The Second Life of Nick Mason (Nick Mason #1)(52)

This could be the night, Mason said to himself. All I need is for him to be alone. Just for a few seconds. Then I’ll get my chance to do the unthinkable for a second time. And he’ll never leave this place alive.

As he looked over again, Mason saw one of the bodyguards stand up, walk along the back wall, and disappear behind a partition. The men’s room. Two minutes, the man came back. He sat down on the other side of the woman and then Harris himself stood up. The bodyguard was halfway to his feet again when the woman put a hand on his forearm. She gestured to the dancer as if saying, No, keep him right here, put on a show for him.

The bodyguard sat back down. Harris kissed the woman and walked along the back wall alone, retracing the bodyguard’s route to the men’s room.

Mason stood up.

He made his way to the back of the room, moving slowly. His movements were all careful, perfectly thought out. Don’t move like a man on a mission. Don’t look over at the party in the corner. Keep looking at the dancers because they’re the only reason you’re here. If someone spots you, if one of them gets up to intercept you in the bathroom, you’re just a customer. A nobody.

The music got louder and louder. The lights kept flashing.

Mason went behind the partition. He paused at the door to the men’s room, waiting a moment to see if one of the bodyguards was about to put a hand on his shoulder. It didn’t happen. They were all watching the show out there.

One last moment to turn back, Mason thought. One last chance not to be the person who will do this.

Why me? That same question coming back to him yet again. He still didn’t have an answer.

But it doesn’t matter, he thought. Not now. You made a deal. You signed a contract. You have no choice.

Do your job.

Mason pushed open the door and stepped into the men’s room. When the door closed behind him, the volume of the music was cut in half. It felt like he was out of his own body. Somewhere high above, looking down, watching it all happen.

The man at the sink looked much smaller. A small, weak man with no bodyguards to protect him. The gloves were already on Mason’s hands. The man hadn’t looked up yet. When he finally did, his first glance at Mason was dismissive. A white boy barging into the bathroom, interrupting his solitude. He looked back down and then up again. This might be a tough white boy, judging from the fading bruises on his face. Then he saw the gloves. Which didn’t make sense. No sense at all.

Until it did. But then it was too late.

Mason was already on top of him. Harris struggled, trying to elbow Mason in the ribs. Mason stabbed him once in each lung, then the heart. Three rapid jabs, then with one hand closed over his mouth, Mason moved the blade in one smooth motion across the man’s throat. A thin line for one second, then growing into a bright red band. Mason held on tight. That’s the exact moment he came back into himself. Holding on to the man and watching both of their reflections in the mirror. The man he was holding turned from a drug dealer into a scared man losing his life. A man with a history and a family. A man who grew up in Fuller Park, just on the other side of the Berlin Wall.

Mason kept holding him. His arms were wrapped tight around him. One last embrace. He could feel the man’s chest heaving as he fought for breath.

The man’s heart beating.

Fast. Then irregular. Then not at all.

Mason felt the man’s life leaving his body. Until he looked at his own face in the mirror.

It was the face of a cold-blooded killer.

The blood kept running. Mason let go and Harris hit the sink on the way down to the floor. Mason dropped the knife in the sink, took off the gloves and put them back in his left pocket. Then he backed away from the body on the floor, the blood already pooling on the dirty tile. He checked his clothes. Clean enough. Pushing the door open with his shoulder, he went back out into the noise and lights and didn’t look toward the corner. He made himself move at half the speed his body wanted.

Walk slow. Walk slow. Walk slow.

An eternity until he reached the staircase. Down the lighted steps, one at a time. Not looking behind him but expecting the sound of heavy footsteps catching up with him.

It didn’t happen. Nobody followed him. Nobody paid any attention to Nick Mason as he pushed open the main door and disappeared into the night.





24




The brutal murder of an SIS sergeant, then the execution of a prominent drug dealer, both less than a week apart—it all made Detective Frank Sandoval believe that Nick Mason was following a carefully planned hit list. The question was, how many more names were on the list?

It was after midnight again. Sandoval showed his star to the uniform at the door, then went up the stairs to the club. At night, a high-end place like this should be doing big business, but there was no music playing, no customers, no dancers. The place was lit up with an ugly set of fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling and filled with cops.

Sandoval weaved his way through the chairs and runways until he saw a flash of light coming from the bathroom. He went around the partition and stood in the open doorway. It had been propped open with a chair. The body was lying on the floor in an awkward pose no living man ever struck, the legs tangled together and the torso half turned on its side. A lake of dark red blood had spread for three or four feet in every direction, and Sandoval could see the smooth straight line across the man’s throat. The man’s eyes were open.