Galleon's Gold

by David Leadbeater

  What would his boss, the leader of the Five Families of New York City, the predominant ruling entity of the East Coast Mafia, say to that?

  Nathan doubted it would include much compassion.

  He hefted the backpack once more as the treasurer crossed the wide intersection, deliberately closing the gap. There were no rules with this one. It didn’t have to look like an accident or be done in the shadows. Nobody had to be ‘disappeared’ or chopped up. There were only two requisites. One: that he escaped clean.

  Goes without saying.

  And two: that there was no ambiguity as to the target.

  The treasurer, whose name had been provided, but then purposely forgotten by Nathan—because he preferred to keep murder entirely impersonal—entered the shop. Nathan preferred not to remember the names of his targets. He found it helped him sleep better at night. A discreet bell jangled an alarm to the shopkeeper. Nathan paused outside the shop and stared through the dark window.

  Shelves lined the center and the edges. Liquor of all kinds sat in bottles and boxes and dispensers. A wide counter delineated the back of the shop. Nathan saw an old man appear from a back door, wiping his hands on a towel before greeting the treasurer like an old friend.

  Hmm... this is designated as a Tier One clean kill. No uncertainty. If I do it here, it may look like a liquor store robbery gone bad.

  Silently, he cursed, but stored the frustration away.

  A minute later, the door opened. Nathan was rummaging around inside his rucksack, head down as the treasurer walked past, inches to his right, looking like another tourist searching for a city map.

  Nevertheless, Nathan’s radar was on high alert.

  The guy never even noticed you.

  Nathan prided himself on being one of the best assassins alive today. Only the best undertook operations for the Hellfire Club, and they undertook them in every corner of the world—glamour or squalor, it made no difference.

  The treasurer turned up 10th Avenue, passing a busy CVS store. A large van sat at the right curb, its rear roller doors open. Two men were offloading furniture and making ready to carry it into a nearby store. Nathan saw and evaluated it all. Surely the treasurer couldn’t lug his heavy load all the way down 10th.

  Minutes later, his destination grew clear. It was a large coffee shop with brightly lit windows. The treasurer entered and shouted an order to the barista before settling into a table at the rear, with a wall at his back. Nathan thought that might be intentional. If this was a place where he liked to sift through the Mafia’s financial maelstrom, he wouldn’t want curious eyes peering over his shoulder. Nathan took a seat that allowed him a clear view of the rear restroom and ordered an extra hot latte.

  He was ready.

  As if to reward Nathan for his hours of patience, the treasurer soon folded his laptop and picked his way through occupied tables to the counter. Not an easy task for a man his size. Nathan was shocked to see him hand the laptop to the barista for safekeeping, and then grab the restroom’s key.

  No surprise really. He comes here often. They know him and who he represents. This coffee shop is this man’s safe place.

  Nathan waited for the treasurer to pass before hefting the backpack, in case he had been spotted back at the wine and spirits shop. After that, everything moved at incredible speed. He loosened the pack’s straps, threw it over one shoulder and gave the shop one final sweep. The eight other patrons and two baristas were engrossed in their work, their partners or themselves. In his head, Nathan counted the seconds it would take the treasurer to reach the restroom, then rose and followed him down the passage. The treasurer was already opening the door. Nathan leapt the last few feet and grabbed its edge to stop it closing.

  “Hey!” His target shuffled around to meet his eyes, still holding the door and baring the sweat-stains under his arms. “Wait your turn, buddy. I got here first.”

  The voice was quiet, which suited Nathan. It wouldn’t carry. Committed now, he struck. The stiletto blade slid free of its sheath in less than a second. He sank the thin steel shaft into the treasurer’s armpit so hard it burst straight through the muscle at the top of the man’s shoulder. His left hand smashed down against the man’s mouth, ensuring he was unable to utter a sound. Using the stiletto as a fulcrum he maneuvered the treasurer back into the single restroom and let the door close behind them.

