PRAISE FOR LOVE & BULLETS
"...a red romance, a pretty Valentine's Day box of chocolates full of spent brass casings and broken promises...an epic bullet ballet."
-- Josh Reynolds, author of Dracula Lives
"If you're after action-packed pulp fiction dripping with pop culture references and John Woo-inspired acrobatic gunplay, then look no further: Love & Bullets delivers with the fire selector on full auto."
-- Jason Franks, author of The Sixsmiths
~~~~~
Love & Bullets
Percival Constantine
Published by Pulpwork Press at Smashwords
This book is also available in print at most online retailers.
Copyright 2010 by Percival Constantine and Kyle Hafkey
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
INTRODUCTION
Several years ago, in what was perhaps 2004 or 2005, my good friend Kyle Hafkey came to me with a proposal. He had been required to make a film for one of his classes and he wanted it to be an action film. In addition to asking for my help in writing the script, he also wanted me to play the character of Dante. We worked on the script together as well as in conjunction with our friend Maggie (who was going to play the role of Angela and posed for the cover image) in developing the characters and this world.
Unfortunately some things just aren't meant to be and this film never got beyond shooting a few scenes. Still, the idea stayed with me for many years. I had fallen in love with these characters while helping craft this world and this story, particularly Dante and his organization, and I had a burning desire to tell stories about them.
I first tried to do this in the form of a comic book and I went back to the script and rewrote it, reworking a lot of things and tossing in some additional twists that Kyle and I hadn't thought of for the original screenplay. The pencils and inks were to be provided by a young artist named Keith Jim and the colors and letters provided by me. We completed the first issue and attempted publishing through Ka-Blam, but for a number of reasons which I won't get into here, we chose not to continue after the first issue.
But still, the idea stuck with me and I went back and reworked the script for the first issue again. Still, by this point I had grown frustrated with the comic industry and while struck with powerful writer's block, I chose to adapt the opening scene into a prose story for submission to an anthology. Then I kept going from there, adapting the scripts into a novelization.
There are quite a few differences in this book from the comic scripts, and even more differences from the original screenplay that began this entire thing. For those of you who have read the original material, I hope you like the changes I've made. I certainly do, I feel they enhance the overall story, improve the characters and their motivations, and give the entire thing a much grander feel, things that we just couldn't have done in the original screenplay due to time and budget constraints.
This project has become very personal to me, as it's something I've been living with for years, and I like the result.
Percival Constantine
Japan, April 2009
~~~~~
For Kyle and Maggie
~~~~~
ONE
Jack Travis had a round frame and a face grizzled with dark whiskers. His horrible breath a result of his diet, consisting mostly of foods overloaded with onion and garlic. He wore his gray suit jacket unbuttoned, but his belt buckle was obscured by the hang-over of his gut, covered by an off-white shirt. Open collar with no tie in sight. Travis didn't have much use for dressing himself in fine clothes. To him, a cheap suit was just as good as an expensive one, better because of the price tag. This preference wasn't due to a lack of funds on his part—Jack Travis had quite a bit of money. But he preferred to spend it on things he felt were more worth his time.
He walked in on short legs, barely putting his height above five-foot-five. The two men who flanked him dressed far nicer than he did and they towered over him. He gestured for them to stop and they waited for him by the entrance while Travis walked down the narrow hallway and entered one of the many doors that lined the corridor.
The door led to a small booth with a reclining chair in the center, a box of tissues on the small ledge, and a glass window covered from the other side. Travis took out some bills from his wallet and slid them into the slot. The gold ring on his finger, with the Chinese character for fire engraved in the red gemstone, caught his eye and he chuckled. He sank into the chair, shifting to accommodate his frame. He raised his gut enough to unbuckle his belt and open his pants, reaching inside his shorts.
The covering over the window opened and Travis expected to see Charlotte, his usual girl. This was just a warm-up for his usual visits with Charlotte—he liked the teasing and after the show was over, she would go home with him.
