Contract: Sicko (Sei Assassin Thriller Book 2)

by Ty Hutchinson

  “For some reason, I find it hard to see you playing house, not that I don’t think you’re capable of it, it’s just that…”

  “What?”

  “You’re so good at what you do,” he said with a shrug.

  “I appreciate that pat on the back, but the last thing I want is for her to be exposed to this world.”

  “I think that’s the right thing to do. I can become cool Uncle Kostas. The one who always says yes when you say no.”

  I choked out a laugh before raising my glass.

  “What? You don’t intend to cut me out of your life, do you, when you find her?”

  “Here’s to you not having me at your disposal for very long.”

  We both laughed and clinked glasses. “Speaking of our little arrangement, may I remind you that it’s reciprocal? I’ve seen very little in return on your end.”

  As a CIA agent, Kostas had access to an unprecedented amount of information and resources. In exchange for my services, he had agreed to help me with the search for my daughter.

  He swallowed a bite and then wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Well, today that changes. I have something for you.”

  He removed his phone from his pants pocket and tapped at the screen. “This is Midou Feki,” he said, showing me his picture. “He emigrated from Tunisia to Paris about twelve years ago and since then has worked a number of odd jobs to survive.”

  “And that’s important to me because…?”

  “One of those jobs happened to be a security guard at the clinic where you gave birth to your daughter.”

  My heart nearly punched a hole in my chest. Since learning that my daughter was alive, I hadn’t come any closer to determining her whereabouts. The only information I had was that an assassin, the Black Wolf, supposedly had her. And even that wasn’t one-hundred-percent confirmed.

  “Are you sure? I mean, how do you know?”

  I had thought to question the workers at the clinic but the man who arranged the kidnapping provided the staff that day. They weren’t actual employees of the clinic but freelancers. To make things worse, Parisian law enforcement had raided the place shortly afterward for fraudulent activity. Someone had tipped off the owner and the employees right before they arrived. They disappeared, as did my opportunity to simply speak to anyone who worked there. The only person I was able to make contact with was Dr. Remy Delacroix—the doctor I had hired to perform the birth.

  “How did you find this man?”

  “Feki had an ongoing relationship with the Parisian police. Mostly petty crime.” Kostas tapped at his phone briefly. “I just emailed you the photo along with his last known address. I can’t guarantee that he’s still there, but it’s a lead.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “Good luck, Sei.”

  Chapter 7

  Two days later, I arrived at the Gare du Nord train station in central Paris. My destination was La Cite des 4,000, located about six miles east of the center in La Courneuve. La Cite was a public housing complex erected during the sixties as a social experiment. Like most monolithic complexes of its kind, it did nothing but foster a community that the government promptly turned a blind eye toward for years. The result was a neighborhood full of immigrants, plagued by violent crime and rampant unemployment.

  During the eighties, the Parisian government decided on an aggressive plan to fix the problem—its residents would be relocated into smaller and less offensive buildings. For the next two decades, the government demolished sections of La Cite. As far as I knew, only a few of the buildings still remained intact. Midou Feki supposedly lived in one of them.

  By the time I reached La Cite, it was nearing nine p.m. There were still three buildings standing, though one of them looked completely vacant and partially demolished, as if the government had changed its mind about twenty minutes into the job. Feki lived in one of the two buildings that stood side by side. The empty building was on the other side of a large grassy field about one hundred yards in length.

  On the way to Feki’s building, I passed a group of small children kicking a soccer ball back and forth under one of the few working lampposts. Most of the property was poorly lit. No wonder crime continued to flourish. I had the titanium fixed blade tucked into my waistband. The rest of my gear was in the knapsack around my shoulders.

  Under the few lamps that did work, I saw that the litter problem went beyond a fast-food container or an empty soda can. I spotted a few old tires, a rusted washing machine, rotting pieces of plywood, and a dead something.

  The door leading into Feki’s building was slightly bent and angled down from its hinges—the security door secured absolutely nothing. Just inside was the lobby. Off to one side was a counter desk, which was used as a dump for unwanted mail rather than to provide a service. The wall opposite the desk held rows of locked postboxes.

  After waiting a few minutes, I determined the elevator wasn’t working, so I climbed the stairs to the third floor. I’d hate to be the person living on the twentieth.

  Feki’s apartment, number 333, was near the end of an empty hallway. Just the scuff of my shoes could be heard on the tiles every now and then. It wasn’t until I reached his door that I heard other signs of life—a television blaring from inside. I assumed he still lived here, or least someone did. I knocked and waited. No one answered so I knocked again and called his name—still no answer.

  I wasn’t feeling terribly patient. I exited the building and scanned the third-floor balconies until I located his apartment at the very end; it was one of the few that had a light emanating from it. I used the other balconies to scale the building, and a few seconds later I climbed over the railing leading to his apartment.

  The sight of a strange woman entering his apartment, clad in all black, sent Feki running. I tackled him before he could reach his front door. He wasn’t a big man, maybe five-foot-seven with a skinny build—about one hundred forty-five pounds. I quickly maneuvered onto his back, wrapped my legs around his torso, and hooked both of my arms under his armpits, locking my hands behind his head.

