Chapter 9

Johnny Tremelo surveyed the barren landscape before him, suppressing his irritation at the incompetence of his hastily assembled helpers. He had neatly set the trap and primed the bait but, despite that, his prey was escaping. Contemplating his next move, he took an unhurried sip from his water supply. He was wearing a Camelbak, a water bottle which strapped to his back with a tube over his shoulder for easy refreshment. Such an arrangement had the advantage of leaving his hands free for the automatic weapon holstered on his belt or the rifle he was currently holding. This foresight was typical of Tremelo. A meticulously careful man, his ability to anticipate possible obstacles and maneuver past his target's defenses had led to his success in a field where few survived for long. A good hitman certainly did not prosper by underestimating his opponent.

It was obvious from the body lying near the other side of the open expanse,

that at least one of his hired men did not share his survival acumen. During the past few weeks, Tremelo had developed a healthy respect for his opponents' capabilities, and knew that they were quite capable of defending themselves when necessary. He realised how exposed anyone crossing the cleared area would be, and wondered if the Sloans were waiting to pick off more of their assailants as they attempted to reach the far trees. He doubted this, partly because there had been no more shots, but also because it didn't fit with his reading of Sloan's character. Unless cornered, he believed the cop's instincts would not be to stand and fight while accompanied by his father, but to lose himself in the wilderness beyond. Carefully inspecting the fringe of trees through his binoculars, Tremelo could see no movement, so he stepped into the open, all senses on alert, and ready to retreat quickly if necessary. When his actions met with no response, he started to traverse the clearing with extreme caution.

The hitman noted with indifference that Warren wasn't dead as he had originally assumed. When he reached him he solicitously helped him into a sitting position, and offered him a sip of water as the injured man struggled to choke out his claim.

"The reward is mine. I got the bastard, hurt him real bad. He's not going to get far." Tremelo refrained from pointing out that the reverse was also true. He merely nodded noncommittedly, and asked where they had gone. As Warren turned slightly to point out the trail, Tremelo unemotionally shot him in the back of the head, killing him instantly, another loose end disposed of.

Tremelo had resigned himself to a delay in terminating his target, confident he could satisfy the conditions of his contract at a later time. His prey seemed temporarily beyond his reach, and he expected police reinforcements to arrive any minute. However, Warren's information forced him to reconsider his options. If Sloan were indeed injured, then his ability to travel would be severely limited, and this would be the best time to finish the job. A few yards away he squatted down next to the blood-soaked earth, which bore mute witness to his ex-employee's story. Intent again on the hunt, Tremelo moved silently on, entering the trees where traces of blood indicated the injured man had fled.

It was at that moment that the silence was rent by a terrible, heart-rending cry that, despite Tremelo's years of meting out and witnessing death, momentarily froze him in his tracks and caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

It was an unearthly, desolate sound that carried anguished denial to the heavens. It spoke of a tormented soul and unendurable suffering, but Tremelo was not one to accept things at face value. Wary of anything that could conceal a possible trap, he edged onward, following the plaintive voice. Although the volume of the sound had slowly decreased, the anguish it contained had not, and he wasn't surprised by the sight that met his eyes as he entered a small clearing. The elderly doctor cradled a bloody, limp body in his arms, rocking slightly back and forth as he continued his lament. He was focused exclusively on his son, and seemed oblivious not only to Tremelo's presence, but to the whole world. A gun lay neglected at his feet, testimony to his lack of concern with external threats.

Tremelo's father had walked out on his family when his son was 3, and he had never known a loving parental bond, yet he regarded this scene with less than his customary detachment. An excellent sharpshooter, he dealt Death from afar, barely acquainted with its concomitant grief. Now he was unaccountably drawn to the depth of feeling displayed by the normally stoic man.

Even if he was not impervious to the suffering in front of him, his sense of self-preservation remained as strong as ever, and he kicked the gun further away from the doctor as a precaution. It was this motion that finally attracted the man's attention, and dazed blue eyes met his.

"He's dead." It was more a question than a statement, delivered with the innocent incomprehension of a child, and Tremelo automatically nodded in response, unable to deny the truth. The clearing was a slaughterhouse, copious quantities of blood liberally soaking both men. No one could survive such blood loss, and the brief glimpses he caught of the deathly-white face of his target attested to the fatal nature of his injuries.

With this objective confirmation, hopeless grief dawned in the doctor's eyes, and he bowed his white head over his son's face. Realising that his mission had been accomplished with no effort on his part, Tremelo decided to leave the old man to his mourning, and he started to back away. His departure was aborted when Mark spoke.

"You're Tremelo."

He stared at the elderly man, neither confirming or denying the statement. He wasn't surprised by the identification, but even he was taken aback by the man's next request.

"Kill me too." The blue eyes, until then misted with grief, cleared with a sudden intensity.

Tremelo shook his head in refusal, surprised into a response. "The contract specifies that you stay alive."

"Why?" A crack of anger appeared in the hopeless resignation, gaining momentum as he fired off the questions. "Why him, why not me? Why?"

His intensity demanded an answer, and for a moment Tremelo was nearly persuaded to gratify his curiosity. Only an ingrained sense of professionalism prevented him from betraying his employer's name.

Mark persisted. "Then why now, here? You've had every opportunity this last week. Why this elaborate game?"

This time a curious feeling of obligation broke through Tremelo's customary reticence, and he answered honestly. "It had to be like this. The contract specified that he had to die in front of you. I was paid twice my normal fee - a million dollars."

Mark stared at him in horror, the chilling cruelty of the intent staggering him.

"Who?" he demanded hoarsely. "What kind of sick monster would plan..." He broke off at Tremelo's head shake, and changed tactics.

"I'll hire you." Determination and shaking fury joined the grief on his countenance. "I'll pay you double what he's paid. Two million dollars. I've got the money, my house, anything you want. I want him dead. Just kill the bastard."

For a moment, Tremelo was tempted, more by the passion in the plea than by the monetary gain, but ultimately he rejected the idea.

"You know, Dr. Sloan. I believe I've just retired. With my ...earnings, I intend to move abroad and start a legitimate business."

Deprived of the prospect of revenge, the brief spark of animation faded from the old man's eyes, and the devastation of loss returned. He seemed to withdraw back inside himself.

"So much blood," he muttered brokenly. His hand fluttered helplessly above his son's inert face. "I have to...please help me..I have to...I need to clean up the blood...so much blood."

Tremelo unstrapped his water bottle, laying it beside the doctor. For a moment he felt an absurd impulse to apologise, but contented himself with, - "Goodbye, Dr. Sloan. I won't bother you again." He left without looking back, his normal satisfaction at a completed job in abeyance.