Crueler - (Nassau Pt. 1)

NASSAU

*

The yacht was gorgeous. A Ferretti Altura 690 with brown trim and sleek white decks. Crueler had done his homework. The vessel was sixty-nine feet long. It comfortably accommodated eighteen passengers. Three thousand, eight-hundred liters of fuel. It drifted in the Prince George Wharf among enormous cruise vessels brimming with over-stimulated tourists, the aquamarine waves lifting it gently and setting it back down. Dark text on the bow of the vessel read:

Delilah

Crueler put the binoculars down on the empty passenger seat. Empty leather passenger seat. He’d acquired the 2005 Thunderbird convertible at a rental place and disabled the tracking devices they put in these things right after he drove away. Hadn’t gone to his hotel yet.
But God, the island was gorgeous. Aesthetically, the place was unmatched. The weather was just about perfect, although a squall was supposed to be coming in tonight and it just barely darkened the Atlantic horizon. The architecture was simple and quaint but still held that colonial appeal, sort of British or something; Crueler couldn’t put his finger on it but figured that if he did, it would lessen the effect.
And strategically, the port was a very good choice. Whoever these people were, they’d done an excellent job picking the Prince George Wharf. The place was so packed with tourists that any public disturbances would attract the authorities attention and get everyone put in jail. But Crueler had been staking the place out for a good couple of hours, and he’d seen what he’d hoped not to. The wharf security were all heavily armed and ready to go, and, in fact, it was a damned miracle that the tourists hadn’t already filed several complaints with the Ministry of Tourism office over the security force’s overtly deadly appearance. Crueler guessed that whoever was behind the note and the bombing back in New York had the local security guys wrapped around his thumb.
He picked up his binoculars. How bout that.
A waterborne police cruiser was pulling up beside the Delilah, unloading a few armed guards as discreetly as possible, and then pulling away. Crueler wondered if they were trying to look like a drug crew. More like a hit squad. Jesus.
He fumbled through his papers. He’d secured a new driver’s license, for the heck of it, under the name of James Carlyle. His close friends called him Jimmy. He owned a couple penthouses in Paris but he definitely wasn’t French. In fact, he was getting tired of talking with old men about NATO and things, and he’d come to Nassau to experience a nightlife where the big news was a fart named Fidel Castro. He planned to hit at least two clubs tonight, and his biggest concern was to have his first martini shaken or stirred.
Crueler glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. Aviators, Rolex, khaki suit, jazzy blue tie. And mahogany Alfanis resting on the accelerator. He shifted in his seat and turned the key in the ignition.
The T-Bird hummed to life happily, like the snazzy, sexy ride that it was. He turned on the crystal-clear Sirius satellite radio and took a moment to flip through hard rock until he hit the smooth jazz section and caught Poncho Sanchez in the middle of a percussion solo. Crueler let off the clutch and hit the gas.

