For the Thrill Page 2

  Was it possible to miss the adrenalin high of murder and still claim some humanity?

  Kite spared me. “Forget it,” he sighed, looking over my head. Turning, I saw what he did; a crowd was forming, eager half-dressed women who were ready to have some fun. Slamming the bottle onto the table, he gave me a gentle shove. “It doesn't matter. I'm ready to give this 'celebrating' thing a fucking shot.”

  I said... something. It was a pointless, encouraging babble to make him believe I would forget what he'd asked me. That was what we both liked to do. Enough substances in your brain, your veins, and you could forget all sorts of junk. At least, for a little while.

  Glancing over, I studied the Johnny Walker. Half the bottle of whiskey was gone. Yes, if we wanted to try and emulate that bloodlust of a high...

  Well. We'd need much more alcohol than this.

  - Chapter One -

  Marina

  I couldn't stop shaking.

  From the outside, my sweating face and sour-milk skin would have looked like fear. That was normal, right? When you were standing there, watching a man who seconds ago had been alive and was now solidly dead on the grass... you got scared.

  But I wasn't.

  I was trembling with excitement.

  You have to understand, and if I explain, I bet you will. That man—a man I'd followed for over a week and had learned was named Frankie the Razor—was going to be the first man I ever killed.

  True, I hadn't had a plan... but I was going to make one. Once I figured it out, the frail looking middle aged man would have been the start of my revenge. I still didn't understand, though, how this had happened. How the monster I'd secretly watched as he and his friend butchered my family was now lying stiff on the ground.

  The tip of my toe touched something; the remains of a fallen hotdog.

  Around me, people were screaming. My ears heard it, the mayhem, but I was still in shock. The ruckus came at me from years away, not affecting me while I stood near the body. He wasn't breathing, I thought he'd stopped before he hit the ground. Was that possible?

  It had all gone down so fast. I'd been following Frankie, keeping my distance because that was what you did, if all the crime shows were to be believed. He was here to watch the marathon, I thought. Or maybe he was just strolling in the park. I couldn't know what was normal for him.

  The sun was still shining, the beautiful day contrasting with the murder scene. I saw the blood, it was seeping from his shirt in a giant milky way. Some had begun pooling on the grass.

  A hand shoved me, paramedics shouting for everyone to move. They crouched, examining Frankie and touching him with their hands and gear. They could have known just looking at his wide, glassy eyes. The man was dead.

  And I'd seen it happen.

  The guy in the grey coat. I hadn't spotted him until he bumped into Frankie. The figure had materialized from no where. Then came the tip of the gun, knuckles that had been bone white and covered with tattoos. In my moment of pure amazement, I'd actually read them. Swim. His tattoo said 'swim' across his hand.

  The announcer had shot his pistol. I hadn't heard the other gun, just a few feet away from me, fire. No one had. But unlike everyone else, I hadn't looked away.

  I was the only witness to a murder.

  The crowd was all over now, shoving to get close, cameras flashing photos of the grizzly corpse. Police were threading through, waving folks to retreat, asking if anyone had seen what had gone down.

  Lifting my chin, I pushed the chocolate brown hair from my eyes. In this city, cops and I were not friends. Not any longer. Maybe never.

  They hadn't been there for my Dad when he went to them about being threatened by a local gang. I was too young, at the time, to know he'd tried. I'd only learned later, after years of therapy when I'd begun looking into the horrific incident. That memory I both craved to forget and forced myself to remember every day.

  The police had done nothing back then.

  They'd never pressed charges or fingered anyone in the killings. For years, the case went cold.

  And, just last week when I'd gone to them after stumbling across Frankie, knowing I recognized him as one of the men from the murder, the cops I met with had warned me away. They hadn't even been subtle. One of them, a fat guy with too many freckles, had proposed a question to me. “If the men who killed your family and got away with it, find out you're trying to press charges now, what do you think will happen to you? They've left you alone so far. Why not forget all of this and live a little longer?”

  Even if he was right, there was no way I would forget.

