Contract: Sicko (Sei Assassin Thriller Book 2)

by Ty Hutchinson

  His eyes slammed shut, and cry of pain escaped his mouth. His staccato breathing increased. “Stop! Stop!”

  “Answer my question.”

  He lay there, turning his head sided to side as he whimpered.

  “I’m not a patient woman.” I continued to apply more pressure.

  “Okay, stop. Give me a moment.”

  I eased off.

  His breathing remained forceful and fast. “I’m not after you.”

  I started to move forward again.

  “Wait! It’s the truth. Midou Feki was my target.”

  “Why was a contract placed on him?”

  “They all have contracts.”

  “I don’t understand. Who are they?”

  “The people who worked at the clinic. The day you gave birth. A bounty has been placed on everyone involved.”

  And then the realization hit me. Delacroix didn’t commit suicide; he was murdered. So was Feki.

  “Did the Wolf order these hits?”

  He nodded.

  By eliminating everyone involved, the Wolf was adding another layer of insurance to prevent me from finding him or my daughter. He had decided to tie up all loose ends.

  “Are you the only assassin working for him?”

  “I don’t know. I was given the contract for Feki. He was worth twenty thousand euros.”

  “Why did you kill Yesmine? She had nothing to do with this.”

  “Eh, it’s a bonus. If we find someone else trying to help you, it’s worth an extra five thousand euros. She looked like she was helping you.”

  “You saw her talking to me, and you assumed she was helping?”

  “Please don’t insult me. You and I both know the only people you talk to are the ones who can help.” He coughed, and a splatter of blood appeared on his lips.

  “Is my name on that list?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you target me?”

  “I got caught up in the moment. No hard feelings, eh?”

  “I see.” I looked at the piece of metal sticking out of him. “It must hurt.”

  He looked at his wound and shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

  “It’s not life threatening, yet.” I looked around. I guessed from the chunks of stairs mixed in with slabs of broken concrete, the space we were in used to be a stairwell. “You could climb out of here. It wouldn’t be difficult, even with your injury.”

  “I just need to be lifted off of this…ah, spear.”

  “Now there’s the conundrum—freeing yourself from the spear, as you call it.”

  He laughed nervously.

  “Wait, you aren’t thinking I could help you, are you? Why, I think you are.” A large smile appeared on my face. I reached up and pinched his cheek. “Aww, you’re too funny.”

  I stood and started climbing.

  “Wait, I’ll split the bounty with you—sixty/forty. What do you say?”

  “You’re generous,” I said, looking down at him before pulling myself out of the hole. I picked up a chunk of concrete about the size of a large bowling ball and walked back to the opening.

  “What are you doing? Wait!”

  I lifted it above my head.

  “I’ll give you everything. Just don’t—”

  Chapter 18

  Somewhere in the Caucasus Mountains of Azerbaijan

  Vasili Ivanovich sat slightly slouched, but his broad shoulders still ran the width of the throne-like chair made of solid cherry. Brass rivets adhered brown leather to the top of the cherry arms, the back, and the seat. On the outer sides of each armrest were detailed carvings of a forest like the dense woods surrounding the compound. An ornate wooden header topped off the back of the chair with similar carvings but added to the forest scene was a shirtless man clenching onto the back of a large bear and driving a knife into the animal.

  Opposite Ivanovich, in a similar chair, sat the Black Wolf. He too was a large man with his muscular frame hovering steady at the two-hundred-pound mark. The wooden header on his seat depicted a muscular wolf howling on a mountaintop. Ivanovich had personally handcrafted the furniture. It had taken him two months to get the carvings just right.

  The chairs were positioned in front of a roaring fireplace with a large brick mantle. The lights were off in the room, but the flames cast plenty of light. The fire, however, created harsh shadows on each man’s face, enhancing every angle and crevice. In anticipation of winter, both men had allowed their beards to flourish. The Wolf pulled methodically on the black growth under his chin. On the floor in front of them was the skin of a large brown bear, including the head and four paws. Ivanovich had conquered the beast earlier in the year.