  He turned the lock.

  The man’s eyes bulged. His lips worked mushily against Nathan’s hand. With incredible strength Nathan pushed the treasurer so that he fell onto the toilet’s rim just as the stiletto sank into the plaster wall at his back, pinning him in place. A lighting fast blow to the larynx made him gasp and choke, freeing up Nathan’s other hand.

  Which reached inside the backpack with experienced knowledge of where to find the right weapon.

  He withdrew a silenced Beretta. The 92, 9mm model was the perfect handgun to use with a suppressor.

  The treasurer choked and bled, practically bouncing up and down on the toilet seat, wrenching the muscle that had been perforated by the stiletto. Nathan leveled the Beretta at him and all motion ceased.

  He tried to speak. Nathan smashed his larynx again.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” he grated in an English accent. “Don’t you know who I am? My boss will eat your brains and fry your liver. Don’t do it, I have a family!” Nathan shook his head. “I’ve heard it all before. Some stories were pretty convincing. But it never changed the outcome.” He nodded at the wall behind the treasurer. “Your brains there.”

  “I... have... money...” the fat man whispered.

  Nathan knew time was wasting. “So do I,” he whispered, backed away as far as he could, and aimed the gun between his target’s eyes.

  “Say goodbye.”

  “N—”

  Nathan pulled the trigger, heard the sharp report and moved quickly. There was a noisy fan running inside the toilet which should help mask the sound, but he never took chances. Time was wasting; another murder had been sanctioned in the next few days on mainland Europe, another treasurer to kill.

  Exiting the restroom, he wondered how the other two assassins were faring with the other treasurers. Hopefully this mission would pass with the minimum of upheaval, just like all the others he’d undertaken for the Hellfire Club. Nathan was one of the few people alive that knew that they ran MI6 behind the scenes, sending unwitting agents on occasional missions that wouldn’t necessarily help MI6, but would further the aims of their covert organization.

  Nathan exited the shop, hailed a cab and gave the driver an address where he could drop the backpack and all its contents. After that it would be a quick trip to JFK and then on to Naples.

  The global game of assassination was afoot.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Carrie had just finished an uneventful shift at the diner, and was somewhere along Cocoa Beach, following one of her random routes home, when someone said, “Hey!”

  Carrie dropped a shoulder and turned, smashing her elbow into the guy’s solar plexus. She jabbed the fingers of her left hand into his ribs—three swift strikes that made him gasp and fall back against the bench. Her right hand came up, gripping his larynx as she prepared to target his eyes.

  The figure gave out a mangled yelp. “That... that’s not what I expected,” he coughed.

  She looked at him. Just some guy. Not an agent. Not as assassin. He wasn’t armed. But she’d reacted on instinct. She told herself that the days of danger were past, but at a subconscious level she knew she’d never really be safe, that she’d always be on guard. She switched stances, scanning the area once more. The only people she saw were a pair of gawking mothers twenty feet away, both leaning over the handles of their strollers and fishing around in their handbags for their phones.

  That would be a big mistake. Carrie didn’t want her photo circulating around social media.

  Quickly, she pulled her hood up.

  “I’m sorry,” the man said. “I me
an... what the hell?”

  She relaxed. This guy’s body language was completely passive. “I need to get out of here.”

  She feigned shock at what she’d done. “Next time, don’t surprise a woman.”

  “I just… just wanted to talk to you. I’ve seen you around.”

  She studied his face. To be fair, he did look familiar. Her mind turned over. The mothers back there would already have taken pictures, possibly even video, hoping to become the next social media sensations of the Sunshine State, so she was going to have to ditch the lime green sneakers.

  She loved those sneakers.

  But now she decided to stick around a bit longer. “How do you know me?”

  “The café. The beach.”

  “That sounds like you’ve been stalking me.” Her tone was laced with ice.

  “No, no, I wanted to ask you out. You know, for a drink or something.”

