The Artisan: An Artistic Assassin Thriller

by Dyal Bailey

  THE ARTISAN

  An Artistic Assassin Thriller

  by Dyal Bailey

  to Judy Kellem

  a gentle mentor, a tenacious editor, and my friend

  Chapter One

  Who knew being kidnapped could become so tedious?

  Rafaela let out a long, even sigh. Biting into the fleshy part of her bottom lip, she looked down at the crumpled body of her would-be abductor and kicked him in the head. As her keen eyes examined the now helpless man, she heard a sound. Dropping smoothly into a catlike crouch, she held her breath and listened.

  One second.

  Two seconds.

  Nothing.

  Still cautious, she kept her arms at her sides, peered over her rental car, and pivoted to peek through the smudged windows of the beat-up silver Subaru parked next to her. She stood in one lithe movement, exhaled, and scanned the icy Detroit airport parking deck.

  Completing this task with the efficiency of one who’s accustomed to being both predator and prey, she acknowledged that she was safe and alone. Now relaxed, she returned to examining her assailant. She leaned over the man and rolled her eyes like a woman forced to repeat an everyday household chore out of necessity.

  Hmm, he would almost be a perfect specimen if it weren’t for his rather weak chin. The strong smell of his lime-scented cologne found her nose. She moved back a few steps. Observing him from a slight distance, an idea occurred to her, causing her lips to part into a graceful smile.

  Opening her silk-lined jacket to the cold April air, she quickly located surgical gloves and guided them over her diminutive hands. Once protected, her nimble fingers proceeded to pat down the man’s voguish, black blazer. She plucked out his passport and other pieces of identification, read them with an uninterested expression, and with an incredulous snort, tossed them aside.

  Sliding her phone from its snug inner pocket, she clicked on the recorder app and lifted one of the man’s eyelids. “Dr. Rafaela Ramos, Subject K465: Blond hair, light blue eyes. Appears to be I1—Viking dominant, with strains of I2a—Danish and Pre-Celtic—I2b.”

  With a mischievous gleam in her eyes, Rafaela loosened the man’s ponytail. Carefully avoiding the three inch, dyed black strip in the front, she thrust her tweezers deep into his roots and greedily yanked out a sizable hair sample. She wound these strands into an efficient loop and placed them into a small plastic bag before tucking them into her right breast pocket.

  Next, she cradled the head of her subject in one hand, and with the other, clicked her recorder back on. “Response to gas inhalant—”

  She dropped his head to the ground with a thud. “—Immediate and thorough.”

  Once again nibbling her lower lip, she paused her recording before retrieving what appeared to be an organized folder of adhesive bandages. She found what she sought, neatly opened the biochemical patch, and rubbed it onto the unconscious man’s neck.

  Restarting the recorder, she cleared her throat and continued, “Back of neck application of long term aggression-deterrent, specific to Nordic Haplo-types.” Rafaela ended her recording and emailed the audio file to herself.

  She took in the man’s dimensions again, mentally calculating his weight. Taking two deep breaths, she straightened her shoulders and heaved his limp form into the front seat of her rental car, as if he wasn’t three times her size. Using zip ties, she secured him to the steering wheel and locked the doors.

  Her dark eyes nonchalantly wandered over the man’s hair and form for a moment. She knew she should just kill him—it was what Bailey would expect of her. But, she shrugged, he wasn’t a scientist, was he? Besides, she should be allowed a bit of scientific diversion now and again. With gloved hands, she checked his bindings. Placing a wistful kiss on his forehead, she neatly tucked him in. Waste not, want not.

  She whisked off her gloves, put them away for later disposal, and made a call.

