“The building where the skirmish happened, they had surveillance. My connections in Buenos Aires tapped into their system, downloaded it before it was purged. A one-minute battle. It’s not clear enough to make out faces, just explosions and gunfire.”
“
Send it.
”
“It’s being enhanced. Will send as soon as I can.”
“Send the video. Get me what you can on La Bestia and his crew.”
“Okay.”
“And this job, it might cost you more than I anticipated.”
“How much more?”
“A lot more.”
“Gouging.”
“Negotiating.”
“The new price?”
“First and last, on top of my fee, you and me will be squared away.”
“Agreed. You will walk away debt-free and compensated for your endeavors.”
“My price depends on what I need. On who I need. Will get back to you on that.”
“Fair enough.”
I’d had enough of being tested by that sonofabitch. I’d had enough of life testing me.
In English I asked, “Are we done here?”
“Would you like to chat with Arizona?”
“Nothing to
chat
about at this point.”
“On the contrary. Based on her expression, I think Queen Scamz wants a word.”
“Sure. Put your queen on the line.”
“Cheers.”
There was a pause, more talking in Tagalog.
Arizona came on the line. She said, “You’re at the airport.”
“Miami International.”
“The noise gave that away.”
“Sounds like you and your crew are at the airport too.”
“We just arrived.”
I said, “Back to my problem.”
“The Lebanese.”
“She left me a phone. Motorola. Flip number.”
“SIM card?”
“Yeah, it has one. Should I get this to you before we part ways?”
“One step ahead of you.”
“What do you mean?”
“What gate are you at?”
I told her.
She said, “Look for one of my employees within the next twenty minutes.”
I pushed the END CALL button. I was done talking whether she was or not.
My eyes went to the news while I sat at the gate, sweating, unable to cool off. A wealthy Republican had been found dead a few hours ago. A powerful man who funded the conservative side of Prop 2, the amendment that would define marriage in Florida’s state constitution as between one man and one woman. Looked like he had slipped and fallen, drowned in his bathtub. Room locked from the inside. I nodded. A different wealthy Republican had died last week in California, a man who had funded Prop 8, the West Coast’s version of Florida’s Prop 2. That one ruled an accidental overdose.
Neither of those were accidents.
The California hit had been my work. The best jobs were the ones that never made the news. Too much attention was bad news in my business. That shootout on Miami Gardens Drive had me feeling like a disturbed amateur and a fugitive. I took my iPhone out, pushed the POWER button. As soon as the power came up, the phone rang. It was Konstantin, my handler.
I answered, “Hello, my friend.”
“Gideon. My favorite son.”
Konstantin was Russian, one of the assassins who trained me in this business. He had worked as a hired gun for decades. Had decreased the population from Hollywood to Moscow and places in between. He was the one who taught me to be ruthless. He had a family and was battling cancer. That cancer was the assassin that was trying to take him out.
He verified that Arizona had put in her order and transferred half of the fee.
That was standard operating procedure. Half up front, nonrefund able, the second half on completion.
Whatever tools I needed to handle the job would be at the destination.
I said, “The residual from my old problems. They finally made contact.”
“Any idea who is running the second half of the show?”
I told him about Starbucks, the scene in the bathroom, gave him the description that had been fed to me, the Lebanese woman decorated with extravagant body art, and the phone call.
It meant nothing. Simple blackmail that led to nothing yet.
I said, “I told Arizona about my concerns. Wanted to see what she could find.”
“Arizona . . . you trust her?”
“I’ve known her awhile. A decade.”
“That means nothing in their business. They’d double-cross their mothers to close a deal. They are cowards and they call us to do their dirty work. They are all shit.”
“True. Friendship means nothing and family is expendable.”
“That job you did for the first Scamz a long time ago, that verifies your last statement.”
“Was on my mind.”
“You’ve never talked about it.”
“Try not to talk about work. Not the specifics.”
“If something gets to you, you have my ear. Every now and then, it’s good to talk.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“The thing you did for Scamz. It was a job he wanted me to do. I think you vanished for a couple of months when the job was done. What happened after that?”
