The Kill Order

by Robin Burcell

  Lisette whispered the girl’s name.

  There was no answer.

  They entered, swept their weapons across the room looking for threats, then turned toward the wardrobe. “I am here. Lisette.”

  The wardrobe door flew open, and Piper burst out, running right into her. Lisette held her gun up and away as Piper hugged her tight.

  “We have her,” Lisette said.

  But instead of congratulations, what she heard from Giustino was “The men. They are both returning. There are five now and I think they have automatic weapons. You need to get out.”

  Lisette led Piper to the hallway, Marc on their heels.

  The three ran down to the bottom of the stairwell, across the entry, then stopped at the door. The campo was still empty—for all of about sixty seconds. And then five men emerged from an alley.

  “Whatever we do,” Marc said, “we’d better do it fast.”

  He was right. They hadn’t been spotted yet, and right now, distance was their friend. He grabbed Piper’s hand, exited the building, then led the three of them across the square to the sotoportego where they had hidden earlier. A shout alerted them that they’d been seen, then the sound of their pursuers running after them, their footsteps echoing across the campo like sharp, staccato shots. Marc didn’t slow down, just led them through the short tunnel, then around the corner and on down a narrow walkway that bordered the water. A wrought-iron gate blocked their path to freedom. A rusted chain hung from the gate, the lock just out of reach on the other side. A spiked brick arch over the top kept anyone from hopping over.

  Piper stared at the brackish water. “I can’t swim.”

  “Hopefully you won’t have to.” He looked up at the arch over the gate. It was too high for them to jump, and Lisette was wondering what he had in mind, when he said, “You think you can pull Piper up?”

  “Worth a try.”

  He boosted Lisette, and she climbed onto the bricks, avoiding the spikes intended to foil thieves, then waited there for him to lift Piper, who was about a foot shorter. Lisette leaned down, grasped the girl’s hand, helped her climb over, then onto the other side, using a niche in the wall on their way down.

  Marc unholstered his weapon, then handed it to Lisette through the gate.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer. Just looked at her.

  She tried to hand the gun back. “You have to come with us.”

  “We’re outgunned and outmanned. I’m hoping they’ll follow me, not you. But if they don’t—”

  “Do not get hurt.”

  He reached through the bar, shoved his cell phone and Bluetooth at her. “I’m going to do my best to keep it from happening.” When she hesitated, he said, “This will only work if you’re out of sight.”

  “Be careful.” She put the phone and Bluetooth in her pocket, turned, took Piper’s hand, then ran down the path, discovering that they were trapped in a courtyard. If spotted, they’d have nowhere to run, and she looked around for a place to hide. A potted topiary next to the wall was the best she could find. She and Piper pressed their backs to the brick wall, and she prayed they wouldn’t be noticed.

  A moment later, she heard what sounded like several men running, followed by a loud splash as Marc leaped into the canal toward the other side.

  “Over there!” someone shouted.

  “I saw three. Where are the other two?”

  “Well, where else would they go? They definitely turned this corner, and that gate’s locked.”

  “They could have gone over it.”

  Lisette felt Piper tense. “Don’t move,” she whispered in the girl’s ear, hoping she’d listen.

  “Over? Then who was that in the water? Goddamned mermaid? Follow them.”

  “In there?”

  “Unless you want to call Brooks and tell them you lost his prize.”

  A moment of silence, then a loud splash, followed by another. “Bloody cold.”

  “Then swim faster. It’ll warm you up. I’m going to find a boat.”

  Lisette held her arm in front of Piper, making sure she stayed in the shadows. She dared a peek through the topiary’s leaves, saw three men still standing at the water’s edge, looking out. Piper’s teeth started chattering, and Lisette moved in closer to her, trying to transfer her warmth to the shivering girl. They waited several minutes, and then Lisette leaned out. Seeing nothing, she ventured toward the wrought-iron gate. The path was clear. “Time to go.”

  She helped Piper back over the wall, and they ran through the passage. Eventually they turned into a narrow calle that led over a bridge, ending up in a small open space surrounded by modest palazzi, most with plaster peeling from their decaying bricks. The hour was late, though, and the windows beneath their pointed gothic arches were dark, the residents having long been abed. This was to their advantage, since light was their enemy.

  A wooden door stood ajar to the right, and Lisette saw that it led down a narrow alley between two buildings. Another door, this one closed, was at the far end, but fortunately was not locked. Lisette pulled it slightly ajar and looked out, discovering that they had traveled in a circle, because the alley led back into the Campo San Polo, not too far from where she and Marc had hid earlier that night.

  They stayed in the shadows, skirting the edges of the campo.

  This was not what Lisette had intended, and she was concerned about their proximity to the palazzo where Piper had been held. Still, she said nothing, not wanting to worry the girl.

  “Are you mad at me?”

  Lisette looked over at her, surprised by the question. “For what?”

  “For stealing your passport and credit card?”

  “No. Yes. I am, but—we’ll talk about it later.”

