Lethal Affairs (2 page)

Her medium brown hair needed cutting. She generally liked to wear it only to her shoulder blades, with long bangs she could pin back while she worked, but she lacked the obsession with hair and makeup of most women and had let her usual trim slip by a few weeks longer than normal.

She preferred working in the quiet before dawn, when she heard only the occasional muffled prayers of the priests and their soft footfalls as they carried out their duties.

In an hour, the parishioners would arrive and, later, the tourists, whose constant, whispered conversations created a dull white noise to mar her sense of peace. The smell of burning candles, old and new, grew pungent high on the scaffolding, and the incredible acoustics allowed her to make out snatches of conversations from below. The families—the loving parents and patient grandparents with strings of children in tow—saddened her, because they represented memories she had never had.

But at this time of the morning, in her solitude, she was content. For the last few hours, she had been restoring an auburn-haired angel to her brilliant, almost garish former glory, carefully removing years of candle soot and the previous restorer’s handiwork to reveal what the artist had intended. The lovely face, the only area still unfinished, beckoned to her.

Luka checked her latex gloves for rips before she reached for another bottle of saturated calcium hydroxide and carefully dipped her swab. She brought it over her head once again and applied the solution to the angel’s peaceful smile. As it became more vivid it drew her in.

The sudden vibration of the cell phone in her pocket broke her concentration. She checked the caller ID and sighed. Keeping her voice down, she answered. “Good morning.”

The woman’s voice on the other end was maternally tender. “Hi, honey. It’s me. How’s everything with you? Are you working?”
“I’m doing fine,” Luka responded. “And yes, I’m at work. You know me, I always start early.”
“That’s nice, dear. I hope you make time for breakfast, though.”
“I will. I have it right here with me.”
“Oh, before I forget about why I called. We want you to join us for dinner tomorrow.”
She frowned. “Dinner plans tomorrow? That’s short notice.”
“Thanks, honey, I knew you’d understand,” the voice said, as though she had just readily agreed. “Don’t forget breakfast. See you soon.”
Luka flipped the phone shut and stared wistfully at the angel another minute before she packed up to leave.

Hayley Ward maneuvered through the throng of television, newspaper, and radio reporters, positioning herself so she would be standing in the hip-hop artist’s direct line of sight as he left the recording studio. She knew every way possible to gain an advantage and didn’t hesitate to do whatever she needed to get a story. For this one, she’d put on a red blouse, because it was the man’s favorite color, and red lipstick.

She’d spent a lot of time on her makeup and hair, though she didn’t need to. Beautiful parents had blessed her with unbeatable genes. She had full, kissable lips, a million-dollar smile with dimples, warm hazel eyes; high cheekbones; and shiny, shoulder-length auburn hair with natural wheat-gold highlights.

Hayley was only five-four, and most of the other media reps towered over her, so she compensated with three-inch heels. And when she interviewed men, she always wore clothes that showed off her perfect hourglass figure to best advantage. The blouses and tops displayed a little cleavage, and the skirts were short enough to allow a good view of her legs. Today with her red blouse, she wore a charcoal skirt and blazer with matching pumps.

She was striking, and it was hard not to notice her. Hayley counted on that fact. The crowd of media came alive as the singer’s entourage emerged, and she elbowed past the
Entertainment Tonight
correspondent just as the rapper himself appeared.

Her voice was only one of many shouting his name, but she was in exactly the right spot to catch his eye, which was enough. He headed straight toward her.

The campus sprawled over sixty-three acres and consisted of several squat red-brick buildings, dormitories and classrooms, and larger structures that housed administrative offices and training facilities. The remote location gave it much-needed privacy from outside scrutiny, and best of all, it was adjacent to the nearly half-million-acre Weminuche Wilderness Area, which provided it with the diverse ecological environments necessary for comprehensive field training.

It looked much like the private boarding school it was purported to be, except for the extraordinary security. High razor-wire-topped fences surrounded the campus, security cameras appeared everywhere, and the sign on the guard gate read
No Trespassing. Admittance Only With Proper Identification.