  “If you have any information,” a cop was shouting, “please come forward! Did anyone see anything, anything at all?”

  Ducking my eyes, I turned on my heel. My steps were fast, though I had no clue where I was going. Frankie was dead... someone—someone other than me—had killed him. That man with the tattoos. His sharp jaw, fine eyebrows and thunderstorm pupils.

  Who was he? I wondered, burying my hands in my pockets in spite of the heat. Someone as efficient as that, he had to be experienced. Had Frankie betrayed him, angered him? Was there a motive to the killing?

  My world was a wreck. Revenge, it was all I'd had on my mind since I'd seen Frankie's scraggly mug by the post office. Serendipity had put him in my path. He hadn't recognized me, but he couldn't have. I'd been a six year old hiding in a closet, and the police had taken care not to plaster my face all over the news while they investigated the slaughter of my parents and older sister.

  Life had been a blur... until then. Finding Frankie had given me purpose, even if it was a vicious one. I knew nothing about how to kill, but I planned to end Frankie's life. It wasn't so simple, though. It had taken sixteen years to come across one of the assholes who was to blame for ruining my happiness. I needed Frankie to tell me where to find his accomplice.

  In my memory—my nightmares—I recalled him being gigantic, muscular. Dead eyes that held nothing, and a terrible smile that was missing a tooth. No name, nothing of use.

  I'd needed Frankie to lead me to him.

  Now, the skinny man was useless. My revenge had been swept aside in seconds. I need to find him, I realized. Not the gap-toothed monster, but the 'swim' tattooed man who moved like a panther. He had to know something. It was my only fragment to the puzzle.

  Stomping down the busy sidewalk in the city, the sirens of cop cars in my ears, I knew what I would do. No matter how long it could take... I would find the guy from the park. I'd ask around in tattoo shops, in bars, on street corners. Someone would have to know who he was.

  Swim—as I'd begun dubbing him—would be found in time. I'd waited sixteen years to grasp revenge.

  I could wait a little longer.

  ****

  The news stations wouldn't shut up about the murder.

  That was good, honestly. I listened to every station, flipped channels in my apartment and scrounged the internet. Newspapers piled up and covered everything. It only took a few days before they said the word that would turn my heart into a propeller.

  Hitman.

  The kill had been too precise, too fast. The burn from the barrel on the cloth and skin, a close up attack. The cops said they were sure.

  Frankie was part of a notorious gang in the city; the Copper Blades. He had enemies, and his enemies had money. Someone had organized a hit on him.

  “Holy shit,” I said to myself. Sitting up on my couch, shoving aside paper stacks, I grabbed a notebook. There were too many things crowding into my skull. I wanted to write them down so I could make a plan.

  In scribbling ink, I jotted down 'swim' across a rough drawing of a set of knuckles. Tapping my chin, I scraped my brain for every sliver of detail about the man. Reddish hair, I'd seen it burning in the sun around his scalp like a halo. He'd looked young, maybe my age. Light skin, pretty tall—taller than Frankie—and those onyx eyes.

  He had a little bluetooth on his ear, I suddenly recalled. I didn't recognize
the model, I'd never bothered buying one of those things. Granted, I didn't have a boatload of people fighting to call me, and I wasn't so busy that I needed my hands free just to chat—or to pull a trigger.

  I lived a pretty simple life. For cash, I helped out with online data entry for hospitals. The money I'd inherited from my father's burned business had dwindled over the years. The leftovers, all fifteen grand of it, were sitting in my bank.

  Yeah. After they'd killed him, they'd also burned down his shop.

  My neck hurt from how hard I shook my head. Stop, not now, I told myself. Focus on this. Think about the bad shit later. As if I had a choice. It'd haunt me when I slept.

  Turning the page, I chewed my pen. Write down everything, Marina. Every detail. So I noted the day it had happened, June sixth. The attack was exactly when the marathon had started. I didn't know the time offhand, but the papers claimed three pm was when the shooting occurred. It was all the information I had. Most of it was just for me.

