The two-bedroom bungalow she had rented was located in Vesturbær, an eight-neighborhood district west of the heart of Iceland’s capital city. The area was mostly residential, though there was an increasing commercial presence in Grandi, which was close to the harbor. Knattspyrnufélag Reykjavíkur, commonly referred to as KR or KR Reykjavik, was also headquartered there. The oldest and most successful team in the Icelandic soccer league, KR had won dozens of titles over the years and was the first team to represent Iceland in the lucrative European Cup. Santana wasn’t much of a soccer fan, but she knew someone who was: Jusuf Mladić.
Mladić’s life in exile wasn’t as isolated as she had expected. According to the intel she had been provided when she accepted the assignment, he never missed one of KR’s home games. He was too smart to sit in the same seat each time, but an eagle-eyed observer was bound to spot him somewhere in the stands.
Did she dare try to take him out in front of thousands of potential witnesses, or would she be better off attempting to breach a compound that, from the looks of it, seemed impenetrable?
“That’s what you flew five hours to find out.”
Instead of making her way to Iceland via a nonstop flight from LaGuardia, she had traveled to Canada by train so she could switch identities first. Delphine Durand, her current alter ego, was a perennial slacker who worked odd jobs from time to time, but didn’t have a steady income or permanent address.
When she traveled as Delphine, she always booked a room in a hostel because, for anyone who might be watching, that was all Delphine’s limited resources could handle. She had deviated from her usual pattern this time because hostels were notorious for their lack of privacy as well as their practically nonexistent security. She had enough things to concern herself with on this job without having to worry about sharing a room with one or more complete strangers, waiting in line to use the communal bathroom and shower, or having her belongings stolen if she was foolish enough to leave them unguarded.
The most convenient part of the Delphine persona was the need to travel light. Without luggage to claim, she was able to cut down on expenses as well as travel time. When she finally made her way through the long line in Customs, she was able to avoid the ones in the baggage claim area because she didn’t have a checked bag. All of Delphine’s belongings had been shoved into her carry-on because she couldn’t afford the checked bag fee.
She couldn’t afford cabs, either. Train tickets, thankfully, were relatively inexpensive. Santana pulled out a few crumpled Icelandic krónas to pay the fare for the two-mile trip to the city center. Once she reached the heart of Reykjavik, she walked the short distance from the train station to her rented house.
The rental was long-term. Though she didn’t plan to remain in the country for the entire duration of her six-month lease, she planned to put in enough face time in her temporary digs so that her new neighbors would come to accept her as one of them rather than seeing her as a stranger. She wanted to be someone they trusted rather than someone they feared. At the same time, she wanted to be someone they quickly forgot rather than someone they remembered. Though maintaining the balance would be tricky, it was one she had been striking for years. If she could pull off the feat one more time, she would never have to do it again. Then she could return to ’Ohe Sojukokoro, put her feet up…and do what exactly?
She had no idea how she wanted to spend the rest of her life. She simply wanted the option to figure it out for herself rather than having her fate dictated by Winslow Townsend’s whims. In a few months, she would be able to do just that. For better or worse, her life would finally be her own.
Unlike their country’s subarctic climate and occasionally barren landscape, Icelanders were a warm and welcoming people. There were less than three hundred fifty thousand citizens in Iceland, making it the most sparsely populated country in Europe. No wonder the people were so friendly. They were probably just happy to have someone to talk to besides themselves.
The owners of the house Santana had rented weren’t onsite when she arrived, though she hadn’t expected them to be. According to one of the many emails they had sent her after she contacted them to express interest in renting the property, they were currently touring Europe in their RV and had no plans to return home for the foreseeable future. The money they earned from rental income helped finance what they hoped would be a year-long trip around the world. Santana had made sure to pay them a bit more than the price they had agreed on so they wouldn’t have any excuses to bring their trip to a premature end due to lack of funds.
Vesturbær was one of the most expensive districts in Reykjavik in terms of real estate pricing, but the house Santana had rented was relatively modest. So was the surrounding neighborhood. The age range was all over the place. College kids in town for only a few years mingled with long-time residents. Each took the time to look her in the eye and say hello when she passed them on the street. Her grasp of Icelandic was nonexistent, but good manners didn’t require translation. A nod and a smile, she quickly found, went a long way.
Still, she felt a sense of relief when she located the hidden key to the house, let herself in, and closed the door behind her. She desperately wanted to take a few moments to stop pretending and just be herself, but she didn’t dare. She had to act as if someone had eyes on her at all times just in case they did. Was she being overly-cautious? Perhaps, but a healthy dose of paranoia had gotten her this far. It was too late in the game to change her ways now. She left her disguise in place but reverted to her natural stance and gait as she treated herself to a tour of the house.
She was pleased to see that the pictures that had been posted on the internet were accurate. The rooms were a nice size, the furniture was comfortable, and the small kitchen was stocked with the only two appliances she intended to make use of: a refrigerator and a microwave. As she had noticed during her walk from the train station, a grocery store, a coffee shop, and several restaurants were located a few blocks away.
