Contract: Sicko (Sei Assassin Thriller Book 2)

by Ty Hutchinson

  Some of the apartments were missing front doors. The few I passed were either empty or contained discarded furniture and belongings from the previous tenants. All of it looked as if it had been picked through.

  If this were my contract, I would have positioned myself on either the fourth or fifth floor—most likely the fourth floor. I then would have chosen an apartment that lined up with Feki’s—one right in the center of the building. The angle looking into Feki’s apartment would have been directly opposite and slightly higher.

  I continued down the hall until I reached the apartment in the middle. It still had its front door intact. I pressed my ear gently against the cool wood and listened. Are you still here? I heard nothing, so I gripped the handle of my knife tighter and checked the doorknob. It was unlocked.

  I pushed open the door and quickly stepped back into the hallway, waiting. I heard no movement—more importantly, no gunfire. I cautiously looked around the doorjamb into the apartment. It was empty, but I knew the sniper had been there. I stepped in. The sliding door to the balcony was open and a table and chair were positioned directly in front, a few feet back. There were bullet casings around the table. I took a seat in the chair. A large chunk of the balcony wall was missing, giving me a clear view of Feki’s burning apartment.

  Chapter 10

  It was near midnight when I returned to my room. Earlier in the day, I had checked into a small B&B on the left bank of the Seine. I wanted to stay away from as many of the tourist attractions as possible, which in Paris was difficult to do.

  I was tired and angry, and wanted answers. The attack at Feki’s apartment felt a lot like an ambush. Was it? As soon as I left La Cite, I placed a call to Kostas. He never answered, but someone with the CIA always did. The woman answering the phone—it was always a woman—took the ID number assigned to me and a number where I could be reached. Sometimes Kostas would call back right away. Other times it could take hours or even a day. That night it took him two hours.

  “Are you okay?” Kostas blurted upon hearing that a sniper had targeted me.

  “I’m fine. I’m on the phone with you, aren’t I?”

  “Start from the beginning. Tell me everything.”

  With exception of the occasional vocal acknowledgment, Kostas let me speak without interruption—a trait I wished he would demonstrate more often.

  “Look, Sei. I don’t think the Abbandonato family is behind this. They’re not aggressive.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? It’s not as if I assumed his sister had been on the other end of that rifle pulling the trigger.”

  “What I mean is it’s not in the family’s nature to retaliate this way. They’re Italian, but they’re not connected to organized crime.”

  “If that’s so, why is the CIA so interested in them?”

  “You know I can’t answer that. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  “Okay, what are the odds that a sniper was hired to eliminate Feki?”

  Kostas let out a breath. “Good question. I have no idea.”

  “My point exactly. The sniper put Feki down with his first shot. Contract satisfied. Time to go home. But he didn’t. He targeted me.”

  “So he missed on the first shot?”

  “You tell me.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  I wasn’t about to spell it out. Surely the CIA recruited bright individuals to fill their ranks. After a few moments of silence, the light bulb went off.

  “Wait. Are you implying that the CIA is behind this?” Kostas asked.

  “Who else knew of my location? I would have known if I was being tracked.”

  “Oh, really? Ninja lady knows all. Sheesh, sometimes you really need to stop drinking your own Kool-Aid.”

  “My what?”

  “Kool-Aid? The powdered drink. Jim Jones? Guyana? Forget it. The CIA had nothing to do with this. It’s actually a bit insulting that you would even go there. I mean, I thought we were friends.”

  “Okay, friend. If this isn’t the CIA tying up loose ends in the Abbandonato killing, then what is it? Share your theory, please. And try to be objective. Put yourself in my shoes.”

  “Look, if the CIA were involved, I would know about it. The Abbandonato mission was mine. In fact, my superiors don’t even know who you are. I never reveal the identity of the people I hire. Sure we wish Matteo wasn’t dead, but we are not crying over it. We got what we needed. We’ve already moved on. As for an answer regarding the attack tonight, I haven’t a clue. Could it be someone from your past?”

