Face of the Assassin

by Bill Brewer

  Jackson nodded as he sipped his piping hot espresso.

  Carolyn asked, “Are you aware of Crepusculous?”

  “Is that some kind of disease?”

  “Maybe. An economic epidemic.”

  Jackson smiled.

  Continuing Carolyn said, “Crepusculous is a board of four men who are the power behind Omnisphere.”

  “Really, not the Indian woman? Abayuba-”

  “Abaya Patel,” interjected Carolyn. “She is the CEO and is quite powerful, but behind her is this board which is led by Klaus Panzer.”

  As the name was spoken, Jackson sputtered on his sip of coffee. He quickly covered his mouth with a paper napkin.

  Carolyn asked, “Do you know him?”

  “A few weeks ago we got a call about a potential terrorist attack. My partner and I apprehended his vehicle and brought him in for questioning.”

  Carolyn raised an eyebrow. She was impressed.

  DC Jackson continued, “We brought him into the station, but he lawyered up and we had to let him walk. I don’t think he was involved in any terrorism, so it was no big deal.

  Carolyn’s brow dropped as she frowned. “His form of terrorism is economic. How long do you think they will continue to give back 10% of all your purchases? How long will they continue to pay the taxes? How long will they be the benevolent provider, sharing the wealth of Omnisphere?” Carolyn’s last statement mocked the Omnisphere slogan, which flooded the world with its sappy dream fulfilling promise.

  Jackson shrugged, “I kinda like getting money back, and it’s about time they shared the wealth, owning 99% of it.”

  “Crepusculous currently holds 75% of the world’s wealth, but they want 100%. Digival puts them on that path. I think we will really regret it when the only currency in the world is a corporate account owned by the world’s biggest company. In the meantime the human flock is being ushered into its pen through free coffee, cheap groceries and having somebody else pay their taxes.”

  “God, you’re a real buzz kill. I was looking forward to having Digival pay all my taxes this year, but you make it sound like I’m a lamb led to slaughter.”

  “Sorry, but I have been studying this company, the Board, and it’s Director Klaus Panzer. I don’t like what I see.”

  “Well you would have liked the huge party they had the other night.”

  “What was that?” asked Carolyn inquisitively.

  “Over at London Polytechnic, they had two hundred people attending a ball put on to welcome Panzer’s son.”

  It was Carolyn’s turn to choke on coffee when she heard Jackson’s last word. Coughing and sputtering she struggled to compose herself as Jackson asked, “Are you okay?” Before the big guy could perform the Heimlich maneuver, Carolyn got herself under control.

  “Did you say son?”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of weird, but that much money can make the strange seem normal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Apparently this son was the product of an affair, but Panzer did not know about the kid until his mother died and it was revealed in her will. Panzer didn’t deny it; in fact he celebrated it with a huge party with about two hundred friends at the Grand Hall.”

  Carolyn looked down at the floor and up out the window as she took in this surprise.

  “What’s the son’s name?”

  “Vince, Vince Kronig. His mother was from Iceland, but lived in Canada. Vince grew up in British Columbia.”

  Confusion rained down on Carolyn just as the sun started to break through the gray clouds over London. Googling the name, Carolyn was taken aback by the handsome face of the hunky, blond haired, blue-eyed stud. Turning her phone to DC Jackson she asked, “Is this him?”

  “That’s the chap, Klaus Panzer’s son Vince Kronig. All the girls seem to love him.”

  “I can see why,” said Carolyn almost dejectedly. Scanning her phone she shared, “So Panzer had an affair with his mother and it was all kept secret until just recently when, upon her death, it was revealed in her will that the world’s richest man is his unknown father.”

  “That’s a quick read, but you summed it up right.”

  “Panzer welcome’s him aboard and the son is happy to join the family,” concluded Carolyn.

  Jackson nodded before drinking the last of his espresso. After swallowing the strong, bitter beverage he said, “Threw him a big party so he could meet all the world’s richest people. Kind of like a debutante ball,” came Jackson’s falsetto voice accompanied by a feminine flourish of his flexed wrist.