  “Yes. The virus was successfully transferred to the ambassador last night. He’ll be nauseated by nine this morning and dead by noon.” She checked her bracelet-like watch, cleared her throat, and paused. “Listen, Bailey, I’m going to need some downtime before the Serbian job. Dr. Jacobs made a breakthrough—Instant DNA testing. He needs my viral vectors to make it stable.” Peeking into the car window at her sleeping attacker, Rafaela huffed, irritated. “And I need an immediate clean up in Detroit, Parking Level Two. Yes. Another assassin-turned-kidnapper.” She shifted her weight and began tapping the toe of her nude-colored pumps, impatient to end the call. “No. I kept this one alive. He’ll make a good lab rat.” She pulled at a stray eyelash. “He’s fine, sleeping like a baby. And he’ll stay that way for a day or two, I gave him a gene specific PDE-4 inhibitor—Exactly, so don’t send any blonds to come pick him up.” Rafaela continued to half listen, taking the lipstick out of her purse. “Wonderful.”

  She clicked off, glossed over her lips, and scanned the area around her rental car again. Seeing no sign of movement, she ran a brush through her thick black hair, wound it into a bun, and pinned it snugly into place. She checked her reflection in her car’s side mirror, and when she was satisfied with her appearance as an ordinary businesswoman, she headed into the airport.

  …

  Less than an hour before his imminent death, Hector Berlioz glanced around the airport locker room, his hands going limp. It was the end of another long, useless graveyard shift, and he didn’t want to be there. He wanted to be climbing ladders into burning buildings to save babies. He wanted to be a hero.

  Instead, here he was, stuck as an airport paramedic, rushing off to stop nosebleeds and put Band-Aids on paper cuts. Clenching his jaw as his walkie-talkie started to screech, he pressed the button and responded. “I’ll be out front in a minute.”

  He hopped into the front seat of the ambulance and rode in silence, until he was dropped at the entryway to the parking area. He glanced up at Dyal, the ambulance driver.

  “Thanks.”

  But there was little gratitude in his voice. Mentally and physically drained, he trudged toward the elevator that would take him to his car. When the lift reached Parking Level Two, he pushed through the slushy, gray snow until he finally made his way to his weatherworn Subaru. Unlocking the trunk, he tossed in his gear.

  Raising his gaze to the car in the next parking space, his lethargy vanished. He moved swiftly toward the aberration, and saw an abandoned body, crammed into the front seat.

  Hector banged his fist on the window, anxiously scrutinizing the man’s face for a sign of life. He tried all the doors, to no avail. Running to his car, he grabbed his emergency kit and a tool to pop the car’s lock. He worked quickly and released the lock.

  In a frenzy, he swung the door open and desperately searched for a sign that the man was alive, first checking the pulse in his wrist then his neck. Finally, after several endless moments, he found a faint, but steady pulse. Exhaling deeply, he grabbed his walkie-talkie.

  “Hey, Dyal, get back here. Hurry to Parking Level Two. I found an unconscious man inside a car.”

  After severing the zip ties on the man’s wrists to release him, Hector gently patted his face, attempting to rouse him. The man was deeply unconscious, but started smiling. He appeared to be dreaming.

  The senseless man felt the paramedic’s tentative pats increase into a vigorous slap, but ignored them. He was too busy playing the flugel horn. But, right in the middle of a particularly rousing duple-time march, he felt him push his hair from his neck and administer an injection. Ach! The man fumed inside his dream, missing a note.

  Hector started to shake him and couldn’t understand why the man’s adrenaline hadn’t kicked in afte
r the epinephrine shot. “Hey buddy, wake up.” The paramedic glanced around and saw the man’s discarded passport on the ground. Retrieving it, he read, “Friederich Mittler. Hey, Friederich, you need to wake up.” Hector rubbed a cold pack across the man’s face, causing him to stir.

  “Nein. Nein. Fritz—” his voice was garbled. He frowned. What a terrible effort it is to move my lips. And where is my Oom-pah band?!

  Hector shook him again. “Fritz?”

  “Ja.” A waking Fritz wondered why his mouth was so dry.

  “Fritz? Mr. Fritz?” Hector moistened the cold pack and put it on the back of Fritz’s neck.

  His eyes opened and his gaze shot to his passport, then back to the paramedic. Hector’s hands were touching Rafaela’s medicinal patch. Fritz scoffed, pulled off the patch, and threw it aside.

  Hector helped him out of the car and onto his feet. Picking up the briefcase, he showed it to him. “Is this yours?”

  Fritz’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

  “Here, you’ll want to take it with you when we go file the report.”