  Deep down, I believed Kostas. He had earned my trust long ago. And he was right. I had a lot of enemies. It very well could be someone from my past. I’ve killed a lot of important and powerful individuals. They were all bastards. Early in my career, I had made a conscious decision to only accept contracts for those who deserved it. These were individuals who contributed no good toward humanity. The world wouldn’t miss them. Did that make me a hypocrite, considering my profession? I could see that point being made. I liked to think my employers hired me to dispose of the bad eggs.

  “Did Feki offer up any information before he got popped?” Kostas asked.

  “Yes, there is a silver lining in all of this.”

  I told Kostas about the man with the tattoo and how he lived at La Cite. “I don’t have a name or a location on him, but his girlfriend still lives there.”

  “Well, if you can track her down, she might be able to point you toward him. That’s hopeful. It would mean Feki’s death wasn’t in vain.”

  “It’s frustrating. All of my steps forward are tiny at best. Knowing my daughter is alive and somewhere out there…I should be doing more.”

  “Hey, come on now. You know the drill. Intelligence comes in bits and pieces and it takes time to put together a picture. Don’t be so hard on yourself. The important thing to remember is that you’re making progress. Don’t ever doubt your efforts.”

  I appreciated what Kostas said. I couldn’t remember ever needing a pep talk before, but that night I was glad to hear it.

  Chapter 11

  The following morning, after waiting for the commuter rush to pass, I arrived at La Cite a little after ten fifteen a.m. I had the taxi driver drop me off at the entry gate and waited until he disappeared around the bend before heading inside. It was a ten-minute walk past patchy fields of dirt and grass and large swaths of desolate concrete before I would reach the two remaining buildings.

  A single fluffy cloud defied the weatherman’s call for clear skies that day, and the temperature hovered in the mid-sixties Fahrenheit. I wore a black leather jacket, a grey turtleneck, a checkered scarf, jeans, boots, and my knapsack. However, this time, I kept my sheathed knife tucked inside my waistband. I didn’t feel threatened by the residents of La Cite. They appeared good-natured and harmless, but after what had happened last night, I didn’t want to have to suddenly dig around in my knapsack.

  On the way in, I passed a few residents. Some appeared to be heading to a job; others just seemed to be leaving for the day. A few people looked as if they had nowhere in particular to go but just wanted out of their apartments.

  When I reached Feki’s building, I could clearly see his fire-ravaged apartment. Both apartments on either side had succumbed to the same fate. Other than that, the fire department had contained the fire to those three units. A man wearing a large parka and a ball cap exited the building, so I assumed there was no major structural damage or surely the authorities would have condemned the building. Or not.

  I wondered about Feki’s body and what the assessment from law enforcement would be. From the looks of the charred apartment, his body had to be badly burned. Feki’s head had still been intact when I left him, but there was a large hole where the bullet exited. Probably didn’t need an autopsy to determine that he died from a gunshot wound and not the fire. I thought about it as long as it took for me to walk past his building, and then it became a distant memory.

  Two teens
were sitting on a low wall near the entrance to the second building. I inquired about the man with the neck tattoo. They shrugged a response, and then continued their conversation. I didn’t understand what they were talking about; they were speaking Tunisian, or at least that was what it sounded like. Almost all of the residents had an olive complexion; a few were dark-skinned, but their facial features were definitely Arabic.

  I headed inside and up to the second floor, listening for signs for people still at home. If I heard a television, or a baby screaming, anything at all, I knocked. Initially my efforts weren’t proving fruitful. The second and third floors were useless. There were twenty floors, but I pushed any negative thoughts from entering my head. I was thankful I did, because on the seventh floor I came across a little boy riding his tricycle in the hallway.

  He looked about four years old and seemed to understand English, even though his responses were mostly confined to nodding or shaking his head. I pulled a pen out of my jacket and wrote “The Bronx” on the wall and then pointed at my neck. “Have you seen a man with this tattoo?”

