by DV Berkom
A few minutes later she ended the call, having memorized the address the guy gave her for a dead drop—a warehouse where she would retrieve the equipment she requested. When she arrived at the open-air cantina she chose a table near the water and ordered the special. Leine picked at her grilled fish and reread the dossier Eric had provided.
The target’s name was Enrique Medina. A sicario, or hit man, for a well-known Mexican drug cartel, Medina had taken up moonlighting for a large energy consortium with ties to a rival political party unhappy with the recent presidential election.
In another life, Medina had been an underwater demolitions expert and had now been hired by the consortium to eliminate president-elect Felipe Calderón, slated to have dinner that evening on the largest oil platform in the Bay of Campeche. Not known for precision work, it was assumed Medina would blow the yacht used to ferry Calderón to and from the dinner. Heavily invested in a Calderón presidency, the US administration preferred the president-elect remain alive. Leine’s orders were to stop Medina before he succeeded.
The dossier described in great detail the make and model of the boat and equipment Medina would be using, down to the insignia on his wetsuit. Leine assumed Eric had a contact within the consortium to have access to such precise information. The boat itself had a tracking device installed—Leine would monitor Medina’s position from her laptop. A hardened veteran of the Mexican Marines, Medina was not a target to be taken lightly. There was only a narrow window of time in which to complete the mission, and she would have to do so in the dark and underwater.
She finished her dinner, paid the bill, and walked back to her casita to gather her things. She drove to the address given to her by her contact and cut the lights. The warehouse was one of several in a less desirable section of town. Shadows slanted across loading bays where functioning lights should have been. Leine scanned the buildings, looking for company.
Satisfied no one lurked nearby, she exited the vehicle and entered the warehouse by the side door as instructed. The light switch worked on the first try, illuminating a filthy interior buttressed only by chipped paint and damp, deteriorating concrete. A rat scurried along the far wall, searching for escape.
A metal table stood to Leine’s right. On top rested two boxes. One held rebreather diving gear, a pair of fins, and night-vision goggles. The other contained a modified speargun, a wicked-looking diver’s knife, and a digital underwater camera. Alongside the table was a one-man DPV, or Diver Propulsion Vehicle. Made of aluminum, the DPV was lightweight and could be used with a rebreather, and would get her to the target much more quickly than if she were to swim under her own power.
After checking the gear, Leine loaded the equipment into the trunk of the car and drove to the waterfront, where she booted up her laptop and initiated the tracking program. Immediately, a red dot appeared on the screen, identifying Medina’s powerboat. It was currently off shore six kilometers to the northeast and moving fast. Leine continued on to a small marina where she transferred the equipment to a nondescript powerboat. Only one other vessel appeared occupied, but it was on the far side of the marina. Other than that, the place was deserted.
She did a walk-through to make sure everything was in working order and that the additional fuel she’d requested was onboard. With no one to see her, Leine slipped away from the dock and quietly motored through the darkness, following the blinking red light.
Half a kilometer from where the red dot had ceased moving, she cut the engine and dropped anchor. Positioning herself at the bow, she sighted on Medina’s boat with the NVGs, searching for movement. A man in full dive gear perched on the swim platform near the stern. Tall and well muscled, Medina—if it was him—would be difficult to subdue if it came to close-range combat. She double-checked the speargun. There was enough charge to shoot from a good distance, but taking into account the distortion and drag of shooting underwater she didn’t want to be more than a meter from her target. That meant she’d have to be ready to execute upon approach—ideally while moving.
The man climbed aboard what looked like a large DPV floating next to the boat. The size of the vehicle meant it was capable of carrying a payload in addition to a diver, which meant he was heading to the yacht with the explosives. The man released the lines holding the DPV fast and disappeared below the surface.
Several minutes later and with the rebreather gear on, Leine attached the speargun to her DPV, submerged, and headed toward her target. The adrenaline hadn’t yet kicked in but would soon enough. The water temperature was comfortable and visibility good. Leine relaxed into the ride, guiding the DPV with her fins as the submersible cut through the alternating currents like a machete through whipped cream. The eerie green glow from the night vision goggles helped her avoid anything solid that might interrupt her journey.
