Enforcers
Chapter 1
New Orleans
Coburn said, “Face, or send?”
Flint shrugged. “You’re the boss, old man.”
Coburn shook his head. He was three hundred and eighty-five to Flint’s mere two hundred years, so, relatively-speaking, that was true enough.
He pulled a quarter from his pocket. “Call it.”
“Tails. And let it hit the lawn.”
“You don’t trust me, lad?” He grinned.
“I’ve seen you do sleights.”
He thumbed the quarter into the air. It spun, fell, hit the trimmed-short St. Augustine grass, bounced.
“Tails it is.”
“I’ll send. I can lie in the shade.”
Coburn nodded. “Done.” He pulled his pocket watch from his shorts and looked at it. “I’ll get set up at the park bench.”
“You know, I bet they make a portable sun-dial you could carry.”
“That’s your problem, being so young. No appreciation for the watchmaker’s art.”
“Cell phone keeps better time.”
“And McDonald’s hamburgers are delivered faster than the Port of Call’s. Which would you rather eat?”
Flint grinned. “Point for the old man.”
Coburn was not a fan of high heat and humidity, and New Orleans in August offered plenty of both. Had to be approaching body-temperature, and swimming to get there. He wore a straw fedora, a short-sleeved shirt, cargo shorts and running shoes, a costume that meant hiding a full-sized pistol was impossible. He had a compact SIG P238 .380 ACP in his right cargo pocket, which was effective-enough, if needed, though that would be unlikely. He and Flint had worked together since 1947, almost eighty years, and the youngster was adept.
The park bench, at least, was in shade.
***
The Àrsaidh player calling himself George Kaplan, born in Boston in 1876, emerged from the municipal building and started across the park’s freshly-mowed lawn, heading toward where he had parked his car. The smell of the cut-grass was thick in the muggy air. It was a sunny day, but clouds were rolling in; distant thunder heralded the imminent arrival of a storm, so the park was, save for the two of them virtually empty.
Only mad dogs and Englishmen would be out in the noon-day sun, both of which, he supposed, might properly refer to him …
Coburn took a deep breath and stood, moving from the shade of the oak tree probably as old as he was into the direct sunlight. The air temperature would be the same, of course, but he could feel the weight of the sun slap his hat and shoulders instantly.
Kaplan saw him approaching, and angled to his right so as not to intersect.
Coburn adjusted his path so they approached head-on.
Five meters away, Kaplan stopped.
He was a tall, heavy-set man in an off-white suit, a pale blue shirt and darker blue tie. Nicely-polished caramel-colored leather shoes. No hat.
Must be cooking in that outfit.
“Mister Kaplan.”
“Do I know you?”
“We’ve never met, no.”
“You a player?”
“Not as such, no, but Àrsaidh, yes.”
Give him credit, he got it quickly.
“You’re an Enforcer.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I can explain.”
“That, sir, is why I am here.”
“It was self-defense.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I had no choice.”
“As I understand it, the woman was a foot shorter, seven stone lighter—a hundred pounds or so—and unarmed. No knife, no gun, nothing. And you felt threatened enough to shoot her three times?”
“She was crazy, psychotic. She came at me with murder in mind!”
“I see. While that might be possible, there is no evidence of such psychosis in her background—we checked—and even had there been? She had not the means to cause you serious harm. She was a barmaid with no training in any kind of fighting system. What did you think she was going to do? Crush your skull with her bare hands?”
“I didn’t know! You weren’t there, you didn’t see her face!”
“Oh, but I did see her face, in the morgue. What was left of it after three .45 ACP rounds hit it. And since the only way she could have possibly been a threat would have been to destroy your brain?
“Killing civilians is not allowed, Mister Kaplan, save, as you have attempted to claim, in self-defense, and in no manner was that justified.
“Oh, and if you move your hand any closer to your waist, you will die where you stand immediately.”
“All right. What are we to do? Are you taking me in?”
“I am. ”
Coburn removed his fedora to smooth his damp hair.
Kaplan’s head exploded in a sleet of blood and bone and brain, as the sound of the .308 rifle shot echoed over Coburn from a hundred and fifty meters distance.
He put his hat back on, turned, and walked away.
You don’t hear the one that kills you.
***
Back at the oak tree, Flint had already disassembled the sniper rifle (more) and packed it into its case, which didn’t look at all like a rifle case.
“Nice shot.”
“Thanks. So, we’re leaving this one?”
“One must do so now and again, mustn’t one?”
“Yes. The object lesson.”
“It’s about to rain. We should go.”
