Resurrecting Midnight (7 page)

The Russians. The French. Jamaicans. South Africans. Middle Easterners.

Money had the scent of blood, and the sharks were in the waters.

Morality would never outweigh money. Money made the moral immoral.

Many immoral fucks had died trying to get their hands on the package.

Tonight would leave the undertaker busy.

More flashes inside his head. Again, dead memories battled to be resurrected.

No time for the past.

Medianoche tore the pictures into dozens of pieces, then headed for the door.

It was time to go to war.

Medianoche stepped into the hallway with his weapon holstered, tucked away.

Standing outside the door facing his condo was a man in his fifties. Stocky and muscular with carnivorous eyes. Hair black with irregular white patches, like a Tasmanian devil.

Dark Italian suit. Dark shirt and red tie. Dark trench coat.

He had a gun in each of his gloved hands. Guns fitted with suppressors.

An assassin.

He recognized the killer’s face.

He saw La Bestia de Guerra.

Capítulo 6

La Bestia de Guerra.
The Beast of War.

Medianoche’s gun was holstered. He stared at the gunman, saw a killer known to hunt and do barbaric things to his prey, a hired gun who worked alone, or sometimes with other devils.

The killer returned Medianoche’s deadly glare.

The Beast was a man many feared, had a face like Marciano and a punch just as devastating. A man who’d shoot you before he damaged his callused knuckles.

A man who would rather cut off your limbs and behead you than waste a bullet.

Medianoche asked, “You plan on shooting me?”

“Been thinking about it.”

“I’ve been thinking the same.”

The Beast looked Medianoche up and down, his frown intense, then pulled his coat back, slipped a gun inside a holster, then slipped his second gun into the opposite holster.

Medianoche said, “Hopkins have the money in place?”

“Deposit has been transferred to the offshore.”

Medianoche asked, “Where is Hopkins? He here yet?”

“Stateside. He was after the other part of the package. He should have it by now.”

“He’s outsmarted all the con-men bankers.” Medianoche grunted. “Rich fuck.”

“Much richer when he puts the two packages together.”

“What does that get him?”

“Gets him what Madoff and Stanford got, minus the jail time.”

Another door opened. Another man stepped out. Dark Italian suit, dark shirt, dark trench coat, and fedora. Holding a silenced weapon. Dressed the same as the other man.

Only his tie was pure, virginal, as white as the cocaine Oliver North has overseen.

The man wearing the white tie addressed The Beast, then Medianoche.

Medianoche said, “Señor Rodríguez. Nice suit.”

“Sir, thank you, sir.”

Medianoche said, “You did that assignment down in Pinamar.”

“Sir, yes, sir. Made it back an hour ago, sir.”

“How is that area?”

“Sir, beautiful, sir. Like being on the beach in Cannes or in Malibu, sir.”

“How did you dispose of the target?”

“Sir, tracked him to Ku nightclub. When he went to the bathroom to take a piss, went in behind him and broke his motherfucking neck, sir. Left the target sitting dead on the shitter, sir.”

The Beast asked, “Get your dick wet?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Good. Keeps the edge off.”

The final door opened. Electronic tango music spilled into the petite hallway. Tanghetto playing “Inmigrante.” Three Argentine men hurried out of the apartment. Men dressed in jeans and sweaters, men who held their winter coats and umbrellas in their hands. Men who had perfect faces like the underwear models on the billboards plastered all over Buenos Aires.

The first of the men said, “
Buenas noches
.”

The second said, “
Buenas noches
.”

The last, “
Buenas noches
.”

The Beast didn’t reply. Neither did Medianoche. Neither did Rodríguez.

The Spanish men lowered their eyes as they stumbled into a hallway filled with assassins. One extended a nervous finger and pushed the call button for the elevator. They stayed close to each other, kept their eyes to the floor and waited. They boarded the small elevator with their eyes still on the floor, didn’t look up as the elevator closed.

Medianoche said, “We should’ve beat those fucks into the tile.”

“Inmigrante” ended. There was a pause. Then “Libertango” played, the band now Ultratango. The song ended. “Baires 6am” by Terminal Tango began to play.

