by Holly Hart
I adjust the scope on the British Army-surplus L–96 sniper rifle. It makes a few quiet clicks before I’m satisfied. Judging by rough sanded-down patch of metal where the serial number once stood, it’s only Army surplus inasmuch as it was lifted off the back of a truck.
“And if he’s just here to screw his mistress?” I ask.
“Then this is the most expensive home movie in history,” Natalie jokes. At least, I think she’s joking. It’s hard to tell with that tone. I wouldn’t put it past her to be deadly serious. “Maybe I’ll take it off your paycheck…”
I ignore it. “Do we have audio yet?”
I hear a stifled conversation off-comm. “Give us five,” Natalie says. “Stan is having problems picking up the signal.”
My finger clenches around the trigger guard. I know better than to move, but frustration is boiling over inside me. I can’t tell Paragon why I’m so goddamn pissed, but I need this to go smoothly. Kim’s life is on the line, and that’s all that matters.
I need to save her life. I have this feeling that if I do, then that wipes away my original sin. If I save her life, then maybe she’ll forgive me for lying to her this whole time.
I need to tell her what I did: I know I do; but not yet. First I save her life. Then, I can ruin her day.
My ear crackles again. This time, it sounds like a door closing. I dip my eye to the scope.
“You guys picking this up?” I whisper.
“Say again, Nate? We are not getting anything on our end.” My handler replies from the ops room. “Have you got movement?”
I don’t reply. It’s hard to make out what’s going on inside the hotel room. There’s movement, that’s for sure. It could be a maid, or it could be –
“Two tangos,” I whisper as a light flashes on inside the room, “both in suits. I’ve got Donaldson, and one unknown.”
“The unknown, is he Muerta?” Natalie asks. The excitement in her voice is obvious. “Stan,” she snaps to someone else in the operations room, “what the hell is going on with my sound?”
I ignore her. I hear voices – faint, but there.
“We shouldn’t be here, Pete,” the first voice mumbles. “You said this was going to be hands-off. That all we had to do was move the money. You never said I was going to have to meet murderous men from some goddamn Mexican cartel!”
The speaker moves in front of the window. He’s holding his head in his hands. I don’t recognize him, but by the sounds of things, he’s another Landwolfe banking executive. He’s close to panic.
My lip curls. Good, I think. You should be. The walls are closing in, asshole.
“Negative,” I report. “Suspect he’s Landwolfe.”
It’s Donaldson’s turn to speak. The man sounds how he looks – plump and wheezing – as if he needs to fight his gut to speak every word.
“You knew what you were getting into, Fred,” he spits. Peter Donaldson sounds like a man who is desperately trying to hold things together, but is coming up short. “Where did you think all that money was coming from? Your new car: drug money. Your new house: drug money. You knew exactly what was going on, you just chose to ignore it.”
“Well I can’t ignore it now,” Fred says bitterly, “can I?”
Silence reigns for a second. Only a second, though, because Natalie crackles back into my ear.
“Tell me what is going on, Nate. We have nothing. Stan says,” and I can detect the barely veiled disgust in my handler’s voice as she mentions the analyst’s name, “that they might be using a signal jammer. You’re close enough to pick up the audio feed, we are not.”
My heart beat picks up. I realize what this is – an opportunity. I know Natalie would throw Kim under the bus before she ever offered a helping hand. If Natalie saw profit in letting Kim die, she would. I need to be careful with what I share with Paragon, very careful.
“Nothing yet,” I murmur. “It’s just the two of them, talking.”
The river swells underneath me as a riverboat goes past. The groan of its engine briefly drowns out the incessant engine noise from the road. The barge rocks from side to side, and I cradle the sniper rifle in my arms to maintain my visual.
The scope is moving up and down, and it’s hard to focus on the room. Still, I see the two executives get to their feet. As I wrestle the rifle steady, I see Kim’s boss wipe his palms on the back of his suit pants.
“Wait,” I say. “Something’s happening…”
The hotel room flashes brighter. It’s the door opening. I can practically sense the sweat dripping off the two bank workers inside.
My earpiece vibrates. “Gentlemen,” Peter says, his voice wavering, “how good of you to arrange this meeting.”
No one replies. The sound of muffled footsteps and heavy breathing fills my ears.
“Three tangos. I repeat; five targets in the room.”
I focus on my breathing. My finger caresses the trigger. I know Natalie would kill me if I did it, but I have a sudden urge to murder everyone in that hotel room. If I do, then Kim will be safe for good: well, at least, for now. Every Muerta killer in the country is in that room. If they die, it’ll give me time to get her to safety.
“Permission to take the shot,” I whisper. “It’s clean. Repeat, I’ve got a clean shot.”
“Negative,” Natalie hisses, “do not take that shot, that is an order, Nate. We cannot just murder five men in London’s most expensive hotel. It would be a scandal. That is not how Paragon works. We stay under the radar.”