“After I did the South America job, he wanted me to go back to North Hollywood. Wanted me to work for him. Big conflict for me. So I cut him loose, stayed where I was. Wanted to go back to California, but that . . . it could’ve gotten ugly.”
“Because of that Filipina girl.”
“Arizona.”
“She was trouble then. She was always trouble.”
“I went back and rode the End of the World Train. Got a room at Tierra de Leyendas. Met an engineering student at the Universi dad Nacional de la Patagonia San Juan Bosco. We Visited Antarctica. Looked at icebergs and penguins and whales and seals. Tourist shit.”
“In other words, you met a beautiful young woman and enjoyed your youth.”
“Best way to learn to speak Castellano is to immerse yourself in the language.”
“And you immersed yourself.”
“She was a nice girl. Should’ve stayed down there. But she started asking too many questions. Squares always ask too many questions. Always a problem messing with the squares. Was there two months. One day I went out for walk, never went back.”
“That’s the business.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Sorry, son, but I think I might have to cut it short.”
“Family?”
“In Saint Paul. And the target is in sight. Need to pop him in the next ten minutes.”
“Later.”
“One quick thing. Thirty more seconds.”
“I’m listening.”
“This job is from Queen Scamz, so I’ll have to trust it’s not a setup. I don’t need another Antigua, not with some rogue out there shadowing you, so I’m sending you in the long way. Want you to fly into Brazil, from there I’ll get you to Uruguay, then I’ll slip you into Argentina by boat.”
“Tell those condescending fucks I’m not flying commercial. They want me there, they fly me there, private plane, bring me in under radar. You’re right. I’m not chancing another Antigua.”
“They won’t go for that. That would add close to one hundred to their tab.”
“Pass it on to Scamz. And Arizona. And whoever else is on that side of corruption.”
“I’ll pass it on, but be prepared to catch the flight I arrange.”
I said, “Ninety-six hours. Not a lot of time for something of this magnitude.”
“Any other special orders, text me the list.”
Then we disconnected.
Konstantin went to kill. I practiced staying alive.
The energy in the airport shifted. Hairs stood up on my neck.
Sierra walked through the bustling crowd, at her side the other muscle-bound Filipino who had been riding with Scamz. She had a purse over her shoulder. A small purse.
She was a small woman, bowlegged, her expression always the same, always serious. She looked ten years younger than she was, could pull her hair back into a ponytail and pretend she was young enough to audition for the sequel to
High School Musical.
She had a small nose and Angelina Jolie lips, kissers that would probably make Brad Pitt do a double take.
The original Scamz had had her and Arizona at the same time. Had them the same way I’d had two women in London. That was what I saw when I looked at Sierra. All of them together.
I wondered if the new Scamz had picked up where his old man had left off.
Sierra stopped in front of me, didn’t say a word. First she looked me over, inspected my change of clothing, surprised to see me out of jeans and wearing swank linen. Her eyes told me what she wanted. I faced a woman Arizona had sent me to Amsterdam to kill not that long ago.
She extended her hand, palm up. I handed her the phone.
She sat two seats away from me and popped out the SIM card, inserted it inside a device that was connected to a computer she had taken out of her purse, a computer barely larger than the palm of my hand. While she did that, I looked at her escort. Long hair, wavy, like Troy from the Pittsburgh Steelers. A little below average height but he looked taller because he was all muscle. Had beefed himself up the way insecure short men did, maybe figuring width and bulk would create an illusion that compensates for vertical deficiency. He was dressed in Ermenegildo Zegna clothing and Christian Dior loafers. Despite looking like a billboard demonstrating where fashion met steroids, he looked strong. Maybe intimidating.
I had killed much stronger men. With my bare hands.
He extended his hand. “Nice to see you again.”
“Who are you?”
“Sierra’s brother.”
I saw the family resemblance, the Asian influence strong.
I nodded, then I shook his hand.
He said, “We met once. North Hollywood. Big Slim’s pool hall. Long time ago.”
