MICHELLE LIKED ATLANTA. She flew in early to give her extra time to check the Fountain of Rings at Centennial Olympic Park before her scheduled meeting with Mr. Jones.
Two security men arrived. Both stood a fist taller than average, and they approached from different directions. Dressed in different yet unobtrusive styles and they gave off the same vibe of being far more than bouncers or bar brawlers. Probably experts in multiple mixed martial arts; quiet muscle able to handle themselves. On one of the guards, a loose-fitting bomber-style jacket covered a shoulder rig, while on the other, a well-tailored sport coat hid his.
After the men checked the area, Mr. Sport Coat nodded once, and from behind him, Mr. Jones casually strolled to one of the benches facing the fountain and sat down. He was two minutes early for their appointment. Michelle purposefully strode over to him.
“Hello, Ms. Angelique. Please sit down.” The average-sized White man appeared to be in his late forties. A light sprinkling of gray through his dark brown hair matched the creases around his eyes, and his clothes, while expensive, allowed him to blend in. The only thing that stood out were his eyes. A common brown, they penetrated with the flat, reptilian stare of remorseless death.
Michelle took the offered seat. Calm, relaxed, and alert, she looked him in the eye as she waited.
“You arrived seventeen minutes ago by foot, coming from the backside of the fountain. Did you enjoy your stroll through the park?” His question was neither a challenge nor a real question. It was one professional telling another he took appropriate precautions.
“Yes, thank you for asking.” Michelle didn’t tell him she’d monitored the street for an hour before he arrived. She watched his Lincoln Town Car pull up and let his guards out. They stood in position twenty minutes before she allowed them to spot her. She also didn’t say, before moving to the street, she’d observed the area for two hours from an upstairs café window.
To tell him she’d watched his men set up security for any of their previous meetings would be a professional insult. Both understood the other reconned the meetings; how much and for how long remained the only questions. Michelle enjoyed their small game of preparation in this busy public place; pitting her wits against him kept her sharp.
“Your target is a woman: Ms. Gavrikov in the Russian Mafia. She’ll be in Acapulco, Mexico for three to six days as the guest of a security-minded organization. You can expect her to be heavily guarded the entire time. The host organization is expanding. Their normal business is drugs, but Ms. Gavrikov will be bringing them Russian and Ukrainian women.”
A Mexican drug cartel was making a move into prostitution and they planned to use the slave trade to bring in the women. The hit probably came from the competition, who’d typically be the locals wanting to remain the big dog in the prostitution business. Often, they used local girls, but slave prostitutes would tip the balance in favor of those who could pay for them. Funny how it pissed some people off.
“Our client’s trademark is to hang the bodies by the heels in a semi-public place,” he said. “They do not wish to leave a signature with this particular intervention, so they have requested you do not trademark this job. The security of both our target and her host are reputed to be substantial and effective. Also, Gavrikov’s host enjoys close ties with the police and port authorities. Will you need any assistance from us on this project?”
“Is this a preliminary business meeting, or a delivery?” Michelle asked.
“It’s a delivery. The cargo is scheduled to arrive via shipping container at the Port of Acapulco.”
“By ‘cargo,’ you mean slave prostitutes?”
“Yes. Women are the cargo. You will be provided with a car and weapons within certain limits. Due to the expected high level of security, we required the client to pay a premium. The payment to you is seventy-five thousand, plus eight for expenses. They want to maintain a distance, so they won’t provide you with hotel or other accommodations. The details are in this folder.” Mr. Jones offered Michelle a large envelope.
She weighed the package in her hand, and considered the money-risk ratio. Top-level criminals were the most difficult to assassinate. They never relaxed; they always kept their guard up, always knew what to be on the alert for. This had the potential to be one of the most dangerous contracts she’d ever taken.
So why am I taking the damned thing?
It wasn’t the money. Her job as a citizen paid okay and her stash in several banks and gold depositories in Asia totaled over a million dollars. She could retire and, with relative ease, slide into a regular life. Had she become an adrenaline junkie, like so many people in her business? She didn’t think so.
Ever since she killed Mr. Jackson and company, Michelle hadn’t been out on a contract. She was fine with not being on assignment, so no, she didn’t miss the adrenaline rush. She also hated leaving with Jerome still free to cause trouble; that slimy rat bastard needed to be dealt with before he hurt someone else.
Yet, here I am, sitting across from Jones, discussing another job.
