She knew his game. Knew he enjoyed playing her. He didn't have any information on Jeff's killer and likely never would. But even though she knew all this, why did she agree to it? Why did she agree to become his assassin?
Because you do like it.
That's what the voice in the back of her head told her. Told her Dante had her pegged—the Agency turned her into a weapon and she liked what she had become. The power it gave her, the thrill of hunting a target, all of it like a drug. At one time, she didn't even care about collateral damage. Whatever it took to get the job done, that's what she learned from her training at the Agency.
She had originally been at Quantico, training for the FBI. Until the day when Mason Draconi came to her. He had been a big guy, tall and built like a brick wall. Eastern European features, dark hair and piercing dark eyes with a goatee and a voice like gravel. She still remembered that first meeting with him, sitting in a small Arabic cafe nearby. The place was virtually empty when she entered and Draconi sat in a wicker chair with colorfully-designed pillows cushioning it. A similar chair sat across from him and he motioned her to sit. Angela took her seat, noting the hookah which stood on the floor between them.
“Are you Mason Draconi?” she asked.
“I am.” The voice betrayed his features, had Angela heard him over the phone, she might think of him as someone from midwestern suburbia. He noticed her eyeing the hookah. “Middle Eastern water pipe,” he explained. He held a hose in one hand, a hose that connected to the pipe. When he sucked on the end of the hose, Angela could hear the water in the glass base bubble. A metal stem connected to the glass base and at the top sat a metal tray with tongs resting. The very top consisted of a small ceramic bowl covered with tin foil that had holes poked into it. Atop the foil were several tiny coals, each of them glowing a bright red.
Draconi opened his mouth, the smoke flowing slowly and melodically from it. Arabic music played lightly in the background, and it seemed as if the wisps of smoke were swaying with the sounds. He offered her the hose.
“No thanks, I don't smoke,” she said.
“It's a bit different from cigarettes,” said Draconi. “The tobacco is flavored and it doesn't have much nicotine in it. Still bad for your health, but at least you can get some flavor while giving yourself cancer.”
“I'll pass.”
“Suit yourself,” said Draconi. He took another slow drag on the hose, the smoke flowing into his mouth and when he stopped smoking, he exhaled through his nostrils.
“One of my instructors gave me your message,” said Angela. “Said something about a position?”
“You've got an impressive record, Ms. Lockhart,” said Draconi. “You're at the top of your class, you're sharp as can be, and your aptitude for the physical side of the job is exceptional.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But what interests me the most is your psych profile.”
“What about it?”
“It indicates a certain...moral flexibility,” said Draconi. “For my organization, this is very important.”
“What organization would that be? CIA?”
Draconi laughed. “The CIA is the moped to our jetliner.”
“So who?”
“Trust me when I say you've never heard of us,” said Draconi. “While the CIA is off chasing shadows or propping up dictators, we're the guys who keep the real balance in this world. We're the ones who clean up their messes. We strike fast, we strike hard, and we're gone without a trace. Think of us as the ninjas of the intelligence world.”
“And who are you guys?”
“Just call us the Agency.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because we have need of your particular skills, Angela. We're always on the lookout for potential talent and you've definitely got the potential. But now we need to get you out of Quantico and begin your real training.”
“Real training?” she asked with a bewildered smirk. “You've got to be joking, right?”
Draconi's face remained stoic. “I never joke about my work, kid.”
“What kind of work are we talking about?”
Draconi leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as he drew on the hose. When he spoke, the smoke shot out of his mouth in quick bursts. “What's your attitude on killing?”
Angela considered those words, leaning back in the chair. She had never killed anyone before, that much was true. But was she against it? Yes, there were all the usual moral arguments from her upbringing that raced through her mind, but along with those came exceptions depending on the circumstances. If the death of one would prevent the deaths of many, why not? There were plenty of people out there the world would be much better without.
“I guess it depends on the circumstances.”
“So you aren't against killing someone who deserves it?”
“I don't think I'm okay with it, but I wouldn't lose any sleep.”
“Even if you were the one pulling the trigger?”
“I'm not sure...”
“I think you can.”
“So that's what you guys do? Just assassinations?” asked Angela.
“We keep the balance,” said Draconi. “We only recruit the best of the best. Unfortunately, even they aren't quite up to standard. So we're going to put you through an intensive training program. If you survive, you'll be made a full operative.”
“What do you mean 'if I survive?'” asked Angela.
Draconi leaned back and sucked on the hookah before giving his response. “I mean just that—we've got a pretty high mortality rate. Still think you're up to the challenge?”
She had been. Sometimes she asked herself why she chose to accept Draconi's offer. Certainly wasn't the money. In fact, now that she recalls that night, they didn't even discuss money. Wasn't for career advancement, either. 'Assassin for top-secret organization unknown to the public' isn't exactly something to put on a resume. The Agency operatives who don't die in the field usually live out the rest of their days in administrative positions within the organization, although some are smart enough to find other ways of financing their retirement. Part of her knew that there were people out there the Agency needed to stop and she accepted the chance to follow their lead, with Draconi at the helm of her ship.