At night, armed guards patrolled at irregular intervals. And in the administration building, a massive neo-Gothic structure with bell towers evocative of medieval cathedrals, nearly every door required a coded key card. The complex was the home of the Elite Operatives Organization, a specialized school that, in its fifty-sixth year, was still as unknown to the world as it had been in its earliest days.

Montgomery “Monty” Pierce, the EOO’s chief administrator, studied the school’s latest acquisitions as they romped on a massive wooden playset outside the junior dormitory. His fair Scandinavian complexion turned blotchy when he spent too long in the sun, even in June, so he kept his suit jacket on and chose a bench in the shade of the building.

The three boys and three girls he was inspecting ranged in age from four to six, and all were healthy, unusually bright children. But if the past was any harbinger, at least half of this current crop would end up in foster care or be privately adopted out before the age of twelve because they fell short of EOO requirements. And only one at most would have the exceptional qualities necessary to place him or her in the ranks of the school’s top graduates, the ETFs, shorthand for Elite Tactical Force.

David Arthur, Director of Training, jogged toward Pierce from the gymnasium in his customary combat fatigues. Like him, Arthur had just passed his fifty-eighth birthday, but with his lean, muscled body and dense, copper-colored crew cut, at a distance he could pass for a student.

Though Pierce had kept his weight in check, his own body, by contrast, bore the fleshiness of his years behind a desk, and his face revealed the deep creases of his frequently dour expressions.

Arthur settled onto the bench. “Any obvious standouts?” Pierce pointed to a dark-haired boy atop the monkey bars. “Him, for sure. Agile. Fearless. From the Ukraine.” Nodding toward a redheaded girl jumping on one of the trampolines, he added, “And perhaps this one, from the Stockholm orphanage. Exceptionally high I.Q.”
“Joanne will be pleased. Speaking of whom here she comes.”
Pierce straightened his tie and sat up straighter.
Joanne Grant, the third member of the governing trio, was the least recognizable from her days as an ETF. Since she’d become Director of Academics she’d gained ten pounds, and her once-ebony hair was now entirely white.
Only Pierce and Grant dealt with the outside world, contracting with EOO clients and making contact as necessary with the myriad high-level resources the Organization had cultivated. But when they determined how and when to utilize their valued ETFs, Arthur took an equal role. In order to ensure its elite operatives were not unnecessarily put at risk to settle a personal vendetta, at least two members of the Governing Trio had to sign off on any high-level assignment, which was the reason for today’s meeting.
Pierce and Arthur rose when Grant reached them, and they set off in the direction of the obstacle course, talking as they walked.
Arthur asked, “This about the Guerrero affair?”
“Yes,” Pierce confirmed. “Our contact in Cuba called over the weekend. Guerrero’s moved up his return home and is leaving tonight. We’re still trying to nail down the particulars.”
“Tonight?” Grant increased the length of her stride to keep up with them. “I thought Allegro was unavailable until Thursday.”
“She is. We can’t pull her off the case she’s on,” Pierce said. “It’s taken two weeks to get her into position to obtain the information for our Seattle client, and it all goes down tomorrow morning.”
“We can’t send Mark alone to get Guerrero,” Arthur pointed out, quite unnecessarily.
“No. Not on his first assignment.” Pierce pictured their most recent graduate. Mark Johnson, aka Sundance, was a clean-cut young man with sandy blond hair and blue eyes. “Especially since things are in flux. We need a senior ETF with experience. That’s why I sent for Domino as soon as we got the call. We don’t have much time, and she’s the only one available.”
“I hate to use one of our best on such a high-profile assignment,” Grant said. “Especially since it involves so many unknowns now. It’s too risky—the cops and the media will be all over this. Surely there’s someone else.”
They were passing the ball field, where some students were playing baseball. Grant, without looking, quickly raised her left hand and caught a hard-hit ball coming from that side that otherwise would have hit Pierce, walking half a step ahead. The demonstration of her well-honed reflexes would have stunned anyone else, but neither man blinked.
“I know you have a soft spot for Domino, Joanne, but this job is too important to leave to someone less qualified,” Pierce said. “And tonight will be our only opportunity. I’ll have a support team in place in case they need it.”
“I don’t know…” Grant frowned, and her steps slowed, forcing the men to pause also.
“Domino is the best suited. You have my vote,” Arthur declared, ending the debate. “Sundance needs a strong second. He has the skills, but he hasn’t been tested yet. And Guerrero might present unseen difficulties. The man’s cocky and unpredictable.”
Two votes was all it took, so the trio disbanded, Grant and Arthur returning to their offices as Pierce reached for his cell phone to set things in motion.