*

There was an empty dinghy with “Crueler” stenciled in white spray-paint on the rubber hull, waiting inconspicuously for him among a couple fishing boats. Crueler got in, taking a moment to check himself before cranking up the engine and heading over.
Knife? Check. It was an ultra-thin Boker with a blood groove and a handle that was particularly well-suited to gritty fighting. Crueler knew they’d never let him on the yacht with a gun, but the knife wasn’t as noticeable, and they’d never suspect his skill with it until it was too late.
Cell phone? Check. It was the critical ingredient, in this case. It was his backup plan, and something told him he’d need it.
Wallet? Check. He’d left his false identity in the T-Bird; sometimes rich guys with leverage take people’s cards and cash in an attempt to gain control. Crueler figured it was sort of an anal-retentive reflex. At any rate, he wanted something to lean back on if these trigger-happy stalker people fit the profile.
All set, then. He gave the starter cord a thorough yank and the rusty little Evinrude puttered to life, spilling a mushroom cloud of blue exhaust into the clean air. Coughing, Crueler revved the motor, popped the clutch, and the inflatable surged forward.
Crueler watched the Delilah as it grew closer. The dinghy bounced over a few choppy waves as it pulled out into the cove where oceanic tides flowed in free from restraint. He dodged a number of colossal cruise ships with names like “Atlantic II” and “Queen Poltrov”. If he ever had his own cruise line, he’d name the flagship “Crueler’s Corolla” in honor of the deceased pickup. He wondered if it had already been crappily renovated by some neighborhood kid, and wondered if it had blown up on them or not.
Delilah was straight ahead. The windward breeze swept his close-cropped hair back, felt good. He smiled as he pulled up next to the Delilah, and decided to let it develop into a confident, cocky sentiment. Play the part of the fiendish Mr. Carlyle. Yes indeedy.
He slid up beside the curvaceous vessel, and a few security guards in their best muscle shirts leaned over and began to tie down the boat without a word. Crueler nodded and smiled more, stepped onto the boat with an air of distinct, patent control.
He was on the rear end of the boat, which smelled like coconut oil and looked like the perfect place for a party. There was a darkly-tanned woman in a lounge chair, face hidden by a sunhat, looking especially gorgeous in one of those funky eighties one-piece bathing suits.
Probably Barbara Streisand.
While Crueler was looking around, a third guard materialized and began to pat Crueler down. Crueler raised his eyebrows.
“Weren’t you on that one episode of the A-Team?”
The guard ignored him, and continued to feel Crueler for weapons. The knife went unnoticed. Gave Crueler a small degree of comfort. The guard finished, and motioned for Crueler to follow, marching silently below deck. Crueler snatched another look at Barbara Streisand and then ducked through the door.
The interior was amazing.
Leather everywhere, stylish rattan coffee tables, a full bar with anything you could ask for, nice big windows that let the natural light illuminate the room. Pretty nice. The guard led him up a stairway, through an equally luxurious master bedroom, and onto a balcony that overlooked the rear of the boat where Crueler’s dinghy was tied down. The guard shut the door behind Crueler.
He looked out over Saint George Wharf. Lot of business, lot of cash. Good place for illegal stuff like drug trafficking, military-grade weapons sale, the like. He glanced down. Barb was gone. Huh. A helicopter buzzed around by the cruise ships, obnoxious at best. It had police colors, but no tags – probably just a look-alike, probably a few A-Team guards up there watching him, nodding to each other and practicing their manly scowls.
Crueler found the sheer amount of security to be unconvincing. Why on earth would they devote so much surveillance to one man? They wouldn’t. Crueler figured there were a few other players, surely enough to keep a private mercenary crew busy. He just wondered who else was involved.
“Mr. Carlyle.”
Crueler swiveled, suddenly very annoyed with –
- with Barbara Streisand.
Now that he actually saw her, she looked nothing like the famous singer. Maybe more like Chelsea Clinton, with blindingly-blonde bleached hair. In an abruptly unattractive, fluffy swimsuit straight out of Gidget. Okay, interesting.
“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong guy. Name’s Crueler.”
“Carlyle, Crueler. Same thing.”
“And you are?”
“Delilah.” She extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
Crueler shook it. “I’d have an easier time believing that if you hadn’t blown up my favorite jazz club and, incidentally, killed this one waitress I had a thing with.”
“Girlfriend?”
Crueler lied, because he felt like it. “Yeah.”
“It’s your fault, Mr. Crueler. We had to ask twice.”
“Well,” Crueler walked to the railing, “I’m here now. What do you want?”
“We want your skill.”
Crueler squinted at her. “Who’s we?”
“Allow me to rephrase. I want your skill.”
“Huh.” Crueler thought for a moment. “That’s it? It’s just a job?”
“Not exactly.” Delilah walked over beside him. “Four jobs.”
“What are you paying?”
Delilah laughed. Snorted. Crueler felt sort of violated. “Paying? Mr. Crueler, we’re paying you your life.”
“Ohh. I see.” Crueler thought about stabbing here there, jumping off the balcony into the water, and just running. But decided that, perhaps, subtlety pays off in the end. Subtle, as in threatening her. “What if I just killed you here?”
“Yes, well as you’ve noticed, we have a quite extensive security network that would hunt you down and repay the favor just as quickly.”
“The A-Team?”
Delilah frowned and didn’t reply. Crueler didn’t know exactly what she expected him to do, besides whip out a knife and kill her. There was an awkward silence for several moments until Delilah finally came back with more words of wisdom.
“If you’re going to get out of this alive, you’re going to have to talk to me.”
“Actually, Barbara, you’re just a bit off. I only – ”
“What did you call me?”
Crueler blinked. “Delilah.”
“Yeah.”
“Anyway, your mysterious references to ‘we’ leads me to believe that you are, in fact, a completely disposable player. They wouldn’t have sent the top dog to deal with me, because I’d kill him.”
“What are you saying?”
Crueler wasn’t really sure. Pointless dialog was a specialty of his, sort of like an improv solo. “I’m saying that I might kill you. I’m not sure yet.”
Delilah began to look slightly scared. That happened sometimes when people realized that all the training and combat experience on Crueler’s profile were more than letters on a page. That he could actually walk into a room, kill someone, and walk away no worse for wear. Delilah looked a bit intimidated. “I have a phone number…”
“Okay. And do you have a phone?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then what say you dial that phone number on that phone, connect me with someone who knows what they’re doing, and then hand that phone to me?”
“Okay.”