  “Midou Feki, I’m not here to hurt you.” I kept my voice calm.

  He struggled for a few more seconds before giving up.

  “Who are you?” he asked with an accent.

  “I’m not the police. I just want to talk, that’s all.” I slowly released my hands from his head. “That’s it. Just relax.”

  I unwrapped my legs and then pushed myself up and off of him. “Take a seat on the couch, please.”

  Surprisingly, he did exactly what I told him. I half expected him to bolt for the front door again. He plopped down on the old couch, his weight causing it to sink into the middle. He kept his hands clasped together on his lap and stared at a pizza box on the small coffee table in front of him. A half-empty bottle of liquor sat next to the box. The cheap particleboard tabletop had a corner missing.

  Feki wore a stained blue T-shirt. The ribbed collar was slightly torn. His blue jeans were faded from years of use rather than from a hipster design. My nose made it clear to me that he hadn’t showered in days. Dark circles were noticeable under his half-closed eyes, even though his skin tone was darker than the olive complexion most Tunisians had. “Having trouble sleeping?” I asked.

  “I’ve nothing to steal. Look for yourself,” he said as he gestured around the room.

  He lived in a dingy studio apartment. It had a small kitchen off to the side—a countertop and a sink, with a few hanging cabinets, one missing a door. There was a small bathroom and a closet. A small floor lamp and the television were the only two sources of light. The mismatched furniture all appeared to be acquired third hand. The walls were bare and nothing of value stood out.

  “I’m not a thief. I only want to ask you a few questions and then I’ll be on my way.” I walked over to the television and shut it off. “You worked as a security guard at Clinical Clavel. Do you recall that?”

  He nodded slowly before his eyes close
d and his head tilted off to the side.

  “Feki!” I kicked his leg. “Stay with me.” His body jerked, and his eyes shot open. I then proceeded to remind him of the day when masked men showed up to his clinic.

  “It was two years ago. Do you remember?”

  He squinted as he looked at me. “I remember…you were there, yes?”

  “I was. I gave birth to a baby girl that day.”

  He nodded.

  “Those men, they kidnapped my daughter.”

  Feki raised his hands and shook his head. “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “What do you know about these men? Did you speak to any of them?”

  “I know nothing. I stayed outside in the parking lot.”

  I rested my hands on my waist and shifted my weight to my left leg. Our conversation was heading nowhere fast. “Think, Feki. Is there anything you can tell me?”

  He opened his mouth to speak but stopped.

  “What is it? Tell me.” I drew my knife to encourage him.

  Feki scooted away toward the far edge of the sofa, pulled his legs up to his chest, and held his arms out. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “I won’t if you tell me everything you know. The decision is yours.”

  He lowered his legs, and his wide-eyed look receded from his face. “Okay, okay. One of the men I recognized.”

  “They were wearing masks that day. Did this man remove his?”

  He shook his head. “I saw a tattoo on his neck. It looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember why until later.”

  “What was it?” I asked, crinkling my brow.

  “He had ‘The Bronx’ written right here.” Feki pointed to the right side of his neck.

  “The Bronx? As in New York?”

  “No, The Bronx is a nickname given to one of the buildings here by a gang.”

  I perked up. “Is it the building next door?”

  He shook his head. “The government knocked down that building a year ago.”

  As quickly as hope had risen inside of me, it departed. “Does this man still live here? Do you know his name?”

  “I haven’t seen him in a long time, maybe three months.”

  “That’s not long. Why was he still here if his building was demolished?”

  “I think he had a girlfriend in the building next door.”

  Before I could ask him for more information, I heard the familiar popping sound made from glass breaking. A split second later, a spray of red erupted from the side of Feki’s head.

  Chapter 8

  I dropped to the floor and slithered on my stomach to a wall. From there I saw a golf ball-sized hole in the sliding glass door leading to the balcony. There was only one direction that shot could have come from—the vacant building across the field.

  A sniper? Was that bullet meant for Feki or for me?

  That was a question worth asking. Only a foot separated our heads. There was a breeze outside, enough to affect the trajectory of the bullet if it were in fact meant for me. I had enemies.

  I looked back at Feki’s lifeless body. It was slumped over to the side, and a mess of fluid soaked the sofa’s beige fabric. Kostas had said he was nothing more than a petty thief. I couldn’t imagine him being threatening enough that someone would want him dead. The shot made the situation even more bizarre. It was over a hundred yards away and under the cover of dark. Even if the shot had gone wide, there was no doubt in my mind it was a professional hit.

  Who? Why? If I were the intended target, the obvious and first thought pegged the Abbandonato’s as the culprit. Had they somehow discovered my identity? Did they hire someone to come after me? It wasn’t hard to imagine that happening. What I found troubling was my second thought. If the family was responsible for hiring a hit man, how did that person track me down so quickly and to this location? Only one other person knew where I was heading.

  Could the CIA be behind this?

