Columbus by Derek Haas Read Free Book Online Page A

more, to try to open me up, but he knew the futility in that, and so gave me my assignment and had Brueggemann show me to the door.
    The next day, I cased the building, invisible in the shadows of a nearby alley. Names hold value and Brueggemann had given me his, ostensibly to advertise his reputation. But if he had once been a contract killer like me, he had lost a step, gone soft in his retirement, the way a moonlighting cop lets his defenses down when he’s sitting on a security guard’s stool. It was a mistake giving me his name. The cons outweighed the pros; the scales tipped away from his favor. I knew his boss Doriot would be careful to avoid detection or pursuit when he entered or exited the building in Brussels where he did business . . . he was a deliberate and methodical professional. He would vary his routine, have multiple entrance and exit points, take illogical routes to wherever he laid his head. Ours is a business where reputation is prized but anonymity is essential. We have to be able to float into this world, this game, and then shut the door behind us when we leave. A private, personal life can never be fully realized, I have learned this all too well, but we can do things to make the likelihood of clashes between the two worlds, if not impossible, at least improbable. Still, I hoped Brueggemann’s lack of foresight in revealing his name would mean he was lax when covering his own tracks.
    I didn’t have to wait long to find out. He exited the building through the same door I had entered the day before and headed north up the street, toward the city center, walking with his hands in his pockets, not even checking over his shoulder or scanning shop windows for reflections. Being as big as he was, he was as easy to follow as if he’d been painted red. I hung back and stayed with him until he retreated into a three-story apartment building only a quarter of a mile from the office. A minute later, a light came on in a corner window on the top floor. Brueggemann had led me right to his doorstep.
    So why did I follow him?
    Because names hold value, and you never know when you’ll need to collect a trinket from your safe.
    Two years later, and I am waiting in his hallway when he lumbers to his door. He has his hands in his pockets and is humming a song I don’t recognize.
    “Hello, Brueggemann.”
    He turns his head at the sound, slowly. Being so large, every movement he makes takes an eternity. His eyes find the gun in my hand and then flit back to my face. The only flicker of emotion he gives is a slight pursing of his lips.
    “I remember you.”
    “Good.”
    “Columbus, yes?”
    “Yes.”
    He pulls his hands out of his pockets and takes a small step toward his apartment. In his left hand, he’s holding a set of keys.
    He looks ahead, like he’s speaking to the door. He is trying to keep his voice even, relaxed. “The boss told me many things about the work you’ve done. He said you were particularly good with . . . ”
    And then he swings away from the door and towards my face, lunging with his left, the keys leading the way.
    I wanted this to happen, and I don’t blame him for trying. If I had come on strong, kept my distance and then ordered him away with my gun in his back, he would have made an attempt to challenge me at some point. It’s better to get it done early, break the man’s spirit, so the remainder of our time together can be spent usefully.
    One of the things I learned at the Waxham detention center was to fight dirty against older and bigger opponents. Many believe the best way to take down a big man is to drive your heel into his kneecap, buckling it, chopping his legs out from under him so he’ll fall like a redwood. This always sounds good in theory, but the reality is it takes a precise, well-balanced kick, and if you miss above or below, then you’re either striking thick thigh muscle or the rock-hard bones of the shin. It’s not easy to do in a juvey yard, much less