Now it’s my heavy breathing that I can hear. I want to take that shot more than anything. It’s the smart play, whatever the consequences.
“Nate,” Natalie warns, “I said – that is an order!”
Another voice adds to the clamor. There’s no doubting that it’s a Mexican accent.
“Ratul snake wors,” the man says. I can see him. He’s wearing a tan overcoat, and he’s got one arm resting inside it. His two companions flank him. They are both much bigger men.
“You – Donaldson,” tan overcoat growls, “tell me – what jou done wit my boss money?”
The two executives look at each other. The backs of both men are facing the window, but I can imagine the fear on their faces.
“What,” Kim’s boss whimpers, “What are you talking about? I’ve done … I mean, we’ve done everything you asked for. Landwolfe has been an excellent partner for … your Organization.”
“Landwolfe,” tan overcoat says, while pacing around the room, “been useful. You, on d’ other hand, are a tief. Right, Donaldson?”
Peter runs his hand through his hair. His legs are shaking. My finger grazes the trigger. I’m tempted to put him out of his misery.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter begs. I half expect him to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness. “What haven’t we sent?”
“Your deliveries are light,” tan overcoat replies. The killer’s voice is filled with glee. I’ve met his type before.
Peter shakes his head. “No, no, that’s not possible. The system…”
“Pendejo, I don’ give a fuck about your system. My boss tell me de money not dere,” tan overcoat shrugs, “I believe him. You callin’ him a liar, boy?”
An engine growls in the distance. I can’t take my eyes off what’s going on in the hotel room.
“Nate, report,” Natalie shouts into my ear. She sounds pissed. I bet she’s been sitting on her hands this whole time.
“Get off the line,” I growl.
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Peter whines, “I promise. I don’t know what you are talking about. What money is missing? It must be a mistake. We can –.”
The engine noise grows, louder and louder until it’s impossible to ignore. I glance to my right and see a huge ferry steaming up the river fast. Behind it, a roiling wake leaps out of the blackness like white horses.
“Crap,” I groan. A second later, the boat starts to rock wildly up and down. I can’t see a damn thing th
rough the rifle’s scope as it sways.
CRACK!
The sound of a suppressed gunshot rings through my earpiece from inside the hotel room. My chest compresses. I feel my heart start beating in overdrive as my adrenal glands dump all the adrenaline they can produce into my veins. I grab the rifle and stand up. I don’t care if someone sees me from the road. It’s dark, and I need to know what’s going on inside that room.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” Donaldson whines. He sounds like he’s about to hyperventilate. “You …you …”
It’s impossible to keep anything steady in the rifle’s scope. I get glimpses – tan overcoat standing with a gun pressed to Donaldson’s forehead; Fred’s body bleeding out on the floor. But they are only that – glimpses.
“Carlos,” tan overcoat barks, “curtains – now.”
“Fuck,” I swear. One of the two big men at the back of the room moves swiftly to the window. I can just about see him through the scope, but there’s no way I can take a shot.
“What the hell is going on, Nate,” Natalie half-screams into my ear.
It’s time to make a choice. What’s more important? A job I don’t care about and a boss I hate… or Kim?
It’s not even a choice.
“I’ve lost the shot,” I say. That part’s not a lie. “I’m not getting anything from inside the room. They killed one of them. Maybe the bullet hit the bugs, I don’t know.”
There’s a rustle of paper and heavy breathing from inside the hotel room. I turn down Natalie’s radio feed. She’ll be pissed, but I don’t care. The second they get the audio feed from the backup recorders, they’ll know I lied to them.
“Who is dis?” Tan overcoat asks. His voice is hard and threatening. If I was Peter Donaldson, I’d be praying to someone up in the clouds right now.
“No one,” Donaldson moans. He sounds broken with fear. “She’s just some new girl.”
New girl: my blood runs cold. There’s only one person they can be talking about.
“ ‘Splain to me,” tan overcoat says in a deceptively upbeat tone of voice, “why my people find eighty tousan’ dollars in her bank account.”
“They didn’t,” Donaldson stammers, “that’s not possible. She doesn’t have access –.”
“You callin’me a liar?” Tan overcoat threatens. “Tha’s a bad move, boy.”
My trigger finger itches. I want to just start firing into that window and hope like hell I hit someone. But it’s not an option. The bullets could rip through a wall and kill innocent people. I know Kim would never forgive me if that happened. It’s the only thing stopping me.
You should have taken the shot when you had the chance.
“No, I promise…” Donaldson whimpers.
“Too late, boy,” tan overcoat growls.
“Sawyers,” Donaldson moans, selling my girl down the river like the coward he is, “Kimberly Sawyers. That’s all I know ab–.”
CRACK.
