The gangster paused. He looked at Kemin with dark eyes. “You’re interrupting my phone call.”
“That’s right,” the gangster said to the phone. “Three, nine, four, Evins Street. Sincan. That’s right.”
“They’re deep in the woods,” Kemin blurted, desperate. “I can give you exact directions. I can take you there.”
The gangster looked over at Kemin annoyed and kept talking. “That’s right, Gino, tell the butcher to take his time. Work close to the bones.”
“Tommy,” the agent said. “He’s talking to you.”
The gangster pulled the phone down to his chest momentarily. “What, you think he’s telling me the truth?”
“I am,” Kemin insisted. “I am. Please tell them to stop.”
The gangster frowned. Then he slowly raised the phone to his ear. “Listen, Gino, I’ll call you back. Wait about forty-five minutes and you don’t hear back from me, tell the Butcher to knock himself out.”
The gangster snapped the phone shut and sneered at Kemin. “This better be good.”
Chapter 3
Anton Kalinikov sat at the coffee shop against a window and read the Washington Post with his legs crossed. The front page was consumed with the death of FBI agent Dave Tanner who was murdered in a nightclub parking lot the night before. Kalinikov read the details with extreme interest. He found some discrepancies with the timeline, but otherwise was satisfied with the reporting. There was no mention of witnesses or potential leads. Kalinikov was still amazed at the amount of details the American press would release to the public.
He waited for his coffee to go cold before drinking. It was how he was raised to drink the beverage back in St. Petersburg. Back before he was recruited into the KGB. Back when the Soviet agency was the most effective information-gathering organization in the world. The perception of the killers who saturated the KGB was highly exaggerated compared to amount of spies it had. The number of pure assassins never actually reached double digits. It made Kalinikov’s skills that much more valuable.
Kalinikov was there when they shut the office down for good in the early nineties. Once his job had been eliminated, he began freelancing. To be safe he traveled to distant continents. Places where the authorities had a very low level of sophistication. It’s the reason he’d never worked in America before this trip. Not that he was afraid, just smart. He could assassinate a Brazilian official with a half-hour notice. Very low risk, yet the compensation was still quite high for the job. An FBI agent, however, required some heavy preparation. Four FBI agents required four times the work, which is why at his age he demanded the huge sum to be cajoled into making the trip. It would be his final job before retiring and he needed enough to send him off to a warm island paradise.
His cell phone vibrated. He pushed a button and saw the text message:
TRANSFER HAS BEEN COMPLETED.
Kalinikov smiled. One quarter of his compensation was now in his Swiss bank account. He pushed another couple of buttons and confirmed the transfer. Next, he unfolded a small piece of paper with four handwritten names and crossed off Dave Tanner’s name. Even though Kalinikov hadn’t been to America, he was keenly aware of his targets. All four names listed were the FBI agents who’d made up a squad of six counterterrorism specialists known as “The Team.” There were two other members in Arizona, but they were none of his concern. His responsibility remained with the four agents in D.C.
Kalinikov didn’t care about who or why, as long as he got paid. From his only phone conversation with his employer, he’d discerned a Kurdish accent. After the death of Kemel Kharrazi it was easy to imagine the reason these four men’s fate were to follow that of the Kurdish terrorist’s.
Turning the page, he noticed another small article of interest. A report of an assassination attempt on an ex-FBI agent who was now a sheriff in Gila County, Arizona. Apparently the suspect was a young Kurdish terrorist who had been shot to death by the agent’s ex-partner. Kalinikov shook his head in disgust. Everyone wanted to be an assassin but nobody was willing to put in the time to become a professional.
By now the FBI knew these two incidents were not a coincidence. It concerned Kalinikov, but not too much. He was far superior in his abilities to fall prey to a tail or be caught finishing his work. It always came down to routine. The same routine which caused the next name on his list to become vulnerable. FBI agent Mell Downing’s weakness was his sweet tooth. Every day after work he would walk into this very coffee shop and buy a chocolate muffin to eat on his way home. His wife was a meddling woman who watched every calorie the poor guy ate, so Downing would get in a last sugar fix before he went home to his mate’s scrutiny.
Kalinikov checked his watch, then looked up in time to see Downing enter the coffee shop and move to the sales counter. The assassin waited patiently as the clerk picked up one of the two remaining chocolate muffins with a pair of tongs and placed it in a bag. The same two muffins which Kalinikov had ordered, then laced with a slow-working poison, then quickly returned the muffins for two chocolate scones instead. He’d laced the muffins so quickly, so adroitly, that he’d never even left the counter. He needed the clerk to know they were untouched as he apologized for his mistake and assured him they were still fresh for another client. The clerk, in a hurry, placed the two muffins back in the case.
Now, Agent Downing was scanning the room. He was trying to be inconspicuous, but Kalinikov could sense the anxiety in his eyes. Downing couldn’t possibly recognize him. Kalinikov had always worn a disguise and never left a true surveillance image behind any job he’d ever done.
Downing took the bag from the clerk and smiled. As he left the shop, he dipped his hand greedily into the bag and stuffed his mouth with the delicious toxin. The amount of Ricin powder he’d already swallowed was lethal. The vomiting and diarrhea would begin within a couple of hours, then severe dehydration followed by low blood pressure. Unless he had every major organ transplanted within the next forty-eight hours he’d be dead.
Kalinikov watched the man walk blissfully down the sidewalk toward home. He crossed Downing’s name from the list and took a sip from his cold cup of coffee. He shook his head. Human beings thrived on routine. It gave them comfort in its ritual. But in the hands of someone with Kalinikov’s experience, routine could be very lethal.
• • •
Before he even opened his eyes, Nick Bracco heard his wife’s voice. She seemed to be stifling a giggle.
“Can you imagine,” Julie said. “I’d have paid anything to be there.”
When Nick’s eyes gained focus, Julie was at the foot of his bed in an animated discussion with Jennifer Steele.
“Who knew those two brutes could act?” Jennifer said.
Julie turned to see Nick trying to prop himself up on his elbows.
“No, no,” Julie ran over and rested her palms on his torso. “Stay down, baby.”
Nick’s left shoulder pinched him with a searing burn that sent a nauseous spike to his throat. He swallowed it down, then allowed gravity to settle his head back to the pillow.
Julie smiled down at him. “How’s my boy?”
Nick fought a drug-induced stupor. “How long was I out?”
“You slept through the night,” Julie said. “The surgery went fine. The best thing you could do right now is rest.”
Nick’s patchy memory sprung to life. “Who shot me?”
Steele came around Julie to face him. “Afran Rami.”
“Rami?”
“Apparently the KSF is bitter.”
Nick nodded. “Where’s Matt?”
That brought a smile to both of the women’s faces.
“Yeah, well, he and Tommy are sort of working together.”
Nick squinted.
“You see,” Julie said, “while you were recovering, Kemin Demir stopped by.”
Nick’s eyes widened.