  This was Wolf’s personal sitting room. The only other person he’d ever invited inside the room was Ivanovich—his closest confidant and second in command. The two would often sit quietly, drinking vodka and eating pickles as they stared into the dancing fire and listened to the crackling wood. Ivanovich always waited for his boss to initiate conversation.

  The Wolf grabbed the vodka bottle and refilled both glasses. “Afiyet oslun!” They both downed the liquor in one gulp, and then the Wolf slapped his hands on his thighs. “Talk to me, Vasili.”

  “Remy Delacroix has been taken care of.”

  “The doctor?”

  “Yes, as was Midou Feki.”

  “Who is that?”

  “He worked as a security guard at the clinic.”

  The Wolf nodded.

  “The assassin who fulfilled the contract said Sei was talking with Feki when he executed him.”

  The Wolf crinkled his brow, causing the skin to pucker around the large scar that ran across his forehead. “Sniper rifle?”

  Ivanovich nodded. “About a hundred and fifty yards out. He told me she gave chase, but he escaped without any problems. He assured me his cover is still secure. He also texted me a picture of a woman a day later—a bonus contract he intended to go after. He said Sei spoke with her after meeting with Feki.”

  “Who is she?”

  Vasili shrugged. “He believes she’s the girlfriend of Akil Badash, a member of the team at the clinic. His contract is still open.”

  “What does Akil know about us?”

  “That I’m unsure of. The team leader hired him. He knew the rules about discussing our involvement, but conversations have a way of slipping out. Of course, you know my feeling on this entire matter.”

  “I do, Vasili.”

  “Why waste effort and money on these other people? Sei is the threat. We should get rid of her and be done with it.”

  “You think she is that easy of a target?”

  Ivanovich scratched the side of his hooked nose before resting his squared jaw in his palm. “She is one person. We are many.”

  “Do not underestimate her.”

  “What is it about her? If it were anybody else, we would have wiped them off this planet.”

  “I don’t want her dead, yet.”

  Vasili didn’t understand why his boss had decided to spare her life, but he left the subject of Sei alone.

  “And the others?” the Wolf asked.

  “Those contracts are still open.”

  The Wolf rested his chin on his thumb while he slowly moved a finger back and forth across his lips.

  “I want you to put a man on Sei.”

  “Finally!” Vasili slapped a hand on the armrest. “We’ll put our best on her. She’ll be no match for—”

  “No, she is not to be touched. We stick to the plan. She has information. She might know where a target is located. Let her hinder her own efforts by leading us to this person.”

  “All right.” Ivanovich stood up.

  “Vasili, she is not to be touched. Is this clear?”

  Ivanovich nodded and headed toward the door. As he opened it, a gray-haired babushka appeared. She wore a light blue skirt that fell below her knees and a white blouse. A slightly tattered apron was tied around her waist. She had a meek posture and held her ha
nds clasped in front of her. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but the little one wanted to say goodnight before bed.”

  Vasili looked back at the Wolf for an answer.

  “Bring her in,” he said.

  A second later, a little girl appeared in the doorway. She had a large toothy grin and straight black hair that hung to her shoulders. She wore panda-themed pajamas and carried a doll in one hand.

  The Wolf smiled at the little girl and patted his lap. “Come here, Mui.” When he’d learned that Sei intended to give her that name, he’d kept it.

  She ran toward him with open arms. “Papa!”

  Chapter 19

  Phnom Penh, Cambodia, specifically the district of Svay Pak, was infamously known as the epicenter for child prostitution. The small fishing village on the outskirts of Phnom Penh had garnered a lot of media attention due to a documentary on mothers who sold their daughters into the sex trade, not once, but multiple times. When Yesmine confirmed that Akil had mentioned Cambodia, my inclination was that he had decided to indulge further in his sick behavior. If that was the case, why fly to Vietnam and not Cambodia?