  He looked pathetically sincere, but Carrie had known some fantastic actors in her past. Academy Award material. And each time it had been a man trying to get close enough to kill her.

  “Wallet.”

  He straightened and blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. It’s either that or I call the cops.” It was a bluff. If this man was an assassin, he’d be confronting her without ID. A quick glance revealed the mothers were already losing interest.

  “Here, then.”

  She took the brown leather wallet and flicked it open. His photo stared back at her along with a local address and other information. It all seemed genuine.

  “All right, well, next time pick a different approach, Jacob Anderson. Don’t follow me again.”

  She flung the wallet back to him and turned away, dealing with a turbulent mix of feelings. The fact that she’d attacked instantly, without thought, proved she hadn’t left that insane world as far behind as she’d hoped. And yet it had been the right thing to do. Until now, she’d assumed her life had become more balanced, but all she’d done was disingenuously tip the scales to where she wanted them. She had an old life, old connections. A man called Miller had threatened to kill her, as had the Hellfire Club. If they found her, they would end her life without mercy.

  All I want is to be left alone.

  Should I leave Cocoa Beach now?

  She headed home. That was a question for sitting in the dark, alone, in the dead of night, which was how she got her best thinking done.

  It was a mistake to relax here. To think I’d be able to ease into a new life.

  No matter how hard she’d fought to make it, her past wouldn’t lie dormant. Undiminished, it stayed inextricably linked to her present and her future.

  CHAPTER THREE

  At home, Carrie double-checked her security protocols. The door was reinforced with a high-end deadbolt and a good old-fashioned metal bar. Also, chocks under the bottom lip would give precious extra seconds in the event of forced entry. The single window was barred and bolted, the glass one-way only. In addition, she had an inexpensive motion sensor and CCTV set up, which she could check with her laptop and through an app on her cellphone.

  All was well.

  Nevertheless, she physically checked everything to put her mind at ease. Once she’d done that, she took another recce out the window. It looked over a busy street, where tourists sauntered, where cars parked by meters, and where locals stopped each other to pass the time of day. She knew most of the routines by now. She even had a monocular telescope that fitted over one eye, perfect for studying faces, or conducting a full sweep of the swathe of beach she could see in the distance.

  All clear.

  Carrie took a quick shower, slipped into fresh jeans and T-shirt and threw a TV dinner into the microwave. She stood at the tiny counter as the machine whirred, and tried to clear her mind. Around her, stood familiarity. A white sink with rusting corners. A tub of old spatulas and spoons that came with the apartment; an old toaster oven, and a brand-new coffee maker—her single addition to the timeworn kitchen. She could cross from the microwave to the sink in one step, and then two more to the kitchen door. The living room held a sagging double sofa made of yellow leather that made her wince every time she witnessed the unsightly onslaught. The TV was basic, small and chipped along the top edge as though a previous tenant had thrown something at the screen and missed. There was also a low coffee table. Beyond the living room, the bedroom was her sanctum, where she placed fresh plants and flowers, used a new mattress and thick cotton sheets, and kept everything she cared about.

  The shards of her past life were like the broken pieces of a mirror. Touch one, embrace one, recall one, and it would cut her—often deeply, but she couldn’t rid herself of them. Not the album of photos in which she posed happily with her parents until the age of ten, nor the thin swatch of pictures where she stood with her foster parents, safe and loved but unbearably miserable. Unable to reciprocate the unconditional love and care they showered upon her.

  I broke their hearts again and again. I couldn’t help it.

  To keep myself sane. To cope.

  No. It was to punish them for not being my real parents. Everything fell apart when they died, and I haven’t felt whole since.

  Struggling to combat old feelings of inadequacy was a daily struggle for Carrie. She fought, and she won, remembering how lost and incapable she’d felt when her parents had been shot in front of her. And, in particular, when nobody came to help. When every bone in her body had shrieked at her to do something, to help, to stop the killer, to staunch the pouring blood...

  But she’d been unable to move, frozen to the spot.

