His friend let out a scream, a mixture of terror and rage, and fought to pull his gun from his shoulder holster. I shot him through the chest, then, as his hands flopped, put another round in his open mouth.
By then, Whalen was up, and he knew he was a dead man and went for broke. He lurched at me with his hands going for my neck, intent on crushing the life from me. He’d more chance at killing me if he fell on top and smothered me to death. He wasn’t armed, and I wasn’t happy about killing him in cold blood. But then I thought about Candice Berry, and pictured her children waiting at home for their mom who’d never return to them, and decided, fuck it. I shot Whalen through the heart, three times in quick succession.
He crashed down on his front as I sidestepped his girth. Even if the gunfire hadn’t already woken them, the thump of his body on floorboards would rouse the Thai staff downstairs. Time to get out of there.
Ideally I’d planned gaining an admission from Whalen and his cronies, and though it probably would have ended in them dead, had hoped to rig the scene so that it looked like they’d fallen out and killed each other. Having blasted them all with my gun it meant I had to get rid of the weapon before it was tied back to the scene through forensic investigation and ballistics reports. Pissed me off: I liked that gun.
Holker and Vanmeter would suspect that I was responsible for the deaths of Whalen and his crew, but I was certain that I couldn’t be incriminated. My gun had been stripped to its component parts, the barrel drilled out to destroy the unique rifling, and then each bit deposited out in Hillsborough Bay. Gloves, clothes, and shoes had all been incinerated and I’d scrubbed my hair, face, and body to remove even the tiniest trace of gunshot residue. There was no CCTV footage available, and no one had seen me as I returned to my parked car — or if they had, I got no hint of them. My greatest fear was that one or more of the Thai restaurant staff had got a look at me, but maybe loud noise and crashing weights was a feature they’d come to expect from an upstairs neighbor like Whalen and they’d slept through the entire incident. That, or being largely illegal immigrants, they’d keep their mouths shut for fear the police started digging into their backgrounds.
I didn’t let fear of discovery slow me.
Whalen hadn’t exactly admitted that O’Neill had ordered Candice Berry murdered, but neither had he denied it. His reactions, and outspoken denials, were enough to confirm it to me. Sure, such evidence would never sway a jury in court, but that’s why O’Neill continued to get away with his crimes. Well, no longer. Rink would have been proud of me: I devised a plan.
In the early hours of the following morning, I was standing on Columbia Drive, looking up at the back of O’Neill’s building. I’d kept my word to Holker and hadn’t gone near Channel Drive, but there was no need when there was a back way into the building one block over. To my right I could see the runway lights of Peter O. Knight Airport, but there were no flights taking off or landing. There was no traffic on the roads, and no pedestrians. I walked forward, dressed now in black T-shirt, black combat trousers with bulging pockets, black boots. I’d replaced my SIG Sauer for another one of the same model from one of my stashes throughout the city. Some people have queried why I prefer a 9mm SIG Sauer to other guns. The pat answer is that it’s the gun I’m most familiar with from my days training in the skill of Point Shooting, but that’s only part of the story. See, 44 and .357 rounds are man killers, whereas the smaller 9mm round can’t be relied upon. However, a .44 or .357 will also put a hole right through a man’s torso, and that’s fine if he’s the only one in your line of fire. When I was taking on terrorists, often there were hostages to take into consideration. Last thing you wanted was to plug a terrorist, only for the bullet to also hit the innocent person behind them. I always preferred a 9mm, so that there was less chance of collateral damage.
When William Murray took his one-way flight to earth, there had been two women in O’Neill’s apartment. Long ago I’d promised I’d never willingly make war on women or children — of course that’s a rose-tinted view of the world, because there are some nasty, evil, and dangerous bitches out there — and it was a promise I’d rather keep. If it was avoidable I didn’t want to shoot O’Neill and also kill his girlfriends behind him.
Other residents lived in O’Neill’s building. The ground and next floor up was utilized as office space. Floor three was a communal area. Floors four through fourteen were leased to people with more money than sense. Floor fifteen — in order to promote the privacy of the penthouse suite — had been left vacant. Two elevator shafts gave access, one of which was an express service used strictly by O’Neill and guests. The second elevator only went as far as floor fourteen, but that was close enough for my purposes. I slipped inside the building, avoided the sleeping concierge, and entered the elevator. The car rode smoothly to the fourteenth floor and the doors whispered open.
Although there was only one official route to or from the penthouse, those with fire and safety regulations in mind had other ideas. There was a stairwell that could be accessed via the penthouse, which joined the staircase the other residents of the building would use in the event of a fire or other emergency. On fourteen, a fire door blocked access upward, but could be opened from the other side by anyone fleeing the penthouse by the simple manipulation of push bars. If I’d had a sledgehammer at hand, I could have forced a way through, but that would alert O’Neill that I was coming. Instead, I made my way to a window and slid it open. I leaned out, looked up and saw that there was a similar window to the fifteenth floor six or so feet above my head. The walls were decorated with ornately carved features, and offered hand- and footholds for a daring climber.
Luck and daring was always something I relied upon. I clambered up onto the sill, then inserted my fingertips between two concrete seams and hauled myself up and out. I’ll admit that the climb wasn’t the easiest or even most skillful, but I made it to the next sill a few minutes later. Here, the outer sill was two feet deep and I was able to crouch tight to the side of the building, exposed to anyone on the ground but also relatively safe from a long fall. I’d come prepared for the next obstacle, and took out a glass cutter from my pants pocket. It was a contraption that could be attached to a window by way of a suction cup and had a diamond-tipped scribe at its circumference. Pressing cup to window, I pulled over the lever that caused the cup to concave, create a vacuum to seal it solidly to the glass. Then I wound the handle around a few times. When I tugged on the suction cup it came away, still attached to the circle of glass I’d cut. Then it was a simple task to insert my hand through the gap, throw the catch and shove open the window. I placed the glass cutter and circle of glass in my pocket. And then I was on the stairs and on my way up to O’Neill’s pad.
I could see that the short flight of stairs was rarely used. Dust stood like icing sugar on each step. I didn’t bother avoiding it, but my boots would have to go the way of the ones I’d worn to Whalen’s apartment. I made it to the top and found a featureless door, with no handle. It could only be opened from within O’Neill’s penthouse. That was assuming I wanted to use a door handle. I took out a screwdriver and went to work on the hinges, working out the pins. The door wasn’t a security fixture after all. Once the pins were out, I wedged the screwdriver into each hinge in turn, giving each a gentle twist to break the friction of the workings. Afterward I listened, checking that I hadn’t raised the alarm.