  Fritz tensed. Accepting the case from Hector, he spun the lock open as the ambulance drove up. He closed it again, after slipping something into his pocket.

  As Dyal rushed over to them, Hector stared at Fritz. “What happened here, dude? You were zip-tied to the freaking steering wheel!”

  Fritz sneered. “I’m afraid that’s none of your business.” With one sudden move, he snapped Hector’s neck, then pulled the small revolver from his pocket and shot the ambulance driver in the heart. Dyal’s body fell against a nearby car and Fritz smiled as he saw the blood surging from the driver’s chest, flowing deep and red onto the icy ground.

  Becoming more alert by the minute, Fritz spotted the tiny red lights of two surveillance cameras and shot them out, one-by-one. He puffed in exasperation. Normally, with his usual clear head, he would have removed all possibilities of observation first thing.

  A quick glance at his reflection in the car window revealed he needed straightening. One hand brushed the dirt from his ink black pants while the other finger-combed the black streak under a thick handful of blonde hair which he secured back into a ponytail with a black leather band. Dabbing a touch of cologne on his neck, he attempted to mask the faint odor of sweat from the struggle.

  Fritz barely had time to check his watch before the screeching wheels of a car sent him dashing to the stairwell.

  …

  Two CIA men, both with dark hair and dark eyes, stood over the dead bodies of Hector and Dyal. Shocked, they scanned the victims, as well as the ambulance. The engine was still running.

  “What a mess!” The younger man shook his head. The older man nodded in agreement and answered his phone.

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” Hanging up, he turned to his coworker. “Leave ‘em. Our guys have already hacked into the surveillance system to erase Dr. Ramos. And Mr. Bailey has the clip of whoever did this. He wants us gone before the locals get here.”

  A cacophony of sirens sounded. The younger man looked anxiously in the direction of the airport. “What about Dr. Ramos? This guy is proficient.”

  “Bailey says she can take care of herself.” Hesitating a moment, he shrugged. “Besides, he’ll never hurt her; she’s worth too much to him alive.” They jumped into their car and raced away.

  …

  With the kind of calmness born of experience and extreme arrogance, Fritz filed into the elevator with a group of business travelers. A policeman stepped in just before the door closed, causing Fritz to slowly shift until he was all the way in the back.

  When they reached the terminal level, the police walkie-talkie started erupting. Not an inkling of fear surfaced inside Fritz’s mind. As the policeman turned around, scanning each face, Fritz continued to focus. Keeping his eyes forward, as the elevator doors opened, he moved with the group.

  The policeman continued to comb through the crowd with his eyes, and Fritz could feel the man’s stare on the back of his head as he ambled past. Quickening his pace, he made a sudden, unexpected move to the right, shielding himself behind an airline sign.

  He needed to change his look and find a different set of clothes, fast. Fuming, he made a rapid evaluation and saw that the closest bathroom was over a hundred feet away. He would lose precious time waiting for someone to come in that was a suitable size.

  He spied a man’s trench coat and hat, resting on a suitcase nearby, and with an elegant swoop, he slipped the hat on his head and shrugged on the coat as he entered the airport.

  He grinned slyly. Now to find a good fall guy.

  Spotting a blonde man with longish hair wearing a black Valentino suit and a dark shirt heading towards security, he decided to make his move. Fritz barreled into the man he’d chosen as his mark and knocked him to the floor. Helping him up, he apologized as he pretended to brush dust from his jacket. The assassin slipped his pistol into the man’s pocket. Before the man could respond, Fritz pushed past him and moved ahead of him in the line.

  Fritz made it through the security checkpoint before he allowed himself to peer back. When he did, he ignored the vicious glare of the recently tackled man, who was seventh behind him in line. As Fritz stepped into the airport shuttle, he heard the alarms go off, signaling the discovery of his planted weapon. He controlled his urge to smile, exited the shuttle, and sprinted through escalators. With each step, he could feel himself getting closer to Rafaela. His chest tightened with anticipation.

  …

  Rafaela stood outside the gate of Flight 286 to Atlanta. Always on her guard, her gaze darted as she checked the time. Staying out in the open was never a good option. She headed into a nearby restroom.