As she approached the target’s boat, Leine dialed back the propulsion and coasted silently toward the vessel. This was the tricky part. If for some reason Medina had returned, she’d show up on sonar like a big damn fish. Maybe he’d take notice, maybe he wouldn’t. It depended upon whether he kept the sound turned up on his equipment.
Unlikely.
Leine parked the DPV on the sea floor, took note of its location, and swam to the boat. She shadowed the hull, scanning underneath in case Medina returned, drifting upward until her head emerged just enough to clear the surface. She detected no movement on the boat itself. She re-submerged and glided to the stern, then slowly surfaced. She waited, listening, knowing that as soon as she attempted to board, if Medina was back on the boat she’d have to be quick. She unsheathed the diver’s knife strapped to her thigh and put it between her teeth.
Slowly, she raised herself onto the diving platform, making sure her body weight was equally distributed so the boat wouldn’t list to one side. Leine took a few deep breaths to calm herself, glad for the sharp awareness that accompanied an adrenaline surge.
Not hearing anything, Leine rose to a crouch and peered over the railing. A faint glow shone through the cracks in the cabin door. Curtains covered the windows, blocking the rest of the light from inside.
The lack of movement suggested that Medina wasn’t onboard, but she remained cautious. Someone else might be resting below decks. Leine crept to the door, taking note of anything lying nearby that could be used as a weapon. There wasn’t much. Looked like Medina kept a clean boat.
Leine eased the door open and scanned the empty cabin. Other than the keys dangling from the ignition, nothing had been left lying out. She rummaged through the console until she found the boat’s registration. Medina wasn’t listed as the owner of record. She replaced the documents and moved forward. It was possible Medina didn’t bring identification, although taking the chance of being boarded by the Mexican Navy without papers would have a deleterious effect on carrying out his bosses’ wishes.
Not finding anything in the main cabin, Leine pulled out a small flashlight and continued searching—she first checked the head, followed by the two forward cabins.
Medina’s passport was in the second cabin, hidden under the mattress. The picture was typical of passport photos and showed a dark-haired man sporting a full beard and mustache, his eyes obscured by a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses. Facial hair seemed an odd choice for a diver, although he could have shaved prior to the job.
Satisfied she’d accurately identified her target, Leine replaced the document and did a cursory once-over of the small closet. There she discovered a nine millimeter and an MP5 submachine gun with sufficient rounds to fend off a small army.
Strange, Leine mused. AK-47s were usually the weapon of choice for cartel thugs. Easy to get, and, for the most part, worry-free. But, the guy was a hit man for a drug cartel. Depending on which cartel, the money was there for whatever weapons he wanted.
Leine sheathed her knife and walked back to the dive platform. She paused, getting her bearings. Less than a kilometer away, the oil rig’s lights glowed in the darkness. It wouldn’t tak
e long to reach using the DPV. Leine slipped into the water and swam back to the scooter.
Using the night vision goggles, she sped toward the platform, searching the terrain ahead in case Medina aborted the mission and was on his way back. Water rushed past, pushing at her facemask, and she secured her grip on the harpoon.
One of the legs of the oil platform materialized several meters in front of her and she slowed, scanning for Medina. She caught a glimpse of the back of his wetsuit and fins below the surface near the president-elect’s yacht. Leine pushed forward slowly, mindful of creating a disturbance and alerting her quarry. She circled behind him, slowly curving upward, narrowing the gap. Intent on his work, he didn’t notice her approach from below. When she was at the optimal distance, Leine aimed the speargun and pulled the trigger.
The barb hit him center mass. She’d been aiming for his heart. Medina writhed and twisted, frantically trying to dislodge the harpoon. Dark green through the NVGs, a stream of blood leaked from the wound. A package, most likely explosives, sank toward the bottom. Leine throttled forward and at the same time unsheathed the knife. Unable to get a clear shot at his throat, she slid by him and sliced through his air hose.