Like most, this job required her to be gone, which meant she’d have to trust her friends for a few days to deal with anything concerning Jerome. But Jerome was only a smoke screen, not the real issue. One way or another, she’d handle the problem of Jerome when she returned home. The real issue was staying in, or getting out, of the assassin business.
Damn. She had a dilemma.
Actually, she had two dilemmas: while leaving Jerome alone might cause more problems, the bigger issue was if she’d really finished her revenge for Michael’s murder.
She’d become an assassin to learn how to kill; she’d wanted — needed — to avenge her brother’s murder, and she thought she’d done just that. But, maybe not. Jackson said he’d acted on orders to kill Michael and Gabe Jr. Who could have given Jackson orders?
Obviously, he would have said anything to save his life. Now she wondered if there was something to his bullshit. Either way, she’d killed him. No going back now.
Even more than what he’d said, though . . . someone had tipped him off about her being on the rooftop across from his office. The only people who’d known about that were her uncle, G-Baby, and Ascia. G-Baby had been with her, and he’d wanted Jackson dead as much as she did. Ascia had ordered the hit, so it didn’t make sense for him to leak it to Jackson. It had to have been someone in Ascia’s organization. But who?
These questions needed answers and as long as questions remained about Michael’s and Gabe Jr.’s murders, she’d stay in the business.
Not to mention, something about the way Mr. Jones presented the information on this job implied a special interest. What was the connection? Who was involved?
Something’s going on here. I can feel it.
“Ms. Angelique, will you accept this assignment?” Mr. Jones asked.
“Yes.”
“Any questions?”
“About the assignment, no. However, I’m curious; why did you choose to be called Mr. Jones and not Mr. Smith? Jones seems, well, perhaps a little old-fashioned. Don’t you think Mr. Smith sounds more modern?”
Michelle, for the first time, saw a smile touch his eyes. “Remember Mr. Smith in the movie The Matrix? I considered him a bit of a pussy. I didn’t want people to associate me with him and believe I was a pushover.” He winked, stood, and evaporated into the crowd.
.
Sixteen: Working Break
BACK IN LOS ANGELES, Michelle called Nikky. “Hey, I’m at LAX, and I’m hungry,” she said. “Can you and Deja meet me for a late breakfast? I need to talk to you guys. But before you answer about breakfast, what’s the word on Taye?”
“She’s stable,” Nikky said. “I spent the night here at the hospital, and everything’s as expected. Mom’s back from her run to the house, and I was about to head down for something to eat. Something other than the hospital cafeteria sounds good.”
“Okay, I’ll take that as good news. Now about breakfast?”
“Are you f
amiliar with The Spoon on Centenella?” Nikky asked.
“Never heard of it.”
“You’ll love it. Their soul food is so good, it’ll make a man jump up and slap his momma. Pull up directions on your GPS. I’ll pick up Deja and meet you there in about thirty minutes.”
Like many single shop cafés, The Spoon made its home in a small, older strip mall. The moment Michelle climbed out of her car into the hot morning sun, she smelled the promise of a great meal in the BBQ smoke drifting out into the parking lot.
Michelle joined Deja and Nikky in a booth with deep-cushioned, brown leather seats. She’d no sooner slid into the booth, than the waitress, a young, plump woman with a friendly smile, brought water for everyone. “Y’all want breakfast or lunch menus? Breakfast is good, but if you’re up to it, we have some jamming catfish for lunch today.”
“Oh yeah, catfish for me,” Michelle said. “I’d also like an A&W Root Beer.”
“Why not?” Nikky said. “Make it catfish all around.”
“This is without a doubt the best catfish I’ve had since coming back.” Then Michelle chuckled. “What am I saying? This is the best catfish I’ve had since I can’t remember when.”
Nikky smiled. “Told you.”
“You were so right. Now, on to what I need to talk about. I’m leaving for a week, maybe two at the most. I don’t want to go, but then I think of what it’s all about.” Michelle’s eyes narrowed into tight slits. “Girl, I can’t tell you how much I hate those scum.”
“What’re you talking about?” Deja asked.
“I’ve accepted a job dealing with some seriously bad mess.”
“A movie job, or a job job?” Nikky asked.
Only three civilians knew about Michelle’s real job: her uncle, G-Baby, and Deja and Nikky, her lifelong dogs. Everyone else who discovered what she did, died at the end of a short, steep learning curve.
