Nobody’s Hero (Ben Koenig #2)

Chapter 89

Dwight Snow had done some nasty shit during his time with Jakob Tas. He’d been to Yemen, Nigeria and Kurdistan. He’d protected oil fields in Syria and terbium mines in Myanmar. He’d spent time in Ukraine, fighting either a ‘war’ or a ‘special military operation’, depending on who was paying his cheque that week.

And now he was in New York. About to assault a building on the Lower East Side. But for the first time since he’d started working for Tas, something wasn’t sitting right. He felt queasy, like he’d eaten warm oysters. It wasn’t the task. Assaulting a building with stairs was something he could do by muscle memory. It was working stateside that he didn’t like. Killing Americans on American soil was wrong. It wasn’t something he could shrug off. But their instructions were clear. They were to go inside and kill everyone in the loft apartment. Even the old lady, and she was supposed to be one of theirs. When he’d joined the Marines all those years ago, he’d sworn an oath to protect the Constitution from all enemies, foreign and domestic. And sure, he’d joined Tas’s crew because he found civilian life meaningless, but he’d still thought his moral compass pointed true north. He’d even squared the circle of fighting both sides of the Ukrainian conflict by telling himself that if it hadn’t been him, it would have been an untrained Russian conscript facing Western weapons.

He wasn’t the only one who felt this way. The other two Americans on the squad had expressed the same doubts. For a while the op was in doubt. They were civilians. They weren’t subject to military law. They could walk away. They wouldn’t be going AWOL. There wouldn’t even be a breach of contract dispute. Not for a job like this. The worst that could happen was getting blacklisted. Big deal. If Tas was operating on US soil now, it was time to go anyway. He didn’t want to break his Marine Corps oath.

That was the way it was going. It looked like the squad would be reduced to four: the Polack; the two Samoans, Big Sam and Little Sam; and Lester French, their squad leader. Cotton Pope, a big guy from Minnesota, had even gotten halfway out of the briefing-room door when French stopped him in his tracks with, ‘There’s a five-million-buck bonus in it.’

Which kinda refocused everyone.

French went on to explain that one of the people in the apartment was a man called Ben Koenig. Apparently, Koenig had had a run-in with the Russian mob some years earlier. They’d placed a bounty on his head. Five million bucks, dead or alive. French was clear: if everyone in the apartment died, Koenig’s corpse was theirs. He proposed an almost equal split. A million for him, the remaining $4 million being divided between the six squad members. If someone didn’t make it – and on an op like this there were always casualties – the survivors got a bigger slice of the pie.

The squad had whooped and hollered and high-fived each other. Even Cotton Pope. They were already spending their share. Boats or Vegas hookers, sometimes both. Lots of laughter. Snow hadn’t joined in. He had the nagging feeling that someone with five million bucks on his head had to get very good at killing just to stay alive. The way Snow saw it, Koenig might be worth five million bucks, but no one had managed to claim it so far.

*

But so far, the assault had gone to plan. The jammer had turned everyone’s cell phones into bricks, and they’d entered the building in well-rehearsed moves. Four members of the squad ahead of him, Snow was covering the rear. Tail-end Charlie. The remaining two on the street watching the fire escape.

Cotton Pope was point. He’d gotten all the way to the third-floor landing when it started to go wrong. And all it had taken was the sound of glass breaking. It wasn’t an uncommon sound, not in New York. Along with yelling, car horns and sirens, the sound of breaking glass was part of the city’s soundtrack. If Snow had been in a bar, he’d have cheered. Laughed at whoever had dropped their drink. But in the silence of a covert assault, it was eerily out of place. Like giggling at a funeral.

The broken glass was followed by someone falling down a flight of stairs. It was an unmistakable sound. Thud. Thud. Thud. Sounded like a muffled bass drum. Snow heard Pope cry out, ‘Shit, I’ve broken my damn—’

Two gunshots rang out. A double tap. Fired so closely together it sounded like a single shot. Snow would have bet every dollar he’d ever earned it was Koenig.

A lesser squad might have panicked. They’d have selected automatic fire and let rip. But this wasn’t a lesser squad. This squad was well trained and highly motivated. All they’d lost was the element of surprise, and they could only lose that once. They’d also lost Cotton Pope, but as French said when he spoke into their earpieces a fraction of a second after the double tap, ‘More candy for us when this is over. Stick to the plan.’

Snow held his position.

‘Move,’ he heard French say.

Little Sam was the bigger of the two Samoans. Military humour. He was the fourth guy in the assault team and the guy directly in front of Snow. Little Sam moved onto the second-floor landing. He gave Snow the all-clear sign. Snow followed him up, then turned to face the way he’d come. His job was to protect the rear. If he saw Koenig, things had gone terribly wrong. His eyes occasionally swivelled to the second-floor apartments, but the doors stayed shut. The occupants were either out or pretending they were out. New York was a safe city, but not safe enough to get all curious when you heard gunshots on the other side of your front door.