  Carolyn smiled and asked, “Have you looked into this? Like, does the story of the mother pan out? Have you found a record of her?”

  “Whoa, this story is just a curiosity. There is nothing criminal; we’re not going to spend any time on this. Panzer has enough money to run his own verification checks.”

  “I see, but it does strike me as curious.”

  “And the curious can read all about it in the rag mags at the checkout counter. Now what is it that you really want to discuss with me?”

  “I’m interested in information about the young woman that was seen with David Diegert before his bomb went off?”

  Jackson nodded slowly as he measured his words. “She’s known to us. She’s pretty strung out and feeds her drug habit with petty crime. She’ll do anything to get money for her next fix.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I don’t want to seem callous, but we’ve all seen these characters before.”

  DC Jackson narrowed his lids, eyeing Carolyn over the rim of his cup of espresso.

  “Her name is Eleanor Norris. On the street she goes by Terry Bull.”

  Carolyn rolled her eyes at that one. “So you know her?”

  “Probably better than she knows herself, which is to say not very well.”

  Disappointment flowed over Carolyn’s face like the shadow of a passerby.

  “What can you tell me?”

  “She’s mentally ill to the point where she should be hospitalized, but she is uncooperative and dangerous when confined. She is a denizen of the dark, residing in abandoned buildings; she’s constantly on the move, extremely elusive. Based on the explosive incident there is a warrant for her arrest. We’ll let you know when she’s apprehended.”

  Carolyn’s eyes glanced from below her furrowed brow, “If I find her first, I’ll be calling you.”

  “Officially I cannot condone your actions on British soil—”

  Carolyn interrupted, finishing the sentence, “Therefore you will only be informed of results, not methods.” After swallowing another gulp of latte Carolyn continued, “That’s all I needed. I’m sure you’ve got a full day ahead of you.”

  Finishing his last sip of super strong coffee, Jackson responded, “Don’t we all?” Setting the glass cup on its saucer he continued as he gathered his things, “You know it’s not an official policy that makes for successful cooperation in law enforcement. Its personal relationships based on trust and common goals that succeed. I hope we’re developing a successful relationship.”

  Smiling as she lifted her paper cup in a toast, Carolyn replied, “I’ll drink to that.” She took a quick swig and said, “Have a good day DC Jackson.”

  “I’ll do that,” he said as he cinched the belt around the waist of his long hunter green coat.

  CHAPTER 20

  Wayne’s arrival in Italy was quite subdued. He always liked to travel cheaply, and Avery didn’t include travel money. One million to wack this guy was huge, but Wayne stuck to his habit of not spending money he did not have. The 2005 Citroen C4 he rented had 300,000 kilometers on it, rusty fenders and seat fabric, which retained the scent of every ass that had spent hours riding in this nearly classic subcompact. Fortunately the manual window cranks worked.

  The smugglers itinerary Avery had shared, took them from Makarska, Croatia to the Italian Province of Chieti, to land at the seaside town of Ortona. The crossing of the Adriatic Sea took eight hours, provided the sea was not s
tirred up by a saltwater storm.

  Although he lived with his girlfriend in Rome, Masoni traveled across the peninsula to the dumpy tourist town of Ortona where he had arranged with the Ortona Boat Service to receive his merchandise. The women were unloaded from the 50-foot cruiser at night into the shore side, hangar sized shop within which they were loaded into vans. The vans would take them to the regions where the women would be put to work. Masoni would stay in Ortona until all the vans had arrived and the merchandise was released. The women were his responsibility from the time they unloaded from the boat until they arrived in their places of service. For this, he was well paid, but it was middleman work that wasn’t hard as long as you didn’t mind selling sex slaves.

  Billboards extolling the beaches and the seafood restaurants of this low budget vacation destination dotted the road into Ortona. During the summer, the place was filled with working class people getting some R&R at the seaside resorts. Now in October, the beach was empty and most of the restaurants were closed for the season. Illegal immigration of women went undetected amongst the dry docked boats wrapped in plastic.