Crueler waited while she pulled out a thin satellite phone and dialed a number from memory. She was beginning to break down. Her eyes were darting, the sweat on her skin started to smell like nervousness more than coconut oil; Crueler could sense her training melting away.
She at last put the phone to her ear, avoiding Crueler’s gaze.
“No. No, I’m sorry.” She bit her lip nervously. “Get me Myers. Please.”
Crueler looked out across the bay while he waited. Double-checking security and whatnot. The helicopter had circled around and was a bit nearer than before, but still seemed to pose no real threat. There were, however, two police cruisers closing in. Which either meant that Delilah was on the line with them right now, or that the police had abruptly changed their mind and decided to bust the whole operation right now. Wasn’t a bad idea, actually. Either way, it wasn’t looking too good.
Delilah handed him the phone with a shaky hand, and he took it without looking at her. “Hello?”
“Mr. Crueler. My name is Joe. My secretary tells me you’re having second thoughts.” Joe. The voice was deep and very businessman-like. Crueler had expected as much.
“Your secretary? I never would’ve guessed.”
“Yes, anyway.”
“Well the proposition that um, Barb here presented me is a little confusing. I don’t really see what’s in it for me.”
“Your life is ‘in it’, Mr. Crueler. Your life.”
“Uh huh.”
“Is that not motivation enough?”
“Maybe a little cash? I dunno. The fact that you’re threatening to take my life only tells me that it’s just as valuable to you as it is to me. Which is why I’m holding out for cash.”
“Well. You are very perceptive indeed, Mr. Crueler – ”
“Please. Jacobin.”
“ – and, I suppose, now would be an appropriate time to reveal the extent of our plans for you.”
“That’d be good.” The cruisers were close now. Fifty yards.
“I think that, perhaps, this exchange would be best face-to-face. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Crueler?”
“Um. Hate to interrupt, but I’m noticing a couple department cruisers getting pretty close. So maybe you could just spit it out.”
There was a muffled noise on the other end of the line. “Can you hold?”
The line went dead before Crueler could reply. He turned to Delilah, who was gnawing on her nails like a dog gnaws on a chew toy. “He hung up. Great guy, really.”
The cruisers were already stopping along either side of the yacht, brimming with policemen, guns, squawking radios, and A-Team frowns. Crueler felt his pulse getting thick now. The adrenaline would come on in a moment.
He brushed past Delilah and made his way to the master bathroom. Most military-grade explosives could be broken down into individual components that, when rearranged and fooled with, could be found in just about any household item. Luckily, Crueler had most of the common recipes memorized. Delilah’s hair was the main thing. She obviously had a serious love of bleach, and Crueler figured it would in the bathroom. Maybe the medicine cabinet.
Nope. In the drawer with the hair-curler, then? Ah, there it was. Looked like some powerful stuff. Goodie.
Crueler swiftly moved out of the bedroom, into the second-story kitchenette. He was looking for Hexi Tabs. A lot of campers and yachts kept an ample supply for quick and easy cooking. He found a box under the sink, and marched downstairs with the bleach in one hand and the hexamine fuel tablets in the other.
Downstairs, the muscle-shirted guards were conferring with the policemen in earnest tones. Crueler stepped right out into the middle of it, announcing himself loudly with a cough. Everyone stopped talking and looked at him.
“Oh. Sorry. Am I interrupting something?”
Most of the policemen were slowly moving their hands towards their holsters, as if Crueler would suddenly toss the bleach and Hexi Tabs at them and dive over the side of the boat. Well, he might.
“Mr. Crueler! Quite the bravado entrance.”
It was Businessman Joe, stepping off the police cruiser, looking snazzy in a black suit. Crueler almost keeled over when he caught a whiff of Businessman Joe’s cologne. Or maybe it was the hair gel. He might as well have bathed in maple syrup. Crueler managed to keep his composure.
“Ah, Joe. You are one handsome, smelly son of a bitch.”
Joe smiled, strode up to Crueler, and extended a hand. Smart fellow. Crueler preferred the security of his bleach and Hexi Tabs over the velvety, moisturized surface of Businessman Joe’s hands, and politely declined the gesture.
“No, thanks.”
Joe smiled through it all, but let his hand fall to his side. “Let’s try to negotiate things peacefully. Won’t you come inside?”
“Actually, I kinda have to run – ”
“No, please, have a drink with me.” Joe started inside towards the bar.
Crueler surveyed the dozen policemen and followed Businessman Joe. “Sure.”
They sat down at a nice leather couch and one of the A-Team guys got in touch with his sensitive side and poured them a couple vodkas. Crueler was tired of the chit-chat. His T-Bird awaited, hopefully. If they hadn’t blown it up or slashed the tires or something equally profane.
He drained his glass. “Okay, Joe. Tell it straight.”
“I’ll do my best.” Joe ignored his drink, gathering his thoughts, and then launched into his pitch. “Jacobin Crueler, you are at our mercy. We have tracked you for six months. We have a hand in all your bank accounts, a record of your every move, all the phone calls you’ve made, the license plate of your Thunderbird, the serial number on your gun. Everything goes through us. Am I clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Naturally, intelligence means nothing without the resources to make it useful. I promise you, the Bahamian police is not the only law enforcement agency we have assimiliated. Think more on the international level.”
Crueler digested that statement briefly. Hmm. International law enforcement agencies… InterPol? Well he had underestimated them, that was for sure. Still, survival was a moment-by-moment process. And at the moment, he needed to keep Businessman Joe talking. “Continue.”
“Allow me to clarify this proposition.” Joe cleared his throat. “You will perform four tasks for us in four different locations around the globe, in the space of four days. You will be pitted against a contemporary of the same profession.”
“So… a race?”
“Yes. A race. To the winner go the spoils.”
“And what exactly are the spoils?”
“Besides bragging rights – ten million dollars. These funds will be manifested in whatever form you choose, be it a deposit in your Caymans account, a fleet of private jets, a small country, anything you wish.”
“Hmm.”
“So what do you say?”
“Well… I could dump these Hexi Tabs into this bottle of bleach, toss it to you, and let the detonation kill you, but I think I’ll accept your proposition.”
Crueler rose to his feet and started towards the deck. “I assume I can get a ride with the A-Team.”
Businessman Joe sounded slightly flustered. “Yes of course. Of course. We’ll contact you.”
“Yeah.”
Crueler left the potential explosives on the bar counter, and left Joe to his own devices. The A-Team knowingly ushered him into one of their cruisers and deposited him on the wharf. They watched him as he walked back to the T-Bird.