“Perfect.”
Now that her creature comforts were taken care of, she addressed her other dilemma: transportation. Reykjavik was small, especially in comparison to sprawling New York City, but she wouldn’t be able to go everywhere she needed on foot. Public transportation was an option. Unless she was in a hurry to get away. Then she wouldn’t have time to sit and wait for a train’s or bus’s next scheduled arrival.
Fortunately, her landlords’ hospitality was apparently limitless. They had left her the keys to a pair of motorcycles parked in the small, attached garage. She flipped on the overhead light as she examined the well-maintained vehicles.
One was a bright red crotch rocket with an aerodynamic body shape that encouraged the driver to lean forward. The bike would be good for a casual tour of town or a high-speed trek through the countryside. If she needed to defend herself from armed pursuers, though, she might have a hard time steering and returning fire at the same time.
The other motorcycle was a better fit for her purposes. Basic black so it wouldn’t draw undue attention, relatively lightweight so it could be easily handled, and blessed with speed to burn.
She patted the soft leather seat, then settled onto it. She turned the key in the ignition, then smiled as the engine rumbled to life.
“Hey, girl,” she said, reaching for a helmet. “How would you like to go for a ride?”
She cinched the helmet into place, opened the garage door, and gunned the engine a few times before she shifted the bike into gear.
Mladić’s compound was located near the waterfront. The Grandi area was the main hub of Reykjavik’s fishing industry and was also home to some of the city’s best restaurants. Santana doubted either the mouthwatering food or the breathtaking views were the reason Mladić had chosen to live in what was humorously referred to as the Fishpacking district. Access was. If one of his many enemies managed to track him down, he could escape by water or on land. Or he could simply stand his ground and let his security team do all the wor
k.
Santana slowed as she approached a building with a view of the harbor. Before the property had been rezoned from commercial to residential, it had once been an office complex. Now Jusuf Mladić was the principal occupant.
She wondered if one of Mladić’s former employees had let his enemies know where to find him. Not likely, considering the fact that when Mladić chose to terminate someone, it was more than just a figure of speech. That meant the informant was most likely part of his inner circle. Someone who had grown tired of playing second fiddle and wanted to be first chair.
Santana parked the motorcycle and walked into a nearby café. She selected a table near the window so she could keep tabs on the exterior of Mladić’s compound without being too obvious about it.
When the waitress approached her table, she paused her surveillance long enough to take a look at the menu. She ordered pancakes, fruit, a bowl of skyr, and a cup of coffee, then returned her attention to the view across the street.
A fleet of cars surrounded the building. Each car was probably armored. The telltale bulges under the ill-fitting suits of the eight men patrolling the perimeter left no doubt that they were packing heat.
“Eight men outside. Probably at least a dozen more inside. All armed to the teeth.”
Unless she conserved her ammo, she could run out of bullets just trying to get into the building. Once there, she would have to resort to hand-to-hand combat, a tedious process she wouldn’t have time for if she wanted to get away before the police showed up. It wouldn’t take them long to respond to a firefight. Especially in a country where gun violence was practically unheard of rather than a common occurrence.
“Would you like something else?” the waitress asked after she brought out Santana’s food and set a bottle of birch syrup on the table. Her English was much better than Santana’s Icelandic.
“A different profession might be nice.”
“Are you new to town?”
“I’ll be visiting off and on for the next few months,” Santana said noncommittally.
“Once you get used to the cold, you’ll love it here. There are plenty of jobs to be found in the tourism industry, and the labor market is a lot more relaxed than it is in the rest of Europe. Probably because there isn’t a whole lot of competition. In case you haven’t noticed, there aren’t too many of us around here. It’s always nice to see a new face.” She flashed a flirtatious smile. “Especially one as striking as yours. Can I expect to see you in here again?”
The waitress was attractive, she seemed to have a nice personality, and she filled out her uniform in all the right ways, but Santana was too focused on the job at hand to even consider falling into bed with someone. Especially someone who wasn’t Brooklyn. Having a contact on the ground, however, could prove invaluable.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Hekla Gudmondsdottir. My mother owns this café and does most of the cooking, too.” She pointed behind her to a slightly plumper, gray-haired version of herself searing reindeer sausage on a flat top. “I’m not as adept in the kitchen as she is so I got stuck serving the food rather than preparing it.”
“Lucky for me. If these pancakes taste as good as they look, you and your mother can expect to see me every day.”
Hekla’s bright blue eyes glittered as she smiled. “If that is the case, I will see you tomorrow, yes?” She leaned over to refill Santana’s coffee cup—and offer her a view of her cleavage at the same time.
A movement in the corner of her eye drew Santana’s attention out the window. She turned to see the man she had been assigned to kill exit the building and climb into the back of one of the armored SUVs parked out front. She was tempted to skip breakfast and follow him, but she didn’t want to make her move too soon. Or alert his security team to the fact that he had someone on his tail. To pull this off, she needed to be patient rather than impulsive.
