Specter's Gamble

By Katya Dee

"Desmond started walking across the street when he tripped on the metal grid that covered the rain duct. His arm shot forward and he grabbed onto the smoking man’s wrist, to keep himself from falling. The playboy was caught completely by surprise and dropped his cigarette.
“What the hell?!” he yelled out when he almost lost his balance as well.
Desmond quickly drew back his hand, twisting the ring on his finger.
“Sorry, man!” he said and raised both palms up in a ‘Please-forgive-clumsy-me’ gesture.
“Watch where the hell you are going!” the man snapped irritably.
“Sorry,” Desmond said again and walked away, blending into the crowd almost instantly.

He knew that the guy never even noticed a weak prick on his wrist, and even if he did, he would forget all about it in a couple of minutes. An hour or so later, he’ll be writhing in pain so horrible that he won’t remember his own name, let alone some clumsy idiot who bumped into him on the sidewalk. He’d be dead by midnight, just as Desmond’s contractor wanted. He would go through two or three hours of agony at the most, but Desmond knew for sure that those hours would seem like eternity to him.
He made his way to the phone booth and dropped several coins into the slot. He didn’t have to look for the phone number – it was imprinted in his memory. Desmond never had any problems with remembering things – numbers, words, addresses, you name it. He had to look at something only once, and it would be stored in his memory forever. He considered it a gift.
“Done,” he said shortly into the receiver after he heard a ‘click’ on the other end of the line. “Finish the transfer.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katya Dee
• Release date: Jun 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005798529

Book preview

Desmond lazily sucked on his cigarette, his entire posture completely relaxed, eyes half-closed. He was watching his mark for the last hour or two, and it seemed like the playboy was finally about to leave. Usually, Desmond didn’t bother with cases like this one; he couldn't care less about scorned lovers’ affairs. This one, however, paid more than enough, so he took the case. The woman who hired him (of course, it was a woman! A man would’ve just shot the son of a bitch point-blank without hiring an assassin) had made it clear that she wanted this ‘...piece-of-rat-shit’ to die as painfully as possible. Desmond considered that for a few seconds. He wasn’t going to torture the guy (not because it went against his principles, but simply because when you torture someone, the entire affair is ought to become quite messy, therefore, there would be inevitable traces left), nor would he take his chances with arranging some bizarre accident (those were opt to go wrong). That left poison. Desmond was fine with that. He knew his poisons well.

He was supposed to take care of this tonight – that was also specified by his contractor. Apparently, the third of February had some deep meaning to the woman. Desmond didn’t care. He was, however, getting more and more annoyed with the fact that the playboy wouldn’t leave the damn tavern. In the last several hours, Desmond had enough coffee to drown himself in; he kept on ordering countless refills, which made him a customer, therefore he wouldn’t be kicked out of the tavern. He wasn’t worrying that someone might identify him later. First of all, there was no way anyone would be able to even connect him to the mysterious illness of Mr. Pain-In-the-Ass, and second of all, Desmond was good at being just another face in the crowd. In fact, he was better than good. He hemmed to himself softly. That was probably one of the reasons he was on the top of the list when it came to his line of work. Also, it was probably one of the reasons he was still alive.

The playboy was on his way out, and Desmond smoothly got up, leaving a couple of crumpled up bills on the table – just enough not to be remembered like a cheap asshole, but not enough to become a great tipper either. He walked outside, ignoring the chilly wind, and made his way towards the playboy, who was smoking lazily while waiting for his car to arrive. Desmond ducked his head down against the wind, the hood of his thick shirt successfully hiding his face, and pulled his hand out of his pocket. He was close enough to his mark now; so close that he could smell the man’s aftershave. The playboy gave him a very bored look and turned away.

Desmond started walking across the street when he tripped on the metal grid that covered the rain duct. His arm shot forward and he grabbed onto the smoking man’s wrist, to keep himself from falling. The playboy was caught completely by surprise and dropped his cigarette.

What the hell?! he yelled out when he almost lost his balance as well.

Desmond quickly drew back his hand, twisting the ring on his finger.

Sorry, man! he said and raised both palms up in a ‘Please-forgive-clumsy-me’ gesture.

Watch where the hell you are going! the man snapped irritably.

