“Well then, it’s settled,” the motel manager said. “Marcus ain’t even here, and I already feel a little better about his prospects…”
“Good!”
“I mean, assuming some feller don’t shoot you dead first.”
11TUCSON, ARIZONA
The spider was small and spindly, and it moved with deliberate caution. It skittered across the hardwood kitchen counter a few inches at a time, stopping, waiting to make sure it remained safe, then skittering a few more inches.
Three feet away, Han Binh sat parallel to the counter, tied to a wooden kitchen chair, his eye level just above the counter surface. His hair was dyed black, unconvincingly. He was nearly eighty-five years old, wizened to a stature that belied his fearsome history as a colonel in the Viet Cong.
He watched the spider’s approach as beads of sweat traced their way down his forehead and temples.
“Please… sir…” His mouth felt parched. The dry cleaner’s building was air conditioned, but he was thirsty nonetheless, unsure of how long he had been unconscious. He’d opened the shop, he’d stepped into the back room, where the most profitable—and illegal—part of his trade took place.
And then the lights had gone out.
The spider skittered towards him. His eyes widened. “Sir… I implore you…”
“Shut up.” The man whose attention he was trying to reach was across the room, rifling through the metal gun cabinet in the corner.
As if sensing Han’s predicament, the spider raised one leg aloft… then resumed its crawl, more slowly but steadily, in his direction.
“Sir… I implore you. There is a spider…”
The man looked over the shoulder of his leather jacket. He was ugly, Han thought, in a unique sort of way. His nose had been broken numerous times, and was crooked, with a bump in the bridge. One eyelid was partially covered, replaced by scar tissue from a bad burn. A blade-thin scar traced the man’s neck in a half-circle, just below his Adam’s apple. His left earlobe had been sheared half off. His dirty blonde hair was shaved at the bottom, parted in the middle.
“Shut up or I’ll just kill you now,” he hissed.
Han tried to place the accent. He sounded like the Dutch pederast who’d stayed in the family hotel in Hanoi when Han was a little boy.
His captor glanced briefly at the counter. “It’s just a bloody spider, you coward. If that worries you, you are going to have a very uncomfortable few hours before I kill you.”
He went back to searching the cabinet.
Han’s eyes flitted back to the arachnid. “He is quite close to me now. This spider…”
“It is tiny!” the other man blustered. “In South Africa, we have spiders so big they could cover your face while you sleep and suffocate you! Yissus!”
The elderly man felt his breath shortening, panic beginning to set in. “But sir—”
“I told you—”
“But sir, this spider is very dangerous. I know it is small… but it is a brown recluse. Its bite causes flesh to necrotize, to blacken and die. It… would be most unpleasant if it…” He froze. The spider was just inches away now, forelegs reaching over the edge of the counter, the tip of each just about brushing the arc of his ear.
A fingerless-gloved hand slammed down upon the counter and the creature, smashing it to bits. The stocky South African shook away the debris, then scraped the palm of his glove on the edge of the counter, extracting the last of it. “You think that’s dangerous and unpleasant…”
“Yeah,” Han said wearily. “I know, you are much more. But… I do not have any idea who you are.”
“I’m Van Kamp.”
Was that supposed to mean something? Han shook his head blearily. “Okay. You’re Dutch and still a complete stranger to me.”
Van Kamp scoffed. “Dutch! Hah! Some black market dealer you are!”
“Because I don’t know you?”
“Not true, surely. I am the world’s greatest living assassin,” Van Kamp said matter-of-factly.
“Doubtful,” Han said.
Van Kamp leaned on the counter, perplexed. “Eh? Why? Who’s better?”
Han shrugged as much as his wrist bonds would allow. “Someone nobody knows. From your appearance, it is clear you have had many conflicts, some that perhaps did not go as you would have liked.”
“Yeah? So? I’m still standing, aren’t I, kak kop? My contract completion rate remains one hundred percent. What the devil are you blathering about?”
“The best is someone so good you never knew they were there. And I imagine there are quite a few men who fit that description. They would probably consider you… uncouth.”
Van Kamp crossed his beefy forearms and stared at his captive, nodding. Then he smiled broadly. “Yeah… they don’t count.”
“And why is that?”
“Because they’re not warriors. They’re cowards, vermin who hide in the shadows. But me? I wear who I am proudly. I have nothing to hide. I am known and feared. Probably no more so than by the man I seek. He owes me. Most just fear what I’ll do to them. But he and I have history.”
Han wiggled his head from side to side. “Eh… I am not so sure. He must have you spooked pretty good, or you wouldn’t be tearing this place up, looking for… what, exactly?”
“I suppose if I just ask you about a client, you won’t tell me.”