She turned back to her newfound friend as the car carrying one of the most notorious warlords in modern history sped away. “I’m already looking forward to it.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Brooklyn felt like she had been ghosted. Vilma had been gone for three days, and she hadn’t heard a word from her during that time. Not one phone call. Not a single text. Nothing except radio silence.
She hoped Vilma hadn’t only been out to get her in bed and was now done with her after she had gotten what she wanted. She preferred to think Vilma was simply too busy meeting with her potential business partners to pay any attention to her personal life. She could be single-minded when it came to business, too, but she always made time for the people she cared about.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” she said as she headed to her kitchen to open a pint of her favorite frozen pick-me-up. “I might have been a meaningless hookup rather than someone she thought she could have a relationship with.”
The explanation might have made sense if Vilma hadn’t gone to such great lengths to open up to her during their visit to Little Manila. Vilma had invited her into her life that night. Offered a glimpse of her gritty true self, not the smooth, polished image she normally projected. After letting Brooklyn get so close to her, why was she being so standoffish now?
Brooklyn sighed in frustration. She wouldn’t be flipping out like this if AJ hadn’t put doubts in her head.
AJ’s questions about Vilma had sown a seed. And, damn, if that seed hadn’t grown roots. Now Brooklyn had to face the unwanted realization that, even though she felt close to Vilma, she didn’t know very much about her. Vilma was obviously a private person, but did she, as AJ seemed to intimate, also have something to hide?
“I might not be the world’s best judge of character, but I can usually tell when someone’s playing me.”
All the moments she had spent with Vilma—even the embarrassing ones—felt real.
As out of sorts as she was, she would probably make quick work of the ice cream she had pulled out of the freezer so she leaned against the counter rather than returning to the living room. Surprisingly, she had her fill after only a couple of bites. The sweet treat, like everything else these days, reminded her of Vilma. Of sharing a platter of food with her while Vilma told her about her childhood.
She tossed the dirty spoon in the dishwasher and placed the container of mint chocolate chip ice cream back in the freezer. Then she returned to the living room, where she sat on the couch, grabbed one of the oversized throw pillows, and hugged it against her chest.
There were many things she missed about being in a relationship. The closeness, the chemistry, the inside jokes. She hadn’t missed this. The endless processing. The overthinking. The uncertainty of not knowing when to obsess over a potential problem and when to just chill and allow things to play out.
If for no other reason than to preserve her sanity, she decided to take Vilma at face value. Before she boarded a flight to Zurich, Vilma had said she would get in touch with her when she returned. Would she stick to her word, or would she continue to be as elusive as she was now? Brooklyn could only wait and see.
She reached for her ringing cell phone. Her heart sank when she saw Detective Barnett’s number rather than Vilma’s printed on the display.
“I’ve got an update for you,” Barnett said.
“Based on the tone of your voice, I almost don’t want to know what you have to say, but tell me anyway.”
“I ran your theory about Eve Thao up the flagpole, but no one saluted. There’s no evidence to tie her to Ms. Evans’s murder. The forensic accountants examined her bank statements with a fine-toothed comb, but there were no transactions that might indicate she hired a professional to perform the hit. We scanned her email communications as well, and those didn’t raise any red flags either.”
“Are you sure?” Brooklyn had been so certain the whole ordeal was about to be over when it was apparently just beginning.
“Unfortunately, yes. I’m sorry your potential lead didn’t pan out, but please don’t hesitate to pass
along any additional information you think might be of use. My guys and I have heavy caseloads, but we’ll continue to give this one the attention it deserves.”
Brooklyn was fully aware that the longer the case remained open, the less likely it would ever be closed.
“Great,” she said to herself after she ended the call. “Just when I thought my night couldn’t get any worse.”
* * *
Santana wasn’t used to being faithful to someone. Probably because she had never had anyone she needed—or wanted—to be faithful to. Now she found herself trying to do just that.
During the week she had spent in Reykjavik, Hekla had done everything except take out a full-page ad in the local newspaper to let her know she was interested in her. Santana had initially chosen to ignore Hekla’s advances, but she couldn’t do that forever. Especially since Hekla’s questions during her daily forays to the Arctic Fox Café were beginning to turn from casual to personal.
“I love your accent,” Hekla said as she poured her a cup of coffee.
Santana had become such a familiar presence that Hekla no longer bothered taking her order. When she walked in each morning, Hekla would pour her a cup of coffee and let her know that her usual breakfast would be ready in a few minutes. Santana appreciated the shorthand, but she wondered if her plan to fit in had worked a bit too well.
“Have you always lived in Montreal?”
“Yes.”
The French-Canadian accent Santana affected when she pretended to be Delphine had taken years for her to perfect. Lessons from her tutors had given her a solid foundation, but immersing herself in the culture had proven to be the best learning tool. She had lived in Montreal for a year to develop the Delphine character, and occasionally returned just for fun when she was looking for a change of pace or had a craving for authentic poutine.
Heart of a Killer Page 15