  She pressed the button on her Bluetooth, to call Giustino.

  “I have her,” she said.

  “Where are you?”

  “In Campo San Polo, near . . .” She looked out, trying to describe the area. “Near the bulge of that funny old church. Not too far from where Marc and I were hiding.”

  “Ah. Behind the apse of San Polo. I am very nearby. I have men with me, in uniform, so don’t be alarmed.”

  Several men, all uniformed, crossed the square, and Lisette was glad he had warned her. She wouldn’t have dared to show herself, not knowing who could or could not be trusted.

  Giustino looked around. “Where is Marc?”

  “Leading them on a wild-goose chase. We were trapped. He dove into the canal.”

  He nodded, then ordered two of his men to search in the direction Lisette indicated, then sent two others up into the palazzo where the body was located.

  It wasn’t until his men had been dispatched that Giustino seemed to notice Piper, who was shivering. He removed his jacket and put it around her shoulders. “This way. We will take you someplace safe for the night.”

  “How will Marc find us?” Lisette asked.

  “He already knows to meet at the safe house.”

  And Piper asked, “Is that where we’re going?”

  “Yes. The sooner we get you off the streets, the better. I worry that we are being watched, even now.”

  37

  Once Giustino determined that they were not being followed, he dismissed all but one of his men, then hurried Lisette and Piper through a dark narrow street, their footsteps echoing across the paving stones, making it sound like an army was marching with them. The street seemed to wind on for the longest time—in what direction, she couldn’t tell, except that it was well out of the area frequented by tourists. No shop windows lighted their way, but every now and then a crook-backed bridge would suddenly loom up before them. After several minutes, they walked under another sotoportego, where they were confronted with the vast turbulence of the Giudecca Canal.


  “It’s not far now,” Giustino said, then ushered them down a dark street that led away from the busy waterway into what seemed to Lisette to be a rather depressed working-class area of the city.

  Eventually, they arrived at their destination, a rather peculiar brick corner building, which faced onto the rio and the deserted campo of a large church with an imposing square campanile that somehow seemed out of proportion with the rest of the church.

  “Up one floor,” Giustino said. Lisette’s heels clicked on the tiled stairs, which led her to what, in a better class of Venetian house, would have been the piano nobile. There was little that could be called noble about this unprepossessing house. She and Piper walked into what passed for a sitting room, with windows overlooking both the rio and the campo of the ugly brick church.

  Marc arrived shortly thereafter, his hair and clothes dripping, and smelling of canal water. “A man who sacrifices himself deserves a hug, don’t you agree?”

  Lisette eyed the growing puddle around him as he stood in the tiled entryway. “Undoubtedly. But not from me. Giustino? He’s your friend.”

  “I’ll be glad to give him a hug. After he showers.”

  She smiled at Marc, then looked around. “And in which room will Piper and I be sleeping?”

  “This way,” Giustino said.

  He led them to a room upstairs, and Lisette was pleased to see that it had an en suite bathroom. The furnishings seemed decent enough. There was a dark wood dresser with a marble top. Its mirror reflected the two single beds with high, dark wood headboards. And, as in the convent, a crucifix had been set on the wall to protect any sleepers. Lisette took the bed closer to the door, trying to ignore the lumps in the hard mattress as she sprawled across it. Piper bounced once on the bed, then got up, announcing she was going to take a shower. It seemed to last forever. Had they not been on the upper floor overlooking the rio, Lisette might have suspected her of turning on the water, then slipping out through the bathroom window. She emerged eventually, trailing a swath of steam, a towel wrapped around her hair, wearing a nightgown that Giustino had supplied, and carrying her clothes in a wrinkled bundle. “Sorry it took me so long. I just needed . . . I don’t know. To chill, I guess.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Piper nodded. “Just glad to be out of there. The things you don’t think about when you steal someone’s passport and fly off to another country.”

  She tossed the clothes onto a chair, and a phone bounced out and onto the floor. “Vittorio’s phone. I took it after that man, Paolo, killed him. That’s what I used to text Giustino.” She picked it up and placed it on the end table. “I suppose right now it’ll be evidence?”

  “Possibly,” Lisette said, removing the battery. “They’ll be able to use it to find out who was in touch with him, maybe even who was behind your kidnapping. We’ll give it to Marc in the morning.”

  “I hope they catch them,” she replied.

  Lisette, deciding not to take any chances even though Piper was supposedly reformed, locked her bag in the bathroom while she showered and changed. When she emerged, Piper was in bed, eyes closed, lying on her side, her hands tucked beneath the pillow. Lisette left the bathroom light on, and only partially closed the door, allowing a sliver of light through, then tiptoed to her bed.

  Piper’s eyes opened, and she looked right at Lisette.

  “What’s wrong?” Lisette asked.

  “Did you hear something?”

  “No. We’ll be safe here. Don’t worry.”

  After a few seconds, Piper said, “Are you sure they’re not going to arrest me?”