Glass broke again. Then a curse.

‘He’s throwing bottles of oil!’ Big Sam, the shorter Samoan, hollered. Big Sam was now point. ‘Can’t stay on my goddamned feet.’

Snow understood why the assault was stalling. Koenig – and it could only be Koenig – was using oil to slow them down. Snow had studied military history in college. He knew hot oil had rarely been used as a defensive weapon. It took too long to heat. It was unwieldy and it was expensive. It was also a fire hazard. What the besieged had used oil for was making vulnerable approaches too slippery to walk on. Even on stone, oil was hazardous.

And the squad was standing on polished tile. They were wearing rubber-soled combat boots. Oil, rubber, nonporous porcelain tiles. No wonder they were falling over themselves. Someone else fell down a flight of stairs. Big Sam. Another scream, then another double tap. Chaos.

And then there were three , Snow thought. He ignored the rear and turned to face the action. He couldn’t help himself. It was what marines did.

Semper fi, motherfucker.

Samoa has no standing army, so Little Sam had served his time with the Royal New Zealand Infantry Regiment. Tough unit. Snow knew Little Sam would stand his post. He signalled that the Samoan should advance. The big guy nodded and turned the corner.

Nothing happened.

‘Stairs clear,’ Little Sam said.

He advanced up the stairs carefully, weapon pointing up. Snow followed him. Little Sam stopped on the landing platform. They were now between the second and third floor.

‘What is it?’ Snow asked.

‘The boss,’ he replied. ‘I can see his ass, but he isn’t moving. Looks like he don’t like being promoted to point.’

That’s because he ain’t a marine , Snow thought. He waited for French to decide what to do. Koenig had evened the odds. Maybe he even held the upper hand. A tactical retreat would be sensible. Lick their wounds and go after him on the street.

‘To hell with this,’ French said. ‘That’s five million bucks up there. We have automatic weapons. All he has is bottles of oil. Cover me.’

Little Sam rolled his eyes and crossed himself. He raised his weapon and covered his squad leader as best he could. But the floor was now slippery with oil, and Little Sam couldn’t keep up with French.

Which saved his life.

Another crash-bang-wallop, another double tap. No million bucks for Lester French.

Little Sam stepped back down the stairs, carefully. He joined Snow on the landing.

‘Now what?’ he said. ‘Just the two of us left in here. Two more outside. That’s nearly a million and a half each, but I don’t know about you, I’m getting the feeling we’ll never get to spend it. Whoever this Koenig is, he’s better than us.’

Snow nodded. ‘I feel like one of the Home Alone burglars.’

‘Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough working for these assholes.’

Snow nodded again.

Which was when something shattered at his feet. That looks like a Classic Coke bottle , he thought. Oil and broken glass spilled everywhere. Covered the landing. Smelled of sesame. Kinda reminded him of Japanese food. He lurched and grabbed the banister to steady himself. Saw Little Sam had done the same. They looked like newbie ice skaters.

Might be safer to shuffle down on my ass , he thought. He looked at the broken glass. Changed his mind.

Snow was still thinking about that when the body of Lester French pinwheeled down the flight of stairs like a crash test dummy. It slammed into him and Little Sam. Knocked them both on their asses. Something cracked that wasn’t supposed to crack. Snow thought it might have been his wrist. The H&K fell from his hands. Clattered down the stairs he’d just walked up. Made a hell of a noise. Little Sam had lost his weapon too. Seemed he’d also lost the use of his legs. He was scrabbling about on the oily floor as if he had spinal shock. Helpless.

Snow couldn’t help himself. He looked at Lester French. His squad leader’s neck was at right angles, like his ear was glued to his shoulder, but it wasn’t the initial slip that had killed him. He’d been shot in the bridge of his nose and his eye socket, and then, it seemed, he’d been thrown down the stairs. Koenig was using the bodies of the dudes he’d killed to knock the living ones off their feet. It took Snow two seconds to work that out. Another two to realise the terrible danger he was in.

He looked up.

And saw Koenig. He wasn’t hurrying. His expression was monstrously calm. He held a semiautomatic pistol in one hand and had a bag of kitty litter tied around his neck. Looked like a hipster’s papoose. Koenig reached into the bag and threw down a handful of kitty litter as if he were seeding a lawn. It covered the tiles like Spill-Sorb, the absorbent granules orderlies used to clean blood in hospitals. So that was how he had managed to stay on his feet when no one else could , Snow thought. Very clever. Badass. Koenig double-tapped Little Sam in the head, then moved towards him.

And then Koenig was standing over him. He looked at Snow without emotion, like he was studying the cheese trolley at a restaurant. He wasn’t even breathing hard. He pointed his gun at Snow’s head. It was a SIG.

‘Please,’ Snow pleaded.

Koenig squeezed the trigger. Twice.

And that was the end of Dwight Snow, oath-breaker.