  He smiled and nodded.

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  He nodded again.

  I bent down to his level and looked into his light brown eyes. I noticed his left nostril was filled with yellow snot. I cleaned it with a tissue I had tucked in one of my pockets, and the wheezing I had been hearing stopped. “Can you show me?”

  He nodded as he got off his tricycle. He grabbed my hand and led me down the hall until we reached apartment 718, where he pointed and smiled. I thanked him.

  I was about to knock, but the little boy still stood there, smiling at me. I placed both hands on my thighs and bent down again. “Do you have a name?”

  He nodded.

  I poked him playfully in his belly, and he squirmed away.

  “My name is Rafik,” he said.

  “Rafik? That’s a wonderful name,” I said with a smile.

  Rafik tucked his chin down and giggled. He then threw both of his arms around my leg and hugged me tightly. I hugged him back. We didn’t speak; we just enjoyed each other’s warmth. He wanted to be loved, and I wanted someone to love. I couldn’t help but imagine that Rafik was my Mui. I imagined she would hug my leg the same way, squirm the same way, and look at me with the same bright, inquiring eyes.

  I wiped my eyes as I watched Rafik run back to his tricycle. I couldn’t wait to clean my daughter’s nose.

  Chapter 12

  I didn’t hear any noise on the other side of the door, but I remained hopeful. I rapped my knuckles against the thin wood. A few seconds passed before I saw movement in the peephole, then the familiar sounds of two unlatching deadbolts.

  The door opened, and a woman in her late twenties peeked at me through the crack. She had green eyes with long lashes, a narrow nose dotted with a few freckles, and short, black hair. From what little I could see, she was still dressed in a light blue nightgown.

  “Who are you?” she said with a Tunisian accent.

  Her eyelids looked heavy—a sign that she hadn’t slept well the night before. Maybe she hadn’t with the fire I’d started. I then heard the voice of a young girl screaming playfully in the background followed by another older-sounding girl. They were also speaking English and from the bits and pieces I heard, were arguing over what to watch on the television. Those two could very well be the reason for their mother’s sleepless night.

  “I’m looking for a man. He has the words ‘The Bronx’ tattooed on his neck. Do you know him?”

  “You didn’t answer my question.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The yelling continued in the background prompting her to close the door a bit and address the situation. A few seconds later, she turned back to me, her left eyebrow raised. She couldn’t be bothered to ask the same question a third time.

  “I’m not with the police, but it’s important that I find him. Please, will you help me?”

  She chewed her bottom lip and exhaled heavily through her nose. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “I promise, there will be none.”

  “Everybody promises. You know why? Because it’s only words.” She let out a dismissive breath. “I have two daughters I must care for. I don’t need to invite trouble back into my life.”

  This woman did her absolute best to put on a strong front, but I saw through it. Her eyes said what her mouth couldn’t. Something terrible had happened.

  “If I find him. I’ll make sure he never comes back here,” I said.

  Her pursed lips had me wondering what this man had done to make her so hesitant? Had he threatened her life? Clearly her financial situation didn’t allow her to leave and disappear. Living here meant he could come back again and again. Add the fact that she also had two young daughters…well, I could understand her not wanting to aggravate her situation.

  “What do you want to know?” she asked.

  “Let’s start with his name.”

  “Akil Badash.” She sniffed before rubbing her nose.

  “He’s Tunisian?”

  She nodded.

  “Could you tell me your name?” I figured it couldn’t hurt to have Kostas run her name. Something useful might come of it.

  “I’m not saying.”

  “Okay. Do you know where Akil lives or where he works?”

  “Work?” She laughed. “I haven’t seen him in three months. I don’t care where that piece of shit is,” she said, rubbing her nose again. “And if you find him, you tell him you didn’t talk to me.”

  “Do you have a picture of him?”

