Read Online Resurrecting Midnight by Eric Jerome Dickey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eric Jerome Dickey
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exit to the stairwell, sprinted to the exterior metal stairway above the Sanatorio Güemes building, the chase high over the intersection of Figueroa at Cabrera. Down below was a trail of headlights and taillights, nonstop on every avenue. Traffic down below headed at a northwest angle, the whole city in grids, mostly one-way streets.
He felt like he was too old to chase his prey. In a cold fucking rain. On a slippery metal stairway. In his younger days, that was the fun part, being a hungry lion chasing a gazelle through a storm. He had tracked and chased men across fields in the UK, across rooftops in Brazil, had chased prey through rivers and deserts.
He had lived for the chase.
Twenty years ago, the easy kill owned no thrill.
Now it pissed him off.
Anything extra pissed him off. Every day he was a little more impatient.
The contract ran like an animal.
Medianoche chased, refused to let his contract flee to safety.
The target ran up the goddamn stairs, went against gravity instead of running down. Medianoche gritted his teeth, anger rising as rain fell, frustration a raging storm. He didn’t know why the man from Uruguay ran upstairs. There was no escape. Unless there were others. But there were no gunshots. He didn’t know what was up there; he only knew that he couldn’t let that fucker get away.
The skies rumbled. Lightning flashed.
The target was almost on the thirteenth floor, maybe one hundred and fifty feet off the ground, high enough to look out over the rooftops and see the blackness of Rio de la Plata out in the distance, beyond the rico lives lounging in Palermo Chico, Recoleta, and Barrio Norte.
Medianoche was catching up with his target, less than a floor behind him. He saw that the man from Uruguay had stopped running, exhausted, and had begun crawling up the damp, metal stairs. When Medianoche caught up, he removed his earplugs and stood over his target, winded, rain dripping down over his fedora as he raised his gun, listening for sounds, teeth gritted as he searched for shadows above him, ready to fire on anything moving, then did the same behind him, before realizing they were alone. Just him, the man from Uruguay, the shadows, the sound from the rain, noises from the streets below.
His target panted, trembled, got his breath, and managed to say, “ Los Cuatro Jinetes .”
Medianoche nodded. Cuatro Jinetes . Four Horsemen.
The Uruguayans knew who they were.
The man panted, “ Los Cuatro Jinetes del Apocalipsis .”
Again Medianoche nodded. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
The man from Uruguay pointed at him and said, “Medianoche.”
The man knew who he was.
“ Sí .” He adjusted the patch on his eye and nodded. “Medianoche.”
In Germany he was Mitternacht. In Italy, Mezzanotte. Along the Scandinavian Peninsula in northern Europe, in Sweden, he was Mid natt. Hours away from where he stood, in Brazil, he was Meia-noite. So many ways to say the same word, to feel horror because of one name.
In North America, in Estados Unidos, he had been called Midnight.
A man known for his preternatural talent in the field of assassinations.
The man from Uruguay begged for his life. “ Por favor, no me mates .”
Please, don’t kill me.
Medianoche asked the man how he knew the Horsemen were coming. Asked if there had been a phone call. The man nodded. He asked the man who had called him, who had warned him. The man wouldn’t say.
Medianoche put the barrel of his gun against the man’s temple. Lips loosened.
The man said he didn’t know. He wasn’t the one who took the call. Said they had come over from Colonia on a high-speed Buquebus they had rented and were the only passengers, had arrived in Puerto Madero less than four hours ago, told Medianoche that no one was supposed to know they were in Buenos Aires. Yet someone had known their every move.
He asked the man why he was running up the stairs.
The man said he didn’t know, said the explosions had left him disoriented,
He felt like he was too old to chase his prey. In a cold fucking rain. On a slippery metal stairway. In his younger days, that was the fun part, being a hungry lion chasing a gazelle through a storm. He had tracked and chased men across fields in the UK, across rooftops in Brazil, had chased prey through rivers and deserts.
He had lived for the chase.
Twenty years ago, the easy kill owned no thrill.
Now it pissed him off.
Anything extra pissed him off. Every day he was a little more impatient.
The contract ran like an animal.
Medianoche chased, refused to let his contract flee to safety.
The target ran up the goddamn stairs, went against gravity instead of running down. Medianoche gritted his teeth, anger rising as rain fell, frustration a raging storm. He didn’t know why the man from Uruguay ran upstairs. There was no escape. Unless there were others. But there were no gunshots. He didn’t know what was up there; he only knew that he couldn’t let that fucker get away.
The skies rumbled. Lightning flashed.
The target was almost on the thirteenth floor, maybe one hundred and fifty feet off the ground, high enough to look out over the rooftops and see the blackness of Rio de la Plata out in the distance, beyond the rico lives lounging in Palermo Chico, Recoleta, and Barrio Norte.
Medianoche was catching up with his target, less than a floor behind him. He saw that the man from Uruguay had stopped running, exhausted, and had begun crawling up the damp, metal stairs. When Medianoche caught up, he removed his earplugs and stood over his target, winded, rain dripping down over his fedora as he raised his gun, listening for sounds, teeth gritted as he searched for shadows above him, ready to fire on anything moving, then did the same behind him, before realizing they were alone. Just him, the man from Uruguay, the shadows, the sound from the rain, noises from the streets below.
His target panted, trembled, got his breath, and managed to say, “ Los Cuatro Jinetes .”
Medianoche nodded. Cuatro Jinetes . Four Horsemen.
The Uruguayans knew who they were.
The man panted, “ Los Cuatro Jinetes del Apocalipsis .”
Again Medianoche nodded. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
The man from Uruguay pointed at him and said, “Medianoche.”
The man knew who he was.
“ Sí .” He adjusted the patch on his eye and nodded. “Medianoche.”
In Germany he was Mitternacht. In Italy, Mezzanotte. Along the Scandinavian Peninsula in northern Europe, in Sweden, he was Mid natt. Hours away from where he stood, in Brazil, he was Meia-noite. So many ways to say the same word, to feel horror because of one name.
In North America, in Estados Unidos, he had been called Midnight.
A man known for his preternatural talent in the field of assassinations.
The man from Uruguay begged for his life. “ Por favor, no me mates .”
Please, don’t kill me.
Medianoche asked the man how he knew the Horsemen were coming. Asked if there had been a phone call. The man nodded. He asked the man who had called him, who had warned him. The man wouldn’t say.
Medianoche put the barrel of his gun against the man’s temple. Lips loosened.
The man said he didn’t know. He wasn’t the one who took the call. Said they had come over from Colonia on a high-speed Buquebus they had rented and were the only passengers, had arrived in Puerto Madero less than four hours ago, told Medianoche that no one was supposed to know they were in Buenos Aires. Yet someone had known their every move.
He asked the man why he was running up the stairs.
The man said he didn’t know, said the explosions had left him disoriented,
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