  After scanning the bathroom stalls, she pumped soap into her hands at a sink where she could easily see the entrance. She scrubbed her hands with unnecessary vigor, since her gloves protected her from the DNA specific bio-chem that she had given her blond assailant. There wasn’t even a trace of Nordic in her primarily Argentinian bloodline, which when blended with the French and African lineage from her mother gave Rafaela a mysterious look that caused many to gaze at her with both wonder and appreciation. Yet, with no chance of infection, she covered her hands with soap again, attempting to wash away her hate and disgust for the entire situation.

  Did that idiot actually think he could capture me? And if by some miracle he actually did, did he expect me to just cooperate and crank out viruses for whatever terrorist group hired him? Why does every kidnapper have to be so exhaustingly predictable?

  Her face tightened and she pursed her lips. Pumping more soap from the container, she rubbed her hands until the lather turned to froth.

  A seven-year-old boy, wearing a black and neon green MW3: Call of Duty T-shirt and matching MW3 Nikes, walked in with his mother and baby sister. Leaving him, the mother headed into a stall with the toddler. The boy was playing a handheld spy-action video game. After first gazing at a female character in the game, who was dressed exactly like Rafaela, he peeked at her, looked back at the game, and tapped her on her shoulder. “Are you a mommy or a spy?”

  Rafaela was caught off guard, then seeing the screen clutched in his hands, she chuckled. “I’m a scientist.”

  The child continued to study her. “You kind of look like a mommy. Do you have any kids?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Afraid not.”

  His eyes grew concerned. “Why? Did you lose your husband? My mom says you have to be very careful about that.”

  Rafaela flinched at his words then looked wistfully at his fresh-as-dew face. She managed a smile and sighed. “Your mommy is right.”

  She dried her hands and exited the bathroom. Weaving her way cautiously through the crowd, she made it to her gate just in time to hear the boarding call for her flight. Pulling out her ticket, she breezed to the head of the line with her VIP pass.

  Minutes later, Fritz passed the little boy and his mother with the baby in her arms as they exited the b
athroom. He could barely see Rafaela in the distance, disappearing down the boarding ramp. She had turned to scan the nearby crowd, but missed his approach. By the time he reached the empty gate, he was stopped by an airport employee.

  “I’m sorry, sir; the plane is heading onto the runway. Did you miss your flight?”

  Fritz bared his teeth, tensed his arm muscles, and replied curtly, “Yes.”

  The employee checked his ticket and typed into his computer. “No problem. There’s another plane leaving for Atlanta in thirty minutes.”

  Breathing deeply, Fritz withheld the urge to snatch the new boarding pass out of the man’s hand. With angry strides, he made his way to the next gate.

  Filing in with the boarding passengers, Fritz allowed the fullness of his anger to flow through his mind. He had been so close, yet he had allowed that tiny woman to humiliate him. Inwardly, he cursed himself for letting that idiot Hillel talk him into taking this kind of job in the first place. And by doing so, he had forfeited his power. Because his power, his strength, and his pleasure came from shedding blood. No blood, no power. By agreeing to merely kidnap this scientist, he gave her his power. And she used it to emasculate him. Fritz massaged his right hand with his left, taking a moment to remember the delicious feel of the paramedic’s neck when he’d snapped it.

  Fritz reached his seat and sat back, willing himself to tap into the vast reserves of focus and calm upon which his reputation was built. With closed eyes, he relished the memory of the ambulance driver’s blood as it flowed onto the ground. Yes. His power was coming back. All he needed now was the blood of Dr. Rafaela Ramos. Her blood would fully erase this blot and redeem his shattered psyche forever.

  Chapter Two

  A very hairy Antonio Peloso shut his office door to the boisterous conversations of his Sicilian-American family. Pausing, he readjusted his collar, which had been recently ruffled by one of his teasing gorilla-like cousins. He shrugged wistfully. Other than their mutual need to shave three times a day, he knew he and his family had absolutely nothing in common. The rest of the Peloso clan could not, and would not, ever understand him. They were simple, fun loving, and uncomplicated. Antonio was different.