Messenger of Death (9 page)

She turned on
the TV, trying not to listen to her friend’s conversation about
marriage and dinner.

According to
the local news, the weather was expected to continue to be cold and
overcast for another two days. However, the chairlifts at Mont
Tremblant would be open. In the actual newscast, the announcer said
that the local police had been informed about an Iron Ghosts biker
club gathering in one of the hotels at the ski resort. In a related
story, a brawl had broken out in one of the bars with a local gang,
associates of the Devil’s Knights. The news concluded with a
warning about an approaching snowstorm.

Camilla dodged
questions about the sick man, skillfully diverting the conversation
to other topics, such as how good looking the guys were who had
kept Shelly company. The diversion worked.

Stanley picked
them up in the lobby exactly at 8 o’clock. The girls settled
comfortably into the rear seat of a large jeep and looked out the
windows in silence. A dense mass of trees edged the narrow road,
which wound in steep curves up the hill. Occasional snowflakes
swirled leisurely through the headlights. There was no traffic on
this seemingly deserted road.

The car reached
the top of the hill where a large building stood, its windows
ablaze with bright lights from inside. Stanley pulled up close to
the entrance and led the girls through the lobby and two large
halls. The entire place was richly decorated and packed with
well-dressed, smiling people. Elegant furniture, china, crystal
glasses, and sparkling flatware added to the ambiance of this
opulent place. When they entered the dining room, a huge picture
window stretched from floor to ceiling like a glass wall, providing
the view of a fenced courtyard, lit by outdoor lamps all around
it.

“Here we are,”
Stanley said, pointing to a table by the window. The two men who
had kept Shelly company in the hotel sat there with one vacant
chair between them.

“Sit down with
us, Shelly,” one of them invited with a smile.

Camilla took
the nicest place at the far end, where she could observe the
snow-covered land outside as well as the warm aura of the dining
hall. On her right sat Stanley. Shelly settled between the two men,
all pink cheeks and shining eyes, happy to be the center of
attention.

A large table
further down the hall was apparently made up of a few smaller ones
that were joined together to accommodate a party of ten men in
their late thirties and early forties. Tough-looking guys, they
studied everyone around with hostile suspicion.

“Some water?”
Stanley asked. Camilla paid attention to his hand, which was
holding a jar. She saw an interesting ring on his finger: a weird
emblem surrounded by small diamonds.

“Yes, please,”
she said, studying the hands of the two guys across the table. They
wore similar rings.

“Anything
wrong?” Stanley asked, filling up her glass.

“You all have
weird rings,” she said. “What do they mean?”

“Anyone having
a ring like that belongs to our club.”

“What
club?”

“A motorcycle
club, the Iron Ghosts.”

“Oh . . . now I
understand.”

Stanley raised
his eyebrows, smiling with lips only; his eyes remained
serious.

“What do you
understand?”

“The TV news I
heard. There was a brawl between two gangs in one of the bars.
That’s where Ogre was wounded?” She spoke in a half-whisper, making
sure that Shelly would not hear anything.

“Right, you
are,” he said in the same tone.

“What made you
chase me on the slope?”

“My guys called
and told me about Ogre when I was standing behind you to take the
last ride on the chairlift. They couldn’t take him to the hospital
because the police would have been involved. We’d had enough of
that crap. We try to avoid them as much as possible. Besides, Ogre
said that the wound was not serious. And then I noticed the nursing
school patch on your backpack. ‘That’s what we need,’ I thought.
When I caught up with you, I noticed that you were much more than a
nurse.”

“What do you
mean?”

“A very pretty,
nice girl. Everything sweet that could be said about a girl.”

“Rascal. You
are gangsters,” Camilla said with a frown of disapproval.

“Not exactly.
Sometimes we do things that the law doesn’t approve of. But we
don’t harm people.”

“Why don’t
those guys have any women among them?” Camilla nodded in the
direction of a large table.

“Because we’re
here to discuss business. I recommend you choose the seafood,
although the steaks are good here, too.”

