stole a second to stare skyward, hoping the stars would offer guidance, hoping to see the moon one last time, hoping maybe even that a voice would offer some sort of comfort. All I saw were clouds, grey and swift and cold.

  I had to find the money. I didn’t have a weapon to stand against The Bear and his people, and the best I could hope for was to offer them the money for the women. Maybe I could throw on Vladimir’s nasty fur coat and keep my distance and they would make a clean exchange. It was a plan full of holes.

  Time to go.

  I sped across the gravel on the train’s right side looking for boxcar doors ajar or unlocked. It was a long line. I was nearly at the end when I found three freight cars with the sliding doors unlocked.

  The first was empty. I had pushed the door all the way open and saw only darkness. It had a smell to it. Maybe hours before it was hauling cows.

  I grabbed a hold of the door to the second car and pulled back. It moved with ease, though it made a terrible grinding sound like the wheels needed oil. I stared into a blackness once again, same as the first car. I jumped and pushed myself up onto the floor. I stood and looked left then right. Further right, the darker it was. There was no stink, rather it had a fresh air smell as if the door had been opened all day. Definitely not a trace of manure. Empty nonetheless.

  Time was running out. I ran to the third car, pulling the door open immediately. My stomach began to churn with nervous energy. The door was open enough to see into the blackness beyond. I saw nothing.

  I climbed into the opening feeling my heart pound against my chest like it was trying to break free. I couldn’t slow my breathing down. I was filling with panic. I saw nothing. I stepped further into the black and let it envelope me. My eyes adjusted and I saw a pile of chains in the center along with some rope, wound up neatly. Then I saw something darker. A rectangular shape, three foot high and four foot long. Bingo. I moved towards it right away. I was shaking and I couldn’t calm down. I was breathing faster and harder as I stepped closer to it. Then the it became the them. Five of them. Black duffle bags stacked two high with one in front. I could tell they were full. Packed.

  One million dollars cash.

  I reached down to the first bag and grabbed the zipper. I had planned on unzipping it just enough to look inside, to smell the cash, to run my fingers over the bills, and to daydream just for a moment. But once I saw the money I unzipped it all the way and stared in awe. I felt like a kid on Christmas right then. My smile was ear to ear and I laughed. Something had gone right. I felt invincible. I felt like everything was going to work out right.

  Something moved in the dark.

  I heard the tiger growl then, a few feet behind the duffle bags, quickly followed by the sound of a chain sliding quickly across the metal floor. I stood up, backpedaling right away, just out of reach as its giant muzzle speared through the dark towards my head. The chain held taut, keeping the big cat from ripping me to shreds.

  I took a second to let it sink in. Vladimir had a big white Siberian tiger guarding the money.

  I took a few deep breaths. The tiger roamed back into the blackness, the chain dragging with it. All went silent after a moment.

  Then the floor creaked behind me.

  Vladimir!

  I turned in time to see the crowbar shatter my hopes in a blinding burst of stars.

  The faint scent of my mother’s shampoo was drifting through my nostrils when I awoke. Her face flashed before me in a split second, seemingly like forever ago. Surely another lifetime. Her loving eyes and happy smile were fading like a shadow overcome by nightfall.

  “Stupid American,” Vladimir’s laugh cut the silence, “never let a big Russian man out of sight. Now I cut you in pieces for my tiger to eat.”

  Vladimir spoke, but I only focused on the vision of my mother. For that split second, I had watched my mother’s eyes fill with sorrow the way a good parent would look upon their hurt child. Then she was gone.

  I hurt. Everything hurt. My mind. My body. I wanted that moment back. I wanted nothing more than to be a kid again.

  Vladimir stepped in front of me with the machete.

  At that moment I hated life and everything about it.

  Chapter 25