  At the dock, twenty-four women had disembarked the yacht in which they had crossed the Adriatic Sea. Preceding the two armed men who accompanied them on the boat, the women shuffled into the boathouse hangar and Masoni pulled down the overhead door. Placing a steel case on the workbench, Masoni opened it and fired up his laptop screen. The shorter of the two men from the boat signed into an account. Masoni typed in a code transferring 200,000 Digival to the man’s account. Closing the case, they shook hands. The two men returned to the boat, left the dock, and sailed into the dark Adriatic.

  The van parked inside the boat hangar was not big enough for twenty-four passengers; in fact, Masoni was waiting for three more vans. The women were destined for four locations, each van carrying six passengers.

  Presently the women were standing in the open area of the hangar, surrounded by greasy engine parts, crumpled propellers, a long oil stained workbench with tools suspended above, and cans of grease, oil, and solvents stored below. Long fluorescent fixtures hanging from the ceiling cast diffuse light without heat. Cold seeped through the concrete floor, chilling the women, who were ill dressed for the temperatures of late fall.

  Throwing her hood off her head, a woman with a short shock of bleached blonde hair shouted, “Hey what are we supposed to do? There’s nowhere to sit and this place is freezing.”

  Masoni cautioned, “You shut the fuck up. You won’t be here long.”

  As he crossed the room, he menaced the women with a steely glare. At the far end of the workbench, he grabbed a handle emerging from under the surface and pulled out what looked like a rocket engine on wheels. The cylindrical device had two wheels at one end and a metal footing at the end with the handle. Masoni flipped its switch and the cylinder fired up, heat turned the end above the wheels red-hot. An internal fan blew the heat into the cavernous space. The sound wasn’t quite jet engine, but it was enough to make conversation an effort. Masoni shouted as he pointed, “The toilets back there in the corner.”

  Stepping outside Masoni got on his phone, “Yeah, it’s me, where the fuck are the other vans?”

  “You said to have them there on the 28th.”

  “Fucking bullshit Arnie, I said the 26th, damn it. Don’t you try to fuck with me, check the text, it says 26th.”

  “Oh… oh yeah, you’re right.”

  “Damn straight I am you fucknut. Now get the two assholes you’ve misinformed, put’em in the other vans and start driving right now. I want you here in four hours, you got that?”

  “Yeah, yeah I got it, we’re on our way.”

  “I’m texting you the address again. Give it to douche bag and shithead and make sure they have it in their GPS. You fuck this up and I will frag your asses without mercy. Capeesh?”

  “Look it was just an oversight, I’m sorry. We’ll be there right away.”

  “Fuck you, you better be here in three hours.” Masoni ended the call and looked out over the harbor, angry over the stupid delay. He realized good help was impossible to find. Incompetent imbeciles were the only ones willing to become criminals these days.

  As Arnie ended his call, he turned and looked into the barrel point of a suppressed Glock 19.

  “I did like you said.”

  “So you did, now give me your phone, you won’t be needing it.”

  The Glock’s firing pin struck the center of the bullet, sending a 9mm projectile through the extended barrel at 770 meters per second, piercing Arnie’s skull, magnifying the area of force to shatter the left side of his calvarium, spraying bloody brain matter upon his bookshelf as his torso flopped sideways in his chair.

  The assassin unscrewed the suppressor, placing it and the pistol into foam cutouts before zipping up the case and placing it in the large inside pocket of her coat.

  Wayne stood not far from the Ortona Boat Service hangar. He’d arrived in town and had been surveilling the service building for the past three hours. When the boat docked and women were escorted in, Wayne moved next to a large panel truck parked across from the Boat Service. From his position, he could watch the building shielded by the truck’s large cargo box. He saw two men leave the building, launch the boat and drive away. Shortly thereafter Masoni stepped out the side door and was now looking out over the harbor. With Masoni’s focus on the water, his back turned to the building and no one else around, Wayne deemed this an excellent opportunity. From within the pocket of his coat he extracted his compressed sniper rifle. This bullpup design had the firing mechanism at the near end of a long barrel. The grip and trigger were halfway along the barrel length, and the sighting scope was secured above the grip. The compact size carried full-length firepower and accuracy. Wayne placed the reticle between Masoni’s shoulder blades. He exhaled one full breath as he concentrated on his target. The impact of a blunt object smacked Wayne’s head into the side of the cargo truck, the sound reverberating across the parking lot. Wayne crumpled to the ground as his assailant, with a length of steel plumbing pipe, stood over him.