Too close. Medina’s fist connected with the side of Leine’s head, knocking her goggles aside and filling her mask with water. Blindly, she jammed the throttle forward and sped out of reach.
She cleared the mask and reset the goggles in time to see Medina float toward the surface. She threw the DPV into gear and raced after him to finish the job.
She didn’t need to. He was dead. Mask still on with his mouth open and his arms and legs extended, he floated gracefully in the gentle current, the spear still lodged in his chest.
Mindful of the sharks that patrolled the bay, Leine brought out the underwater camera and snapped several photographs of the body—Eric’s contact had requested proof. Normally, she would weigh down the target so that the body wouldn’t be found, but the contact had wanted Medina used as a warning.
Finished, she stowed the camera and checked the hull for explosives. Medina had managed to set two along the stern, but he hadn’t attached a detonator. Rather than possibly alerting the yacht’s occupants by removing Medina’s work, Leine left the plastique in place. There would be no explosion tonight.
Satisfied that she’d completed her mission, she checked the compass on her watch to get her bearings before she returned to the DPV and headed back to her boat.
Chapter 8
Leine woke the next morning with last night’s libations still riding her tongue. Perspiration streamed down her face from the grisly image of Medina’s floating corpse—the latest specter in a never-ending loop of nightmares featuring the targets she’d killed. She reached for a tissue on the nightstand and knocked over the bottle of tequila.
It was empty.
She shook her head to clear it and put her hand on the mattress to steady herself as the room took a hard spin to the left. Hot bile crept into her throat with nausea close behind. Where the hell was she again?
Oh. Right. Campeche. Time to call Mindy.
Head down, she crawled from the bed and staggered to the bathroom, the tequila’s aftertaste adding to her already significant nausea. Sleep was getting harder to come by, and the agave elixir could be counted on to put her down for the count.
She wasn’t fond of the repercussions.
Steadying herself with her hands on the rim of the sink, she stared into the mirror at the dark circles beneath her bloodshot eyes. The job was finally getting to her. Before, she’d skate past inconvenient feelings and memories, stuffing everything into neat little compartments in her brain, rarely letting anything out for inspection. But now, the frequency of the nightmares and the ghosts of jobs past had her wondering how much longer she could continue doing what she did, much less stay alive.
She drifted into the present and frowned at herself. Her hair had escaped the confines of its usual ponytail and bobby pins and stuck out at odd angles. A wry smile tugged at her lips when she thought of what Carlos would say if he saw her.
The idea of being able to talk to Carlos about the job she’d done the night before helped ground her, and she shook off the self-doubt. She turned on the faucet and leaned over to gulp the cool water. One of the lucky few who could eat and drink anything, anywhere, Leine rarely suffered tourista’s revenge. Besides, whatever remained of the tequila in her stomach would most likely take care of any nasty parasites even thinking of hitching a ride.
After a scalding hot shower and several cups of strong coffee from La Luna’s proprietress, Leine called Eric’s assistant, Mindy, to find out where she was going next.
“Amsterdam. There’s a ticket waiting for you at Campeche International. And Leine?” Mindy’s voice had apology written all over it.
“Let me guess. Long layover?”
“Sorry. The only flights available were through Mexico City with some pretty hefty wait times. Otherwise, you have your choice of milk runs—two, three stops. Eric insisted I get you in country within twenty-four hours.”
“Is he at least putting me up somewhere decent?”
“Absolutely. Amsterdam Gardens. A room near the back. There’s Wi-Fi and a restful little courtyard where you can unwind.”
“Thanks, Mindy.”
Leine ended the call and dug through her things for the camera she’d used to verify Medina’s body. She removed the memory card and pushed it into the slot on her laptop and then connected her agency-issued cell phone. Once the laptop registered the connection, she encrypted and uploaded a file containing the photos and a prearranged code to Eric’s private message board on the deep web. Afterward, she wiped the images off the card and stashed the camera in her carry-on bag.