But Charlotte with her dark hair and green eyes wasn't there. Instead a different woman sat in her place, very attractive, possibly late twenties or early thirties. Her long blond hair hung down, framing her thin face and she stared at Travis with an icy gaze. She wore a white shirt under a black leather jacket and a pair of blue denim jeans. Her hands were clasped behind her back.
“Tell me how you want it,” she said with a slight grin.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
“A friend of Dante.” Her left hand swung around, a Desert Eagle clasped in her gloved grip. Two quick squeezes of the trigger were followed by two holes in the glass, now stained red. Jack Travis lay motionless in the recliner, blood seeping from the holes in his body—one in his forehead, the other in his neck.
The mysterious woman stood from the stool, walking past the unconscious Charlotte. The chloroform would keep her out for a while and solved the problem of any witnesses. Angela Lockhart would have preferred to poison Travis, make it look like an accident. But Dante wanted to send a message—snitches never prosper.
Before she had the opportunity to leave the booth, the door on the other end opened and Travis's two bodyguards entered, presumably drawn by the sound of the gunfire.
“Soundproof, my ass...” muttered Angela.
The guards each drew their weapons and opened fire. Angela dropped to the ground as the bullets cut through the space she once occupied. She wished she had a second gun. Her hand reached beneath her jacket, finding one of the spare clips she kept in the special pockets sewn into the lining. She gripped the spare clip in her right hand, hefting the Eagle in her left and getting ready, keeping careful count of the shots she head. They stopped at eleven. Seven shots unaccounted for. So either they didn't have full clips or they got smart and were now approaching the window. Angela wished it were the former but knew the latter was always far more likely. If she didn't take a chance now, it would be harder to get out.
She sprung from her crouch. The shots shattered the glass, leaving an open gap between the booths. Angela leapt headfirst through it, over the chair that housed Travis's body and between the guards who stood on either side. She landed in a roll and came upright in the corridor, swinging the gun from side to side, squeezing off four more shots through the doorway. One missed completely, one struck the guard on her left in his knee, the other two hit the right guard in his torso, felling him. She stood, ready to finish off the one left behind, but a new sound jerked her head to the right.
“You bitch!”
At the end of the corridor stood the owner, a shotgun in his hands, rage in his eyes. She rolled her own eyes and jumped into the booth just as the owner fired a load of buckshot, landing at the wall almost diagonal from the surviving guard.
“Just when you think a job is finished, you have to contend with some fat bastard holding a shotgun.”
The remaining guard sat on the ground, clasping his knee to stop the bleeding, moaning in pain. Once he saw Angela, he risked moving one of his blood-stained hands, trying to grab his gun. Angela acted on instinct, firing one shot into his hand and then quieting his screams of pain by putting a bullet in his head.
She repeated her employer's instructions in a whisper, “'we have to send a message.'” Two rounds left in the Eagle, so she ejected the clip and slapped in the fresh one, loading the first bullet into the chamber. “Fuck you, Dante.”
Edging carefully to the door, she took one of the spare guns and tossed it into the hall. The owner fired again, startled by the sudden movement.
“Amateurs,” said Angela. The distraction meant recoil time, a window of no more than a moment. But it was a window she decided to dive through. The booth across the corridor was open. She leaped across the hallway, firing two shots as she fell into the opposite booth. The owner followed up with some more shots.
Pushed up against the wall, she was just inches from the door. She could hear his footsteps and his heavy breathing. By this point, all the gunfire would attract attention. She hoped the other patrons were either too busy with their pipe cleaning or too scared by the gunfire to leave the booths and investigate. After she put down this asshole with the shotgun, she could get out of here, confident in the knowledge that no one who saw her face survived.
Her gun vanished inside her jacket. It wouldn't do her much good, not for what she planned. She waited and as soon as she saw the tip of the shotgun poke into the room, she grabbed it. Wrenching it from the surprised man's grip, she slammed the butt against his nose, hard enough to hear a crack and blood started to flow from his nostrils. She swung it like a bat, striking the side of his head and he rocked to the side. Flipping the gun around, Angela pointed it at his chest and fired. The force of impact sent him flying back, landing in the doorway of the booth where her other victims lay.
