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EVEN HAND
JIM BUTCHER
In the Dresden Files, Harry Dresden, professional wizard, has faced more than his fair share of villains amid the supernatural underbelly of Chicago's dark streets, but none has proven more vexing than Gentleman John Marcone. In "Even Hand," Marcone sets aside his plans to kill Harry to go head-to-head with a more pressing problem . . .
A successful murder is like a successful restaurant: 90 percent of it is about location, location, location.
Three men in black hoods knelt on the waterfront warehouse floor, their wrists and ankles trussed with heavy plastic quick-ties. There were few lights. They knelt over a large, faded stain on the concrete floor, left behind by the hypocritically named White Council of Wizards during their last execution.
I nodded to Hendricks, who took the hood off the first man, then stood clear. The man was young and good-looking. He wore an expensive yet ill-fitting suit and even more expensive yet tasteless jewelry.
"Where are you from?" I asked him.
He sneered at me. "What's it to y--"
I shot him in the head as soon as I heard the bravado in his voice. The body fell heavily to the floor.
The other two jumped and cursed, their voices angry and terrified.
I took the hood off the second man. His suit was a close cousin of the dead man's, and I thought I recognized its cut. "Boston?" I asked him.
"You can't do this to us," he said, more angry than frightened. "Do you know who we are?"
Once I heard the nasal quality of the word "are," I shot him.
I took off the third man's hood. He screamed and fell away from me. "Boston," I said, nodding, and put the barrel of my .45 against the third man's forehead. He stared at me, showing the whites of his eyes. "You know who I am. I run drugs in Chicago. I run the numbers, the books. I run the whores. It's my town. Do you understand?"
His body jittered in what might have been a nod. His lips formed the word "yes," though no sound came out.
"I'm glad you can answer a simple question," I told him, and lowered the gun. "I want you to tell Mr. Morelli that I won't be this lenient the next time his people try to clip the edges of my territory." I looked at Hendricks. "Put the three of them in a sealed trailer and rail-freight them back to Boston, care of Mr. Morelli."
Hendricks was a large, trustworthy man, his red hair cropped in a crew cut. He twitched his chin in the slight motion that he used for a nod when he disapproved of my actions but intended to obey me anyway.
Hendricks and the cleaners on my staff would handle the matter from here.
I passed him the gun and the gloves on my hands. Both would see the bottom of Lake Michigan before I was halfway home, along with the two slugs the cleaners would remove from the site. When they were done, there would be nothing left of the two dead men but a slight variation on the outline of the stain in the old warehouse floor, where no one would look twice in any case.
Location, location, location.
Obviously, I am not Harry Dresden. My name is something I rarely trouble to remember, but for most of my adult life, I have been called John Marcone.
I am a professional monster.
It sounds pretentious. After all, I'm not a flesh-devouring ghoul, hiding behind a human mask until it is time to gorge. I'm no vampire, to drain the blood or soul from my victim, no ogre, no demon, no cursed beast from the spirit world dwelling amid the unsuspecting sheep of humanity. I'm not even possessed of the mystic abilities of a mortal wizard.
But they will never be what I am. One and all, those beings were born to be what they are.
I made a choice.
I walked outside of the warehouse and was met by my consultant, Gard--a tall blond woman without makeup whose eyes continually swept her surroundings. She fell into step beside me as we walked to the car. "Two?"
"They couldn't be bothered to answer a question in a civil manner."
She opened the back door for me and I got in. I picked up my personal weapon and slipped it into the holster beneath my left arm while she settled down behind the wheel. She started driving and then said, "No. That wasn't it."
"It was business."
"And the fact that one of them was pushing heroin to thirteen-year-old girls and the other was pimping them out had nothing to do with it," Gard said.
"It was business," I said, enunciating. "Morelli can find pushers and pimps anywhere. A decent accountant is invaluable. I sent his bookkeeper back as a gesture of respect."
"You don't respect Morelli."
I almost smiled. "Perhaps not."
"Then why?"
I did not answer. She didn't push the issue, and we rode in silence back to the office
. As she put the car in park, I said, "They were in my territory. They broke my rule."
"No children," she said.
"No children," I said. "I do not tolerate challenges, Ms. Gard. They're bad for business."
She looked at me in the mirror, her blue eyes oddly intent, and nodded.