  Was this nothing more than an attempt to tie up loose ends? More importantly, was Kostas involved? That last question troubled me the most. The CIA was fully capable of this behavior. They’ve been known to issue kill orders for lesser reasons. Still, I found it hard to grasp that I was a threat or that there would be any political fallout on a large scale from Matteo’s death that somehow warranted my death. The only hiccup was that I would have expected them to hit me with that shot and not Feki—unless I wasn’t the intended target.

  Just then another bullet ripped through the glass door. They’re still shooting. Maybe I am the target. Exiting via the balcony wouldn’t work. I would need to use the front door. The only problem: it was directly in front of the balcony and in the sniper’s line of fire.

  I yanked the electrical cord for the floor lamp out of the socket and the apartment went dark. I crawled to the kitchen, where I stood up just off to the side and lifted myself onto the countertop. Crouching below the row of cabinets, I inched my way toward the curtained window. I moved the flimsy material to the side a few centimeters, enough for me to peek out. I figured the sniper had to be positioned on the fourth or fifth floor and in one of the middle apartments. That would allow him the best view into Feki’s place.

  A bullet shattered the window, sending a few stinging shards into my cheek. He’s equipped with night vision. I slipped off the counter back to the floor. It dawned on me that the sniper could simply be pinning me down until another team moved into the apartment. I had to make an attempt through the front door. I needed a distraction, but what?

  Chapter 9

  It was then I remembered the bottle of liquor on the coffee table. It was in the sniper’s line of fire, but I felt I could reach it without much exposure. I made my way over to the table, keeping my body as perpendicular to the floor as possible. The apartment was dark, as was my outfit, but none of that would matter with night vision.

  From what I could gauge, only my arm would be vulnerable. I counted to three, reached out, and snatched the bottle. A second later, a bullet splintered the top of the table.

  I scooted back toward the kitchen and grabbed a rag off of the countertop, tearing it in half. I stuffed the material into the bottle, making sure the frayed part stuck out of the bottle opening. I tilted the bottle, allowing the cloth to absorb some of the liquid. Satisfied, I searched for the final ingredient to my plan: a match or a lighter.

  There were two drawers. One was filled with old silverware, the other a typical junk drawer stuffed with a variety of items ranging from a Phillips screwdriver to unopened mail to pens and pencils to a roll of duct tape. I searched for a minute or so before realizing that Feki had a gas stove.

  I turned the knob to the front right burner. The familiar clicking sound rang out and seemed to continue for an eternity before a ring of blue erupted. I remained crouched, leaning forward on the balls of my feet, as I raised the bottle to the burner. Either what I was attempting to do was inventive or idiotic.

  The wick of the Molotov cocktail ignited, and a yellowish flame appeared, growing quickly in length. I threw the bottle at the floor directly in front of the balcony. The glass shattered, and a ball of fire erupted. I watched the flames grow taller as they licked at the walls. Almost immediately the curtains succumbed to the yellow devil fueling its appetite. Thick, black smoke billowed upward creating a poisonous ceiling that would fill the entire apartment. Soon a wall of flames sealed off the entrance to the balcony and the sniper’s visibility.

  I darted for the door just as sniper fire filled the apartment. Bullets tore large holes in the drywall and splintered the cheap wooden door. He was shooting blind, but there was only way out. I slid to a stop against the door, twisted the knob, and pulled it open.

  I stayed low and slipped into the hallway, out of the line of fire. I removed my knife as I stood and looked left and right. I decided against drawing my Sig Sauer just yet. The hall was empty, but that didn’t mean I was alone. A few feet down I saw a fire alarm on the wall. I pulled the red handle, and the loud metal rin
ging of a bell sounded. Seconds later, a few sprinklers in the hall ceiling spurted to life, while the others dripped. I hoped most of the system in the building worked.

  A few residents at far end of the hall stuck their heads out of their doorways. “Get out. Now!” I didn’t want to be the cause of any innocent deaths.

  I ran to the stairs and stopped on the landing between floors. There were windows leading to a fire escape attached to the back of the building. As much as I wanted to run up and down the halls and pound on all the doors, I couldn’t risk staying in the building any longer. I couldn’t be sure the sniper was acting alone.

  Down the metal stairs of the fire escape I went; other residents in various states of dress and carrying whatever belongings they could joined me. I had to hope that Feki was right when he said the building was mostly empty.

  When my feet touched the ground, I made my way along the back of the building. By then I was feeling confident the sniper was alone. That and the fact the residents of the building were filing out allowed me to blend amongst them. I tucked my knife back into my waistband.

  By the time I reached the front of the building, a small crowd had poured into the grassy field. They pointed and gawked at the apartment on fire. I looked up at Feki’s apartment; it was fully engulfed. Flames beat against the kitchen window. A second later, the glass exploded into pieces.

  In the distance I heard sirens. Soon the complex would be milling with people from the fire and police departments. I hurried toward the vacant building, sticking to the far right edge of the field where most of the lampposts weren’t working. Broken concrete slabs and pillars from a previous building had been bulldozed into a pile along that area, which provided further coverage. I couldn’t be sure the sniper was still in his position searching for me.

  The front door to the building was missing, and I ran straight in. I double-stepped it up the stairs, avoiding broken bottles and various building debris. When I reached the fourth floor, I moved slowly down the hall. The smell of urine permeated the air.