Deliver Us From Evil (A. Shaw 2)

Her look said that she understood, but how could she really? How could anyone really?

Kuchin slipped the heated gun into a belt holster he wore. His expression hadn’t changed at all. From blowing out a man’s brains to talking about the weather, it apparently didn’t matter to him.

“No one is that lucky the second time around,” he said. He took his foot off Whit’s face and flicked a signal at his men. The Irishman was pulled up by two of the guards while he screamed obscenities at Kuchin.

After Whit finally grew silent and stood there trembling and staring down at the body of his friend, Kuchin said, “You could not have possibly expected anything differently. You knew if you came you would die. It will not be complex. I like simple. I always have.”

“Like your office back in your apartment?” said Shaw. “That was simple enough. Desk, file cabinets, locker with your old uniform. And your little film archives.”

Kuchin turned to face him. The pistol came out of the holster. He placed the muzzle against Shaw’s forehead. “I have a plan,” he said. “A well-thought-out one. But I can alter that plan at any time.” He cocked the hammer back.

A hand was on his arm before anyone else could move. “Please,” begged Katie James. “Please don’t.”

Kuchin looked at her and then back at Shaw. “I promised you that if you followed my instructions she would be released unharmed.”

“I’m holding you to that,” said Shaw.

“A funny remark to make when I have a gun against your brain.”

“On your mother’s grave? Just because I went to your apartment doesn’t change that.”

Kuchin hesitated a few moments but finally put the gun away. He pointed at Katie. “She will remain here. You four will be out there.” He pointed out the window into the darkness.

“You got your math wrong,” said Shaw. “There’re only three of us left.”

“You misunderstand me. That is why I killed him. Because I only wanted there to be four of you, and he was the odd man out.”

Shaw stared at him in confusion. Kuchin snapped his fingers. One of his men brought a yellow jumpsuit and sneakers forward. Kuchin took them and turned to Alan Rice.

“Alan, please put these on.”

Rice took a step back, his face turning first red as the blood rushed there and then white as the reality of the man’s words hit him and the blood drained right back out.

“Evan?”

Kuchin tossed the jumpsuit and shoes at Rice, who managed to snare the suit but the shoes clunked to the floor.

“Evan?” he said again as he began to totter on his feet, his lips trembling.

“You should have aimed better in the church, Alan.” He touched his ear. “Still, it was close. Singed my skin a bit, actually.”

“But that was an accident. I was aiming at him.” He pointed at the dead Dominic. “I shot him.”

“Shooting him was the accident. Missing me was an unforgivable sin.”

“I… I’m no good with guns, you know that.”

“You have been taking shooting lessons for the last six months. Pascal here followed you on my orders. And your knowledge of guns, you let that slip out too. Your only fault was that you believed since you could hit a paper target at twenty-five yards that you could kill a man in the middle of confusion at twenty feet. You couldn’t. And thus I lived.”

“You’re mistaken, Evan. I took the lessons so I wouldn’t disappoint you, in case something came up. I didn’t want to disappoint you. You saved my life.”

“I told you I would be monitoring the business.”

Rice seemed to gain new life. “But I’ve done nothing against your interests. Your monitoring would show nothing.”

“Every dime was accounted for.”

“So then I don’t understand what this is all about.”