Gideon pulled off three rapid shots. One found Señor Rodríguez’s chest, hit his bulletproof vest. The second shot found his neck. Before the blood could spurt, the third shot hit Señor Rodríguez’s head, left blood and brain matter decorating the wall and people behind him.
Medianoche pulled his wet overcoat to the side, the material heavy, slowing him as he hoisted out his third gun. Gideon whipped back, shot him twice, both shots striking center mass. Medianoche fell, the velocity of the bullets hitting him like a baseball going one hundred miles per hour, taking him off his feet.
Gideon saw he wasn’t down.
By the time Medianoche had his weapon and his balance, Gideon had escaped into the next car, fled through the crowd. And as the train slowed down, Medianoche caught a view of Gideon taking to the open window and leaping off the train into a wasteland of mud, bottles, and debris. In that section, the drop wasn’t far. The train was only about three feet higher than the area that led to the platform. Medianoche shoved people out of his path, pushed them to the floor as he rushed to get to a window. He yanked the window up as far as it would go, a frigid hard wind pushing a freezing rain inside. The train was slowing down, but it was too late for him to jump. The terrain had changed, the train now twenty feet aboveground, iron rails and other objects appearing as the train slowed down. If he jumped now, he would jump into a vertical bar or a concrete pole, break his neck or his spine.
The train eased into the station; terrified passengers crowded against the door, ready to escape. Low-class apartments with clothes hanging on patios had passed by on the journey; the same for clay tennis courts and a disco called The Roxy. Now there were only two tracks. Medianoche saw where he was as the largest mosque in South America and two gigantic markets, Jumbo and Easy, came into view. He was near Jumbo Palermo Commercial Center. Avenida Bullrich and Cerviño. The racetracks of Palermo Hipódromo were not far away.
Medianoche looked at the dead woman. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were open. She was looking up in the air. Dead. Then he looked at her screaming, crying, traumatized, mourning
hijos
and
hijas
. In combat, he had seen that sight more times than he could count.
The consequences of war never changed.
War fathered many orphans. Gave birth to many widows and widowers.
He paused. In war, they never left the dead or wounded. The Taliban always removed the bodies of the wounded and the dead. So did al-Qaeda. So did the United States.
But he didn’t have a choice.
The terrified man who had been shot in the leg stared like he would remember him.
Medianoche shot the man the way he wanted to shoot Gideon.
Once in the eye.
Lights out. Memory removed.
Medianoche stepped over the body of his dead soldier, then left the train with the panicked crowd. He bolted toward the back of the train, jumped down into the tracks, raced back in the direction Gideon had leapt out of the window. Ran through wind and rain, ran over uneven tracks, his gun in his hand, expecting to be fired on at any moment, ready to return fire. He had seen Gideon move like a cat and jump out the window of a moving train. That fucker had to be injured. He could be down in the mud, broken glass and bottles, cut to pieces from his fall. His leg could be broken. Or he could be unconscious. Ready to be taken away and questioned.
Ninety seconds and a quarter mile later, Medianoche was back at the area where Gideon had bailed. Medianoche moved across the ground, hot sweat mixing with the cold rain. He felt a throbbing in his knees, his breathing labored from the sprint down the uneven and littered railway.
Gideon was gone, the ground too wet to show any tracks.
Palermo Parks, that big complex of parks, wasn’t too far. So were rose gardens and artificial lakes. Another hub of activity led toward Santa Fe and Plaza Italia.
Gideon had a hundred ways to flee.
Medianoche reached inside his pocket, pulled out the tracker.
It was amber. Not green. That son-of-a-whore Gideon was in the area. But the package wasn’t near here, not near Palermo. The package hadn’t been on the goddamn train.
His gut instinct told him that it had never left the station at Retiro.
Medianoche didn’t give a fuck about a kid who had been yanked out of the cunt of a whore. Especially one who lied and claimed he had come from the juice in his nuts.
Fucking mind games from a young fucker who trembled like he had mental issues.
A fucker who had fucked up and killed a soldier.
A loyal soldier.
Gideon had killed a Horseman.
Nobody killed a Horseman and lived to talk about it.
Nobody.