Angela snapped back to the present, rinsing the suds from her body. She turned off the water and opened the door, reaching for a towel. After patting herself dry, she set the towel back, taking a robe from the bathroom door and tying it around her waist.
She walked barefoot into the kitchen and took an empty saucepan from the stove, filling it with water before putting it back where she found it and turned on the burner. In one of the cabinets were packets of instant ramen stacked up. She opened one of the packets, dropping the noodle brick into the pan once the water came to a boil. She stirred occasionally, breaking the noodles up with a wooden spoon. Once they softened sufficiently, she emptied the seasoning packet inside, stirring the flavor into the water, turning it from clear to a murky yellowish-brown.
With a bowl of instant noodles in one hand, she sat at the table in the corner of the kitchen and quickly ate her late breakfast. Leaving the dirtied bowl in the sink, she entered the living room through the passage connecting it to the kitchen. A small television set and shelves full of books occupied the room, as well as a couch. Beside the couch stood a table with a laptop computer closed on top. Next to the bookcases stood a liquor cabinet. She opened the glass door, removing a glass and setting it out. She took a bottle of vodka, unscrewing the top and about to pour it into the glass.
She hesitated.
Instead, she brought the bottle to her lips, taking a generous drink directly from it and sighing once she pulled it away. She brought the bottle back to the couch with her and allowed herself to sink into the cushion, drinking the vodka like water. It didn't take long before the combination of alcohol and her own exhaustion caused sleep to overtake her.
***
T
he feel of the afternoon sun pouring in through the sliding glass balcony door stirred Angela awake. Her mouth felt like someone stuffed it with cotton. She had a slight headache from the vodka, the bottle sitting on the floor, almost taunting her.
Standing, she went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water from the sink. It drained in seconds and she refilled it, gulping it down just as fast. The third glass, she started to sip, taking gasps of breath between drinks.
Sitting in the couch again, she took the computer and set it on her lap, raising the lid. The screen flashed on, the clock in the right-hand corner telling her the time was two in the afternoon.
“At least I got a few hours of sleep, that's better than I've been doing lately,” she told herself.
She received an e-mail from a bank in the Cayman Islands, notifying her of a recent transfer of half a million dollars. One thing about Dante, he didn't delay payment. She decided leaving the bulk of the money in the account to accrue interest and only drawing out what she needed seemed the best course of action.
Next came a visit to online news sources. An article had been printed about Travis' death. A few mentions of rumored mob connections but nothing confirmed. No murder weapon found at the scene and no leads as to the killer's identity. The article went on to say that the police suspected it to be a rival organization.
Good, she thought to herself. Dante would be happy about this. The authorities were baffled and Travis' associates and those who were aware of Infernum would know what happens when you cross Dante.
CHAPTER 5
A private jet flew through the air, tilting downwards towards the small private island in the tropics. On the island's coast stood a massive estate, complete with armed guards and a full service staff.
Dante leaned back in his seat, a glass of Johnnie Walker Blue Label in his hand. The ice clinked together against the glass as the plane began its descent. He wore a pair of orange-tinted aviator sunglasses to conceal his light-colored eyes. He closed his eyes as he listened to the music. The head of Infernum had an affinity for film scores and at the moment, the music from The Lord of the Rings trilogy played over the plane's speakers.
When he looked out the window, he saw that the plane had already hit the ground and now taxied to its final resting place on the small landing strip in the rear of his estate. He employed one of the best pilots in the world and as such, the man's landings and take-offs were flawless, barely a bump for either. Even turbulence had reached the barest minimum.
Once the plane came to a stop, the stewardess he traveled with emerged from the back of the plane and opened the door. She removed Dante's leather jacket from the hangar it rested on, holding it for him as he slid his arms into the sleeves. She wrapped it over his shoulders and then handed him a matching fedora hat. Dante gripped the rim and tipped his head towards her just slightly as a thank you, then stepped onto the small staircase that had been brought to the open door.
At the foot of the staircase stood a middle aged man with dark hair and features in a suit. He bowed when Dante reached the foot of the stairs.
“Welcome home, sir.”
“Thank you, Carlton,” said Dante.
Carlton motioned to his side where a small golf cart waited. “The men will handle your luggage, as always.”
Dante nodded and climbed into the passenger side of the cart. Carlton took the driver's seat and drove his employer to the massive mansion that stood about a half mile from the airstrip.
Very few of the staff who resided on the island had the slightest inkling of Dante's business, other than the knowledge that he traveled all around the world and was exceedingly wealthy. When they were hired, they were given a few rules. One, they must live on the island. Two, they must never disclose their employer's identity. And three, they must never inquire about Dante's affairs. They had all been willing to accept these terms, as the salaries Dante offered were higher than most other places as well as tax-free. Health care, dental care, retirement, and rent-free accommodations were all provided and the accommodations were very pleasant.
