Dark Return

by DV Berkom

  Leine danced left and sliced air, diverting the killer’s attention and giving her a split-second to deliver a brutal kick to his knee. There was a sickening snap and his face twisted in pain. Managing to stay upright, he slashed at her leg, narrowly missing her thigh. She cut him again with a slice to his forearm and sprang out of reach.

  She’d hit a muscle or a nerve—his knife clattered to the asphalt and he doubled over. Leine came back with a roundhouse kick, but before she connected he straightened, a pistol now in his right hand. She slammed the side of her shin into his ankle, propelling his good leg out from under him. The gun discharged and he crashed to the pavement.

  The round whizzed by her head. She kicked the gun from his hand, and it landed at the base of the wall behind her. He grabbed her foot and twisted—Leine lost her balance and dropped to the ground, landing on her palms. Her knife bounced from her grasp, coming to rest a few feet away.

  He heaved on her leg, dragging her closer. She kicked at him, striking him where she could, and stretched for the blade. It was too far.

  Grab the stiletto.

  Leine rolled over and jackknifed to a sitting position and spotted the killer’s blade on his other side. She kicked him again and felt the satisfying crunch of her heel demolishing the cartilage of his nose. For an instant, his grip loosened and she lunged for the knife. Her fingers closed around the hilt as his fingers closed around her throat. He jerked her backward and she reached behind her, stabbing him again and again in the side. Her last thrust buried the blade deep and his fingers loosened. She jerked the knife free and stabbed him again.

  He stopped moving.

  Leine rolled to her feet and checked the entrance to the alley. No one had come to investigate the gunshot. Maybe the neighborhood hadn’t been quite as gentrified as she’d thought.

  She glanced at the man, noting the blood soaking his shirt. His face was streaked with blood from the broken nose. She touched the back of her neck and her hand came away bloody. There was no pain, so she assumed it was his. She shrugged off her jacket—the back of it was drenched. Thankfully it was a dark material, so the stains wouldn’t be too noticeable from a distance.

  In addition to his broken nose, the multiple stab wounds most likely ruptured an organ or two. She bent down and felt for a pulse, but there wasn’t any. She did a quick search of his pockets and discovered a phone and a set of keys. The phone had a fingerprint lock on it, so she grabbed his right hand and pressed his thumb to the pad. That one didn’t work, so she tried his forefinger. Neither did that. With another glance at the entrance to make certain no one was watching her, she pulled up his left hand and tried his other forefinger. That one worked, and the man’s home screen appeared.

  She accessed the phone’s settings to change its security to a simple swipe and pocketed both the phone and the keys. Then she wiped the man’s knife and pistol clean on his shirt and slipped them into her pocket. She’d dispose of them when she was a few blocks away. She retrieved her knife and also wiped it clean before replacing it in its sheath.

  Voices echoed toward her, coming from somewhere down the street. There was no time to camouflage or move the body. She left him where he lay and disappeared into the shadows.

  ONCE SHE WAS SURE SHE hadn’t been followed, Leine checked into a small hotel several blocks away. She’d cleaned the worst of the blood from the back of her neck and head and carried her jacket over her arm, folded so the wet part didn’t show. The concierge raised an eyebrow at her lack of luggage, but when she laid cash on the counter he lost the attitude and quickly checked her in.

  She walked up the stairs to her room and, after securing the door, took a long, hot shower and washed her hair. Afterward, she checked her body over in the mirror and discovered a large bruise on her hip turning an ugly greenish yellow. Other than a few minor lacerations, the bruise, and a tender ankle, she’d fared all right. She rinsed out her jacket, the blood painting the sink a watery red before it disappeared down the drain, and then hung it up to dry in the shower. Her black cargo pants were clean enough, as was her shirt and T-shirt, both of which she hung in the closet. She wrapped herself in a sheet from the bed, grabbed the dead assassin’s phone and curled up in the chair next to the small table.

  The device was a fairly expensive model, telling her it probably wasn’t a burner. She accessed outgoing calls and noted the most dialed number had a Libyan country code. Interesting. There were a few phone numbers with a Paris exchange but none that repeated except for the two calls to Rashad’s flower shop in La Courneuve.

  Then she checked the incoming calls. The last entry was a private number and matched the time that he’d taken the last call. She downloaded an app from a secure site she’d used during SHEN ops to identify the number, but the program was unable to track even the originating country code. Whoever called him last was careful and had most likely warned him that he was being followed. Had someone been watching him? Or her? She’d checked for tails and hadn’t seen anything suspicious.

  That didn’t mean much if they were good.

  She went back to the list and recognized the calls made by Rashad from the flower shop earlier that evening. No other numbers jumped out at her, except for the Libyan one. Her interest piqued, she called the number. It rang three times before a female voice answered.

  “What?” the woman asked in an annoyed tone. Leine remained silent, hoping she’d say more so she could get a bead on whether the woman was a lover, or his employer, or possibly his mother.

  There was a slight pause before she said, “Hello?” A moment later, the line went dead.