  Masoni, hearing the clang of steel against the truck, turned to see his partner Tony, the driver of the van, standing next to a truck.

  Masoni strode over to see blood on Tony’s pipe and a human heap at his feet. Their looks of surprise turned into determined glares. Slinging Wayne’s rifle strap over his shoulder, Masoni grabbed the feet, Tony grasped the wrists and they carried Wayne into the hangar, placed him in the van and shut the door.

  The women had put a plastic sheet on the floor, covered with a dusty canvas tarp. Huddled together in the warm zone of the blast furnace, most diverted their eyes from the van. Masoni and Tony glared, but only the woman with the short blonde hair dared to look back.

  “Let me know, when he wakes up,” said Masoni, “and thanks for bashing him.”

  “Yes sir,” said Tony as he leaned back against the driver’s door of the van.

  Wayne woke up with his head feeling as big as a beach ball with giant waves slapping against its interior. As he lifted his head, he felt the whole room, or wherever the hell he was, spinning. Grabbing the armrest, he remembered he was last going to shoot his target. He had no idea how he got where he was, but the throbbing in his head felt like trouble. Touching his temple sent pain firing through his scalp. He could feel what he thought was a tennis ball under his skin. Focusing in the dim light, he realized he was in a van.

  The sliding door flew open, flooding the interior with light. Wayne squinted as he shielded his face.

  Jarod Masoni growled, “You’re going to tell me who the fuck sent you to kill me?”

  “Kill you? Oh mate you’ve got it all wrong, I’m here to protect you.”

  “What? Protect me, with a bullet in my back?”

  “I can see now, how it looks. And your friend there whacked me pretty good, but I was sent to make sure those gents from the boat didn’t do you any harm.”

  “The guys on the
boat?”

  “Aye.”

  “The guys I’ve been working with for over a year? The guys to whom I just paid 200,000 Digival? You’re trying to tell me, my business partners were going to kill me, and you, a total fucking stranger, was sent to protect me?”

  “The criminal world can be very convoluted.”

  Masoni grabbed the front of Wayne’s shirt, pulling him forward, “Tell me who sent you? Who’s my fucking guardian angel?”

  Swallowing hard, Wayne replied, “I’m not supposed to-”

  Backhanding Wayne across the face Masoni said, “Of course it’s all a big secret, but if you were sent to save me, I deserve to know who’s so concerned.”

  “He’s quite discreet and wishes to remain anonymous.”

  “What fucking horseshit, you were sent to kill me and now you’re trying to bullshit your way out of it.”

  Wayne tried not to tremble as Masoni drew closer. With an open hand, the Italian sex smuggler smacked the swollen goose egg on Wayne’s temple, sending a shock of pain exploding through the Australian’s head. Masoni’s scowl turned to a devious smile, as he again smacked the side of Wayne’s inflamed head. Wayne fought the tears but they welled up in his eyes as he cowered against the expectation of another strike. Masoni quickly drew his hand back. Wayne flinched and ducked. Dropping his hand, Masoni stepped back from the van.

  “Hey Tony, we’ve got ourselves a flincher,” said Masoni, looking over at his partner. “He can’t stand much pain. We’re going to have a fun time getting the truth out of this weakling.”

  Masoni turned to Tony, “Let’s start by treating his head wound. You really hit a home run on his noggin, there buddy.” The man leaning against the van looked ready to sign autographs.

  Wayne watched Masoni survey the workbench, upon which he found a length of inch wide black webbing strap with a plastic buckle on one end. From a rusted coffee can, he pulled a heavy inch and a half hexagonal nut. Out of a bag hanging on a pegboard above the bench, he extracted two 10-inch zip ties. Running the strap through the nut, he approached Wayne.