The Mortal Coil - Chapter 3

Dirk McGavin had a face weathered by a lifetime of adversity which, paradoxically, belied his generally unstressed nature. The adversity had afflicted on his mug the penalty it had spared his cardiovascular system, and had given him a prematurely graying crop of hair and the occasional bout of central serous chorioretinopathy. He was a man who lamented little, but this day he made an exception and grumbled to himself about his co-conspirators’ apparent disregard for their agreed responsibilities.
It was raining pretty hard now, and Dirk turned up his collar. Underneath his now-soaked trenchcoat he clutched in his right hand the pistol grip of his UMP submachine gun as he watched the building ahead for signs of his target. He would now have to be the lookout, the shooter, the cleanup crew, and the getaway driver. This had caused him to form a new plan, one which meant he’d have to make it less subtle and more overt, and to dispense entirely with the cleanup part.
Aside from his obligations to his family, society, and creator, a man bears few responsibilities but those with which he has voluntarily encumbered himself. In the present instance, Dirk though with grim disappointment of the men he’d believed in, in whom he’d placed a certain degree of trust and in whom he’d invested a not-insignificant degree of faith. He’d relied on these men, who, with the ready option of abstaining from entry into his criminal conspiracy enterprise, chose rather to join in, doubtlessly, thought Dirk, with thoughts of reveling in the glorious benefits of its successful completion dancing in their fanciful but apparently dim-witted heads. Such heads should be swiftly adorned with abrasions, lacerations, and contusions, he opined to himself, for these crania contained the very brains which had also chosen to shirk the plot and forsake Dirk, leaving him in the unenviable position of having to perform the duties of all participants himself, save the contribution he’d received from the only other trustworthy member of the crew.
As the rain dripped from the brim of his fedora in an ardent but fruitless effort to extinguish his cigar, Dirk reflected on the men whose services he’d solicited for this job. There was Brendan Stillwater, the fumbling galoot whose hulking mass and poor fashion sense often caused people to mistake him for an upright rhinoceros dancing in its mother’s apron. Then there was Jeremiah Footbridge, the computer tech with a penchant for romance movies, which he defended by claiming that their “endearing” attributes cultivated in him a romantic and sensitive nature that women found appealing. Then there was Stan Van Wooten, the youngest and most foolhardy of the conspirators. Stan was trigger happy and impulsive, and had made claims to being a great trigger man, planner, and tactical driver. He’d once won a shooting contest sponsored by an underground assassin ring, and he wasn’t afraid to share this fact with anyone who would listen. But he, like the others, had turned out to be a blowhard, a promissory disappointment, and a contemptible shirker.
A car passed, its headlights briefly illuminating the dark corner of the alley in which Dirk stood. He remained motionless, his cold, steely eyes affixed to the door of the building in which his unwitting target was enjoying his last party. The passing driver had no interest in bystanders in this storm, and probably didn’t see him anyway.
Several more painstaking hours passed, as Dirk stood his post awaiting the right moment. His mind wandered to the two experienced crooks who’d rejected his invitation. Both had honestly assessed their ability and willingness to undertake this job, and, fearing the creation of a reputation for flakiness, both had passed. Too bad, Dirk thought, they’d have been way better than the useless slugs I got.
Lucas Johnson was the only one who pitched in. He’d volunteered, and he’d been the one they all relied on for weapon procurement. In this day of traceable weapons and uncanny ballistic evidence, new weapons had to be used for each crime. The Club didn’t tolerate sloppy work, and Lucas had come through. The UMP with which Dirk intended to assassinate his target had been obtained through Johnson’s contacts, and hadn’t been used in any offense before. It had, in fact, been feloniously confiscated from a SWAT armory only two days prior, and would undoubtedly cause the victimized police agency some consternation at the future date upon which their very own crime laboratory would match it to this crime.
As the party came to an end and the guests began to filter out of the building’s doors and onto the street, Dirk counted the familiar faces from the files he’d reviewed. The unfamiliar ones were likely security, and he knew they’d spot him soon. One, two, three guards outside, he counted, as he planned his assault. This would’ve been much easier if Steve or Andy had joined in, he lamented, as with his left hand he whipped open his coat. Simultaneously he dropped to his right knee and brought the sound-suppressed weapon up with his right hand.
One guard spotted him, but it was too late. Dirk squeezed two quick rounds from the weapon and the guard’s head was perforated by the .45 caliber hollowpoint rounds. Dirk’s left hand now held the forward grip on the weapon, and he quickly fired two more bursts, dropping the other two guards to the wet pavement.
Dirk sprinted across the street as the crowd suddenly noticed that three men had been murdered in their presence. He bounded up onto the hood of one vehicle and fired his weapon again, this time dropping a guard who, in response to the screams, had emerged from the front door of the building. Dirk skipped over the remains of his first three targets and leveled his weapon once more, this time firing through the glass windows of the restaurant and into the building, dropping two more guards and one waiter who’d accidentally fled right into the path of Dirk’s ammunition. Dirk spun around and stepped to the side, his back against the wall just to the side of the door, his body invisible now to the occupants of the restaurant as none could see through the pillar against which he leaned.
He rapidly ejected the empty magazine from his weapon and slammed a new one into its place. He depressed the bolt and it slammed forward, stripping a round from the fresh magazine and inserting it into the firing chamber. Dirk crouched and spun again, immediately spotting two guards who were rushing towards him with their weapons drawn. He fired a longer burst this time, dropping both, and then he sprinted through the broken window and into the dining room. Everyone had fled, and most had now noticed that the emergency exit doors and all exits save the front door were barred from the outside. Screams could be heard from every area. They fled, terrified, failing in their terror to notice that they weren’t his targets, as those whom he passed and allowed to leave were unarmed and not a part of this job.
Another guard popped out of a doorway, firing his pistol wildly into the room and wounding two partygoers in the process. Dirk shot the man and proceeded to the grand staircase which led from the ornate dining room to the more exclusive and more handsomely decorated VIP dining area on the second floor. He strode up the steps, shooting two more guards who showed themselves as he ascended, and then he turned to face the VIP table, at the head of which sat Mayor Quincy Birch himself, tonight’s target. Not by coincidence Birch was joined at his table by two of his favorite people, Nancy Stanislaus of News Channel 14 and his paramour, Leyla Endres. Both shuddered in fear, especially Leyla, as she suspected her former main squeeze, Bull Howard, The Club’s chief enforcer, was behind the assault. She was right. The mayor’s bladder emptied onto the soft carpet, soiling his expensive suit. He clutched in desperation the silk napkin which had, moments ago, been tucked into his shirt collar.
“Leyla?” Dirk inquired in a dark and emotionless voice. The mayor looked to her in surprise, his jowls wrinkling unpleasantly as his mouth hung open in disbelief.
“Yeah?” Leyla squeaked back.
“Nobody leaves The Club, and nobody leaves The Bull”. Dirk then looked at the mayor. “And nobody touches what belongs to The Bull.” Dirk fired a single round through the mayor’s forehead, and another through Leyla’s. For obvious reasons he spared the reporter, to whom he turned and said: “if you play with fire you get burned.”
And then he departed, down the steps, across the street, to the alley and to the vehicle he’d procured for himself for his departure. Without a getaway driver, he navigated away from the scene of the crime with great skill as if to throw back into the faces of his feckless shirking horde any notion that he’d needed them for success. Once at the res gestae, he’d hoist a cold one with Lucas, and then collect the reward from The Bull.