Free Dead and Gone by Andrew Vachss Page A

were pros, Dmitri. They just got a little unlucky. And a couple of them got dead.”
    “Ah. This I have not heard.”
    “Okay, who was it who hired you?”
    “That I could not say.”
    “You mean, won’t say, right?”
    “It would be bad business. They were clients. They paid for a service. I delivered that service. I have a reputation.”
    “Me, too.”
    “Yes. You are a professional, as I am. I don’t believe you would attempt to kill me in my own place. And, anyway, what would you kill me for? I am not going to tell you their names. And you’re alive.…”
    “They killed my dog.”
    “Your …  dog?”
    “My dog,” I said, willing the trembling out of my voice. I wouldn’t say her name in front of this … professional. “So that’s enough. For me, anyway. Enough for me to blast you right here. Either you give up the names, or I pull the trigger.”
    “That is a child’s bluff,” Dmitri said gently, spreading his hands wide. “I am sorry, Burke. But you—”
    The explosion sucked all the sound out of the room in its wake. Dmitri slammed back into the wall, gut-shot. I stepped out of the wheelchair, hit the switch on the armrest, took a deep breath, and walked around to where Dmitri lay on the floor. He looked dead. I put three rounds into his face. His head bounced on the floor. When it came to rest, his brains were outside his skull.
    The compartment under the wheelchair was spewing thick yellow smoke. I stepped through it and saw two men with Uzis standing in the entranceway to the restaurant. As soon as I emerged, they started blasting away—shooting high, the spray keeping everyone on the ground. I walked toward them, then between them, and jumped into the passenger seat of the van. The engine was running, the van was already in gear, the driver holding his foot on the brake … and a semi-auto in his hand. The spray-team piled in behind me, and the van took off.
    We never even heard a siren.
    I carefully removed the clear plastic shrouding from my fingernails, one by one. Then I started soaking my right hand in a jar of kerosene—revolvers really spread their powder residue around. The dismembered pistol was already on its way to an acid bath.
    I felt like a man who’d just worked a long shift at a lousy job. The same job that would be waiting on me tomorrow.
    I went back to being dead. Stayed deep underground. Spent every day working out, harder and harder. It was nearing Christmas by the time I heard from the Mossad man.
    “His name is Anton.”
    “The new boss?”
    “Yes. But not easily, not without bloodshed. Some of Dmitri’s old crew have moved on. The new organization is smaller.”
    “And this Anton, he’s not ex-military?”
    “No,” the Mossad man replied. “He’s an ex-convict. A career criminal.”
    Like me , flickered in my thoughts before it blinked out. “Thank you,” is all I said.
    “W ho is this?” The voice on the phone was hard and weaselish at the same time.
    “My name doesn’t matter,” I told him. “I’m the one who sent you that present … the one wrapped in green paper with a red ribbon.”
    “Ah!” he grunted. “What is it that you want?”
    “You got the present. The ten grand was in exchange for a piece of information.”
    “What information?” he asked, suspicion dominating. “Nothing about you. Or your crew. Dmitri dealt with some people a few months ago. I know he kept records. I know you have those records. All I want is their name and address.”
    “How would I know which—?”
    “They were a married couple. Russians. Not in the business. She was a doctor, he was a scientist. Their child had been kidnapped.”
    “How much is this information worth to you?”
    “Ten thousand dollars, Anton. And I already paid you.”
    “I think it is maybe worth more.”
    So he already knew. “Maybe it is worth twice that,” I came back, surprising him.
    He paused, then responded, “Agreed.”
    “Okay. You already have half in front