*

The British Colonial Hilton was, in Crueler’s opinion, the crowning achievement in island luxury resorts. He’d slid the T-Bird into an open parking space, gone into the lobby, and gotten his room key before he’d started admiring the place’s design.
There were no odd Navajo rug weaves here. Nope, it was plush, gorgeous Oriental carpet, mahogany trim – and the elevator music? Louis Armstrong. He took a deep breath and inhaled the full, sensual scent of wealth.
The honest truth, of course – he was enjoying the scenery before he arrived at his room, which would likely feature some new twist, courtesy of Businessman Joe and his assistant Barbara Streisand. But nothing was more enjoyable than gorgeous cars, jazz, and a lovely place to stay. So if you had to throw in a little business now and then, Crueler figured it was worth it.
The elevator doors closed behind him, sealing an empty car with the joyous nonsense of Louis scatting his sorrows away with Duke on piano. Crueler truly had to find a good jazz club in Nassau before he left.
He finally got into his room.
It was small for what he was paying. Queen bed, TV with cable, wi-fi port in the corner, a couple nice lamps and rattan chairs, a window looking over Bay Street, a nice, comfy bathroom. Manila folder resting on the bed, addressed to him. Ugh.
The room was nice, but not the epitome of comfort, as he had expected. He dropped his luggage on the floor – a duffel with clothes and a duffel with weapons – and then stripped for a scalding shower.
He cranked up the water and let himself relax under the showerhead for a good twenty minutes, but that was all he would allow himself. He dried off, channel-surfed, watched CSI, catnapped, woke up, flipped through a Gideon Bible he found in the nightstand, ordered a burger from room service, and at last resigned himself to open the bulging envelope bearing his initials: JC.
He popped the fastener and dumped it out on the bed.
A typewritten note. A touristy Bahamas key ring with one key on it. A thin, silver cell phone. Hmm.
Crueler unfolded the note, propped it up in his hands, and skimmed through it.

Dear Mr. Crueler,
If you are receiving this note, you are aware of the proposition ahead of you. Allow me to lay down several ground rules. First, please be aware that we have teams watching you at all times. They are your fence. Any attempts to harm these agents will result in fatal retaliation against your person. Secondly, none of these tasks may, in any way, resemble a professional assassination or be linked to us or you. Such failure would result in immediate disqualification. Thirdly, if your opponent wins a round, you must immediately abandon your preparations and travel to the next location as quickly as possible. And finally, you may never establish contact with your opponent. This is critical to the outcome of our “race”, and subsequently, critical if the winner is to receive their prize.
You have, no doubt, examined the other contents of this envelope. We have included a cell phone with scrambling technology so that we can contact you when necessary, and if in the case of an absolute emergency, you may contact us by dialing the pre-installed number. We have also included a key. This key unlocks locker 9A in the gym of your hotel, which has been reserved indefinitely. Please cancel the reservation when you receive the contents of the locker, which includes further instructions.
We have also taken it upon ourselves to fund your stay here in Nassau, and you will find the rental car and hotel expenses fulfilled. However, further costs must be drawn from your own account.
As I said, further instruction awaits you in locker 9A in the Colonial Hilton Gym.
Sincerely,
Joseph Patrioni

Patrioni? Sounded so diplomatic, compared to plain-ole “Businessman Joe”. Crueler was uninterested in the locker and the cell phone, but decided to go down to the gym and check it out. After dinner.
He channel-surfed a bit more, sticking with Law and Order for five minutes until room service knocked on his door. He opened the door with a ten and a five in hand. The bellboy awkwardly transferred plate with a burger and fries to Crueler, but when Crueler offered the money, the bellboy shook his head.
“You already paid, sir.”
“What?”
“When you were down in lobby, you paid for your meal before you headed back upstairs.” The bellboy smiled condescendingly. “Did you forget?”
Crueler blinked. Huh. “Oh, yeah. Course I did. Silly me.”
The bellboy chuckled and took his leave as Crueler closed the door. He locked it and engaged the deadbolt. He ate his burger in silence, thinking about the bellboy’s words. Someone had paid for his room service. Of course, it could’ve been Businessman Joe and company, but they wouldn’t have been so obvious, making a scene in the lobby like that. No, Crueler was quite sure it was someone else. Someone trying to let him know something or make him nervous. He had a hunch.
He’d be willing to bet it was his opponent.
Another hired killer who was pitted against Crueler in this bizarre race set up by Joe and his compatriots. Obviously, whoever this other character was, he would be breaking the rules if he made contact with Crueler. But rules were made to be broken, and breaking them usually paid off in the end anyway.
Crueler didn’t know. He finished off the last of his fries, and headed down to the gym.