  She crinkled her brow and pulled her head back. “Don’t you hear me? I don’t care about that piece of shit.”

  “I understand, but I really do need to find him.”

  She shrugged. “I cannot help you anymore.” The door slammed shut in my face, and the deadbolts slid back into place. I wasn’t surprised by the abrupt end to our conversation, but I had to wonder if there was more to know and whether I should press harder. For the time being, I was content. I had a name to follow up on. Kostas’ lead continued to bear fruit.

  Chapter 13

  It was eight thirty p.m. in Paris. The night was chilly and the endless drizzle of rain blanketed the entire city. Dr. Remy Delacroix had finished his shift at the Bicetre Hospital and had just arrived at his apartment building. He wore a long, khaki raincoat and hurried toward the awning of an artisanal cheese shop located to the left of the entrance to his building.

  Named after its owner, the Fromage Bruno Joubert was a Meilleur Ouvrier de France recipient—the absolute highest honor that the French government could bestow on craftspeople. It wasn’t uncommon for people to line up daily to taste Joubert’s creations. The most popular was the Roquefort, cut lengthwise and layered with a plum jam.

  Delacroix took a moment to look at the display of rounds, triangles, and blocks that filled the shop window. More varieties were kept in the long cooler against the back wall and on display tables covered with straw mats.

  Joubert specialized in twenty to thirty varieties of cheeses in his shop. The number depended on the season and his ability to get his hands on certain ingredients. He insisted only on using grass-fed Lacaune sheep milk when the recipe called for it. Delacroix knew him well, as he stopped by the shop once a week to purchase two of Joubert’s bestsellers—a Comte that he aged for thirty months and a Camembert that was exceptionally soft and creamy. Joubert always reminded him, “You must store the container upside down when you get home.”

  Delacroix declared the Camembert the best in Paris. Joubert claimed it was a combination of the unpasteurized cow milk he used and the way he aged the cheese in his shop. That’s all he would say about the secret process he developed two decades ago.

  Delacroix didn’t need to purchase cheese that night. He was simply stalling. While he looked into the shop, his eyes darted to the left, to the right. He yawned as he turned, and again his eyes darted left and right. His rig
ht hand was tucked away in his coat pocket, fondling a small canister of pepper spray. He continued the charade of window-shopping until convinced no one had followed him home or was watching him.

  There was still a decent amount of foot traffic at that time of night. When a group of men and women passed by, Delacroix followed in step and used them as a way to slip into his building unnoticed.

  The long-time doorman of his building, Gaston Tremblay, wasn’t at his post when Delacroix entered, which wasn’t unusual. Gaston was probably making a delivery to a resident. Delacroix hurried into the manual elevator, slid the gate shut, and pressed the button to his floor.

  The elevator jerked and began its climb to the fourth floor. The cool air in the elevator shaft flowed freely through the open cage car, but perspiration still streamed down the sides of his face and neck. He removed a handkerchief and dabbed at the annoyance. Ever since Sei had paid him a visit a year ago, he’d been on edge.

  Delacroix walked softly on tile floors, his ears perked for any unusual noises while he checked once more that he had the pepper canister gripped correctly. Before inserting his key into the lock of his front door, he listened carefully for a moment.

  Once inside, he put his briefcase down quietly and walked slowly through the foyer, peeking around the corner into an empty living room. He shook his head and chuckled at the absurdity of his actions. Of course, no one is here. Get a hold of yourself.

  He relaxed, removed his coat, and threw it over a chair. He then headed toward his bedroom. The door was shut, but he couldn’t remember if he had closed it before leaving that morning. One of these days you need to commit to either closing it or leaving it open. There’ll be no questioning then. He approached the door cautiously and pressed his ear lightly against it.

  Ding-dong!

  Delacroix’s entire body jumped at the sound of the doorbell. He shook his head, let out a loud breath, and stomped toward the foyer. Standing on the other side of the peephole was Gaston, the doorman.