  Leine ended the call. The woman had spoken French but hadn’t said enough for Leine to place the accent. She hadn’t reacted like a lover or a friend, choosing to end the call when it became clear the assassin wasn’t on the line.

  Most likely a cutout.

  Glancing at the time, she checked the phone’s external storage and found a file labeled with yesterday’s date that contained a series of pictures. Each showed the damage done by the bombing to Notre Dame from varying angles. Another file, labeled Maps, had corresponding satellite photos showing nearby structures and street names.

  Her heart rate quickened and she continued looking through the phone. The pictures had been sent via secure app to the Libyan phone number. The man she’d killed in the alley was deeply involved in some way to the terrorist who had planned the bombing—and the woman at the other end of the Libyan phone number was key to finding out who that was.

  After a couple of minutes of searching and not finding anything else usable, she removed the SIM card and the battery, rendering the device untraceable. She had no idea if tracking software had been installed on his phone, but she wasn’t going to take any chances.

  She leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling, planning her next move.

  29

  ALARMED, BLANCHE LA Pointe set her phone on the desk. She’d answered the assassin’s call, assuming he’d forgotten to tell her something pertinent about the job he’d just finished with the idiot terrorist, Rashad. Instead, no one was there. Or so it seemed. Had it been him, he would have said something.

  The caller’s silence was deafening.

  She removed the SIM card and battery from the phone and tossed them in the trash. Then she opened her desk drawer and retrieved another mobile already set up for just such an event. She turned on the phone and texted her lieutenants to take the same precautions.

  She would have to leave Camp Azziz and the director’s position at We Care International immediately. Although she hadn’t acquired a full stable of participants, the refugee organization had served its purpose and she would make do with the thirteen she had. The components she did have in place would send a clear message to the world. Let them believe they were witnessing a holy war—a strike by the terrorists at the non-Muslim world, the scope of which they’d never before imagined. Once she’d set her plan in motion the world’s only response would be to crush t
he perpetrators, leading to the promised Armageddon both factions were so committed to waging. World financial markets would swing wildly, adding to the instability of a world pursuing war with such high religious stakes.

  Of course, La Pointe had positioned herself to take financial advantage of the volatile markets. But more importantly than that, when executed this plan would mark her as a premier strategist—the woman who destabilized the world and created a new paradigm. She couldn’t wait for the opportunities that would arise from the new world order.

  And she would be positioned at the top.

  La Pointe busied herself gathering her things into a cardboard box. She’d used precious little of her own personal effects in her office and didn’t have much more than her laptop and a ceramic mug she used for tea. She’d have to pack her clothes, but again, she didn’t have many outfits.

  As soon as the Libyan Army had delivered news of their discovery of the bodies in the desert, the investigation had been opened and quickly closed, with the official cause of death gunshot wounds by hostile combatants. She thought she’d been in the clear.

  Until the phone call.

  An alert sounded on her phone and she glanced at the screen. It was Damil. She stopped packing and read the secured text.

  Someone has contacted me regarding our mutual friend in Paris. Suggest you take his call.

  Damil texted the time when the person planned to make contact again. He would then forward the call to her new number, adding an extra layer of anonymity. She checked the time. She had ten minutes to decide.

  She trusted Damil, but the timing felt off. After receiving the strange call from the assassin’s phone, she was wary of anyone attempting to reach her. She texted him back.

  What does he want?

  Moments later, Damil replied.

  He says he has important information, but was not specific other than to say he knows our mutual friend. I am familiar with this person and trust his intentions. What would you like me to tell him?

  La Pointe thought for a moment, and then replied.

  If you vouch for him, then I will take his call.

  Her interest was piqued. If the caller set off alarm bells, then she would simply have him eliminated.

  Five minutes later, her phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “The man you sent to kill the terrorist is dead.” His voice was deep, with a French accent.

  “How did he die?” she asked. Although confirming what she already supposed, she wanted to be sure this person knew what he was talking about.

  “He was followed by another assassin who killed him in an alley.”

  “Did you witness the event? How was it done?”

  “Knives, certainly. Perhaps a gunshot wound. I didn’t examine the body for cause of death.” Sarcasm dripped from his last line. “And no, I didn’t see it happen. But I know who killed him.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I want the contract.”

  “You mean you want me to pay you to kill this mystery assassin?” There it was. She should have expected the play. Assassins offering to eliminate a potential problem weren’t a rarity, although she wasn’t sure why she should take him up on his offer. “Why would I bother? I have not received any threats.”

  “This ‘mystery assassin’ is good. Not as skilled as I am, but good.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable. “This person doesn’t do anything without cause. I suspect there is an underlying reason for neutralizing your man, which may or may not have something to do with you and your plans.”

  “And how do I know you aren’t the killer?”

  “You don’t. But ask yourself this: what if this assassin turns out to be a threat to your operation? I believe she is. My offer to eliminate her will take care of any potential problems that may arise. The price will be worth it, I assure you.”