Camilla glanced
up only to meet the eyes of some of the club members. They regarded
her with apparent interest. She diverted her eyes to the mirror on
the right. Her face was a harmony of colors: natural pink spots of
health on tight, smooth cheeks; large, blue eyes with a seductive
gleam of joy; long, dark eyelashes; smooth, white skin on her
forehead and neck; and the happy smile of a strong, healthy woman,
whose full red lips parted teasingly, showing two rows of white,
even teeth. A gray–white sweater stretched flawlessly over her
shapely breasts and slim waist. She cast her eyes down
contentedly.

“I like you as
I never have any girl before,” Stanley kept talking into her ear.
“With me, you’ll have all the excitement you could ever want.
You’ll have life as you’ve never had or dreamed of before. Say
something. Why don’t you speak?”

Camilla looked
out the window again. The ambience of the restaurant had created a
pleasant, relaxed atmosphere. In the window glass, as in the
mirror, she saw Stanley, looking her up and down, his eyes glowing
with lust and adoration.

“Are you a
leader in this group?” she asked.

“You may say
so,” Stanley agreed. “But it wouldn’t be entirely true. I like
doing things myself. That’s why I would never be a president of the
club. Although I have many people working for me, that’s true.
Why?”

“They look at
me as if I’m your property.”

She turned away
to avoid his piercing stare. He put his palm over her delicate
fingers and caressed them. She did not object. Everyone noticed
what was going on. Shelly exchanged glances and sly smiles with her
companions to the right and left.

“Be with me,”
Camilla heard Stanley saying, his lips close to her ear. “You
dream, I’ll make it happen. Fair deal?”

She cast a
quick glance at Stanley and his hard, sharp profile: He was her
kind of man.

“So, you needed
a nurse for Ogre.”

“Right. But it
turns out to be much more than that. When are you going home?”

“Tomorrow
afternoon. Why?”

“Stay another
night.”

“Where?”

“With me. Stay.
You will never regret it.” When she said nothing, he went on. “I
can do anything for you.”

His presence,
more than his words, excited her. She was no saint in her
relationships with men, but all her affairs had been inspired by
passion; they had never been about quick, casual sex.

“I can’t stay,”
she said firmly. “But I’ll give you my number. We can talk
more.”

Stanley nodded
in consent. He observed her inch by inch, as if she were his own
property, to be taken care of.

II

The cold Quebec
winter turned slowly into a dull, gray spring, which was abruptly
interrupted by the beginning of a hot summer. Young girls were
quick to welcome the return of warm weather by wearing their new
outfits. This was the time of year when everyone was making plans
for vacations and travel. Even the bikers were busy, preparing to
escalate their feuds with other biker gangs.

Marcel had
arranged a meeting on the rooftop garden of a 25-story condominium
building. The garden overlooked the twisting blue ribbon of the
local river and an uneven row of tall hills to the west. A recent
associate of the Devil’s Knights had bought a unit here. The place
was new, in mint condition, and the owner assured Marcel that it
was safe—the cops had not yet installed any recording devices.
Marcel agreed, but intended to observe some precautions anyway.

“Wanna glass?”
the associate asked. He had brought some chairs from his apartment
and arranged them around a table, on which he had placed a few
bottles of beer and some pretzels.

“No. Get inside
and watch the door.”

The associate
obeyed without uttering a sound, and Marcel walked over to the
safety railing that ringed the roof. The peaceful scene of the
rural community across the river soothed him for a few moments. A
short rest in a quiet, distant place with his wife and cute little
girl, he thought, would be a nice, refreshing change from this
madhouse, but there were just too many urgent matters to attend
to.

Marcel turned
around, disturbed by the click of the door latch behind him.
Machete and Stash came onto the rooftop, shook hands with him, and
took seats at the table.

With a quick
twist of his fingers, Stash unscrewed the jagged metal cap from a
beer bottle and let the pressurized gas escape with a brief,
protesting sound. After taking a big swig of the brew, he turned
his head and looked at some of the distant hills basking in the
afternoon sun.