Sorry, Desmond said again and walked away, blending into the crowd almost instantly.

He knew that the guy never noticed a weak prick on his wrist, and even if he did, he would forget all about it in a couple of minutes. An hour or so later, he’ll be writhing in pain so horrible that he won’t remember his own name, let alone some clumsy idiot who bumped into him on the sidewalk. He’d be dead by midnight, just as Desmond’s contractor wanted. He would go through two or three hours of agony at the most, but Desmond knew for sure that those hours would seem like eternity to him.

He made his way to the phone booth and dropped several coins into the slot. He didn’t have to look for the phone number – it was imprinted in his memory. Desmond never had any problems with remembering things – numbers, words, addresses, you name it. He had to look at something only once, and it would be stored in his memory forever. He considered it a gift.

Done, he said shortly into the receiver after he heard a ‘click’ on the other end of the line. Finish the transfer.

He didn’t wait for the answer and replaced the receiver in the cradle. He knew that the rest of his payment would be transferred into one of his accounts if not immediately, then very soon – he wasn’t worrying about that. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and frowned when he realized he had only two left. He tutted with slight annoyance, remembering that he was smoking pretty much nonstop for the last two hours. After shoving one of the remaining cigarettes into his mouth, he shrugged to himself. There was a smoke shop on the way to his current apartment, these two cigarettes would last him until he got there.

…It was almost twenty minutes later, and Desmond could see the dim, flickering light of the smoke shop sign. He shoved his hand into his pocket, and that was when he suddenly felt extremely uneasy. He couldn’t tell what it was, but something was off, all right. Another reason he was still alive was the fact that Desmond’s instincts never betrayed him, and in return, he never ignored them. Something was wrong, and it didn’t matter what it was.

He ducked and twisted around at the same time – that was the only reason the first blow got him on the shoulder instead of his head. That would crack my skull open, he thought almost indifferently and dropped into a crouch, his left leg shooting forward. This trick worked almost always – people usually did not see it coming, and as a result, they were knocked off their feet, to Desmond’s advantage. Yes, this trick worked almost always. There were exceptions though; like this one. Desmond’s attacker avoided the kick with a surprising ease and unexpected grace. Then he landed a kick of his own onto Desmond’s kneecap. Pain exploded immediately; it was as if a case of dynamite charged with glass went off in Desmond’s leg and quickly floated into the rest of his body. He grunted and tried getting up, but the pain incapacitated him for several seconds. He saw his attacker raise his arm again and tried ducking aside, but he was a second too late. The arm swung in a perfect arch, and then something collided with the top of Desmond’s head. For a second, everything around him exploded brilliant-white, and then the world became pitch-black.

Chapter II

If you work hard enough, Desmond, you might become one of the Guardians. His Grandmother looked at him intently, her white hair framing her slim face. She was in her early sixties, but remained beautiful nonetheless. Back when she was a young girl, her hair was the same color as Desmond’s – raven-black. She started to get grey hair by the time she hit thirty, and by now, she was completely white. Sometimes, Desmond wondered if the same thing would happen to him eventually.

Now, she continued without looking away from him. You want to become someone important, like a Guardian, correct?

Not really, Desmond thought but he knew better than to say it out loud. He was only eight, but he was young and not stupid. He knew that if he said something like that, he’d end up getting another scar added to his impressive by now collection.

Yes, Grandmother, he said instead, nodding his head.

You’d better, she said and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. I’d hate for you to become someone useless. Now go to your room and read. Make sure you put the book on the shelf when you are done with it, she added.

Yes, Grandmother, Desmond said again and went to his room, which was strikingly immaculate and clean for an eight-year-old boy.

Desmond used to make a hell of a mess when he was three years old. By now, he knew better. At least she doesn’t make me alphabetize them, he shrugged to himself after pulling a book off the shelf. He didn’t mind reading; in fact, he enjoyed it. The problem was that he had read all of these books at least five times by now, and reading them again was insanely boring. He opened the book and mindlessly flipped through the pages, glancing at words and phrases. In case if his Grandmother asked him what was on the page he just read, he’d be prepared.