  Later, she used those memories to make her strong.

  But it was a constant battle. Old horrors like that never died.

  She flicked through barely recognizable snaps of her army days, clad in a dirty uniform in the middle of a demanding exercise; a couple more of her with some of the men in her life that had come and gone. There were snaps she wished she had of her work as an MI6 agent; the good times when they’d saved lives, rescued families in terrible danger, beaten down men and women whose only goals were to bring horror and tragedy to the world.

  After quitting MI6, she’d repressed the bad memories of all the jobs she’d unwittingly carried out for the Hellfire Club. It made her feel unclean, unworthy, after she’d started suspecting them, when she guessed the Three Old Men were using MI6 to further secret agendas. It made her feel violated. All her good intentions and actions besmirched. Better to compartmentalize the memories, to shut away everything that had happened. Now they were malevolent ghosts trapped behind a brand-new charm, her new personality, struggling to get out.

  Clearly, suppressing those memories had been the wrong move, but she’d survived two years on her own and had no reason to believe she couldn’t last many more. The Old Men of the Hellfire Club were using MI6 assets to further their own agendas. She had helped them, albeit without realizing it at the time. That much was clearer now than it had ever been. She had left without their blessing, and knowing that they were engaged in criminal undertakings.

  She hadn’t seen anyone else stand up to them. And as such, their machinations had become even more vile and widespread, reaching into the private sanctums of the world’s richest governments.

  She remembered all the people who’d died to further the Old Men’s ambitions. Not many by her hands, not in comparison to others, but even one was more than enough.

  It was the last mission that had confirmed her suspicions about the existence of the Old Men. Her team had been engaged in a mission in Germany, with the local government’s blessing, and had taken out a vicious smuggler, who trafficked everything from ornaments to human beings. Several British citizens, including children, had been included in his latest cargo, so MI6 had sent in a team to save them and end his operation. They were successful. She even stuck around to talk to those they rescued, to accept their thanks and oversee their safe journey back to England. There were pats on the back, even laugh
ter from the kids, and then an hour of downtime.

  She was called Rogue back then. Rogue had wondered why they hadn’t been exfiltrated immediately. She’d noticed a couple of anomalies during recent missions—nothing glaring or terrible. Just a few things that didn’t fit. A week earlier, in Africa, a group of villagers she’d visited during a previous assignment had disappeared. Their houses were still present, as were their belongings. But the people were missing. She questioned this, but received only vagaries about relocation in reply. It was even odder that this village sat close to a diamond mine. A week before that she overheard a transmission between their team leader and HQ.

  A question had been asked on the transmission: “Is this Hellfire or MI6?” The words had jarred her. There had been rumors among the ranks of a covert organization working inside MI6—something she’d dismissed as outlandish and absurd. This question brought it all back. Now, she was on her guard. They had done good here. Achieved something worthwhile. A short time later, however, orders came down that another op had been greenlit in the area. Rogue was instantly suspicious.

  The team leader said that the new order had come from “The Old Men”. Rogue had heard this name before, during the other suspicious ops. The Old Men’s orders were that they could reveal their movements to no one and were supposed to look like they were leaving the country.

  Who were these Old Men? And why were these ops feeling questionable? They made her doubt the good she had done, doubt the people and the country she worked for. She didn’t want to be part of anything illicit, and worried for the innocents involved. But still, her fellow soldiers were game and exhibited no uncertainties. It was then that Rogue had another thought—what if rescuing the kids that were about to be trafficked had been merely a reason for MI6 to send operatives into the country? Something these Old Men had manipulated for their own ends? Her morality hit hard. She couldn’t keep doing this.

  The new mission went down fast. An English skinhead gang that worked for the Aryan Brotherhood was here in Germany, looking to set up new trafficking routes and fresh lines of funding. The mission was sanctioned supposedly because her team was close by and battle ready. The skinheads were known in Britain and Europe as lethal criminals, so the timing appeared fortuitous.