Peter never gets the chance to finish his sentence. The last thing I hear is the thump of his body slumping against the carpeted floor. I’m already moving. His death means nothing to me. It’s a race against time. If either Paragon or the cartel finds Kim first, she’s a dead girl.
I need to beat them to her.
24
Kim
I step off the Northern line and head straight for the office. It will be empty, at this time, and that’s exactly what I want.
I need to do some digging, and privacy will help.
The night security guard barely gives me a second glance as I breeze through the lobby of Landwolfe’s Fleet Street offices. The huge glass windows are a beacon of light that shines half a mile around. It feels safe. No one’s going to hurt me here.
Don’t be paranoid.
I don’t know that anyone’s hunting for me, but something doesn’t feel right. The guy in the tan overcoat – I dismissed him as a strangely well-dressed crazy a few days ago. Now? I’m not so sure. Maybe I should’ve spent less time fawning over Nate’s abs, and more time paying attention to the dark forces swirling around me.
Geez, maybe I’m right to be worried. After all, it’s not paranoia if someone’s actually out to get you.
I drum my hands against my thigh as I wait for an elevator. “Come on, come on…”
My laptop sticks out of the black leather handbag slung over my shoulder. I was worried someone might try and steal it on the way over. I clung on to it so tightly it feels like the blood is only just returning to my fingers.
The elevator chimes, and I step inside as soon as the doors slide open. I stab the button for the fourth floor, and press my back against the mirror. It feels comforting, knowing that no one is going to sneak up on me. All of a sudden I feel like a child again – scared of monsters in the dark.
“It’s nothing,” I mutter, trying to reassure myself. It doesn’t help.
When I reach the fourth floor, I’m almost loath to step out. The entire office is dark and quiet. It’s creepy. The overhead lighting is turned off to save energy. The only light I can see is the eerie glow from computer monitors.
I walk quickly to my little cubby hole of an office. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the sound of a janitor’s vacuum cleaner. The whining sound grows and fades, grows and fades.
I brush my entrance badge against the reader, and the green light flashes twice on the black plastic box to the left of the door handle.
“What in the world?” I mutter. The words come out in the barest of whispers. What I’m seeing doesn’t make any sense.
I take my handbag off my shoulder and hold it like a weapon as I step into the office. I feel like a character from a horror movie. Any moment now I expect a monster or a killer to come speeding out of the darkness.
Okay, do what they never do in the films.
I gulp, swallowing a rising tide of fear. “Lights, Kim,” I mutter. “Rule number one, always turn on the lights.”
My fingers brush against the switch, and suddenly the room’s basked with light. After the eerie glow of the rest of the floor, it’s a whole heap more comforting.
The office is a mess. There is paper scattered everywhere, as if someone flung a sheaf as hard as they could, then didn’t bother to pick it up. The filing cabinet in the corner is wide open, and looks like it’s been stripped of files.
I set my handbag down on my desk, and reach for my cell phone. I briefly register that my computer is turned on. I’m sure that wasn’t the case when I left.
“A robbery, maybe?” I wonder out loud. That doesn’t make sense, either. What kind of thief breaks into one of Europe’s most exclusive investment banks, and then goes for files. A pretty dumb one… Besides, it doesn’t make any sense. Why would they have gone to the fourth floor? Wait: how could they have gotten past the guard?
It’s not possible. Something’s going on here. I’m beginning to feel that my concern is more than justified.
I shake the mouse attached to my work computer. The screen slowly warms up and flickers to life. When it does, I feel like someone has hit me in the gut. The wind is knocked completely out of me, and my legs turn to jelly.
I double over, resting my arms against the corners of my desk. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“No, no,” I say in a voice that’s barely louder than a moan, “it’s not possible.”
My breath is ragged in my chest. I feel like any second now I’m going to hyperventilate. I sit down in front of my computer. I don’t recognize any of these screens – but I know they spell disaster for me.
On the left-hand side of the screen, there’s a list of numbered client accounts. I don’t recognize any of them. I scroll down, but they just keep going. There must be millions of dollars’ worth of accounts here, maybe tens of millions. At least, there used to be.
Because on the right-hand side, every single one is listed as empty – and dated today. I page downwards frantically, but it doesn’t help.
“Okay, think,” I order myself, in an a
ttempt to stem the rising tide of panic growing inside me. “Think, Kim, think. What in the entire universe is going on? Why is this here?”
But I know why.
I’m just trying to avoid coming to terms with it. It all adds up: the eighty thousand dollar deposit into my bank account; Boris’s empty desk; the man in the tan overcoat. Plus whatever program Boris got me to run for him.
The realization hits me like a slap in the face. I’ve been set up.
If it wasn’t for the chair underneath me, I think I’d fall to the floor. It’s hard to breathe. I feel like there’s a thousand pound weight on my chest.
