Hair: Various
Eyes: Brown
Scars, other identifying marks: None
Clearly, whoever had sent Stan knew enough to list race as various, which is not the sort of thing one customarily sees in a tally of vital statistics. I flipped to page two.
Target is an immortal man, but in all appearances and mannerisms a normal human being. He is immune to all diseases but can be physically harmed with ordinary weaponry. He typically travels alone but has been known to befriend humans at times, and also various underspecies. He prefers to use cash when he travels. (Source of cash is unknown.) He will rarely stay in one place for an extended period. He was last spotted in Cleveland.
Target is not usually armed. However, he is extremely cunning and is not to be taken lightly. His greatest weakness is his penchant for alcohol, which makes him sloppy and overly reliant on strangers.
Goaclass="underline" Target is to be taken
ALIVE
. Use of lethal force—or damage caused leading to his subsequent demise—will result in nonpayment or forfeiture of payment. Once you have safely secured and positively tested target, contact is to be made via the enclosed phone. N
O
OTHER
FORM
OF
CONTACT
IS
ACCEPTABLE
. Transfer of target and the necessary payment arrangements will be negotiated at that time.
“What does it say?” Brenda asked quietly, not yet willing to approach the bed, or me.
“It says somebody out there knows more about me than they should,” I said. “Strengths, weaknesses… everything except who wants me and why.”
“Oh. Has this ever happened before?”
“No. This is new.”
I popped open the black case.
“Oh my,” I said.
Brenda came around to the bed to take a look herself.
“Is that real?” she asked, looking at what appeared to be a disassembled sniper’s rifle.
I pulled out the barrel. “Looks to be. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
The gun only took up the top half of the suitcase, so I pulled on the little flap in the front and checked underneath. Cash. Lots of it.
“Can’t say I’m surprised at that either,” I added.
“How much is that?”
“About fifty grand. Bounty hunting wasn’t the only thing Stan was into.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think he did a little contract killing in his spare time. Looks like the FBI had a good reason to suspend him.”
Brenda cocked her head, much in the way a dog does when he hears a distant whistle. “Your pixie’s back.”
“Good timing.” I started pulling cash out of the suitcase and stuffing it into my own bag. “I’ve got to get going.”
“Go? Why?” she asked. “Where are you going?”
“What would you do if you just killed an FBI agent in broad daylight?” I asked. “I’m getting the hell out of town.”
Part Two
The Noose
Chapter 11
Viktor spent half the day today talking to me about how “exciting” my immune system is. Says he’s never seen anything like it before and that he would give anything to be able to present me to a few geneticist friends. He ran through a list of the things he’d exposed me to—his lab is evidently a bioterrorist’s wet dream—and could not stop raving about how well my body had handled it. All I could do was shrug. It’s not as if any of this is a huge surprise.
I think I’m starting to annoy him, having yet to come around to his way of thinking. On the other hand, he hasn’t come around to my way of thinking either, and I’ve got the weight of history on my side, because you don’t just introduce something like this to the world. It should be done much more gradually, and there are a few important steps along the way that will end up being skipped.
Viktor agrees that there will be issues but is so very convinced of the general goodness of mankind that he’s sure they will be overcome. Obviously he’s never witnessed a genocide up close before.
* * *
Ah, New York. Like Boston on steroids. Every other city in the world, with the possible exception of Tokyo, looks like a suburb compared to New York City. The sights, the smells, the unbelievable noise of a few million representatives of impolite humanity jammed together in all its glory. I hate the goddamn place.
Right off the train I had to defend myself against two guys who wanted to carry my bag for me, neither of whom were official representatives of the train station (as specifically outlined by the announcements made every ten seconds over the loudspeakers), and at least one of whom would probably take off with the bag the instant he reached the street. And once I fought past them I had to turn down a guy offering to sell me a half-price copy of the New York Times he’d stolen five hours earlier from a newsstand, two homeless people who just wanted my money and didn’t even bother with a preamble, and a man who desperately wanted Jesus to save me.
And this was just on the train platform.
New York is the one place in the world that actively encourages rudeness, because that’s the only way to get past the fake bag carriers, homeless people, newspaper thieves, Jesus freaks, and everyone else who wants something and isn’t afraid to ask for it, repeatedly, at close range. Try to ignore them and they’ll step in front of you. Tell them you’re not interested and you might as well be speaking Farsi. But tell them to fuck off and they get that just fine. It’s like a secret handshake.
I may be the only person on Earth who can state unequivocally that there has never been a city quite like New York before. Hopefully there never will be again.
* * *
A short trip on the marvelous subway system and I reached Forty-Fifth Street and a lovely little boutique—I’m being polite—called Ivan’s. Or that’s what everyone calls it. On the street sign it just says PAWN SHOP. And in case one needs services beyond pawning one’s ill-gotten goods, there are additional hand-lettered signs taped up all over the windows: check cashing, money transfer, loans, phone cards for sale, fortunes told. I didn’t need any of those things.
I pushed my way in, immediately greeted by the odor of illegally bought tax-free Russian cigarettes. A young fellow I’d never met before sat behind the counter (said counter being glass. A display case showing an extensive array of watches, some still engraved with the previous owner’s initials) chewing on a lollipop and reading the latest issue of something called Maxim.
“Hello,” I greeted.
“Hey,” he said, not looking up. Must have been an engaging article.
“I need to see Tchekhy.”
He looked away from the magazine, sized me up, looked back down. “Nobody here by that name.”
“I see. Do you smoke?”
“Hmm? No.”
“Then you can imagine my confusion, because I happen to know Tchekhy does smoke. I know what brand he smokes, and I can smell that brand right now. I can even see some smoke coming from behind that black curtain to your left.”
That got him to close the magazine. He slid off the stool, calmly put the magazine down, and pulled up the front of his shirt to reveal a snub-nosed revolver tucked into his pants. “There is nobody here named Tchekhy,” he repeated slowly, as I evidently had a learning deficiency.