*

Locker 9A was in the weight room. When Crueler walked in, the first thing he saw was a massive three-hundred pound man dressed in gym shorts and a wife beater struggling to lift the bar. Not what he wanted to see.
He ignored the man’s profuse groaning, strode over to the locker, and inserted the key. Inside, there were several small packages. Crueler ignored the typewritten note and decided to examine the loot first.
There was an amazingly thin laptop with some wi-fi electronics. Another small package contained photographs and maps. A sixty or seventy year-old man was circled in all the pictures with red sharpie. Crueler knew what it meant, and thumbed through them all before moving on. The last package contained a 9mm Beretta and a box of ammunition. It was a nice afterthought, considering how hard it was to get guns in the Bahamas. Crueler already had one, but knew that killing anyone with a gun meant disposing of it as soon as possible. Extra firepower never hurt anybody who knew how to use it.
He reluctantly dove into the note, which appeared to be in the same font as Businessman Joe’s last one.

Dear Mr. Crueler,
I will be brief. Your target’s name is Grayson Gerrard. The laptop has several text files, all providing crucial information about Mr. Gerrard’s history and location, which I think you will find interesting. The photographs which you have doubtless inspected all feature Mr. Gerrard, and the maps detail his neighborhood. After our last meeting, I arranged for a semi-automatic pistol to be added to your care package, knowing you would enjoy the sentiment. Who knows what sort of trouble you might run into along the way? At any rate, I would encourage you to begin planning your next move. You have until 11:59 pm tomorrow night to kill Grayson Gerrard.

There was no signature, a sure sign that Businessman Joe was trying to sound sneaky and mysterious. And of course, he failed miserably. Crueler gathered the packages, carefully keeping the Beretta in its envelope, and headed back up to his room to grab a few winks.

*

When Crueler woke up, it was two o’ clock in the morning. Weird. The jet lag had obviously screwed with his brain, he figured, but recognized that the more clandestine aspects of preparing for a kill always went smoother at night. After checking out the maps and googling a few items, he departed in the T-Bird at three, armed with the Beretta and his research.
His google search had turned up several results for the keywords “Gerrard, Bahamas”. Apparently the man was ex-army. A sergeant. Crueler guessed that since he’d seen nothing about Gerrard’s deployment, it had been something in covert ops, maybe paramilitary ops overseas. Touchy stuff. Obviously, it had something to do with Businessman Joe wanting him dead. Maybe Joe and the A-Team were all with the FBI and this was their idea of playing a large international prank on the alumni of their most wanted list. Now, apparently, Gerrard was a private investor with some major stock in companies like Exxon and BP. Oil. Among the other top search results: the Bay Breeze Oceanside Club. Owned by Lloyd Gerrard, the son of Crueler’s target.
It was an upscale place, he noticed, when he pulled up in the T-Bird. It was a two-story whitewashed establishment with that colonial Caribbean beach vibe that looked like it would draw cuties from all over the world. Crueler again declined the urge to pack firepower. It would only mean trouble.
His ultra-thin Boker with the blood grooves, however, was fair game as far as he was concerned. He locked up the T-Bird and strode towards the door, quietly taking stock of the parking lot attendance. BMW, Lexus, a nice Jaguar, mushroom-esque Japanese cars, and a couple Suzuki street bikes. Upper class, touristy place.
He stepped inside and the music hit him. He instantly recognized the melody. A smooth, throbbing remix of Chameleon by Herbie Hancock. It was dark inside, but sparse, aquamarine-tinged neon lighting bounced off lipstick residue on martini glasses and dancing figures and satiny dresses. A maitre’ d/bouncer popped up, gave Crueler a look-down, and approached him.
“Name?”
“Jacobin.”
“You have a reservation?”
“Yes.”
“Under what name?”
“Um. Jacobin.”
The maitre’ d seemed puzzled, and Crueler felt puzzled. Maybe he should come up with something a little better. The maitre’ d thumbed through his list and looked back up at Crueler. “No Jacobin on this list.”
“Damn. I told him he couldn’t bust me like that…”
“Who, sir?”
“Lloyd. The stupid sonofabitch told me we were meeting tonight. Left me in the dark.”
“If you don’t have a reservation, sir, then you need to leave.”
“I gotta talk to Loyd.”
“No.” The maitre’ d turned bouncer on him. “No-one talks to Lloyd. Now get out before you get your ass kicked.”
The bouncer was probably right. Crueler certainly didn’t want to cause a scene. He shrugged and walked off, disappointed in his role-playing ability. Didn’t matter. Every building has back doors. Clubs were no exception.
He strode back into the night air, glanced both directions, and disappeared around the side of the building. Following a gut-instinct. Intuition. Whatever. From what he’d seen inside, the building had a long, rectangular shape with a DJ at one end and the bar at the other. But on google maps’ satellite imagery, the Bay Breeze had looked like a perfect square. Which meant that on the west side of the building, there were more rooms that normal attendees weren’t privy to. And in the event that a fire started in one such hidden room, Crueler knew that there would be fire escapes that opened to the west.
He crawled through some tropical shrubbery, vaulted a privacy fence, and found himself around the back of the building in an empty, unlit lot. Fire exit smack-dab in the middle of the west wall.
Pleased with himself, Crueler strode up and examined it. Standard fire-alarm door, activated by the crash bar inside. There was no door handle on the outside. But, as Crueler had always said, door handles were for sissies. Actually, he had never said that. But he stored it away in the “witty remarks” box of his brain, in the event that someone later asked him his opinion of doorknobs.
Crueler carefully took ten steps backwards, then robotically lurched into a sprint towards the door. A few bounds from the door, he launched from the ground into a power kick. He hit the door, which emitted a shockingly loud clang, and dropped to his hands and knees on the asphalt. The door had been tweaked on its hinges, buckled inward, and more importantly, the alarm-trigger had been jolted and an annoying siren began to wail from within. Crueler retreated to the cover of shadow and waited. Within moments, the door creaked open reluctantly and two or three half-dressed guys and girls poured out, soaked in retardant foam. They all looked too young and hung-over to be Lloyd Gerrard.
Crueler waited.
After the coeds had dispersed, another round of individuals emerged from the door, clutching waterlogged bundles of paperwork, dressed in business attire. Ah. There were two or three women and a man.
Crueler strode out of the shadows. The women, sensing something undesirable, dropped their papers and fled down the alley. The man stood there looking after them, not really noticing Crueler through the foam on his face.
“Lloyd?”
The younger Gerrard looked much like his father had in the photographs, except perhaps thirty years younger and very confused. “Hello?”
Crueler walked up and smiled. “Lloyd Gerrard! No way! You own this joint?”
Lloyd spat foam and addressed Crueler professionally. “Is there some way I can be of service, Mr…?”
“Carlyle, James Carlyle. Ol’ Jamie! You don’t remember me?”
“Uh. I’m sorry, no.”
“We went to… you seriously don’t…?”
“I’m kinda busy right now.” Lloyd turned to go. “Hey, if you need my phone number, look me up, but… I mean, there’s a fire or something…”
“Yeah. Hence all the… foam stuff.”
“Huh. Yeah. Well, um, I gotta…”
“Go. Yeah, go right ahead, man! I’ll give you a ring. Know I will!”
Lloyd disappeared around the corner looking like a psychologically disturbed cream-puff, and Crueler went to work on the door. It was obviously quite damaged, and now that everyone was out of the building, he had a few extra minutes to check out Lloyd’s establishment before the fire department popped in.
He finally got the door down. Stepped inside. It was like a massive yogurt-bomb had exploded, leaving everything covered in methane/dairy foam. There was a small hallway and several doors that branched to either side, presumably for the erotic side-business of which the half dressed coeds had been clientele. Crueler followed the hall as it took a turn and led into a more professional looking area. Computers, fluorescent overhead lights, papers scattered everywhere soaked in foam, rendered completely unintelligible.
Crueler’s intuition had paid off. There was no way all this was for the club. No siree. The club, Crueler guessed, was just a cover. And the erotic side-business for half-dressed coeds, Crueler concluded, was probably a cover too. And you only used illegal operations as a cover when you were trying to hide a really illegal operation. Crueler had no idea what, and after a moment of sifting through soggy papers, knew that he would have to look elsewhere for answers.
He left the foamy crime-scene and trekked back to the T-Bird. The fire trucks arrived just as he pulled out and hit the road.

