Nobody’s Hero (Ben Koenig #2)

Chapter 80

Draper skidded around the corner as if she were in a Tom and Jerry cartoon. She took in the scene in a single glance.

‘Jesus, what happened to them?’ she asked, gesturing towards the men on the ground. The squabby man had stopped gurgling.

‘She did,’ Koenig replied.

‘And who’s . . . ?’ It took a beat for it to register. ‘That’s Nash.’

‘It is.’

‘Why’d she kill them?’

‘They were about to rape her.’

‘Boy, talk about picking on the wrong psychopath. You shot her?’

‘Broke her fingers too.’

Draper nodded in approval. ‘We’d better move her before the NYPD arrive. Her being unconscious is useful. We’ll pretend she’s passed-out drunk and we’re helping her back to her apartment.’

‘She’s not going to talk,’ Draper said to Koenig. ‘Look at her. She should be scared, but she’s not.’

Draper was right. Nash didn’t look scared. She was in pain, but other than that, it seemed like having a bullet in her ankle and a bunch of broken fingers was an inconvenience. Other than saying Stillwell Hobbs was still away on business, she hadn’t said a thing.

Nash was an odd-looking contract killer. With her ripped jeans, short spiky hair and colourful tattoos, she looked like she’d be more at home in a secondhand record shop. Flicking through the crates for rare Black Sabbath LPs. She certainly didn’t look like the kind of girl who could rip the throats out of three men in less than a minute. Until you looked into her eyes. They were deader than leather. And they missed nothing. Koenig could see how she was actively checking they hadn’t made mistakes with her restraints. How she ignored the pain she must have been feeling and was testing them by flexing the muscles in her forearms and legs.

‘Smerconish has people who’ll make her talk, though,’ Draper continued softly.

‘People like you?’

‘Worse than me, Koenig. Much, much worse.’

It looked like it had been a difficult thing for her to admit. Koenig wished he’d not said anything.

They were in the apartment Nash shared with her father. They’d carried her from the alley like she was a deadbeat drunk, through the front door and into the small lobby. They waited for the elderly elevator to clunk and bang its way to the first floor. They saw no one, which had been a relief as the blood from Nash’s ankle had puddled on the tiled floor. Koenig used the rest of his paper napkins to mop it up.

When Nash was secure, Koenig went back down to the alley and hid the three dead men in the dumpsters. Covered their corpses with garbage. Kicked dust over the blood. A rush job, but the best he could do. He then collected Carlyle and Margaret. By the time he returned, Draper had packed and patched Nash’s bullet wound and taped her broken fingers together. It was agricultural, but better than nothing. Professional medical attention would have to wait.

The loft apartment was modern and minimalist. Sterile. In direct contrast to Koenig’s old townhouse, which had been a riot of movie posters, albums, DVDs and books, it was fifty shades of black and white. Like you were inside a crossword puzzle. Just what a man with a phobia of the colour yellow needed, Koenig imagined. The most colourful thing in the loft was Nash’s blood. And even that was turning black. The loft had two bedrooms, a home office, some closets, a kitchen area and a sunken living room. Probably cost over a million bucks.

Carlyle was in the sunken living room, scrolling through a laptop she’d found. She was deep-diving into C-SPAN, Reuters and the BBC. She didn’t look happy. Margaret was resting in Hobbs’s bedroom. Koenig went to check on her. She was lying down but awake. Didn’t seem to be in too much pain.

‘Can I get you anything?’ he asked.

‘A cup of tea would be nice, dear.’ She reached into her handbag and pulled out some teabags. ‘Like your American Express, never leave home without it.’

‘I’ll rustle one up.’

‘Boiling water please, dear. A little milk. The way you Americans make tea is sacrilegious.’

‘Margaret wants a drink,’ Koenig said to Draper when he returned to the living area. ‘You want anything?’

‘I could use a soda,’ Draper replied. ‘Better get some water for this asshole. She’s lost a lot of blood.’

The refrigerator was stainless steel and taller than Koenig. It had an ice dispenser and double doors. Expensive. He opened the door on the left, looked inside. He closed it and opened the other. There was nothing in the refrigerator apart from a six-pack of Classic Coke. Full fat, not diet. The iconic ‘hobble skirt’ bottle. The one Andy Warhol came up with when he wanted a shape to represent mass culture. So distinctive it could be identified when shattered on the ground. But that was all there was in there. No cheese. No cooked meats. No milk. Nothing perishable. Just the Coke. He frowned and checked the cupboards. He then picked up his SIG and press-checked. Pulled the working parts back a fraction to make sure there was a round in the chamber. Instinctive.

‘Gag Nash,’ he said. ‘Hobbs will be here soon.’

Draper didn’t hesitate. She ripped off a strip of the duct tape and covered Nash’s mouth. Tugged it to make sure it was on tight. Koenig got the impression she’d done that before. Draper collected her own SIG and said, ‘How’d you know?’

‘The refrigerator’s empty bar a six-pack of Coke,’ he said. ‘Nothing in the cupboards either. They haven’t been home for days, and there’s no food in the apartment. Only cat chow.’

Cunningham had mentioned Hobbs doted on his cat, and the chow was the gourmet stuff. Line-caught Scottish salmon. Air-dried lamb. Herring and orange. No horse meat in sight.

‘Hobbs must be getting takeout. Nash probably came home to put the oven on. Maybe warm the plates. Or maybe she doesn’t like waiting in line.’

Nash rolled her eyes. Like she was embarrassed by him.

‘There’s definitely no blood on the lobby floor?’ Draper asked.

‘I got most of it. Not enough to fool the CSI: Miami guys, but there’s nothing to see with the naked eye.’ He turned to Carlyle. ‘Can you join Margaret, please, Bess?’

Carlyle obviously understood the problems with an overcrowded room. She picked up the laptop and left the living area. Without saying anything, Koenig and Draper took up tactical positions. Draper got on the floor with a line of sight straight down the hallway. Koenig stood behind the apartment door and kept his eye glued to the peephole. When Hobbs arrived, he would step to the side and allow him to enter the apartment. With luck, Koenig could take him unawares. If he was cautious and didn’t step over the apartment threshold, Draper would shoot out his knees. They’d done this a hundred times when they were with the Special Operations Group. Apart from the shooting-out-the-knees bit.

Koenig needn’t have worried. He heard Hobbs before he saw him. He was holding two takeout bags. He put them down while he got his keys. Koenig stood to the side. The door opened and Hobbs entered his apartment.

‘How’s Chairman Meow, honey?’ he said, closing the door with his foot. ‘Did Mrs Benowitz give him his medicine? And I hope the fryer’s on – I’ve bought enough tempura to feed the imperial court.’

‘Yum,’ Koenig said, stepping out behind him and crunching the SIG onto the back of his head.