After dropping the shotgun, she went to Travis's body. She raised his hand, examining the ring on it and carefully removed it. Knowing what Travis' purpose in this place was, she was glad she had gloves. They'd end up in the fire later tonight. But the ring was important. Dante specified that he wanted it back.
She left calmly through the back entrance, the door used by the dancers. In the alley, a customized Harley Davidson sat waiting, helmet resting on top. Zipping up her jacket and donning the helmet, she started the bike and rode out slowly from the alley, merging into traffic and driving off.
TWO
Camera flashes went off rapidly, taking photographs of the bodies of Jack Travis, his bodyguards, and the owner of the establishment. Crime scene investigators went over the place, finding the remains of the bullets and collecting them, searching for any other evidence they could find.
“Doesn't this just break your heart?” asked Detective Tom Bracken.
“What's that, sir?” asked the uniformed officer by his side.
Bracken motioned to the strippers giving their statements to a few officers. “This whole thing. Who would want to disturb the sanctity of a nudie booth? It's sacrilege is what it is.”
The officer chuckled.
One of the officers who had been interviewing the strippers came forward, a stripper with dark red hair standing next to him. “Detective? This is one of the girls who works here. She was the one we found unconscious.”
“You remember anything, honey?” asked Bracken.
“Not a lot. Someone grabbed me from behind and then everything went black. Next thing I remember, I woke up and found you guys standing over me.”
“So you didn't see anyone?”
She shook her head.
“Did you know the victim?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Jack came here a lot. Usually to see me.”
Bracken cocked an eyebrow. “You don't seem too broken up.”
“He was a piece of shit,” she said. “But he was a good tipper.”
“Okay, you can go,” said Bracken. Charlotte nodded and went back to the other girls. Bracken scratched his neck as his eyes scanned the area. “Never seen anythin' like this,” he said.
“Then maybe you should take a breather.”
Bracken and the two officers turned to the source of the new voice. A young guy with brown hair that reached to his chin entered, wearing a suit and a trench coat over it. He was accompanied by a young woman also dressed in a suit with dark red hair pulled into a bun.
“This is a crime scene,” said Bracken.
“I know,” said the man. “And it's my crime scene. You and your boys can leave.”
“Come again?” asked Bracken. “And just who the hell are you?”
He handed Bracken a simple business card “Agent Christian Pierce, this is Agent Julie Kim.”
Bracken looked at the card. Nothing on it other than Pierce's name in bold typeface with a contact number in a smaller font right below it. “Uh-huh...and what are you an agent of? FBI? DEA? What?”
“You wouldn't be familiar with our organization,” said Pierce.
“Get these jokers out of my sight,” said Bracken. The theme song from the Indiana Jones films began to echo from Bracken's jacket. Christian offered a half-smile.
“Are you going to answer that?”
Bracken grumbled as he took out his cellular phone, pressing the call button and putting the phone to his ear. “This is Bracken—what? With all due respect, sir—no, I don't—yeah—okay. Sir, this is my case, we can't just—right. Yes sir, thank you, sir.”
Bracken turned off the phone and put it back in his pocket. Pierce just looked at him, that half-smile still present on his face. “Who could that have been?”
“...sir?” asked one of the uniformed officers.
“That was the...ah...the commissioner,” said Bracken. “Agent Pierce is in charge here and we're supposed to do whatever he says.”
“I thought you'd see it my way,” said Christian. “Now go get yourselves some coffee, maybe order some breakfast. My partner and I will handle this. Get rid of those girls, too. We don't need to talk to them.”
Bracken grimly nodded. “You heard the man.”
As they started to file out, a crime scene investigator gave Julie the report that had been compiled so far. Once they had left the room, Christian moved to the room where Jack Travis's body lay. He examined Travis's hands, but found nothing adorning the fingers and he sighed, looking up at his partner.