*
It was five AM when Crueler got back to the hotel. He took a shower. Wanted to crash on the bed, but decided against it and ordered a plate of French toast. When the bellboy came, Crueler had to pay.
He ate his breakfast and planned.
It was daytime, and that meant abandoning his covert ops mindset and going for a subtler approach. He wanted to hit up the Gerrard house, see if anyone was home, start working on a site for the kill. It couldn’t look like a mistake. Not many paid murders could. But Crueler had to admit: planning and executing a hit in a day and a half was a pretty big stretch, even for him.
He sopped up as much syrup as he could with the last bite of French toast, and chose to ignore the mint leaf and orange slice that was on his plate. He wasn’t really a fruits and veggies type of guy. The Kid had always told him he’d have a major stroke and die in the middle of a kill one of these days, and Crueler had blown him off, especially haunted. But it was probably true. Crueler threw on a silk shirt and a pair of Ray-Bans and walked to the parking lot, holding a duffel stuffed with gear.
It would probably take five or six hours to get a profile on Gerrard and pick a site, and then another five to shop for supplies. And then he could hopefully be ready by, oh, six o’ clock that night. He wondered how fast his opponent was moving, how fast he could –
Crueler stopped on the sidewalk.
The T-Bird was gone. Great. Crueler looked around, hoping that he had parked in a different spot and forgotten about it. No such luck. Damn. At least he hadn’t left anything inside. He strode purposefully into the lobby and approached the desk clerk enigmatically, hoping to garner a professional response.
“Excuse me.”
It was twenty-something girl talking on the phone, twisting her hair. She ignored him. Crueler felt the exasperation coming on, morphing into sarcasm.
“Hey. Lady. Get off the phone.”
She gave him an index finger and bitchy smile that made Crueler want to scream. Gotta be kidding. There had to be someone else at the counter; Crueler looked around, but aside from hubbub in the restaurant area, the lobby was vacant. He turned back to the chick on the phone and sighed loudly.
“What’re we doing here, is it Barbie hour? Let’s go.”
She told her friend to hold on, and addressed Crueler coldly. “Can I help you… sir?”
“Yes, in fact.” Crueler gestured at the sliding glass door, to the parking lot outside. “My T-Bird’s gone, and I’m on my way to stalk someone right now, so… I’m looking for viable alternatives.”
“Such as?”
Crueler felt very, very vexed. “Such as another car. Such as a taxi, or maybe an intelligent response.”
“We don’t have any of those here, sir.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Crueler sighed. This wasn’t going anywhere soon. “Thanks a million, babe.”
He strode away furious as the clerk rolled her eyes, went back to her conversation about Barbies or unicorns or whatever, and started twisting her hair again. Crueler marched outside.
A yellow taxi had just deposited a family of four with happy tourist grins at the hotel, and Crueler flagged the driver down just as he was leaving. The car stopped and Crueler approached the driver’s side window.
“How long you working?”
The driver was a short Middle-Eastern man that made the whole thing seem like it belonged in New York. Like one of those pudgy, sarcastic Arab drivers that drives you to and fro among the landmarks of the Big Apple and considers it his ethical responsibility to insert intelligible phrases in pidgin English and charge way too much. Crueler found it hard to concentrate on the man’s word over the jabbering in his mind.
“… so if you want to pay, I can do.” The driver was waiting.
“Sorry, what?”
“If you no can under-sand me, get different cab diver!”
“No, you’re loud and clear, Bubba.”
“Kay, kay. I say that I am get off work right now, but I charge double for as long as you want. So if you want to pay, I can do, see?”
Crueler weighed his options. No other taxis in sight. “Okay.” He hopped in.
The cab smelled like marijuana, and rosary beads were draped from the rear-view mirror. Crueler asked the driver his name, to which the reply was a linguistically nonsensical barrage of incompatible syllables.
This was definitely going to be interesting.