  I decided to read up on Svay Pak; perhaps there was a reason that would explain Akil traveling to Vietnam. Turned out, there was a possible, maybe even likely, reason. Most of the people who lived in Svay Pak were ethnic Vietnamese, and many of the young girls working in Svay Pak brothels were from Vietnam. That might explain why Akil had flown to Vietnam. Had Akil gotten himself involved in trafficking? The more I read about Svay Pak, the more I began to despise that man. I also couldn’t help but wonder if he had any further contact with my daughter after her birth. Did he touch her? There wasn’t any doubt in my mind that I would keep the promise I made to Yesmine.

  If trafficking was the reason for Akil’s travels to Vietnam, I needed more information and I knew exactly where I might find it—the Deep Web—an area of the Internet where ninety-five percent of people who surf never go. It was a hotbed for illegal activity because that was where anonymity thrived. It was also where people in my line of work could find contracts or offer our services. I knew the Deep Web all too well.

  I had already been using my TOR browser on my smartphone to surf the web anonymously, so I navigated to the area where numerous boards and chat rooms focused on child prostitution flourished. Even with anonymity, I knew it would be difficult convincing people to talk to me.

  Newbies in any forum having to do with illegal activity had to prove themselves. In my profession, word of mouth and recommendations played a vital role. It was fairly easy to sniff out law enforcement pretending to be one of us. I figured this community had also honed its skills in deciphering who was a true participant.

  My cover was a man interested in taking his first trip to Southeast Asia, and my question was whether I should visit Vietnam instead of Cambodia because of the recent news stories. My initial posts were either ignored or generic answers, telling me not to worry and go to Phnom Penh. No one wanted to engage any further. Eventually a member of the MLC forum, an acronym for men who love children, provided me with useful information.

  I had relayed to him my concerns about visiting Svay Pak, or Phnom Penh in general, because of the recent documentary and that I had heard that Ho Chi Minh City could satisfy my needs.

  YungLover: What are you looking for?

  Me: Girls. Ages 10-15.

  I figured since Akil had molested Yesmine’s older daughter and not the younger one, he was interested in that age range.

  YungLover: Older isn’t a problem in Ho Chi Minh. There’s a bar in Phu Nhuan District called Bar 92. Talk to a man named Trang. He can help.

  I asked a few more questions but got no replies. It didn’t matter. What I had learned so far was compelling enough to book a flight to Vietnam: Svay Pak was a known hotbed for brothels specializing in underage girls. There was a bar in Ho Chi Minh City where young girls could be had. Akil had flown to Vietnam.

  The picture forming in my head told me he flew to Ho Chi Minh City to further indulge in his sick fetish and possibly get involved in the human trafficking trade. I was willing to wager it all that he hadn’t left.

  Chapter 20

  A few days later I sat on a Vietnam Airlines flight heading to Ho Chi Minh City. After sixteen hours, my flight touched down at Tan Son Nhat International Airport at eleven a.m. As usual, I traveled light, just a knapsack containing a few changes of clothes and personal amenities. Whatever else I needed I could buy on site. With the crackdown on airport security, traveling with a small pistol or even a garrote wire in checked luggage posed too much of a risk. A knife could easily be purchased at my destination, and I could make do with just that.

  I cleared immigration without any problems; I used a Belgian passport I had made over a year ago. My alias was Sophie Bouchon. Ironically, no had ever questioned why an Asian looking woman had a French surname, but I didn’t expect to have any problems in Vietnam. The French had occupied the country for years, and aspects of the culture still thrived, particularly in Hanoi.

  As I exited the terminal, the wet heat clung to me instantly. The short wait in the taxi queue had me pulling my hair into a ponytail to keep the nape of my neck cool.

  I hopped into a cab and headed to the Phu Nhuan District, where I had booked a room at a small hotel. The drive there was short, only ten minutes, but “chaotic” was a better description. Motorbikes occupied almost every square inch of paved road; cars were the minority. These fearless, medical-mask-wearing riders zoomed and zigzagged with the bravado only a person raised on a bike could have. At times only a few inches separated my door from a two-wheeler carrying a man, woman and two small children.