omino applied vivid red lipstick as the van paused at a traffic light, then continued to peruse the file folder on her lap. Reno, the driver, a taciturn twenty-something brute of a man with shiny black hair, was familiar. Less so was Blade, the attractive Latino woman seated with her in the back.

“It’s a break for us he’s decided to take this deal before he leaves,” Blade told her. “It’s at a hotel not far from here. Easy in and out, not one of the busier, high-end places. Good for his business, and ours.”

Domino looked down at a color photo of the target. As Cuba’s Information Minister, Juan Carlos Guerrero had diplomatic immunity, though his real work as the country’s premiere drug kingpin had been well documented. It was no surprise that he was marked for liquidation—he was a self-serving, corrupt dictator who didn’t hesitate to silence his opponents with death or imprisonment. Helpfully, his arrogance had provided them an opportunity to get to him in a much less risky environment than Miami International Airport.

For five days, Guerrero had been conducting his cocaine deals poolside, behind the fortress-like walls of his sister’s Miami mansion, within view of his eleven-year-old niece but well protected from prying eyes or interruptions. That he had decided to risk arranging a final deal in a public hotel revealed both his unmitigated greed and sense of invulnerability.

“Sundance is already in place, but has instructions to wait for you,” Blade told Domino as she flipped past Guerrero’s picture and profile to a crudely drawn floor plan. “They’re in the hotel lounge. Four ways in and out—the elevators and stairwell, here…” Blade pointed with a well-manicured fingernail. “Which lead to all floors and the underground parking garage. This way to the lobby and front desk… and this, to the alarmed fire exit to the street.”

Domino fitted a wireless earpiece snugly into her right ear and ran a hand through her long blond hair to cover it. It was both a transmitter and receiver.

Blade handed her a plain dark tote bag to complete her preparations. “Guerrero arrived in a black Mercedes SUV. It’s parked in the hotel’s underground garage. The driver is the shorter of the two guys with him in the lounge.”