Medianoche frowned at that fourth door.

The Beast put a strong hand on his shoulder. Be patient.

Rodríguez looked at his watch, shook his head.

Seconds later, the door to the fourth condo opened again. There stood an Indian woman born in Mumbai, a woman who, from a distance, could pass for Madhuri Shankar Dixit. A woman who had seen the horrors in Iraq and Afghanistan. Dressed in a fitted black Italian suit, a green paisley tie, black men’s shirt, black boots with no-skid bottoms and square heels. She stepped out, closed the white door behind her. Hair black and wavy. High cheekbones. Black lipstick. Gap between her front teeth. Marks on her face that looked like severe acne scars. But it wasn’t acne. It was where shrapnel had entered her flesh and compromised her beauty.

She put her hat on, slid her gun inside the holster covered by her long black coat, adjusted her green paisley tie. The woman made Medianoche uncomfortable. She reminded him of someone. Her eyes reminded him of Montserrat. Not in her action, not in her vulgarity, in her eyes. The woman grinned. Not ashamed. Proud those three men had left her glowing.

This was the team. Identical uniforms. The only difference was the color of their ties. One tie was the color of drying blood, one the hue of a starless midnight, the third a paisley with green being the dominant color, the final tie white.

Medianoche stepped forward, adjusted his black tie, pushed the call button for the elevator.

The elevator opened on their silence, an electronic voice with a strong Argentine accent announcing the elevator was on
piso diecisiete
. Seventeenth floor above the lobby at
piso cero.
The Beast entered first. Then the woman. Then Medianoche. Rodríguez entered and stood next to Medianoche. The woman was behind Medianoche. He felt her eyes on him.

The elevator was small, European in size, like everything else in Buenos Aires, barely big enough for four adults. He felt her bulletproof vest bump against his back as the elevator descended. He didn’t want her goddamn body touching him. Didn’t need an Achilles’ heel. Women in war were a regiment’s Achilles’ heel. Because men were men, men were protectors. Dick protected clit. Because dick wanted clit. He’d always see any creature with ovaries as a liability.

In the door’s reflection, he saw her studying him.

She asked, “What are you looking at, Medianoche?”

“Looking at you, soldier. And when you address me, address me properly.”

“And instead of staring at me, take a picture, leave a tip, and move on.”

She had said that with disdain. Because of the shrapnel. Her deformity. People stared.

Medianoche said, “Amaravati Panchali Ganeshes.”

“I don’t use my birth name.” Her tone showed no respect. “Don’t use it again.”

Medianoche hit the stop button.

He asked, “Is there a problem, soldier?”

“Only if you want it to be one.”

Medianoche nodded. “Which handle are you using with our organization?”

“Was going to use Saint Raven. You know, Saint Louis, Saint Raven. Used that handle when I worked in Rome.”

“Your reputation contradicts that name. You’re no saint.”

“Not interested in being one, either. Saints have too many goddamn rules.”

“What’s your handle?”

“Since I’m in South America, I want to be called Señorita Raven.”

“Okay, Señorita Raven. Read the report on you. IQ of 147.”

“On a bad day.”

“Speak four languages.”

“Five if you count ebonics, sir. Throw in pig Latin, I speak six.”

“Your father is doing life for killing your mother and her lover at a fleabag motel.”

“He gunned them down in the middle of the night. My mother was a weak woman. My dad, not a likeable man. Hated that fucker. He would’ve decapitated my mother if he could’ve.”

“Religious extremist.”

“Just crazy, if you ask me. Just plain crazy.”

“You’re a middle child, have two siblings. Your older sister was pregnant—”

“By a poor white-trash loser who didn’t want any more child support, so he beat the baby out of her when she was in her second trimester and that left her unable to have any more kids.”

Medianoche said, “Left her insane.”

“Yes, sir. That pretty much sums up those wonderful happy times with the folks.”

“You suffered a breakdown.”

“That’s not on my record.”

“No, it’s not on the official record. Happened after your dishonorable discharge.”

“If it’s not on the fucking record, it didn’t fucking happen.”