“They got him,” he said.
“How do you know?” asked Julie.
“The ring is gone,” said Christian.
“Ring?”
“All the important players at Infernum wear a gold ring with a red gemstone and in the gemstone is an engraving of some character in Chinese or Japanese, I can't remember which. Don't think Travis knew what the character was of, either. If the ring's been removed, that means it was someone from Infernum who did this.”
“Either that or someone who wanted to hock the ring,” said Julie.
Christian raised the sleeve of Travis's jacket, revealing a gold watch on his wrist. “Why take a ring and not the Rolex? Besides, this was more than just some burglar. This assassin took down three armed men.”
He looked through the space where glass had once separated the two booths and pointed against the far wall. “Look at that—bullet holes in the wall. Which meant they were shooting at this guy while he was in there. Anything else in that report?”
She flipped through some of the pages, scanning them quickly. “Here's something interesting. A bullet from an unidentified gun was taken from the back of Travis's chair, the same kind of bullet that killed all four victims.”
“So a bullet went through Travis's head and hit the chair,” said Christian.
“No, it came from the other side.” Julie walked to the chair and pointed to the back. “The bullet entered here. That means the killer either decided to put another bullet in as he left, or...”
“...or we're looking at a scene that would give John Woo a wet dream,” finished Christian.
“These guys are good.”
“Infernum gets the best and brightest,” said Christian. “For what they can afford, it's enough to convince a lot of top talent to come work for them.”
“And how do you think we're going to find out who did this?”
“We're not,” said Christian. “This is now a dead end and we have to find another way to get to Infernum.”
“You're not even going to try to find out who did this?” asked Julie.
“Why waste our resources?” asked Christian. “I've dealt with Infernum before. They don't make mistakes when it comes to assassinations.”
“We have to look into every avenue.”
Christian sighed. “Listen, you're new here so you're not used to dealing with these guys. They are very good at covering their tracks, their assassins are the best in the world. There's nothing we can do here that the local boys can't. So we let Bracken and his people investigate, see if they can turn up anything, and if they can, we'll know. Meantime, we can focus our resources on the things the cops can't.”
“You know Pierce, I can be a lot more helpful if you tell me what you know about these guys. We were assigned together, so we might as well get used to each other.”
Christian stuffed his hands in his pockets as he looked around the crime scene and then slowly nodded. “You're right, I'm sorry. I don't mean to come off as one of those assholes who refuses to work with anyone. I'm just not used to it, that's all.”
“It's okay, not used to it, either,” said Julie.
“In that case, let's get some breakfast and I'll tell you what you want to know,” said Christian.
* * *
Christian sat back, sipping his coffee and watching as Julie dug into her breakfast—two eggs over-easy with three small pancakes and a side of hash browns and three slices of bacon. He set the coffee down and smeared some cream cheese over one of the toasted bagel halves he ordered.
“Is that all you're eating?” she asked, pausing from the eggs to sip her own coffee.
“I don't like to have a heavy breakfast, usually I'll just have an apple,” he said. He bit into the bagel, watching as she scooped up an amount of hash browns covered with the egg yolk. “How do you eat like that and keep in shape?”
Julie smiled. “My sister asks me the same thing but with more of a jealous tone. Guess I was just blessed with a very good metabolism.”
“I'll say,” said Christian.
“So what about Infernum?” she asked.
“You know some of the basics already,” said Christian. “An international organization of assassins, presumably involved in other illegal activities as well. It's centralized by a mysterious figure known only as Dante. Could be his real name, could be an alias. Race unknown, age unknown, description unknown—hell, we don't even know if he is actually a he. If we know of anyone who's seen him in person, they aren't telling us.”
Julie cut through the pancakes, raising the small pieces to her mouth. “What about this organization? How long has Infernum been around?”
“Not really sure, but we have records going back to the end of the Cold War.”
“Why is the Agency so interested in this group?”
“The Agency keeps the balance and that's a balance Dante disturbs,” said Christian. “Infernum's actions have destabilized regions, overthrown governments, and turned little problems into massive cluster fucks.”
