Mr. K watched Porter’s eyes flutter open. The hitman had taken off his jacket and was sitting on Porter’s thighs, holding the Morrell ice pick. He knew the penis was fed by numerous blood vessels, so this required a delicate touch. A dead client couldn’t pay, and employers universally frowned upon that.
He tugged down Porter’s white jockey shorts, and then chuckled to himself.
“You’re uncut,” Mr. K said.
“What?” Porter was terrified and confused and trembling with fear.
“You haven’t been circumcised.”
“Please…whatever you’re thinking—”
“I’m going to ask you one more time, Mr. Porter, for the cash that you owe Mr. Dovolanni. If the answer you provide doesn’t satisfy me, I’m going to circumcise you right here on the floor of your gun shop. Do you understand what I’ve just said to you?”
Porter’s eyes were welling up with tears. “Please, please…”
And now the begging, Mr. K mused. Human beings were so predictable when facing situations of terror.
“…I’ll give you anything…”
There must be some basis for it in Darwinian evolution, but Mr. K had never been able to understand how crying, shitting your pants, and breaking down into hysterics had ever served man or any of his ancestors in life or death scenarios.
“…you want if you…”
If an ancient Cro-Magnon were at the mercy of a saber-toothed tiger or a soldier of an opposing tribe, certainly this type of behavior would have proven futile.
“…only let me…”
Predators couldn’t be swayed by emotion or pleas or despair.
“…explain…”
It wasn’t in their programming. It certainly wasn’t in Mr. K’s. In these situations, only brute force—physical resistance—stood a chance. And yet in all his contract killings and torture-killings, only twice had the mark ever fought back.
“…you’ve gotta understand…”
How had this trait of utter cowardice in the face of fear prevailed through the evolutionary cycle ending at Homo sapien sapien?
“Can you pay me right now?” Mr. K asked calmly. “That’s the only question I’m interested in hearing you answer.”
“Tomorrow,” Porter said. “I’ll rob a fucking bank if I—”
“Hmm. Unfortunately, tomorrow’s no good for me.”
Mr. K pulled the ball-gag out of his pocket and jammed it into Porter’s mouth, had it fastened around his skull in five seconds.
“Did you get a chance to stop by Morrell’s Edges?” Mr. K asked, holding up the ice pick to make sure Porter saw the blade. “He told me it was the sharpest thing he’d ever made. Let’s give it a whirl, shall we?”
Porter raised his head and shrieked through the ball-gag.
“Oh, relax,” Mr. K said. “What I hear, the ladies don’t like a guy with a turtleneck anyway.”
As he reached down, he heard the locking mechanism in the door shift.
Mr. K glanced at the door, back at Porter.
“You typed in the dummy code.”
Porter shook his head violently. Possibly telling the truth.
Mr. K rose quickly to his feet, set the ice pick on the counter, and grabbed his 9mm.
“If I find you’ve lied to me,” Mr. K said, “I’ll spend the next three days taking you slowly apart.”
He stepped toward the door as the lock turned, hearing voices outside, one of them saying, “There it is. Open sesame.”
The door swung inward, and Mr. K found himself facing four people, three men and a woman, all standing in the dark parking lot. He pointed his nine at the first man, the one holding the lock pick and tension wrench.
“We’re closed,” Mr. K said.
Everyone froze. Best case scenario, the quartet got the hell out of there. But they had broken in, so they were obviously a criminal element, and criminals weren’t predictable.
Mr. K quickly did the math in his head. He could get at least two headshots in before the others either scattered or attacked. There were ten bullets in his gun, and the Morrell ice pick was behind him on the counter. He liked his odds, but clean-up would be messy, and the gunfire could attract attention. This being a gun show, they were all probably armed, so he needed to decide now before one of them pulled a weapon and—
“K? That you, K?”
Mr. K squinted into the darkness at the one talking. He had a Mexican accent, something familiar about it.
“It’s me, man. Javier.”
Javier? Mr. K let go of the breath he’d been holding, but he kept the gun pointed.
“Javier. Small world. I wasn’t expecting any company.”
Javier stepped into the light, palms up. He peered behind Mr. K, and then smiled broadly.
“Shit, K. You working? We didn’t mean to interrupt you, man. We just wanted to do a little late night target practice. It’s cool.”
“Who are your friends?”
“Luther, Charles is the one with the lock pick skills, and the lady is Alex. Guys, this is Mr. K. He and I used to do some contract work for the same jefe, years ago. Wet stuff.”
If Javier was cavalier about admitting to murder, Mr. K guessed his associates weren’t likely to go running to the authorities. Still, this was a wrinkle in the night’s previously-scheduled activities, and he didn’t appreciate wrinkles.
“What are you going to do to that man?” the woman, Alex, asked. She was staring at Porter, and Mr. K thought he detected excitement in her voice.
“It’s okay,” Javier said. “They’re cool. If you want us to leave, we can come back later. Or…”
“Or?”
“Or we could help out. Might be fun to shoot at a moving target, if you know what I’m saying.”
Mr. K considered it. Javier was psychotic, and that meant he was unpredictable. Mr. K had seen his work, up close and personal, and while it could have used a touch more finesse it was certainly effective. The smarter move would be to turn everyone away, but then he’d spend the rest of the evening wondering what Javier was up to.
“This is a job for Mr. Dovolanni,” Mr. K said. “The package is supposed to get damaged in handling, but not lost.”
“You mean we can hurt him, not kill him,” the pale one, Luther, said. “I’d be okay with that.”
“A man can take a lot of hurt before he dies,” Charles said. “And I haven’t shot anyone in months. What do you think, Alex? Can you exercise some restraint?”
“I can control myself, not kill him,” Alex said, rubbing her legs together. “But I’m going to have to fuck something later. Just thinking about it gets me hot.”
Javier met Mr. K’s eyes and shrugged. “You game, K? The commission is all yours. We’re just in it for the sport. You know I wouldn’t mess with Dovolanni.”
Mr. K saw some people in the parking lot heading over. He made a quick decision and lowered the gun.
“Come in, lock the door behind you.”
Luther
They all crowded inside, Luther feeling a sense of camaraderie he hadn’t experienced since losing Orson. Much as he was a loner, it was good to occasionally be among those with similar values.
“So, what’s the plan?” Charles said. “Luther, buddy, you got that metal leech thing with you?”
Luther was staring at a target silhouette behind the counter, studying the various points on the arms and legs. “I have a better idea,” he said. Then he explained it to the group.
Javier cut Porter’s zip-ties as the shop owner cried around his ball gag.
“Hollow points for everyone,” Luther ordered.
Everyone began to shout out the ammo they wanted, making Porter fetch the boxes.
Forty-five ACP rounds for Jav’s new Glock and Luther’s Springfield XD Tactical.
Nine-millimeters for Mr. K’s Beretta Px4 Storm.
Three-fifty-sevens for Charles’s Coonan Cadet.