  By the time I checked into my hotel, and searched for and purchased a suitable knife, it was nearing two in the afternoon. By then I had already located Bar 92 with the help of Google Maps. It was tucked away on a small side street just off of Le Van Sy Street, a main throughway that cut through Phu Nhuan. I estimated it would take ten to twelve minutes to walk there, but I wanted to familiarize myself with the neighborhood first, should I find myself in a position where I was on the run.

  Phu Nhuan was the most densely populated district in the city with a little over one hundred eighty thousand people packed into an area no larger than four square kilometers. Geographically, it was also the most central district in relation to all the others. There were twenty-four districts in total. Retail shops or restaurants lined nearly every single road I walked along. Apartments, or alley houses, were found in the maze of alleys that branched off from the roads. I learned from my walk that these alleys could abruptly end, loop back around, and split into smaller walkways, where passage was attainable only by foot. One thing that became clear was that very few of them opened to a road on the other side of the block.

  I arrived at Bar 92 a little later in the afternoon. I slowed my pace as I walked on the footpath opposite the bar, pretending to window shop at stores selling shoes and handbags. I didn’t think barging in and asking about Akil would serve me advantageously.

  I continued my little ruse until I reached the corner of the block where I ducked into a twenty-four-hour convenience store and purchased bottled water. The walk had me wiping my forehead every few feet and fluffing my top to remain cool. When I emerged back outside, I was convinced the bar had no security. By all accounts, it appeared to be another business lining the street. I gulped the water as I made my way back toward it.

  Directly across the street was a small coffee shop. During my walk over, I had passed a dozen others; most were small and situated in open spaces with a few chairs and tables placed on the sidewalk. This one in particular had an enclosed storefront and air conditioning blowing inside—a nice welcome and one that would suit my needs. Much like the other coffee shops, it was empty, except for the young girl working behind the counter. That was fine by me. I disliked crowds. My plan was to take the long and usual approach: wait for Akil to show up.

  I ordered an iced Ca phe, Vietname
se coffee, and then took a seat near the window. A few minutes later, the girl placed two glasses on my table. One had been filled with half an inch of sweetened condensed milk. Balancing on top was a French drip filter filled with a dark roast of grounded Vietnamese-grown coffee. Ice filled the other glass.

  I waited patiently as the hot water worked its way through the filter, dripping into the glass and creating a dark layer that floated on top of the milk. When the last of the liquid dripped from the filter, I removed it and stirred the coffee and the milk together before pouring it into the ice-filled glass.

  Sweet with a kick, the caffeine-infused elixir was a nice relief from the sticky weather that still seemed to be clinging to me. The weather in Vietnam during the fall months wasn’t as scorching as the summer, but considering I had just come from Paris, where the average day temp hovered in the mid-sixties, my internal thermostat wasn’t prepared for the drastic change. I fluffed my top once again to help the wet spots in front dry faster.

  Bar 92 looked like a typical dive bar. It had a single entrance and no windows. The signage was small, almost invisible, perhaps for a reason. I imagined most of the square footage inside was made up in length and not width. This was typical of most businesses in the area.

  As inconspicuous as the bar was, there was a fair amount of activity for that time of the day. I watched a number of men of various ethnicities walk through the front door—each one alone. I highly doubted they had a cold beer on their minds.

  On average, the men stayed for a little over an hour, and they all left as they had arrived: alone. Brothel owners almost never let their girls leave the property. And that was exactly what the owner of this bar was. He sold sex. Beer was an afterthought. I suspected the upper floors were also owned by the same establishment, outfitted with small private rooms containing a bed/mattress and a bathroom, either sectioned out by thin walls or even just curtains.

  I shifted in my chair while crossing a leg over the other. I had already finished my coffee and had contemplated ordering another when the girl from behind the counter appeared next to my table. I hadn’t paid much attention to her since my arrival, but I noted that she looked a little too young to be managing the shop on her own. It’s Wednesday, why aren’t you in school?