“What was Travis's connection?”
“Not sure exactly, but he was a pretty big player in the mob around here, so he probably had something Dante wanted. As a reward, he was brought into Infernum. He hadn't met Dante personally, but he knew enough about him that we could use him to possibly get to some higher-ranking members. Unfortunately, one of Infernum's assassins got to him first.”
“How can we have nothing on him?” asked Julie. “How can they have people everywhere? This doesn't make any sense. And no one knows anything about this Dante?”
“The guy's downright Blofeldian.”
“Blofeldian? What are you talking about?”
“You know, Ernst Stavro Blofeld,” said Christian. “The head of SPECTRE in the old Bond films.”
“Never really watched any of the Bond films,” said Julie.
“You're kidding,” said Christian. “Here you are, a government agent, and you've never seen a Bond film?”
Julie shook her head before sipping her coffee.
“Just don't tell Chandler that,” said Christian. Chandler was the Director of the Agency and quite a Bond fanatic in his own right. Had all the novels signed by Ian Fleming himself and always bought the new box sets of the films on the day they were released.
“It'll be our secret,” said Julie. “Where does Dante recruit these assassins from?”
“Anywhere and everywhere you can imagine,” said Christian. “Police, military, intelligence agencies, terrorist organizations, probably the goddamn Boy Scouts, too. Anywhere where he can find talented people. Money makes the world go 'round, and money can convince even the most ardent believer to change his ways.”
“What about this assassin?”
“Good question,” said Christian, biting into his bagel once again. “My guess is he's someone good. Very good. Probably government-trained.”
“One of ours or someone else?”
“No way to tell. Could be CIA, Mossad, KGB, MI-6, anyone. But whoever it is, I don't think we've seen the last of them.”
THREE
Angela stood on the roof of the apartment tenement, the morning sun glinting off the face of her silver watch as she checked the time. The watch had been Jeff's and whenever she looked at it, she was reminded of his face when she gave it to him two years ago for Christmas. A few months ago, she was clearing out some of his things and she found it and discovered she didn't want to part with the watch. She had it resized and kept it for herself.
Quarter after seven, that's what the watch told her. He was late. Probably did it just to irritate her. He had a habit of doing that but she took some solace in the fact that after tonight, she'd never have to see him again.
In her head, she ran down the list of reasons he chose this place for their meeting. A run-down area of the city, so no security in the building, the kind of place where neighbors never open their doors. Easy to get in and out without being seen. She pulled her jacket closed and zipped it up. The wind carried a chill and she wished she was at home relaxing.
The click of a lighter broke the silence and the scent of smoke quickly followed. She turned around and faced the rooftop entrance stairwell. A tall man leaned against the door. He had a swimmer's build, lean yet muscular. His hair an unnatural blond and he wore it slicked back, but the ends of it began to curl at the base of his neck. Further enhancing the unnatural hair color were his eyebrows and facial hair—a dark brown, almost black. He had a Fu Manchu type of mustache, except with an additional strip of hair running from the middle of his bottom lip down his chin. His ethnicity was impossible to determine, his facial features the result of either mixed heritage or extensive plastic surgery. Angela wasn't sure which it could be, as both were equally likely with this man.
Just as strange as his appearance was his clothing—a reddish-brown leather jacket that reached to the top of his thighs, which were covered in dark red leather pants. And beneath the jacket he wore a bright, shiny pink shirt. He held the cigarette between the ring and pinky fingers of his left hand and eyed her with light-colored blue eyes, so light that they almost seemed turquoise. His pinky itself was clad with a gold finger guard, hinged at the knuckle, that came to a sharp point. Rings of various garish intensity lined the other three fingers and the same situation existed on his right hand, which hung loosely at his side.
“You're late,” said Angela.
“I like to make an entrance.” He spoke with an accent, something that seemed vaguely British, but Angela could not be sure. The man called Dante kept the details of his life a closely-guarded secret. There were many rumors about him, but nothing ever substantiated by more than hearsay.