*

First stop. The Gerrard residence.
When the taxi pulled up, Crueler paid the driver double as promised, and told him to wait. A long driveway curved through tall, concealing landscaping that acted as a privacy fence. Crueler took his briefcase and strode down driveway.
After a few curves and a practical jungle of tropical vegetation, Crueler arrived at a steel gate. The driveway straightened as it passed the fence, and led another hundred yards to the house, which was magnificent. Three stories, long and spread out – Crueler had always pictured this kind of place as one of Bill Gates’ island resorts. There was a separate garage behind the house that received the driveway under closed ports, and next to it, a large, bulbous hill. The grass on it looked too blue, almost like artificial golf carpet or something. It certainly looked large enough to conceal a private jet. Crueler was willing to bet that there was a small airstrip around back.
Crueler examined the fence.
It was probably fifteen feet tall. A foot of thin, almost invisible wires guarded the top, promising a potent jolt if you tried to scale the thing. Definitely enough to knock you out. Crueler traced his finger along the gate, walking off to one side. Trying to find a wall in the thick shrubbery.
It was a huge brick wall, comparable in height to the gate. Crueler examined the bricklaying. It was a stretcher bond, which looked pretty thick, but there were no alternations lengthwise, so Crueler supposed that the wall was only a half-brick thick. He pushed through the jungle, looking for cracks in the bondwork.
Sure enough, a good six feet into the wet shrubbery, he found a place where jungle mildew was festering in a six-inch gap between bricks, where the mortar was absent. Crueler backed up as best he could into the manicured undergrowth, and delivered a firm, well-placed kick.
The brick dropped out the other side, leaving a foot-long, rectangular hole. He gave it another go, but only managed to get a numb foot. Well, that was productive. Right. Crueler bent down and peeked through the hole.
How bout that.
Not a foot away, there was a small radio receptor projected from the ground on a stake-device. Crueler was willing to bet it was a remote-control receiver, similar to a garage door opener. But it was probably for the gate. Crueler had an idea. Most garage door remotes operated on a frequency of, say, 300 megahertz. He fished around in his pockets. Where were his keys? Aha. Incidentally, most car keyfob programs in North America ran at about 315 megahertz. It was worth a try.
He slipped his hand through the hole, and aimed the T-Bird keyfob at the receptor. He gave two or three clicks, and waited. A moment later, he heard the gate give off a clang and begin to creak open.
Hot damn.
Pleased with himself, Crueler made his way back through the undergrowth, and back onto the driveway as the gate rested fully open. He slipped his keys back into his pocket and jogged down the driveway to the house.
The closer he got, the huger it seemed. He walked onto the front porch. There were six of those huge White House pillars, which he passed under, and then stopped in front of the door. Peeking in through the windows on either side of the door, Crueler saw that the lights were off throughout the massive first floor. Probably no-one home. At least, not on the first floor.
He walked around to the side yard, towards the garage. He knew men like Gerrard. Men like himself. They liked fast cars and usually kept their secrets in the garage. Back when Crueler had been a homeowner in Idaho, he’d always kept his firepower in a cabinet in the garage. It was good for hiding things because it was the always the last place to get ransacked. But not when Crueler was in town.
The garage ports were cheap stuff. Crueler lifted one up with his hand and went inside. It was dark, but from the light of a few windows, he found the lightswitch. Flipped it on. He glanced around, and nearly fainted.
Gerrard had it all. Near the back of the garage, Crueler spotted the jet-like profile of the new Lamborghini Reventon, among other iconic vehicles such as a Ferrari Enzo, Koenigsegg CXX, and the brand-new Aston Martin Rapide. A couple ultra-exotic, ultra-expensive motorcycles in the back. In the space closest to him, a Porche 911 Cabriolet sat, brooding, sultry.
Crueler desperately wanted to just bust into them and drive them off one-by-one, depositing them in different parking lots as quickly as possible, go hunt and kill Businessman Joe, and if he survived, come back and drive these gorgeous cars all over the Bahamas.
But of course, ten million dollars would buy him all of these cars. Except the Lamborghini, which he would have to manage another million for, but heck, what was a year’s time when you had a white-knuckle ride and a smooth road?
He sighed.
Where would Gerrard keep his secrets? Crueler didn’t know the man whatsoever, aside from his primary research. Okay, so what would an investor do? Where would he invest his secrecy?
Toolbox.
Crueler searched the back wall, which was loaded with tools, trophies, and pictures. Pictures of Lloyd. Huh. It almost looked like… maybe the elder Gerrard had a passion for owning and maintaining cars, and the younger Gerrard had a passion for racing them. Crueler envied them for a moment, and then found the toolbox.
