Messenger of Death by Alex Markman Read Free Book Online Page B

help
me?”
    “How?”
    “First, we need
another car. Just for a few hours. Okay?”
    “Yah. What’s
next?” Hans turned his face to Claude. He listened with grim
attention to the plan of action that Claude had thought over in
great detail. The Honda would be parked at the plaza, 5 minutes’
driving time from the restaurant. The hit must be conducted
quickly, 10 minutes at the most, including driving from the
restaurant to the plaza. Hans would get three grand for a few hours
of trouble.
    “Hey—hey—hey,”
Hans began protesting after Claude had finished speaking. “You
know, Claude, I’m in a different business. I’m not a biker and
never wanna be. Besides, hits are not my bread and butter. I’m in
the car business, you know.”
    “That’s right,”
Claude insisted. “I’ll do the hitting. Just driving, that’s what I
need from you. C’mon, Hans. Three grand for a few minutes. Good
dough, eh? I’ll pay you next day. Okay?”
    Hans shrugged
his shoulders.
    “Fine.”
     
    As promised, a
man on an errand from Marcel brought a pager. Then, on the day that
the hit was to take place, Hans stole a car and parked it in the
chosen plaza, not far from Claude’s Honda. Claude was waiting for
the signal in his Honda, just an extra precaution in case the
police were already in search of the stolen car. A few minutes past
1 o’clock in the afternoon, the pager beeped. Claude glanced at the
display, got out of his car, and went to Hans.
    “Let’s go.”
    Hans was
apparently nervous, but drove well. His eyes were pale; his lips,
tight.
    Claude was
edgy, as well. Murder did not worry him—he had killed people
before. But in the past, except for the hit at the shish-kebab
house, it had happened in fights, sometimes premeditated, sometimes
not. This time the game was different. The shooting would be in a
public place and follow strict adherence to Marcel’s rules.
    This
son-of-a-bitch Stanley might have a gun, he suddenly thought. His
face on the photograph wasn’t the one of a college boy: He would
react quickly at the first sight of a masked man. He would likely
sit in a place from which he could observe the whole restaurant.
The bastard might pull out his own gun and shoot, for sure, with
deadly precision.
    Claude touched
the gun under the top of his jogging suite. The exhilarating
feeling of its strength and uncontested power over other people
overwhelmed him. A tide of energy stiffened the muscles in his
hands; he held the card that beats all other odds.
    I’ll do my
best, he said to himself with tight lips. The train of his thought
was crushed by another beep of the pager.
    “They are
there,” he told Hans. Hans nodded, drove to the restaurant, and
stopped the car at the entrance.
    “I’ll wait for
you over there, by the parking meter.” Hans pointed to a short
metal post half a block down the road.
    “It won’t take
long.”
    Claude pushed
the door open and went inside. To his left was a sign in a frame,
fixed on a thin metal pole: “Please wait to be seated.” Nobody was
around, as all the waitresses were busy. Almost every table in the
spacious dining room was taken. To find Stanley in such a crowded
place and not draw his attention would take a stroke of good luck.
But Claude had a pretty good idea where to look for him. He and the
other man would likely choose a table in one of the corners to
secure their rear with two walls. At the same time, the place would
have to be in a good observation point from which any suspicious
move would be immediately detected.
    He was right.
Three men were sitting at the far end of the room, to the right, at
a large square table. One of them was for sure one of those in the
photograph Marcel had shown him. But Claude had never seen the
other two. That meant that they should not be shot at. However, the
most wanted target—Stanley—was not there. In an instant, Claude
changed the plan. With a steady pace and a carefree, absent-minded
air, he proceeded to the