“Here.” Angela tossed the ring. Dante snatched it from the air in his right hand, opening his fingers to examine it in his palm. He smiled once he saw the familiar gemstone, the exact same ring resting on the third finger of his right hand.
“Good work,” said Dante, dropping the ring into one of the pockets of his jacket. “Bit of a messy situation, I hear.”
“I could have made it quiet, only wound up with one casualty as opposed to four.”
“This sends an even bigger message,” said Dante. “Mess with Infernum, not only do you die, but you end up with quite a bit of collateral damage. We've shown them that wherever you go, wherever you hide, we can get to you.”
“It was a sleazy peep show, not like we're talking about the Witness Protection Program.”
“Point still stands, we've sent a message,” said Dante. “Those who know Travis was involved with us we'll also know he did something to make us unhappy.”
“You keep saying 'us.'”
“Do I?” he asked with a grin.
“Just give me my money so I can get out of here.”
“Suit yourself.” He reached inside his jacket and produced an envelope, tossing it to her. Angela tore it open, but nothing more than a bank book sat inside. She took it out and it had the name and address of a bank in the Cayman Islands printed on it.
“What is this?” she asked.
“An account set up in your name in the Cayman Islands,” said Dante.
“Our agreement was cash.”
“Then I'm giving you an option. Just call that number and have the bank transfer the funds to an account of your choice. Or—” he paused long enough to take a drag on his cigarette, “—or you use that book and keep track of new deposits made.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Angela.
“I'm talking about keeping you on, making you part of Infernum.”
“You want me to be one of your assassins?”
“I prefer to think of them as my honor guard, but yes, that's the gist.”
“Not interested.”
“Why don't you hear me out before—”
“Not. Interested.”
“So what are you going to do now?” asked Dante. “Skip off with your winnings to some tropical island, spend the rest of your days lying on the beach with a book in one hand and a fruity umbrella drink in the other?”
Angela crossed her arms. “The thought did occur to me.”
“And just who are you fooling?” asked Dante as he slowly approached her, cigarette gripped tightly between those bottom two fingers.
“We had a deal,” said Angela. “I do this for you, and you get me away from the Agency's radar.”
“And it worked splendidly, so much that I want you on my team.” He began to circle her, never pulling his eyes away for a second. “I know you'd never admit it, but you enjoyed this assignment. The rush of it all, the thrill of battle, having to analyze a situation, work out several potential scenarios, select one and then dismiss the rest in a fraction of a second. It's what you live for, it's what you were made to do. And more than that, you like the way you feel when you put a bullet in a piece of shit like Travis.”
“You don't know anything,” said Angela, not even looking at him.
“Don't I?” asked Dante, leaning in close over her shoulder, exhaling smoke from his nostrils. “Face it, love—the Agency turned you into a weapon and you love it.”
Angela spun on her heel, drawing her Desert Eagle and pointing it at Dante's head. He stepped back, offering his hands up in a mock surrender. “A bit feisty, aren't we?” he asked.
“Fuck you, Dante. I'm taking my money and I'm retiring. No more assassinations, no more wet works, no more playing chess with people's lives. And if I ever see you again, I'm putting a bullet in your head.”
She walked for the stairwell. Dante sat on the edge of the building, one foot resting on the ledge and his arm draped on his knee. “One year,” he said. “That's how long it's been, hasn't it?”
Angela froze.
“One year since someone killed him in your home, lying dead in a pool of his own blood,” said Dante. “And the Agency—with all their resources—couldn't find out who killed him. What does that tell you?”
Angela peered over her shoulder, strands of hair falling in her face. “That maybe one of Infernum's untouchables pulled the trigger.”
“One theory, and certainly valid,” said Dante. “An even better one is that the Agency couldn't be bothered.”
She turned her body to him. Her gun still hung at her side, but her muscles tensed and she would raise it at an instance's provocation.