  “For what?”

  “For stealing your passport and credit card. That’s identity theft.”

  “If nothing else, I hope you have learned some valuable lessons.”

  “I have,” she said, her voice quiet. “. . . Thanks.”

  Lisette tossed and turned all night, her dreams chaotic, confusing, as she raced through the streets of Venice, never sure if she was actually awake or dreaming. At one point her gaze caught on the phone that Piper had stolen from her captor. It glowed with an incoming call. She wasn’t even aware it was on, and reached over, picked it up, and saw the caller ID showed “privato” on the screen. And then she was racing through a pitch black sotoportego, chased by someone as one thought swirled through her head.

  Who would be calling a dead man’s phone?

  But when she got up to find Marc, to ask him, he was sinking to the bottom of the canal.

  She awoke with a start, her heart pounding. Still dark out; she glanced over, couldn’t even see the phone on the bedside table. Had someone called it? Or had she dreamed it?

  Too tired to think, she reached out, felt it beneath her fingertips, and picked it up. She fumbled with it, but managed to pull the battery, then returned it to the table, trying to decide if she was even still dreaming—because surely she’d already removed the battery—all while knowing there was something about that phone she needed to tell Marc, something important . . .

  38

  Washington, D.C.

  Parker Kane looked around the crowded hotel ballroom, until he found Trenton Stiles, a top Network man who ran Wingman and Wingman. He weaved his way through the formally dressed guests to get to him. “We have a serious problem.” Parker Kane took Trenton Stiles by the arm and led him well away from the others gathered at the party.

  “What sort of problem can’t wait until morning?” Stiles asked.

  “Let me put it this way. If this gets out, the president might as well just hang up his hat. There won’t be a second term.”

  Stiles pasted a false smile on his face, for anyone who might be looking. “Why not?” he asked through his teeth, nodding at a passing couple on their way into the banquet room.

  “Because the matter you wanted to erase, the political contribution that can be tied into Wingman—well, let’s just say that if ATLAS recovers the key before we do, we’re screwed.” Which was the smallest of Parker Kane’s problems if they didn’t find the key. He could give a rat’s ass about the political contribution. There were much bigger issues he needed to deal with.

  “I thought you had this matter handled.”

  “I did when I thought we’d have the program up and running. Unfortunately there have been a few setbacks along the way.”

  “The Network pays you well to make sure we do not have setbacks. So what seems to be the problem?”

  “ATLAS is still operational.”

  “The building was shut down. How can they be operational?”

  “Someone broke in. The files we’d hoped to find weren’t there.”

  A waiter walked up, offered both men champagne flutes. They each took one, nodded their thanks, then moved even farther away. “Do you realize how hard it is to get the proper people elected to office these days? Especially with the Internet. You’re with the goddamned CIA. About to be deputy national security adviser. Are you telling me you can’t handle this job?”

  Kane’s grip on his glass tightened. “Of course not. But—”

  “You said you would have this Satan’s key—”

  “Devil’s Key—”

  “Whatever. What you need to remember, Mr. Kane, is that your appointment is not yet confirmed. I’d hate to see something come up in a background check that might prevent it. My suggestion to you? Fix this or there won’t be an appointment. Am I clear?”

  “Of course.”

  “I hope to hear a more positive report from you soon.” He handed his untouched glass to Kane. “Enjoy the party,” he said, then walked off, leaving Kane standing there alone, feeling like an idiot with two champagne glasses in his hand.

  He found a waiter, deposited both on the tray, then left, doing his best to look calm, unconcerned, when he was seething inside.

  Trenton Stiles and his ilk were
all about getting the right men in office, men they could control, while people like Kane worked behind the scenes, making it all so easy for them.

  He hadn’t spent the last twenty years clawing his way to the top to be dismissed that easily, and he wasn’t about to let it happen now, he thought, waiting out front for his car. When it arrived, he told the driver to take him back to his office. Time to see what the night crew had accomplished.

  When he got there, the lights were on in the command center. “Update,” he said, loosening his tie.

  “The girl is back with ATLAS,” Alan Madison said.

  “Where?”

  “Venice still. A radio transmission was intercepted. She apparently brought the police to where she was being held captive.”

  Alive . . . Thank God, he thought. “Any word on where they have her?”

  “No, sir. But we also intercepted a digital transmission from Vittorio’s phone.”

  “Vittorio?”

  “The man who took her from the convent.”

  “I thought he was dead.”

  “He is. Or so Paolo reported. Of course, that does not explain why there would be a text message from his phone after he was killed.”

  “Going to where?”

  “California, sir.”

  He walked over, looked at the computer screen. “The hell . . . Whose number is that?”

  “In California? We’re not sure. Right now we’re trying to pinpoint its location in Venice.”

  “Good. In the meantime I want to know who in California this other phone belongs to. Find out.”

  A half hour later, he had his answer.

  “It’s Kendall Lawrence. Brother. Foster care. Sixteen, still in the system.”