“Yes,” Blade replied. “Above the exits, in the lobby, and in the garage.”
“We’re here,” Reno announced as the van began to slow.
Full dark had come upon the city during their drive, and they were in a quiet alleyway, away from traffic, with no one about. Domino jumped out and waited for the van to be well away before she headed toward a nearby taxi stand. It was only six more blocks to the hotel, so she was in the lounge within ten minutes.
Within a few seconds, she unobtrusively took in the entirety of the place and its inhabitants.
The lighting was subdued, as she expected, and the Sharksfin Lounge had the dark colors and Caribbean kitsch decor that seemed to be all the rage in these middle-of-the-road hotel bars in Miami. The round tables were low and black, and the padded stools and comfy seats surrounding them were deep bordeaux, the same shade as the carpet. Live tropical plants were scattered about, and a baby grand piano in one corner hinted at live entertainment on the weekend. In the back, a mirrored wall above the bar reflected four long, neat rows of bottles, their colored contents illuminated by track lights from above.
It was an unremarkable place that fell short of its attempt to be trendy and tasteful, but it was comfortable and quiet, and the low Latin music in the background provided a pleasant ambience for businessmen turning a deal or tourists looking to unwind over a fruity drink and coconut shrimp. This early in the evening, only a few tables were occupied.
Guerrero was off to the left and toward the back, with his bodyguard and driver flanking him and his business contact sitting opposite. Four men in business suits, speaking too quietly to be overheard. Domino knew the bodyguard would be watching all new arrivals, so she skimmed her attention over them and on, without making eye contact.
Near them, a young Latino couple too intent on each other to notice much else seemed to be the only locals. Two other tables held tourists—a young Asian couple speaking Japanese close by to Domino’s right, and, farther on, a bored-looking middle-aged couple whose sunburned faces told of their naiveté of the south Florida sun, even in April.
Sundance sat by himself near the abandoned piano, nursing a beer and reading the sports page. He looked exactly like the picture she had memorized, except for his deep tan. Blond hair, blue eyes, and casual preppy outfit, with the look of a college student on spring break who might be killing time waiting for friends.
Beyond him, a baby-faced Cuban barman in black pants, white shirt, and vest the same bordeaux as the carpet watched them all as he polished glasses.
She heard Blade’s voice in her earpiece and knew Sundance could hear it, too. “Domino, flag down the waiter and order a ginger ale if everything is in order.”
As she crossed to a table in the back where she would have a good vantage point, she caught her reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar. Her attire was well suited for her task and environment. The simple dark navy dress was stylishly appropriate, without showing so much skin she attracted undue attention. It was cut to just above the knee, its V-neck modestly shallow. And her matching pumps had enough of a heel to be fashionable, but not so much she couldn’t move fast if she had to.
Settling comfortably into a seat, she set the tote bag on the chair beside her and signaled for the barman, satisfied the situation was as expected.
“What can I get for you?” he asked.
“A ginger ale, please.” She spoke loud enough for Sundance to hear.
Blade’s voice sounded again in her ear. “Sundance, when the lady gets her drink, clear your throat.”
The baby-faced barman returned with her ginger ale, and as he set it in front of Domino, Sundance dutifully cleared his throat.
When he did, Domino glanced his way in discreet acknowledgment. She could only hear him in person, not through her earpiece. When their eyes met, she felt her first niggling of disconcertion to see relief cross his face. She had once been a rookie too, and nervous, but also anxious to prove herself, as Sundance should be.
“Proceed as planned,” Blade told them both.
The wait began.
Sundance kept to his newspaper, while Domino played the I’mwaiting-for-someone-and-they’re-late attitude for the benefit of any interested parties. She checked her watch, stirred her drink, and acted bored, while inconspicuously keeping tabs on Guerrero and his party.
The Cuban’s bodyguard was a hulking thug, and vigilant. He watched everything, glancing her way frequently. Guerrero’s driver was a head shorter and only slightly less broad in the shoulders. The blond-haired man Guerrero was meeting with looked every bit the typical businessman, in his neat blue suit, polished oxfords, and leather briefcase.
Twenty minutes into their wait, when the barman returned to see if she wanted something else, Domino made sure her response was loud enough to carry to Guerrero’s table. “Yeah, sure, I’ll take another. And would you keep an eye out for my boyfriend, let me know if you see him come in? He’s six feet, short dark hair, cute…” She checked her watch again. “And in serious trouble if he doesn’t get here soon.”
The barman laughed. “Sure thing.”
After another ten minutes of waiting, she plucked a cell phone out of her tote bag and pretended to make a few calls, all seeking the whereabouts of her boyfriend.
It was twenty minutes more before the blond businessman sitting opposite Guerrero started putting things into his briefcase, while the bodyguard signaled the barman for their bill.
Out of the corner of her eye, Domino watched Sundance stand and fold his newspaper, then pull out his wallet for a tip, busying himself until his target was on his feet and ready to depart. Her disquiet increased when she saw his hand tremble
.
As soon as Guerrero and his goons headed toward the elevators, Sundance went that way too, walking ahead of them. The businessman veered off from the rest, toward the lobby.
Domino forced herself to remain seated, observing the four men wait for the lift. As the primary operative, Sundance was supposed to stick with the target at all costs. She assumed they were all headed to the underground parking garage, since she knew Guerrero had a car waiting there and a flight to catch.
And indeed, when the elevator arrived, she watched the down arrow above it illuminate.
As soon as the elevator doors closed, she rose and headed quickly to the back bar, where she tossed the barman a couple of bills. “If he ever gets here,” she said petulantly, “tell him he can go to hell, huh?”
While she was pounding down the stairwell beside the elevator after them, the voice in her ear relayed a disturbing development. “Domino, Sundance may be made.”