Chapter Six

Suddenly, Rico’s feet seemed to stagger. A heavy thud vibrated the floor where he laid as Rico's massive frame hit the floor. His head dropped to the floor a few inches from the closet door. The noise came as sharp and loud as it could be to the dark man, who had his ear to the ground. He got up, swung the door open, and crossed over the body into the room. He moved to the wet bar, drained the remaining whiskey in the bottle, and rinsed the tumbler.

Then, sliding his gun into his pocket, he hoisted the massively built body over his shoulder. He moved with difficulty across the room and dropped the body on the bed. He arranged the body, lifted its head, and pulled the pillow under it. His eyes caught the wedding ring on Rico's finger, and he grunted.

He moved to the wet bar, picked up Rico's gun. He checked how many slugs were in it.

Three.

He crossed to the bedside drawers. As he drew the top drawer open, he heard a soft creak and smiled his crooked smile. Things seemed to benefit him.

His fingers closed over the silencer in the drawer. Taking the silencer with him, he tiptoed across the room, climbed onto the wet bar, and propped himself against the corner. He screwed the silencer to Rico's gun as he waited. Just as he finished, he saw the door handle turn slowly.

A voice called out in a whisper, “It is me, Jamie.”

The man, having discovered the door was locked, called out again.

“Jamie? Jamie?”

There was a pause, then the dark man heard soft clicking noises. He guessed he was picking the lock. Before long, he heard the lock turn. He readied himself.

The door handle turned slowly and eased open a few inches. The voice called again. “Jamie? Jamie?”

The door opened wider, and a man peered cautiously into the room. Seeing nothing, he edged in cautiously, his gun moving before him.

As he moved past the door, he felt the barrel of a cone-shaped silencer touch the back of his head.

He stood still.

…

“Don't make any rash movement. Just drop the gun.” A voice behind him said in a smooth, deceptive mildness.

Pascal's face hardened, and he let the gun drop to the floor a few inches away from his leg.

“Kick the gun away, Pascal,” the voice whispered.

He did as he was told, and the man behind ran his hand over him. The barrel of the silencer bumping against the back of his head as the man frisked him.

The dark man pulled out and threw across the room the two daggers tucked into his pants and held by his waistband.

As all this was going on, Pascal dug into his memory. There was something about the voice which sounded familiar. That this man knew his name...

“I'm not here to kill anyone, Pascal.” The voice brought him out of his search. “I’m after some files. As you can see, your master's fast asleep. I've searched, but can't find them here. I reckon it's going to be in the agency, so you'll drive me there now.”

The man behind, motioned him out of the room with the barrel of the silencer tapping gently on the back of his head. Even though the gun was so close to his head, he noticed the man was at a distance.

He slowed his pace, trying to draw the man closer, but the silencer pushed him forward, and he moved on.

“This is going to be so much waste of time. Rico keeps no file in the agency.”

“I will confirm that after I've searched. Now, fast with your legs and do nothing rash. Remember, there's a silencer to this gun. I might pull the trigger even if I feel threatened.” The dark man chuckled.

Pascal stifled a shudder. Again the voice, that chuckle. It was all too familiar, and again, his mind groped into the past but failed to pinpoint its proprietor.

They crossed the corridor, and as they got into the foyer, a key thrown forward landed a few feet before his legs. He felt the man behind him withdraw.

“Get the door open.” The voice came from behind.

As he bent to pick the key, the dark man's voice came again with its deceptive mildness, but this time with a little chuckle.

“Be careful, Pascal, try nothing brave or smart. It wouldn't be an exciting experience for me to drill a hole in the back of your head.”

Pascal remained motionless. That chuckle had a way of unnerving him. It reminded him of a sanatorium. He felt a chill of icy fear run up his spine. He realized the man behind must have sensed what he was up to, and attempting to steady his shaken nerve, he said, “You can chuckle all you want now, you've got the upper hand. But, I advise you, hold on to it. For when I take it, you will find nothing more to chuckle about.”

“Don't talk too tough, baby boy. I might get scared,” the dark man said with a false quaver. “Now, get that door open!”

Pascal picked up the key, and as he turned the key in the lock, his mind made another frantic effort at placing the voice. He had a poor memory, his mom had always told him. Well, now he agreed. But of one thing he was sure, whoever owned this voice was as lethal as it.

He contemplated turning round to glimpse at the man, but the knowledge of the gun pointing toward his spine dismissed the thought from his head as fast as it came.

Ten years in the drug business, and he counted himself lucky that up till this day, he had recorded no bullet wound, but secretly, he dreaded the day when he would have to put one, two, or more down in the register of his memory.

The lock clicked open, and as his fingers moved to turn the handle, he suddenly realized a shadow had fallen on the door, and the barrel of the silencer dug again into the back of his head.

“Careful Pascal, I don't want you running out into the corridor.”

He hadn’t heard the man creep up on him, and that movement did a lot to his nerves. He took a breath, swung open the door, and both men edged out of the foyer. The dark man picking up the Lincoln Navigator’s key from the top of the small table, which stood close to the double doors. He closed the door behind him, and they crossed to the elevator.

With the gun ramming against Pascal's spine, the elevator whisked them to the underground garage.