  She? La Pointe searched her memory for a female assassin. As far as she knew, there were only a handful of well-known contract killers who were women. Her alter-ego, Salome, had been one. Another was a Russian woman who went by the nickname Red Gretchen. The third had been retired from American intelligence for several years, and was last reported living somewhere on the West Coast of the United States.

  “I sincerely doubt it was Gretchen Yukov. She works for the FSB, and the Russians don’t care about a contract assassin who took out a badly behaving terrorist.”

  “It wasn’t Gretchen.”

  “The Leopard?” She scoffed. “She left the business years ago.”

  “She’s come out of retirement.”

  “I doubt that.” But the idea nagged at her. “Do you have a photo?”

  “Not at the moment. But I can get one. She’s staying at a small hotel in the seventh arrondissement.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you. If you can get me a clear photograph of this woman, and I am convinced it is her, I will consider offering you the contract.”

  “Will tomorrow work? I believe she’s retired for the evening.”

  “Of course.”

  “Until tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Until tomorrow.” She ended the call, considering the implications of the return of the infamous Leopard.

  That was one adversary she would like to see very, very dead.

  30

  THE DAY DAWNED with a heavy steel-gray sky. Leine woke up early and got dressed before scouring several message boards on the deep web, searching for an old contact who was a wizard at tracking cloaked phone numbers. Lou had a similar resource in practically every major city, but she didn’t want to listen to a lecture on use of force or trying to stay within the legal parameters of the host country. The time for restraint was over.

  Besides, he’d most likely attempt to talk her out of going it alone. Leine was finished with trying to go legit. Restraint didn’t suit her. Going after the scumbags who made the world a dangerous place for children for their own profit required a different mindset than worrying about some country’s limited idea of justice. Granted, SHEN had given her a framework within which to use her special skill set, and she’d found what she now saw as her calling, but the idea of working within arbitrary constraints that often allowed dirtbags to go free just didn’t work for her.

  Santiago Jensen’s face emerged unbidden in her mind, and she pushed the image away. She didn’t have the luxury of worrying about her long-distance relationship with the LAPD detective—not while she went to ground. Either he understood her or he didn’t. It was that simple. Yes, she loved him, and knew he loved her, but she also knew that when he got wind of what she’d done and how she’d returned to her old, dark ways, the tension between them would build. There was no other way for it to go. He worked within the law. She didn’t. Either he’d make peace with the change, or he wouldn’t. She couldn’t go back to being weakened by someone else’s idea of right and wrong.

  The contact’s call sign appeared on the third message board and she sent a quick request, signing it BigCat, an old signature the contact would recognize. While she waited, she made herself a cup of coffee in the hotel room’s tiny coffee maker and sat down at the table to clean her pistol. Half an hour later, her phone pinged, telling her she had a message. It was the contact’s reply, telling her where to meet and when. Leine sent back an innocuous reply as an acknowledgement. Then she pocketed her phone and the assassin’s, and left the hotel.

  THE BENCH WAS SITUATED along the River Seine, next to a row of graceful linden trees. Leine walked past, noting the people nearby. It was early and Parisians were out for their morning constitutional before starting the day. An older couple strolled hand in hand along the river bank, while two young mothers raced by pushing baby carriages and chatting amiably in French. A fifty-something man dressed in a dark business suit strode purposefully in the opposite direction, barking orders into his wireless headphone.

  Leine retraced her steps and sat on the empty bench. The temperature was brisk, a distinct change from the balmy evening before, so Leine zip
ped her jacket closed. Rinsing the piece in the sink had gotten most of the blood out, but the material had dried stiff. She’d have to purchase another later that day and toss the one she was wearing.

  “Leine?”

  She turned at the woman’s voice and smiled. “Melanie.”

  The other woman came around the bench and sat down. Melanie’s strawberry blond hair had earned her the nickname of Pippi, for the character Pippi Longstocking. Leine always used her given name, which Melanie preferred. A sprinkling of reddish freckles graced her nose and cheeks, giving her a fresh-faced, youthful quality, even though she was in her mid-forties.

  “It’s good to see you,” Melanie said. A dimple appeared in her left cheek as she smiled. “Been a while.”

  “You too. And yes, it has.”

  “I assume by your message that you’re active again.”

  “Sort of.”

  Melanie nodded and leaned over to straighten the tongue on her practical lace-up shoes.

  “I see you’ve become a fashion maven since you came to live in Paris,” Leine remarked drily.

  The other woman chuckled. “I always wear these when I’m out for my morning walk. It’s difficult to cover much ground in heels.”

  “I hear that.”

  Melanie straightened and leaned back on the bench, watching the river flow serenely by. “What can I do for you?”

  Leine rummaged in her pocket and pulled out the assassin’s phone, which she handed to her. “I need to know where the outgoing calls with the Libyan number originated. I also would like to find out the number of the last incoming call, and where it came from, as well. I tried to break the blind, but whoever it is knows their stuff. I need a more robust program.”

  Melanie scrolled through the screen and nodded. “I should be able to get this to you within the day. There are a few pressing things I need to take care of first, but that won’t take more than a few hours.”