As they approached the widening memorial area, Boyko moved into the lead with sap in hand. “Stay between us, Sir, until I can locate him. Goran will watch our backs. He should be only a little further ahead. Watch out for his dog.”
As Boyko and Dafar turned again to the pathway, Goran moved to a position behind his two companions. Goran spaced himself a few feet behind and to Dafar’s left. Without warning, a gloved hand snaked around his chin, yanking his head back. He tried to cry out when the hand released him, but blood gushed over his parka. He gripped his slit throat with both hands, while falling forward to his knees, breathing no longer an option. Clutching his mutilated throat in a panic, Goran gurgled hideously as life spurted out from between his fingers. He pitched over to his side, blackness deeper than the darkest night washing over him.
Dafar turned slightly in Goran’s direction, hearing something strange over the wind. Witnessing Goran’s final death throes, but seeing nothing near the fallen man, Dafar cried out in a panic. He spun toward Boyko for help. Through the snow and wind, he saw Boyko stumble as if unsure of his footing, one hand reaching out to Dafar. Then the reason for Boyko’s uncoordinated approach became obvious to the horrified Dafar. Blood bubbled out of Boyko’s mouth. He fell forward onto his face, where the spreading red stain soaking the back of his parka reflected wetly in the dim light cast by the park’s pathway lighting.
Dafar ran toward the hotel, but tripped over something jutted between his ankles, pitching him forward to his hands and knees. He tried to scramble to his feet, but a booted foot smashed into is right side ribcage as if he were a football at kickoff time. Ribs snapped, leaving him with no breath to scream. Dafar rolled in the snow, his body hunched into a tight ball of pain. Opening his eyes to slits while gasping in air, he saw a dark figure crouched over him, leisurely playing with a long bladed dagger.
“Mc…McCarty?” Dafar motioned for time, still trying to breathe. “Please… I can make you rich. Anything… anything you want. All can be yours. I…I have not seen your face! You could be a mugger! I will tell the police we were mugged.”
The dark figure pulled off his mask.
*
Nick allowed Goran to drop forward onto the pathway, moving in a crouch twenty feet to Boyko’s side, kneeling and ready. When Goran’s dying noises caused first Dafar to turn, and then Boyko, Nick raced forward with both nightstick and dagger. Boyko grunted as the dagger sliced through vital organs once, twice, and then out with Nick on the move again. The sap fell away from nerveless fingers as Boyko reached out to Dafar for the last time. Nick smiled at Dafar’s reaction, running forward again to trip the fleeing Dafar. Not wishing to hear Dafar scream, Nick booted him with a full force dropkick, silencing any possible notion of noise from his victim. He then watched Dafar’s snow roll of agony.
“Nick?”
“Yeah, Gus, almost done. Hang on.” Nick listened with amusement to Dafar’s pleas and promises. He took off his mask. “Mohammed… my old book killing friend. I’m afraid you will no longer be able to do your rancid reviews of my novels you have never read on Amazon again.”
Gus snorted while trying not to laugh in his ear, with Nick picturing Gus clamping hand over mouth. “I guess you thought this would be my final review, huh buddy? It’s not nice to mess with Nick at night.”
“Please…” Dafar began, his plea turning into a wide eyed gasp as Nick plunged the dagger upward into his heart.
Nick patted Dafar’s cheek. “So long my little book killer. By the way, I do remember every miserable moment on the plane with you, shithead.”
Nick watched the light fade from Dafar’s eyes, leaving only a glassy eyed stare into hell. Nick wiped his dagger on Dafar’s parka. He then confiscated everything of a personal nature from the three bodies before dragging them to a heavily bushy area fenced off from the walkway with his mask back in place. He tucked each one in at the bottom of the bushes. Nick backed away from the dump spot, surveying his work. The snow fell heavily still, covering the bloody trails and footsteps. After putting his gloves, nightstick, knife and sheath into the inside lining of the parka he retrieved, Nick exited the park away from the main pathways, vaulting the short fence separating the park from the outside. Crossing Central Park West, Nick kept close to the buildings until reaching 69th Street.
“The black Impala is ours, Nick.”
“I see you.” In moments Nick was sitting next to Gus, fending off the excited Deke. He held a small pouch for Gus to glance at. “I’ll send these to Paul after we leave the city by courier. How’d the streets look while the dastardly deed was done?”