He stared at the page without seeing it, his mind wondering. Become a Guardian? He snorted very softly. Hell, no! He couldn’t understand what was so appealing about the whole thing. Every kid he knew was obsessing about the Guardians. There was one kid – Daniel – who could do things with Earth, like make it shake whenever he felt like it, or rise suddenly underneath your feet. He did that to Desmond once, just for the hell of it, it seemed, and Desmond ended up losing his balance and landing on one of the sharper rocks with his butt. It hurt like hell and he thought that he broke something. He didn’t, but his hip was bruised badly after that. Daniel laughed like it was the most hilarious thing in the world. He was a couple of years older than Desmond, and he was convinced that he was a Guardian in the making. Desmond heard him talking to his best friend once. I bet, Claudia herself will come and get us! he said excitedly, and Desmond just started laughing uncontrollably. What’s funny? Daniel’s friend asked sharply, his eyes narrowing down to slits.

Claudia herself will come and get you? Desmond repeated, shaking with laughter. Yeah, right! If she will, it’ll be only to get on your asses for trying to steal her panties!

Daniel’s friend – Nicholas – didn’t say anything to that; he just got very pale, and then a sudden gust of the wind shoved Desmond in the back with astonishing viciousness. Nicholas could do things with Air. Daniel pulled his friend away then, muttering something about control and bratty little bastards. Soon after that, the incident with the rock happened. Desmond’s Grandmother was furious when she noticed that his clothes were ripped – his pants got caught on the rock – and Desmond’s day got even worse. Not only was his hip aching mercilessly, but now his back hurt like hell as well.

He hissed softly at the memory and flipped the page of the book. He would never become one of the Guardians. Not just because he couldn’t control any of the elements (it still puzzled him that his Grandmother thought that one of those days, he’d be miraculously able to control Water or Fire), but also because he hated the very definition of a Guardian. To serve the greater good. Desmond hated the word ‘serve.’ That word automatically aligned with the word ‘slave’ in his head, and Desmond would never become anyone’s slave, not Good’s nor Evil’s. If I would serve someone, he thought. It would only be myself.

He heard careful steps just outside his door and knew that his Grandmother planned on bursting into his room, to make sure that he was indeed reading and not doing something useless. Desmond sighed and stared at the page of the book, his forehead wrinkling with fake concentration. He knew that she was going to say something about him being a slow reader, which wasn’t true, but Desmond couldn't care less. He looked up with perfectly arranged surprise, as if he had no clue he heard her coming.

Are you awake? she said and Desmond blinked with genuine puzzlement now. Hey, Specter, are you awake?

He frowned, and then everything around him had shifted slightly and blinked out of the existence. He slowly opened his eyes and closed them again immediately. His head pulsated with nauseating pain. Then he remembered what happened earlier and gritted his teeth. His arms hurt as well and he tried to figure out why. He said something that sounded like, Nngh... and moved his shoulder. That was when he realized that both of his arms were pulled up and it felt like he was tied to something. He carefully moved his thumb along his fingers, trying to get to his ring. It wasn’t there. Well, damn, he thought.

Looking for your ring? someone asked, and Desmond carefully opened one eye and looked up. A man stood in front of him, his expression solemn, dark eyes almost apologetic. Desmond had no idea who he was.

I removed it, the man nodded when he caught Desmond’s glare. Didn’t want you to hurt yourself... Sorry about your head, he added after a second. I wanted this to be as quiet as possible, and unfortunately, with you being awake, that would be quite difficult.

Desmond pulled on the ties that were binding his wrists together. They didn’t seem to be too tight; there was a chance of him being able to get out of them...

You are handcuffed, the man said as if reading his mind. You won’t be able to loosen the grip. Sorry about that.

A polite bastard, Desmond thought darkly. All right, this is just a setback. Happened before. He studied the man’s face more closely now. He seemed to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties; his hair was short and brown, matching his eyes.

Would you like some water? the man asked as politely as before.

Desmond coughed and winced when it sent another jolt of pain through his skull.

Are you suicidal? he asked finally and smirked when he saw a shadow of puzzlement on the man’s face.

I beg your pardon? the man said in a low voice.

Are you suicidal? Desmond repeated patiently.

No, I am not, his capturer said slowly. Why would you ask that?

Well, Desmond tried to sit up a bit to relieve the pressure on his shoulders. You sure are aware of the fact that when I get out of these... he made an emphasis on the word ‘when.’ ...I am going to kill you, right? he finished.

