Stephen King - Battleground

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BATTLEGROUND

'Mr Renshaw?'

The desk clerk's voice caught him halfway to the elevator, and Renshaw turned back impatiently, shifting his

flight bag from one hand to the other. The envelope in his coat pocket, stuffed with twenties and fifties, crackled

heavily. The job had gone well and the pay had been excellent - even - after the Organization's 15 per cent

finder's fee had been skimmed off the top. Now all he wanted was a hot shower and a gin and tonic and sleep.

'What is it?'

'Package, sir. Would you sign the slip?'

Renshaw signed and looked thoughtfully at the rectangular package. His name and the building's address were

written on the gummed label in a spiky backhand script that seemed familiar. He rocked the package on the

imitation-marble surface of the desk, and something clanked faintly inside.

'Should I have that sent up, Mr Renshaw?'

'No, I've got it.' It was about eighteen inches on a side and fitted clumsily under his arm. He put it on the plush

carpet that covered the elevator floor and twisted his key in the penthouse slot above the regular rack of buttons.

The car rose smoothly and silently. He closed his eyes and let the job replay itself on the dark screen of his mind.

First, as always, a call from Cal Bates: 'You available, Johnny?'

He was available twice a year, minimum fee $10,000. He was very good, very reliable, but what his customers

really paid for was the infallible predator's talent. John Renshaw was a human hawk, constructed by both genetics

and environment to do two things superbly: kill and survive.

After Bates's call, a buff-coloured envelope appeared in Renshaw's box. A name, an address, a photograph. All

committed to memory; then down the garbage disposal with the ashes of envelope and contents.

This time the face had been that of a sallow Miami businessman named Hans Morris, founder and owner of the

Morris Toy Company. Someone had wanted Morris out of the way and had gone to the Organization. The

Organization, in the person of Calvin Bates, had talked to John Renshaw. Pow. Mourners please omit flowers.

The doors slid open, he picked up his package and stepped out. He unlocked the suite and stepped in. At this time

of day, just after 3p.m., the spacious living room was splashed with April sunshine. He paused for a moment,

enjoying it, then put the package on the end table by the door and loosened his tie. He dropped the envelope on

top of it and walked over to the terrace.

He pushed open the sliding glass door and stepped out. It was cold, and the wind knifed through his thin topcoat.

Yet he paused a moment, looking over the city the way a general might survey a captured country. Traffic

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Stephen King - Battleground

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