The cart came to a stop at the rear entrance to the mansion. Dante handed the empty glass to Carlton, hopped out and ascended the steps, opening the large French doors and entering his home. Once inside, he removed the sunglasses and slid them into the pocket of his jacket, admiring the large foyer.
His decorating featured an amalgamation of different cultures. Dante possessed a love of culture and had spent most of his youth traveling the world. Although the true nature of how he managed such extensive travels remained a mystery to virtually everyone who knew him.
He entered his library, with shelves reaching all the way up to the twenty-foot ceiling. The library alone rivaled the size of most suburban homes. Other cases just as high stood in the center. Dante moved through these, walking to the clearing where a fully-stocked liquor cabinet stood against one of the bars near a large chair with a small table by its side in front of the grand fireplace.
Dante removed his jacket and draped it over the chair. He went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a fresh scotch. He sniffed it first and then took a little sip. He relished the smooth taste and then said, “Hello, Tauna.”
A woman emerged from behind one of the bookcases. Her skin a soft brown, a result of her family's origin in the Philippines. She wore a short skirt with a long sweater-type jacket over that was clasped just at the spot between her breasts. She kept her burgundy hair pulled tight into a bun.
“Welcome home, sir,” she said.
Fifteen years ago, Dante liberated Tauna from a life worse than death and trained her. Everything she was, she owed to him and as a result, she was perhaps the only person he fully trusted.
“Was the trip fruitful?” she asked as he sat in the chair.
Dante sipped his scotch before offering his response. “Yes, very. Jack Travis has been eliminated and Angela Lockhart has agreed to join our cause.”
“Joined the cause or just accepted an offer for a good salary?” asked Tauna.
Dante shrugged. “I doubt she believes fully in the work we do. And even if she did, she would never admit to it. But she is now on the payroll.”
“Can I be frank?” she asked.
“Only if I can still be Dante.”
“I'm trying to be serious here.”
“And I'm still Dante.” He smirked and placed the scotch on the table beside a large book with the words The Once and Future King branded on the leather-bound cover. “My dear, sometimes you are too serious.”
“A former Agency operative,” said Tauna as she approached, arms crossed over her chest. “And you brought her into this organization. You don't think you're flirting with disaster?”
“Oh, I know I am,” said Dante. “But here that's the delicious part. I wouldn't be where I am today if I didn't take risks. Angela Lockhart is a bit unstable but she also hates the Agency for their unwillingness to find out who killed her husband. Her thirst for vengeance is something I can exploit to my benefit.”
“And what about after she learns the truth? You can't keep it hidden forever, sooner or later she will discover what happened to her husband. What makes you think she'll stay with Infernum once she gets what she wants?”
“That's a bridge we'll cross once we come to it,” he said. “Lockhart's grief and her anger make her the perfect weapon. The Agency was foolish in their failure to entertain her notions and that foolishness is how we've been able to consistently remain several steps ahead of them.”
“Exploiting a widow's grief seems like a new low for you.”
“It's not exploitation if she gets something out of it.”
“Yes it is.”
“Not completely.” He raised his glass and took another drink of scotch.
Tauna shook her head. “Do you remember what happened the last time we tried to turn an Agency operative?”
Dante fixed his cold gaze on her. “Do you really need to ask me that?”
Their eyes locke
d. Dante sat unmoving, unflinching. His facial features gave no indication of the slightest emotion but his stare spoke volumes. Tauna found her head growing heavier, slowly tilting lower, her gaze shifting to the ground as she shut her eyes.
“No, of course not,” she said. “I was out of line, sir. I apologize.”
“Accepted,” said Dante, but his gaze did not change.
“I'm just confused, I suppose,” said Tauna. “I don't understand why you continually attempt to tempt fate with the Agency. The more you expose yourself and this organization to them, the more dangerous our existence becomes. I know you don't think they pose a threat, but—”
“Actually, that's where you're wrong,” said Dante, raising a finger. “I think they do pose a threat. More than that, I know they do. Chandler is not a stupid man, not by any stretch of any imagination. Needless to say, I do have my reasons for going after the Agency and those reasons will be made clear all in due time, my dear. What I need from you is to trust in me that I know what I'm doing and I have nothing but the best interests of Infernum in mind.”
“I—” She stopped herself and her head dipped below her shoulders again. “You're right, I know. I'm sorry to have questioned you, sir.”
Dante smirked once more, his entire posture changing from one that betrayed disappointment and condescension for one of approval and joviality. “It's okay.” He drew a cigarette from the silver case and placed it between his lips before lighting it with the Zippo. After taking a drag, the smoke billowed from his mouth as he spoke.
“I understand your concerns about Lockhart. She's a very dangerous weapon—both to those she's pointed at and those doing the pointing. I have no delusions about her lack of loyalty to either me or our goals. I know where she stands, I know where you stand and I know where I stand. And that is all I need to know.”
Infernum Omnibus Page 3