Mouth bloodied, chest aching from the impact of the two bullets that failed to open his chest, head throbbing from being beaten by a young punk’s gun, Medianoche bolted through the mud and debris, brain about to explode, a vicious hunter tracking his prey.
Chapter 36
crimes of the father
Once upon a time
I killed an assassin named Midnight.
Years ago I killed Midnight to protect the pedophilic mother who made me a killer.
That was back when I was seven years old.
But Midnight wasn’t dead. The man I’d been told was my father had risen from his grave.
My mother had been strangled, was dying right in front of my face. Picking up the gun. Pulling the trigger. The sensation that ran through my body when the gun discharged. Midnight’s head jerking back. His body falling to the floor. The thud from his body dropping echoing between my ears. I was seven. But I was no longer seven. I was every sin I had committed all at once.
Shooting my father had made me a killer. Had given met the honorable feeling that came with exacting a righteous death. Had taught me that some people deserved to die.
Traumatic memories alternated, bombarded me like punches.
Oedipus the King.
Thirty minutes later I’d made it to the barrio called Belgrano, the boulevard crowded. I was alert as I moved through a chilling rain. I heard sirens in the distance. Trepidation motivated my wounded stride. Couldn’t stop sweating. Body temperature was high enough to set my clothes on fire.
As the assassin called Hawks would say, I was STFO.
A vibration in my pocket caused my trigger finger to get excited and my heartbeat to speed up.
Cell phone. The Motorola. The blackmail phone.
That fucker really had bad timing. I didn’t want to answer, but I did.
I snapped, “What do you want now?”
“Busy?”
“Always busy.”
First a pause, then the electronic voice. “Is the money ready to be transferred?”
“One, it’s not the fucking deadline.”
“We’re aware of that. Needed to make sure all was falling into place.”
“And two, the information hasn’t been received.”
“It was sent.”
“Well, it wasn’t fucking received.”
“It was fucking sent.”
“What, are my fucking words not coming through? It wasn’t received. So resend.”
“I will resend, but there will be a fucking administrative cost for doing so.”
“Administrative cost?”
“The price just went up to two and a half million. Keep being an asshole. The numbers will go up as the clock counts down on you. All I have to do is push one button. One button.”
“One button.”
“All I have to do is use one finger, push one button.”
“One finger.”
“That’s all it will take. And your life will change forever.”
“It changed when you made the first phone call.”
“And it will take two point five to get it back to where you want it.”
“After this is done, how will I know you won’t send the information to worldwide law enforcement anyway? What guarantee do I get? You know who I am, and I have no idea who you are. So, if you ask me, this thing is a little off balance, tilted in your favor.”
“Guess you’ll have to trust me.”
“I’ll have to trust a thief.”
“From the mouth of a man who murders.”
“For thieves and politicians who don’t have the balls to do it themselves.”
“So you say.”
“Would love to chitchat, but I’m on the clock and I have to run.”
“Where you off to?”
“I’ve got work to do.”
“Well, work hard, kill enough to have the money ready to be transferred.”
I hung the phone up. Didn’t have time to deal with that shit. And if this day didn’t end in my favor, nothing on that end would matter, not at all. At least not for me.
My thoughts weren’t on the Lebanese, not on the patsy at Starbucks in Miami, not on being blackmailed for two and a half million U.S. dollars. Not on Arizona being pregnant. Not on Scamz.
Every thought was on Midnight.
On the man they called Medianoche.
I put the Motorola away and took out the iPhone. Shook my head. There wasn’t any time to call Catherine. Not when I knew I was on the run. Didn’t know what I’d say. I wanted to know if she knew that Midnight was alive, if she’d known all along, if that lie was another one of her lies used to manipulate me. Too much on my mind. No time to pull up the cameras at the house. Not when bullets could fly in my direction at any moment.
I had to stay focused in order to stay alive, had to keep moving in case the city was looking for me, had to call and make sure Arizona had gotten away from the station at Retiro.
The Queen of Scamz answered on the first ring. “Gideon?”
“I made it out.”
“I intercepted that call from your blackmailer. Heard the conversation.”
“Were they still in Memphis?”
“They’re still in Memphis. They went back to Arkansas and Mississippi but came back to Memphis.”