Leine traveled light and was packed in minutes. With one last scan of the room to make sure she hadn’t left anything, she drove to the warehouse to return the equipment, and then headed for the airport.
She napped maybe an hour on the plane to Mexico City. Once she landed, she treated herself to a decent meal while she downloaded and skimmed the dossier on her next target, Emile Robicheaux.
Born in Martinique, Robicheaux first appeared on the arms scene in 2002. A wunderkind financial whiz in Paris in the late nineties, he determined early on that dealing in black market weapons and ammunition yielded a much better return on investment than stocks or real estate ever would. The first mention of his penchant for killing off the competition surfaced in 2005, when he and two other gunmen stormed a black market small arms convention being held in Warsaw. It was there that he’d cemented his reputation as a coldblooded killer intent on eliminating the competition by allowing only one witness to survive any deal he did not sanction. Robicheaux’s typed manifesto declared his intentions to control the industry and he was close to achieving his goal. As of that day, he was considered second only to Adrian “The Wolf” Volkov—the largest illicit arms dealer in the world.
Leine managed a few more hours of fitful sleep on the flight to Amsterdam, but the large man sleeping next to her in business class sounded like a bulldozer and earplugs didn’t help. She ordered a glass of wine, but sleep continued to elude her. Leine stared out the window at the clouds below and wondered how her daughter was doing, imagining a time when she and Carlos would retire and actually be a family.
Nice dream.
Thoughts of the last time Carlos had stayed with her and April at their home in the vineyard surfaced, and she smiled at the memory. It was during harvest that fall. Carlos and April were deep in conversation about the differences between wines and sugar content, or brix, when Leine overheard them talking outside on the porch.
“Do you notice the difference in aroma?” Carlos had asked. “When you smell the cabernet, what does it remind you of?”
April took a deep whiff of the glass Carlos had poured. “It’s kind of fruity—like blackberries?”
Carlos nodded. “Good. Anything else?”
“Chocolate? But ther
e’s something more.”
Carlos waited, watching her think.
“It reminds me of the cedar chest in my room.”
“Exactly. Good job.” Carlos smiled and poured another glass, this time from a bottle of merlot.
“How about this one?” he said, sliding it toward her.
April wrinkled her nose. “It smells more like the earth.” At Carlos’s prompting, she sniffed again. “Plums. Definitely plums, but really smoky.”
“That’s merlot. The smokiness is from the oak barrels it’s aged in. You’re pretty good at this, you know that?” Carlos opened the last bottle, deftly handling the two-pronged cork puller. “Okay. Last one.” He poured a couple of ounces of burgundy-colored wine into a third glass and slid it across the table. They’d have to invite their neighbors over to help finish the bottles, Leine mused.
April leaned over and inhaled deeply, then sat back and cocked her head to the side.
“A cross between black cherries and pepper.”
Carlos grinned. “Yup. Zinfandel is known for its peppery taste.”
“I thought Zinfandel was pink?”
“That’s White Zinfandel—they remove the skins while it’s in the tank to give it that characteristic rosé color. Zin’s actually a red grape, originally brought over from Italy a long time ago. And,” he added, glancing at Leine, standing in the doorway, “it’s your mom’s favorite wine. At the moment.”
The plane hit a pocket of turbulence, jolting Leine back to the present. She sighed and took another sip of wine. Not as good as the stuff made from her landlord’s grapes. Maybe, when she got back home, she’d see if he’d be willing to sell the place. She liked the idea of retiring and settling down in Napa Valley with their own vineyard.
At least she had good memories of Amsterdam. Arriving at Schiphol almost felt like home.
Almost.
Leine headed straight for Schiphol Plaza and a train to the city center. The abrupt change from the tropical climate of Campeche to the cool fall weather in the Netherlands had her digging through her carry-on for a jacket. She stopped at a kiosk to exchange several hundred dollars for euros. Half an hour later she found her hotel, and checked in as Eve Mason.