“You had severe depression. Medics and police came to your home on a 10-56A.”

“It didn’t happen.”

“That’s a suicidal-person call.”

“Fuck you, you one-eyed fuck.”

“Watch yourself, soldier.”

“I read your report too, sir. IQ 130. Dishonorably discharged, like the rest of us. You were down in North Carolina, getting trained with a group of mercs at a tactical training facility, but you went out on a pussy run, then the report got vague, just said you got shot in the face.”

“How did you gain access to my files?”

“You went to dip your manhood in a slag’s hole and ended up with a foxhole where your eye used to be, and that left you in a coma for a few weeks, and when you woke up, that eye was missing and so was some of your memory. You don’t know what happened; just know you got fucked up. Shot in the eye twenty years ago, left for dead in a whorehouse. Yeah, you got bull’s-eyed in the head by a friggin’ kid. By a little boy. That had to suck. All the work you’ve done, all the firefights you had overseas, and end up in a whorehouse getting shot by a kid.”

“Answer me, soldier.”

“You grew up in El Pueblo de la Reina de los Ángeles. Your father was a detached drunk and your mother was a Romanian actress who died in the Baldwin Hills flood back in 1963.”

“Trying to fucking diss me. So screw you, you one-eyed sonofabitch. Just because you can piss standing up doesn’t mean your old ass can fucking—”

Medianoche spun and grabbed Señorita Raven by her throat, his grip swift and tight, that flippant look that had been plastered on her face now a look of severe pain and deep regret.

She tried to reach for her gun, but he grabbed her gun hand with his other hand, was tempted to head-butt her, add a bloody nose to the shrapnel in her once beautiful face.

Medianoche growled. “There is a pecking order. Respect me. Or get out of my elevator.”

She gurgled, “Yes . . . yes . . . sir.”

“I don’t think you do. Play 51-50 with everybody else, but that shit doesn’t fly with me.”

He choked her again. Choked her until she slapped his hand in surrender.

“You will respect me. Act 51-50 and I will make that 10-56A a fucking reality.”

Her eyes. He saw Montserrat in her eyes. He saw rejection and betrayal, saw no loyalty.

She took a swing at him but didn’t have the reach, didn’t have the wind, could only slap his shoulders. Medianoche choked her, pushed her head into the back of the elevator, stayed on her until her eyes bulged and her midnight-colored fedora tumbled from her head.

The Beast whispered, “Stop.”

Medianoche eased up. Let her catch her breath. Then he choked her again.

There were only soldiers in a war. No men. No women. Only soldiers.

There was no surrender in war. Not in the kind of war he believed in.

Medianoche reached inside his pocket. Came out with a black Montblanc ballpoint pen. Aimed that piece of high-quality workmanship at Señorita Raven’s right eye. Give her something to joke about. Horror covered her face. No longer 51-50. No longer wishing for a 10-56.

Medianoche aimed at her eye as she turned her face away. He struggled to find her eye until Señor Rodríguez grabbed his arm and wrestled the Montblanc away.

Medianoche didn’t let up on Señorita Raven. Looked in her eyes for that arrogance.

The Beast put a soft hand on Medianoche’s shoulder. Medianoche respected the chain of command, yanked his hand away from the neck of what he had frowned upon as being an arrogant wannabe-bitch-ass-feminist fool, let her collapse into the wall. Medianoche turned back around, adjusted his tie, his shirt, his hat, the patch over his eye, kept his eye on Señorita Raven’s reflection. And her gun hand. She coughed back to life, coughed hard, like she was a child reborn, sweat sprouting across her face, a river of foolishness draining into her black suit.

Rodríguez reached around Medianoche, hit the red button.

The elevator descended.

The ThyssenKrupp elevator stopped on the ground floor, floor zero, steel doors opening on the lobby. All glass and concrete.

Medianoche remained up front.

The Beast stepped up, moved to his left.

Señorita Raven picked up her fallen hat, put it back on, her breathing heated and thick.

In a firm voice, The Beast said, “Everything settled?”

“I’m not the one with the problem.”