“I know the Agency, and I know they're more concerned with nabbing me than anything else. Your husband's death had nothing to do with me or my organization. That means the Agency couldn't be bothered.”
“I know all this. That's why I left.”
“But what you don't know is that I can help you,” said Dante. “I may not know who killed your husband, but I can find out. My organization has a global reach. I know people. If I want to find someone, I will. But the question you have to ask yourself is, are you willing to do something for me in return?”
“You're testing my patience.”
“And like I said, you have options,” said Dante. “You can take that money and run, go off to retirement, only to have it eventually run out and leave you with no closure about your husband.
“Option number two is to take that gun and shoot me, like you're so tempted. You do that and every hit man I employ will come after you. One or two you could probably take out, but all of them at once? Not a chance.
“And the third and final option is you accept my offer. You kill some very bad people, make some very good money, and sooner or later, I'll find the man who killed your husband and you will have your well-deserved revenge.”
Angela raised the gun, although not pointing at Dante. She weighed her options, considered his words. Even though the thought of shooting him gave her a bit of joy, she hadn't actually intended to. Reflex made her draw the gun. And she knew he was right about her plan for retirement. That left only one option. There was a part of her that wanted the peace and quiet retirement would bring. But another, bigger part of her told her that Dante was right—she wouldn't be satisfied with retirement. She needed the rush, she needed the action. If she survived long enough, that was an even bigger nest-egg. And if snake eyes came up on her roll, then that just meant a peace of a different kind. Seemed like a win-win situation to her.
“For argument's sake, let's assume I say yes. What guarantee do I have that you'll find the killer?”
“I don't make guarantees.”
“Then you don't hire me.”
“I could just lie at this moment, tell you what you want to hear,” said Dante. “But that's not what you really want, not unless I'm certain.”
“I want the truth.”
“Truth is, I don't know but I can find out,” said Dante. “I'm going to review your husband's file, have my people go over the incident of his death, as well as start asking the wrong kinds of people the right kinds of questions. It won't be long before the killer pokes his head out. I'll get you what you want to know, I'll get you the truth. What you do with it becomes your own prerogative.”
“How does this work?”
“When I have an assignment, you will be contacted.”
“Contacted by who?”
“My people.”
“No,” said Angela. “You. I work through you and you alone.”
“I don't make special arrangements.”
“Then you don't get me.”
Dante took a final drag on the cigarette, now down to the filter. He flicked it with his thumb and forefinger, launching it over the edge of the building. Reaching into his jacket, he drew a silver cigarette case, with the Chinese character for fire engraved on the front. All Dante's cigarettes were custom and to prove it, they were stamped with that same Chinese character at the filter. Dante took a cigarette out and lit it with a gold Zippo.
“You drive a tough bargain, Lockhart,” he said.
“You going to meet my demands?”
“Sure, some...personal attention may be nice,” he said.
“That's one,” said Angela. “Second, I want a guarantee about the assignments I get. I'm not killing any good people, okay? If you want someone dead, it better be a scum bag like Travis. No children.”
“I wouldn't greenlight a kill of that nature anyway,” said Dante. “Done.”
Angela slid her gun into the holster hidden beneath her jacket. “You also keep the Agency off my back.”
“That's taken care of,” said Dante. “The Agency won't give you any trouble when they believe you're dead. That means you have to stay off their radar as well. So I want clean kills from you without a shred of evidence that can be traced back to you.”
“It's like you said, the Agency trained me well,” said Angela.
“I don't recall saying that,” said Dante with a grin. “I just said they turned you into a weapon. And now you're my weapon.”
Angela crossed the distance between them, staring into Dante's eyes. The two were at about the same height, give or take. “Let's get this straight—you do not own me. This is a mutually beneficial arrangement, nothing else. I can leave whenever I choose.”
“And I can terminate our contract whenever I choose,” said Dante.
“Anything else?”
“Yes, there are a few rules I want you to keep in mind.”
“Such as?”