“Whoever it is, they’re on the move.”
“Maybe they are in the same business you’re in.”
“Or the business you’re in.”
I battled with rage, disbelief, and guilt.
Staying on that train and waiting for Midnight had pulled innocent people into this deadly game of chess. A woman had been killed in front of her children. In front of strangers.
Arizona had entered the car on one train, moved through the crowd and hurried down a door and exited the train on the opposite side. She had mixed with the people who’d just arrived at Retiro, headed back toward the station, held her belly with one hand and the briefcase with the other. Konstantin had his eyes on her, was waiting for her, kept her moving until they made it back into the mouth of the protest. Alvin and Konstantin were already at Retiro when we arrived, had made it there about ten minutes before we had. That was our designated bailout point. But the protest changed everything. We would’ve dumped our car and hurried into theirs, but they had been blocked in by the demonstration. That altered our plans. We took the package to the train. It was Alvin’s swift punch that staggered the assassin who had followed us onto the train. He had thrown a phantom blow like the one that had put Liston on the mat. And while the merc staggered, I’d gutted him and eased him back into a seat. Alvin had walked out the opposite side of the train too, a large man in a crowd of not-so-large people.
Konstantin and Shotgun had done what I’d told them, had gotten Arizona out of the area.
I’d told them to keep moving and not look back. Had them remain silent until I called.
If I lived long enough. At that moment I was being driven by some other force.
Arizona said, “I’m with Konstantin and Shotgun.”
“No one came after you?”
“We’ve been on the move. Konstantin kept us moving.”
“How long have you been where you are?”
“We just walked into this location. Where are you?”
“Avenida Federico Lacroze. Heading toward 3 de Febrero.”
“You’re close.”
“Stay alert. Will meet you at the rendezvous.”
I turned the phone off.
Left leg aching, clothing muddied, scratches on my face, I limped by a train platform, saw a crowd, looked up to make sure no Horsemen were on the platform looking for me. I had made it to the Colegiales stop on the city line. Looked around, hand on gun, evaluated the crowd.
I had to stop for a moment. Had to catch my breath. Had to shake off the pain in my leg.
I’d killed one of those psychotic bastards. The one they called Rodríguez was dead.
And I’d had a chance to kill the one they called Medianoche.
Should’ve left his brains decorating the walls of that train.
Didn’t matter who he was. Or if he’d risen three days after I had killed him the first time.
I didn’t know him. He was nothing to me. As Catherine . . . as Thelma was nothing to him.
I should’ve killed him again. Should’ve taken head shots, not body shots.
Had to focus. Had to stay alert. Had to stay alive under these dismal South American skies. I mixed with the crowd, caught the light up at Avenida Cabildo. I saw motorcyclists and moved out of sight. Two of the Horsemen had been on motorcycles. There was a fourth one. The Beast. I hadn’t crossed paths with him yet. Had no idea what he looked like.
If he wasn’t present, that told me who was babysitting their half of the package.
Or he had a sensor and was shadowing the package we had.
But I knew that it wasn’t about the package anymore. Not for me.
Midnight. Medianoche. A ruthless mercenary.
His blood, my blood. Or so I had been told.
His face, scarred, battered, aged. And he’d returned from the dead.
I kept moving. Pain slowed me down but didn’t stop me. There was sweat, mud, and rain inside my clothes and shoes. I’d rinsed my face well enough, but my clothes were as murky as my mind.
An entrance for the green line Olleros subte station was on every corner of the bustling intersection of the shop-filled street. There were signs for Esso, Standard Bank, and Claro standing sentry over the avenue in the middle-class section of the barrio. I had looked up again, afraid a sniper might be waiting on a roof, covered in camouflage, nothing exposed but the barrel of his rifle, the way I had taken more than a few people out in the past. Or standing in the next shadow. I’d never gone up against anything like The Four Horsemen. They weren’t untrained rappers or vindictive politicians. They were merciless. They’d killed two officers in the dimness of the morning, had killed strangers on a train. Only a fool wouldn’t be afraid. People moved like trails of ants. I hurried across the street, past Forrest Gump Bar Café, past businesses and apartments. On the corner at 3 de Febrero was a two-level Starbucks.