“You know what I’m talking about. You saw a chance to take out the competition and complete your objective.”
“I think I know my own past.”
“Somalia, fifteen years ago,” Van Kamp said. “I was protecting the warlord Dalaal Gurmad Qayaad in Mogadishu. There was a raid on his complex by US Marines. But I got him out. We were clear, free, making our way over the rooftops to his helicopter.”
Bob’s mind drifted back. “Dalaal. The former long-distance guy, the one who’d been to the Olympics. I shot him with a BAR .50 from nearly two klicks away. With strong wind, no less, and him moving. Best shot I ever made.”
“But not the first bullet. The first two shots, the tracer rounds you used to gauge your target lead? One of them took down his bodyguard. You remember? Turn around. Ah! Don’t get up, just shuffle on your knees.”
Bob did as ordered. Van Kamp was a strikingly ugly man, his cheeks broad but flat, his nose broken at least twice. He had a burn scar covering the outer edge of his left eye, scar tissue partially covering it.
“You did this to me, Singleton,” Van Kamp said. “You made me look like a freak. And when your former employers came looking for the best, it was practically destiny.”
Bob stared at the damage. “Ouch,” he said. Then he shook his head gently. “Nope, still can’t place you. And… man, if you were really as famous as you think, I’m pretty sure I’d remember a mug that ugly.”
Van Kamp seethed in place, his face contorted, his head bobbing about as he tried to decide how to act. “Gyeaargh!” he ranted. “If I shoot you in the gut, to make it slow and painful, there’s a chance maybe an ambulance saves you. If I shoot you in the head, I don’t get the profound satisfaction of throttling you to death, or to watch you suffer for what you did to me.”
Bob nodded. “It’s almost as if even though I’m the guy on his knees and you’re the guy with the gun… you’re still just some anonymous psycho.”
“SHUT UP!”
“Unloved and uncared for by the world, still basically running across rooftops for warlord creeps, with the guy who shot you not caring if you even exist.”
“And that resolves that question,” Van Kamp said, lowering the gun to point it at Bob’s stomach. “I’ll shoot you in the gut, watch you suffer for a few minutes, then put two in your head. And I’ll still be out of here long before the police arrive.”
“Are you going to talk the entire time?” Bob said. “Shooting me in the gut is one thing, but five more minutes of this self-pity fest is more than anyone could take.”
“You… You are so self-righteous, Singleton! You call me a psychopath but at least I know who and what I am. You’re no better than me. I know you; I’ve seen your CIA file. And you’re going to die here, like you say, an anonymous loser, unloved, uncared for.”
The door flew open, crashing into the wall once more. Van Kamp pivoted on his heels, instinct and training kicking in.
But not quickly enough, the leads from the stun gun in Dawn’s hand flying ten feet across the room, burying themselves in his face, fifty thousand volts coursing through the South African’s body.
He shook in place, the current holding his muscles rigid as they filled with lactic acid. Then he collapsed to the carpet.
“So much for that theory,” Bob said.
Dawn studied the prone assassin bloodlessly. She put the stun gun in her purse. “Are you going to help me tie him up, or what?”
“Nurse Dawn… you’ve changed,” Bob said. “I mean… in a good way. But… in the face?”
She did not sound impressed. “Your ability to try and be funny a at entirely the wrong time continues to amaze me. He had a leather jacket on. Not a great insulator, but enough that the stun gun might not have worked.”
“Thinking ahead, even. I am impressed.” Bob rose unsteadily, wincing.
“Your ribs?”
“Yeah, lots of pain. Good thing you came back. Second time someone has saved me in the last two days.”
“We’ll have to get you some more Demerol,” she said.
Bob nodded towards the door. “Go. I need to finish up here alone.”
She frowned. “And that means what, exactly?”
He gave her a weary look. “Thank you for coming through for me. Again. But you can’t be here for the rest of this.”
“Bob…”
“Dawn, this man is a psychopath and a paid killer. All he does is end lives prematurely. All he causes is pain.”
“And you want to behave exactly like he does, to resolve something? Is that what I’m hearing?”
Van Kamp had begun to stir. Bob bent at the knees, picked up the pistol next to the hitman and clobbered him across the side of the chin with it. He slumped back down, motionless once again.
“If I leave him alive, he’ll find me again. Worse, he’ll find you. Given that he was in your room, he probably followed you to Bakersfield from Chicago. It’s everything I warned you could happen if we saw each other,” Bob said.
Dawn pursed her lips, a tear appearing in the corner of her left eye, rolling down her cheek unabated. “No, Bob. Don’t kill him. I… I can’t live with that. Not when he’s beaten. No more death. Please. Look in your heart. If nobody ever stops, then it never stops.”
He stared at his shoes for a few moments. She didn’t need the guilt, he knew, didn’t deserve it.
“Okay. Fine.” He walked over and put the pistol down on the desk. “But… I still have to stay with him until the police can get here and take custody. And it’s not safe for you to be here with me. You must know that now. It’s not safe for you, and it’s not safe for Marcus. Besides… I’m going to be out of Bakersfield by the end of the day, and then they’ll be looking for a material witness, at least in this county, probably state-wide.”
“I know.”
“So… it’s not going to change. None of it. Not any time soon. I need to get running… and you need to be somewhere else.”
He reached down and flipped Van Kamp over onto his stomach. Bob took off his belt and used it to bind the assassin at the wrists. Then he got up and walked over to her.
