Silent Night - By Tom Barber Page 0,2

man on the bed six slugs, three to the chest, three to the head. She pulled the trigger fast, the man’s body jerking as he took each round, splinters coughing up from the bed frame and floor under the bed as the bullets buried themselves in the wood. The spent cartridges jumped out of the ejection port, tinkling to the floor, each one bouncing and eventually rolling to a stop. Looking at the dead man, Wicks pulled his cell phone and dialled a number. Someone answered on the fourth ring.

‘It’s me. He talked. We’re in business.’

He listened, nodding, then ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket. Then he turned to Drexler.

‘What time is it?’

Still holding the pistol, the dark-haired woman shot her cuff. ‘6:25. The sun’ll be up soon.’

Wicks nodded.

‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

TWO

‘That’s the last one?’ the removal man asked, three and a half hours later. He was a big, surly guy with a large gut straining against his shirt and a cardboard box tucked under his arm, Stuff scribbled in black pen on the side. He was standing in the doorway of a third floor apartment in the East Village neighbourhood of Manhattan.

In front of him, a slim, dark-haired woman in jeans and a red flannel shirt looked around. The apartment had been cleared out, cleaned and emptied. She turned back to the man and nodded.

‘That’s it. Thank you, Jeff.’

The guy nodded. ‘We’ll take off now. We should make Chicago by the end of the day. If the weather turns, we’ll hole up and be there tomorrow.’

The woman nodded. ‘OK. Thank you.’

Jeff turned and left.

On his way down the corridor, he passed a man in his late twenties coming the other way. The newcomer was blond and handsome, dressed in blue jeans, a thick grey hoodie and a green jacket laced on the inside with cream-coloured wool. He watched as the removal guy walked down the stairs whistling a Christmas song, the final box tucked under his arm and glad to be finally on his way. Shifting his attention, the blond man moved into the open doorway of the apartment.

Inside, the dark-haired woman had her back to him and didn’t see him arrive. He knocked gently on the doorframe and she turned.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey.’

He stayed where he was, the empty apartment in front of him. It seemed naked and bare, like one of the trees lining the street outside that had lost its leaves for the winter. It also looked far bigger now that it had been cleared of all the woman’s possessions. To the right, the wooden panels of the main bedroom door caught his eye. The entire middle portion of the frame had been replaced, the fresh wood a slightly different shade from the rest.

He remembered the night last year when that door had been blown apart by a shotgun shell and handgun fire.

He glanced back at the woman.

That was the night the two of them met.

‘All done?’ he asked, forcing a smile.

‘All done.’

‘So this is it?’

She sighed and nodded. ‘I guess so.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah. Me too.’

‘It just wasn’t going to work. And I have to think about my and Jessie’s futures.’

He nodded. He went to speak again, but there was the sudden blare of a car horn from outside. The woman checked her watch.

‘That’s me. I need to get over to LaGuardia. My flight leaves just before midday.’

‘I’ll walk you down.’

She nodded and followed him towards the door, grabbing a coat from the kitchen counter and pulling it on. Before she left, she took one last look at the empty apartment.

For a second, the place was busy, full of her memories.

Leaving the spare key on the side, she turned and shut the door for the last time, following the blond man along the corridor and down the stairs to the building exit.

Outside, the sun was shining but the air was cold, icy winds blowing down East 13 Street. City maintenance had already done their rounds this morning. Snow had been cleared off the roads and sidewalks, piled up to the side to allow access for cars and pedestrians. The streets had then been salted to allow traction for wheels and grip for shoes. To the left, an endless stream of vehicles flowed up 1 Avenue, a faint Christmas song audible from the radio in a deli on the corner of the street. The beating heart of Manhattan on a typical New York December day.

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