  On a fresh piece of paper, I drew the knuckles with 'swim' on them once more. This was what I would show people. I wanted to find this guy, this hitman, but I didn't want him or anyone to suspect why.

  I wasn't a killer—yet—but I knew the importance of surprise.

  ****

  That day, when I left my apartment to begin my hunt, I assumed it would take me awhile to find the Swim-Man. I couldn't have predicted exactly how long. That after spending day after day walking the streets, exploring the hundreds of shops and bars in the city, it would take eight months to get a lead. Eight months, on the dot. The news had stopped talking about Frankie by July. Anyone else might have given up trying.

  Vengeance is a pretty intense motivator.

  Licking my lips, I reached up to take the paper back from the inked shopkeeper behind the counter. “I'm sorry, say that again?”

  “I said those look like Kite's knuckles. Yeah, I remember because of the time he and I got wasted and I challenged him to a bloody knuckles contest.” Snorting, the bald man folded his arms. “It was a stupid as hell decision. Guy didn't back down, tore me up. Like I said, stupid of me.”

  A vibrating tremor inched up from my knees to my lungs. Kite. His name is Kite. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  Shrugging into his ears, the guy pointed out the door. “Well, him and his friend Jacob own a bar down on Northline. The Corner Velvet, ever hear of it?”

  I hadn't. “No,” I said quickly. “Can you give me the address?” I tried to soften my excitement.

  Suspicion filled the man's face. “Sure thing.” Reaching into his pocket, he grabbed a scrap of paper and scratched out the information. If he was curious about my purpose, he never asked. He simply gave me the address and waved me off, perhaps deciding that if I had any serious plans for Kite, he didn't want to get involved.

  That was good.

  Because the plans I had were as serious as they could get.

  - Chapter Two -

  Jacob

  I flicked my finger across the touch screen. There was something about the tactile sensation, the way my stimulation could cause something on the other side of a glass panel to react. Technology had always impressed me. One of the first things I'd bought when money started to flow was a computer tablet.

  My habit, every morning, was to read the news. Papers had been fine for that, but the internet was truly leagues ahead. Sorry, but ink couldn't compare. When you needed to instantly know if anyone was suspicious of a death or on your tail... you just needed that little search engine to warn you.

  When the news had broke that the police suspected Frank Montego was the target of a contract killer, my blood had gone sour. It wasn't a hard connection to make, and Kite and I had known the risk in performing our last kill like we had. He'd called it an homage to a favorite movie of his. Seeing as it was our last hit, and it felt deceptively safe, I didn't argue.

  Every day, the refresh key on my tablet was my watch dog. After July fifth, the news stopped playing the murder story entirely. Silence meant one thing; no leads.

  Kite and I were safe.

  Of course, the habit never breaks. Even now, reclining on my sofa in the bright lights of a particularly nice morning in February, I browsed for the man's name. Paranoia is a seed with deep roots.

  Still nothing, I thought, satisfied. Lifting my coffee, I sipped. The notes of caramel were welcome on my tongue. Stretching out my legs, I crossed them at the ankles.

  It would be a good day.

  Glancing at the time, I debated calling Kite. Just to check in on him. Last night, he'd finished a whole bottle of Jack on his own. Never mind the body shots he'd sucked out of the array of girls he'd thrown money at.

  Right, I sighed mentally. Kite will be asleep until the afternoon. Setting my tablet aside, I stretched to my full height with a yawn. I could use a break away from the guy. He'd been insisting I come with him to this or that, dragging me from my apartment at all hours. It was hard to avoid him, he lived on the floor below.

  Flexing my hands, I meticulously washed out my mug, replacing it in the cupboard where it belonged. My highrise apartment was immaculate. Hard wood floors cool on my bare feet, pale green walls and marble counter tops. You barely had to lift your head to see the city through the giant glass windows. Like I said, I have high standards.

  The rug in my bedroom was plush. I stepped across, grabbing my duffel bag from the wide closet. It was heavy from more than just my workout gear.