“Nice place,”
he remarked. Marcel and Machete did not comment. Stash looked at
Marcel with watery, tired eyes, darkened with tiny, swollen blood
vessels. Marcel stared back with a disapproving grin.

“Too much coke
lately?” Marcel asked. With some effort, Stash stretched his mouth
into a fake, apologetic smile. His eyes, however, remained
alert.

“C’mon,
Marcel,” he objected, but stopped short of offering any convincing
argument as the door to the rooftop garden squeaked open and
another guest appeared. This was a tall man about forty years old,
very sporty looking. He wore a shirt, opened two buttons down from
the collar, and expensive, casual pants, held up by an equally
expensive belt with a designer buckle. His sturdy black walking
shoes made firm, sure steps as he approached the table and sat down
next to Machete.

“Hi.” He did
not look at anyone in particular.

“Take one,
Techie.” Marcel nodded toward the bottles of beer. The man reached
for one, opened it with a quick twist of deft fingers, and took a
tiny sip. He slowly moved his gaze, examining everyone around the
table. Apparently he did not care about the spectacular view from
the rooftop.

“What’s up?” he
asked. Marcel couldn’t help but notice the difference between
Techie and Machete. Machete was bulky, with a disorderly beard and
long hair, and sat in his usual grim mood. Techie was clean-shaven,
with neatly groomed blond hair. His suntanned face and neck
radiated good health and energy. Marcel did not answer Techie’s
question, but turned his attention back to Stash and continued his
conversation.

“You have to be
alert. Stop it.”

Stash was about
to say something, but Marcel stretched his arm, palm out, as if
pushing off any possible objection. Stash placed his bottle on the
table with an angry bang and straightened his back. Marcel gave him
a warning look and turned to Techie.

“There’s a job
for you,” Marcel said. Techie was an expert in weapons and
explosives, the boss of a well-trained team involved in smuggling
guns from the United States, planting and detonating devices, and
calibrating guns for smooth operation and precision shooting. As
his nickname suggested, Techie had outstanding technical knowledge
and working skill in everything related to firearms. He was the
only one of the Devil’s Knights who did not have a criminal record.
If he had ever committed any crime, it was in the distant past. All
stealing and smuggling was conducted by subordinates, and he made
it clear to everyone on his team that they were not to be messed up
with anything not related to weapons.

“Look . . . ,”
Stash began, but Marcel interrupted him.

“You wanna say
something?” Marcel’s voice was menacing. Techie raised his
eyebrows, forming horizontal wrinkles on his forehead. Machete took
a swig of beer. Stash’s face hardened, his watery eyes regaining
the grim energy of a gangster.

“Don’t you
think we’ve gone far enough with them?” Stash asked. “We’ve paid a
heavy price for fighting. Twelve of our people have already been
killed. Four others are missing. You and I know that they’re dead.
Don’t you think we should talk some sort of truce with them?”

“We’ve killed
twice as many,” Machete echoed curtly. Marcel nodded in
agreement.

“True. I know
that you, Stash, are among those who blame me for this mess. Tell
me, what else are we supposed to do? Do you know the solution? How
would we look in the eyes of everyone around us if we couldn’t cope
with a small, independent group? How would our American brothers
look upon us? Besides, you know these guys. As soon as any sort of
truce was settled, they’d start to expand. Many already look at
them as an alternative to us. No, Stash, forget the truce.”

“They turned
out to be not such a small group,” Stash held his ground. “Look,
they have an endless supply of candidates. You assured us at the
very beginning that as soon as Jason and Stanley were out of sight,
we would easily finish them off. Jason is now in jail, but Stanley
is no less efficient. Do you realize what bigger mess you are
getting us into? Nobody knows what could happen tomorrow.”

“There is no
other way,” Machete interrupted angrily. “We must finish them. With
or without Stanley, they won’t hold out too much longer. They’re in
pretty bad shape. One of their full patches has left the club.
After all, they do not have as much money and support as we
do.”

Marcel made a
gesture, as if wiping dust from an invisible wall in front of
him.