The man hemmed.

Yes, he nodded seriously. The thought had crossed my mind.

This is why I am wondering if you are suicidal, Desmond said evenly.

He didn’t feel like wasting time on useless questions like Who are you? or What do you want? He didn’t care, to be honest. There could be a number of reasons this man wanted him. At least it was clear that killing him wasn’t on the agenda. Well, not yet.

I am not suicidal, the man said softly. As for you getting out of these... he glanced at the handcuffs and shrugged. I will make sure I prevent that from happening. Would you like some water? he asked again.

Desmond swallowed hard and realized that in fact yes, he wouldn’t mind selling one of his kidneys to get some water right now. He didn’t say anything, however. The man just nodded, as if he didn’t expect anything different from him, and walked away. He returned a minute later with a glass of water in his hand, kneeled next to Desmond, whose head kept pulsating with jolts of pain, and brought the glass to his mouth.

Desmond pressed his lips tight and looked at the man steadily. The man sighed.

I don’t want you to suffer more than necessary, he said patiently. As I said, I am sorry about your head... And your knee as well, he added. But it was something I had to do. I do not intend to torture you, so just drink some... Please, he said in the same patient tone of voice.

You first, Desmond said through his clenched teeth, and the man let out an amused laughter.

You think that I am going to poison you? he asked. Specter, if I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now.

Specter, Desmond thought. That’s the second time he used that name. It was one of his aliases; the one he usually used for big-shot-deals, not like the one he finished tonight. That last case he worked under the alias Phantom. He didn’t say anything, he just looked at him. The man sighed again and rolled his eyes.

Fine, he said and took two gulps out of the glass. Satisfied? and he moved the glass closer to Desmond’s mouth once again.

Turn the glass, Desmond said. This side has your drool on it.

I am not contagious, the man muttered but turned the glass.

The water was deliciously cold. Desmond drank hungrily and ended up choking on it.

Easy, the man muttered and slapped him on the back rather hard when he started coughing violently.

Finally, the cough stopped and Desmond nodded his head at the glass again. His capturer pressed it against his mouth, and this time Desmond drank slower, emptying the entire glass. After he finished all the water, the man set the glass on the floor next to him. Desmond immediately thought that if he knocked the bastard out with a swift, precise kick to the head, he’d be able to break the glass and somehow to get hold of the sharp pieces. He knew that if he slithered his wrists with blood, he’d be able to get his hands out of the cuffs. He almost started going through with that plan – one of his legs twitched and was about to fly up towards the guy’s temple – when the man said softly:

Don’t make me tie your legs as well.

Desmond blinked. Was he that easy to read? The guy shrugged almost indifferently.

I did a hell of a research on you, he said and moved the glass out of Desmond’s reach. I know what you are capable of, and I know how good you are at what you do.

Desmond gritted his teeth.

As I said, the man continued. I am not going to torture or kill you. I have to make sure that you stay put until the end of the month, and then I’ll let you go.

End of the month? Desmond asked incredulously and the man nodded. You are going to keep me chained up until the end of the month?!

The man shrugged.

I will figure something out to make it more comfortable for you, he said. I am not going to make you sleep in this position, I promise.

I am going to kill this bastard, Desmond thought furiously. And I am going to do it slowly, and God help me, I am going to enjoy every second of it...

I am Gabriel, by the way, the bastard said meanwhile. He sighed and got up, grabbing the glass off the floor. I am going to make dinner. It will be ready in half an hour or so, and he went away without waiting for Desmond’s response.

The minute he was out of sight, Desmond looked up at his hands, ignoring an immediate jolt of pain that sent through his head. The cuffs weren’t too tight, he thought with relief. If he could only get something to slither his wrists with... He glanced around wildly. There was absolutely nothing within his reach. You could always use your own spit, the voice in his head said calmly. You used it as lube before, for different purposes though...

Right, he thought darkly. Spit alone won’t be enough. Well, the voice said reasonably. You could always rip your skin open with your teeth, that’ll make you bleed... Desmond winced. Yeah, he could do that. He’ll save it for later though, for the time when he is truly out of ideas. He pulled on the cuffs hard, making sure he didn't produce any noise. The bastard was still in the