  Changing into some freshly pressed trousers, I guided a belt through the loops, buckled in. A long sleeved grey button-down came next, the bright sapphire of my tie accenting my eyes. The shoes were always the same; mirror polished and unscuffed.

  I capped it all off with a heavy, charcoal pea-coat. I looked ready for a day as a venture capitalist, not for the run-of-the-mill errands I had planned.

  Hoisting my duffel bag, I snatched my wallet and keys and brushed out the door.

  The hallway of the posh apartment was quiet. Kite and I had picked this building for a few reasons. One, well, it was fucking beautiful—pardon my language. But two, in spite of the expense put into it, they never actually recorded a thing on their cameras. That meant, for us, we could come and go at any time without being taped.

  There were also no security guards, unlike most of the buildings in the city. That was the second bonus. I, like many people, didn't want to deal with someone talking to me every time I tried to go into the parking garage or take a quick jog.

  The building advertised it as 'enhanced privacy.' In a city full of people with money and secrets, things far more innocent than murder, it was easy to justify the apartment's decisions. And, of course, I appreciated them greatly.

  It was a fancy building stuffed with recluses who wanted nothing to do with each other.

  Ideal for Kite and me.

  You could exit the building a number of ways. I knew all of them. The elevator was the fast, less sneaky way. There were no cameras recording, as I said. But, in the elevator, there was someone monitoring in case something went wrong. Not always, but consistent enough that the stairs were often the better route.

  Not today, though.

  Today it was a cheerful Wednesday, and I had normal errands like a normal person and nothing to hide from. I hadn't needed to be stealthy in... some time. Shit, eight months now, I thought suddenly. That long, and I still couldn't shake the habit of being prepared.

  I'd told Kite that things would change, and I'd been right. However, the personality ticks I'd developed over years of having to be precise and cunning had formed deep grooves in my brain. Water drops, eroding away at stone for eons; the damage was done.

  The elevator 'dinged' happily. Walking into the garage, I made a beeline for my car. Silver, angled, expensive. I scanned for Kite's—just to make sure he was in the building. I wasn't his keeper, but I'd felt like a big brother to him since we were kids. Which was sort of funny, since he was actually six months older.

  Spot
ting the sunset orange Mercedes-Benz, I nodded imperceptibly. You might wonder, how could I be sure Kite had returned? Again, I know him like I know the exact amount of cold water needed to make the best cup of coffee.

  Kite had taken his car with him last night. He also never, ever let anyone else drive it. Honestly, if anything impressed me, it was that he'd parked it as well as he had. I'd seen him when the partying began, and when I'd called it around midnight, he was just getting started. I shouldn't judge, and I try not to. What Kite did with himself was mostly his own business. If it didn't put us both at risk of having our unsavory pasts uncovered, the guy could do whatever he felt like.

  It was just... I worried.

  Climbing into my car, I revved the engine and let the subtle tremors shake me in my seat. Driving fast was impossible downtown. The initial pumping of the gas, motor snarling, was as close as I'd get in the city limits to that sensation of flying. Occasionally, I took a drive on the highway going no where. It let me feel the freedom of zipping faster than twenty-five miles an hour.

  A year back, I'd gone all out and taken a trip to Germany just to cruise the Autobahn. It had spoiled me forever.

  Pulling out of the garage, I headed down Cedar street and towards my first stop. The time on my car's CD player blinked blue, telling me it was only ten twenty-five. Early enough that I'd beat the lunch break rush at the bank. I had great patience, but I hated waiting in lines.

  My tires rubbed over the speed bump, lights flashing as I parked easily at a meter. Gripping my luggage, I unzipped it at my feet. There was a simple brown envelope inside, the thickness satisfying. I couldn't take the whole duffel bag inside. I knew about the metal detectors.

  The city—the world—had grown terrified of random shootings. Serial killers, gang attacks, you name it. Guns were the enemy. It amazed me how the news narrowed in on all that. The fighting between politicians about gun laws and security and this method versus that. The spotlights were on bullets. I didn't mind the misdirection.