He searched the first and second drawers, and when he got to a compartment bearing all the torque wrenches he had ever dreamed of, noticed a seam between the bottom of the drawer and the edge of the slider. Piece of cake. He slid the platter of wrenches off like a tray, revealing a false bottom.
Oh.
There were at least a dozen passports, small bundles of cash in various international mediums, several videotapes labeled with alphanumeric code words, and paperwork drafted in typewritten legalese.
Crueler grabbed one of the videotapes, thinking that sometimes rich people just randomly have TVs in the garage in the event that an assassin broke into their house and felt like watching their secret videos.
But a quick search brought no such luck.
Crueler could either take the tape with him, hoping that Gerrard didn’t check on his would-be safe everyday, or he could break into the house and watch it widescreen. He opted for the house. Marched out of the garage without so much as kissing the Porsche goodbye.
The back of the house featured a large, multi-tiered pool and Jacuzzi. There was a navy blue pool cover across the whole thing, and Crueler thought it looked like a big pool-full of blue icing. Tasty. In a gross, kindergarten kind of way. He walked around the pool and up to the back door. Doors. There were at least ten French doors, the kind that could all collapse into themselves to open up the house. Crueler popped the lock with his driver’s license and stepped inside.
He was in the living room.
Leather couches, creepy tiger rug, granite coffee table, nude sculpture next to the – ahh – entertainment console. There were dozens of DVDs, mostly golden oldies like The Shootist, The Great Train Robbery, and Citizen Cane. The TV was a huge plasma screen that looked like a black hole.
Crueler popped the videotape into the VCR, fell back onto the couch, put his feet up on the coffee table, and flicked on the TV with a remote.
The screen came alive.
It was a static shot of a large, European-style plaza. Benches, leaf-deprived trees in the full throes of winter. A dry fountain in the center. No people. It looked like something filmed by a security camera, and the streets signs were in some sort of Slavic language, maybe Russian.
A minute passed with no activity on the screen. Crueler wondered what was going to happen. Maybe Gerrard simply liked the look of this particular Russian market square and decided to use a security angle to help draft plans for his own private reconstruction. A whole tape? In his toolbox hiding spot? No.
A group of four men walked into the screen from the right, dressed in parkas and boots. Two of them sat on one bench, and the other two chose another. Once they were all seated, the scene was again still. Thirty seconds passed with no activity, unless you counted the time one of them had scratched his nose.
And then one of them took out a phone and put it to his ear. He uttered a few words that weren’t audible on the tape, and then stood, nodding to his buddies. He got off the phone as the others stood, and began to talk to them in earnest tones.
And then everything exploded.
The tape when white, and then static came in short bursts for several seconds until the smoke cleared. Crueler sat up slowly, pursing his lips. The benches, trees – all gone. The concrete had been blown into the air, evidenced by large chunks of ground resting upturned on top of the men’s bleeding, sprawled bodies.
It stayed still for another minute, and then cars with the logo “Polizei” appeared and investigators poured onto the scene. Hmm.
Crueler stopped the tape.
Looked like an IED. Improvised explosive device. Like the kind employed against US hummers in Iraq, only in the video, there was no armor plating between the men and the bomb blast. Crueler was willing to bet that this was a video recording of one of Gerrard’s military assignments. Paramilitary. CIA, maybe.
Crueler started.
The faint purr of a car engine sounded from the front driveway. Damn.
He snatched the tape out of the VCR and closed the French doors behind him. Making his way cautiously around the side of the house, he sneaked to the front and peeked his head out.
A silver Bentley was idling in the driveway.
Tinted windows.
Gerrard didn’t seem like a Bentley type of guy. They weren’t exotic, just big and expensive. Crueler frowned. The passenger window rolled down automatically and stayed down for a few moments. Then, oddly, it rolled back up and the Bentley pulled out of the driveway and disappeared past the gate.
Whoever the driver was, he had been taking pictures of something on or near the front door. Crueler assumed that the mysterious figure had been his opponent, engaging in his own target research. Or maybe it was the A-Team, keeping an eye on Crueler’s whereabouts. He doubted it. The A-Team drove tanks and Land Rovers and cop cars, not Bentleys. No, it was definitely the other assassin.
Crueler waited another minute to make sure the coast was clear, and then rushed over to the front door to see what the big deal was. Of course, just like when he had walked up the firs time, there was nothing of particular interest to be seen. Ah. House number, maybe? 963. He memorized the number and then got the hell out of there.