“The first rule is I do not exist. Infernum does not exist. Should you be captured, you will be provided with the best defense money can buy. But if you go against me, I will take you into my own custody and no torture they perform on you will even begin to compare to what I will put you through. I'll make it last for weeks, give you a blood transfusion if I have to. Are we clear on rule number one?”
“Crystal.”
“Good. Now rule number two. For the most part, your missions will be open to interpretation. If you wish to make a public spectacle of the murder, that's fine. If you want to make it look like natural causes, all the best. Provided you are not identified and provided I am not identified. The exception to this is that when I have a specific way I want a job done, you are to execute the assignment to the letter. Should you deviate from this, see rule number one.”
Angela nodded and Dante took a drag on his cigarette before continuing. “Now the third and final rule is a bit simple—keep your emotions in check.”
“Excuse me?”
“Emotions fog up your head and they are a detriment in the field. Make you second guess yourself, cause you to take stupid chances. So in the field, your emotions are to remain firmly in the off position.”
“You don't have to worry about any of that with me,” said Angela.
“I hope you mean that, for your sake.”
“Anything else?”
Dante offered his hand. “Just this.”
Angela glanced at the hand before she gripped it in her own and they shook, sealing their deal. “So what happens now?” she asked.
“Now, you go home,” said Dante, turning away from her. “When I have an assignment, I will be in touch. Or, to put it another way...”
He sat on the ledge once more and turned to her with a smile.
“...don't call us, we'll call you.”
FOUR
The apartment door opened to a small corridor that ended at the kitchen. A few feet from the door to the right was an entrance to the living room. To the left, a small alcove with three doors—one to the bathroom, one to the bedroom and the third was a linen closet.
Angela kept her jacket on, walking directly to the bedroom. She pushed aside the sliding mirror door and stepped into the closet, moving the hanging clothes to the side. Reaching at the side, she found the hidden switches and pushed open the false wall, revealing a hidden weapons rack against the true wall, a small ledge jutting out.
Various guns and knives were stored here in slots molded specifically for them. She removed the Eagle from her holster, ejecting the clip and placing it into its spot. The clips which were empty or close to it went on top of the ledge beside a box of ammunition. She filled each clip with bullets and then set them into their spots. The full clips, still stored in the pouches sewed into her jacket, were removed one by one and placed back on the rack. She closed the hidden door and removed her jacket, hanging it in the closet beside several others.
Other than the weapons and clothes, Angela seemed to have no other personal possessions in her room. Not a single photograph framed nor a poster on the wall. The closest thing to a clock was the watch she wore. Not even a landline telephone, as she relied exclusively on her mobile.
In the bathroom, she stripped her clothes and stepped into the shower, closing the fogged door behind her. The hot water stung the bruises and welts that covered her body after last night's activities. She hadn't eaten anything since before the hit, over twelve hours ago. She could hear her stomach rumble as she carefully soaped her body, moving the cloth lightly over her sores. She thought about her deal with Dante, to work for him and wondered once more if it was the right decision.
She knew his game. Knew he enjoyed playing her. He didn't have any information on Jeff's killer and likely never would. But even though she knew all this, why did she agree to it? Why did she agree to become his assassin?
Because you do like it.
That's what the voice in the back of her head told her. Told her Dante had her pegged—the Agency turned her into a weapon and she liked what she had become. The power it gave her, the thrill of hunting a target, all of it like a drug. At one time, she didn't even care about collateral damage. Whatever it took to get the job done, that's what she learned from her training at the Agency.
She had originally been at Quantico, training for the FBI. Until the day when Mason Draconi came to her. He had been a big guy, tall and built like a brick wall. Eastern European features, dark hair and piercing dark eyes with a goatee and a voice like gravel. She still remembered that first meeting with him, sitting in a small Arabic cafe nearby. The place was virtually empty when she entered and Draconi sat in a wicker chair with colorfully-designed pillows cushioning it. A similar chair sat across from him and he motioned her to sit. Angela took her seat, noting the hookah which stood on the floor between them.
“Are you Mason Draconi?” she asked.