My guess was he was there the day I met Arizona. I had been so focused on her that I didn’t notice anything else. Wished I could do that day over. Still I didn’t know him from Jeffrey Dahmer. Didn’t know him. Didn’t want to know him. Didn’t need to know him.
Sierra put the SIM card back inside the phone, then tossed me the Motorola.
She turned to leave.
I said, “Sierra.”
She paused, looked in the eyes of the man who would’ve killed her to keep Arizona safe.
Arizona was beautiful, looked like love. Sierra was stunning, darker in complexion and disposition. She looked like rabid lust chained to a stake, growling, struggling to get free.
I handed her the two driver’s licenses I had taken from Nicolas Jacoby.
I gritted my teeth and said, “Have Arizona run these.”
She held her stare. Said nothing, her breathing smooth and sensual.
She walked away. Her brother left with her.
I stared at Sierra, monitored her and her brother until I couldn’t see them anymore.
As soon as they disappeared, I saw someone else was spying on me.
Another assassin.
Chapter 13
if death ever slept
The assassin spied on me
like a well-paid shamus.
Pink baseball cap. Blue jeans, black T. Backpack on left shoulder. Gun hand pulling carry-on luggage. I held her in my periphery. She found a seat two rows over, dug a yellow
Spanish for Dummies
book out of her backpack. She saw me spying and shifted, put her shades back, then went back to her book. Her leg bounced as she moved her hair to the side.
They called my flight. I stood with the rest of the impatient crowd of world travelers.
The woman who was watching didn’t get up with the crowd. Again she glanced my way, saw my attention on her, then shifted and went back to her studies, crossed her legs and pulled her expensive and stylish cowboy boots back so impatient people could shuffle by.
After the privileged had boarded and the paupers in zone one were called, I headed toward the plane. I looked back at the television. The news was showing the limo that had exploded on I-95, then cutting away to the aftermath of the mayhem on Miami Gardens Drive. The people on the street called the men in the SUVs savages. People who had witnessed one SUV being gunned down called the man riding a black motorcycle the same name.
When I was settled in my seat, the last seat before the toilets, I waited.
She came down the aisle, backpack and carry-on in tow. She came to the last row. My row. Looked at her ticket while I took in her features. Her skin looked Mediterranean and Native American, hints of greens and yellows tinted with a poolside tan. She gave me a small smile.
She said, “Gideon.”
I nodded.
She said, “No one was watching you.”
“No one was watching you, either.”
Her hair hung below her butt, was burgundy with highlights. Her haunting green eyes pulled me into her current, a current almost as powerful as the undertow possessed by Arizona.
Her name was Hawks.
I got up and stuffed her carry-on inside the overhead bin, then eased back into my row, took the middle seat. While I was up she had hijacked my window seat. A moment later, I glanced at this woman with the hypnotic eyes. She had haunting eyes that always reminded me of Sharbat Gula, the Afghan girl who had been on the famous cover of
National Geographic
back in ’85.
Hawks asked, “Who were the Asians chatting you up?”
“Filipinos.”
“Cousins of the Asians.”
“Business in South America.”
“What’s popping down there, Mister International?”
“Long story.”
“You look STFO.”
“STFO?”
“Stressed the fuck out.”
Her cellular buzzed. She pulled it out. FUNDS TRANSFERRED flashed on her screen.
Hawks hit SEND and put her cellular up to her ear.
“Guess what, Daddy. I got my stimulus check and I’m going to the West Indies. Puerto Rico.
¿Como estás, jefe?
And I said
jefe
, not heifer. Means ‘boss’ and nothing derogatory. You’re the
jefe
, Daddy. Going with that guy I told you about, the jerk I met down in Dallas, guy I told you I’d never see again, said Hell would freeze over before I was nice to him. Well, tell the Devil to get his skates. Anyway. I’m going to see Old San Juan, the forts, Bacardi Factory, dance and drink fancy drinks. I’ll get you a fancy shot glass or something. And a magnet
. Adiós, mi jefe.
”