“It’s a job job, and one I’m happy to do. I’m to remove an agent dealing in the sex slave trade. This particular scum works with a group that deals in women from Asia, Russia, and Eastern Europe. They sell them into slave prostitutes in other countries. Really, that’s more than I should say. Making women sex slaves makes me so mad I could scream.”
“That’s some serious bad shit,” Nikky said. “Can we do anything to help?”
“Not with the job, but here at home, yes. I’ll be gone for at least a week, but with the crap Jerome’s mixing up, I don’t want to leave right now. This is important, though, so I need your help. I want you guys to up the game with T-Dog and Sugar; stay in close touch with them. Even if they say nothing’s happening, keep connecting with them.”
“No problem,” Deja said. “I can call them every day easy enough.”
“I don’t think calling is good enough,” Nikky said. “One of us should meet with them, real regular.”
“She’s right,” Michelle said to Deja. “It can’t be on the phone. Someone has to go out and talk with them face to face, and daily.”
“That might piss them off, don’t you think?” Deja asked.
“Maybe, at first,” Michelle said, “but those feelings go away pretty quickly. When most people understand you’re looking for answers every day, they feel like they should know something, so would be able to tell you about it. Sugar and T-Dog should be no different. Also, it’s hard to blow someone off when they’re looking right at you.”
“Okay, if you say so,” Deja said.
“Now that you point it out,” Nikky said, “I’ve seen that before. People make up shit so they won’t look like they don’t know what’s going on.”
“Then they’ll start telling their crew to be alert,” Michelle said. “They do that so outsiders like us won’t think they aren’t taking care of business. Your showing up every day keeps it important, on their minds.”
“When do you leave?” Deja asked.
“Soon, I’ll stay in touch as much as I can, but some days I’ll be dark and while I’m gone you can’t contact me at all. My phone will be off, and I won’t access any of my emails, so don’t try.”
“Where’re you going?”
“To save some women and start world peace,” Michelle answered.
“Sorry, I forget not to ask that question,” Deja said.
“Here’s to whirled peas,” Nikky said, raising her glass in a toast.
“Whirled peas,” Michelle and Deja echoed, then everyone laughed and clinked their glasses.
.
Seventeen: Results
LYING ON THE METAL TOP of one of the seven large industrial air conditioning units up on the flat rooftop, Michelle pissed in her diaper. She preferred the luxury of pissing her pants but that wasn’t wise today. In this shot, through a window, it would be quite simple to triangulate back to where the sniper shot came from. If the police were fast and efficient, they’d find her spot after she left, but long before her urine dried. It may not matter immediately, but someday, somewhere she might be forced to give a DNA sample.
Ignoring the wet diaper, she continued to wait for the perfect conditions to take her shot.
A good sniper needed a number of exceptional skills. Marksmanship, of course, was at the top of the list, but being an excellent shot wouldn’t make someone a sniper. Far from it.
Michelle had come to appreciate the dedication and discipline to overcome her natural tendency for action. Her training taught her how to prioritize the details of careful planning. That came relatively easy. The hardest part for her proved to be the extreme patience of doing nothing while remaining alert for hours, even days, on end.
Just like some people eat to live and others live to eat, some snipers live for the job. To her, becoming a sniper was a means to an end. Her high-level training and international experience made her a dangerous sniper assassin. But she’d never be the best, or even in the top ten percent because, deep in her heart, she didn’t want to be.
Covered from head to toe in an industrial ghillie camouflage suit, Michelle was virtually invisible on the top of the bank building. All morning, Michelle watched Galina Gavrikov as she moved around in her hotel room, passing up a couple dozen opportunities to shoot.
Suicide bombers, fools, and amateurs didn’t escape. Professional snipers did. An undetected, clean-and-free exit held even more importance than taking the shot. Amateurs took the dangerous shot and were often caught for it. Professionals took as long as necessary to take out the target and disappear.
She’d wait until after the meeting between Marcos Gutierrez and Gavrikov. Marcos handled the money while his cousin, Manny Gutierrez, headed the Acapulco-based cartel.
After the meeting, Gavrikov shouldn’t be expected anywhere for several hours and based on the previous day’s observations, Gavrikov’s bodyguard would leave for lunch after his boss ate, then post himself at the door for the afternoon. Michelle would be long gone, possibly back in the States, before anyone found Gavrikov’s body.
The target ate a late lunch in the hotel’s terrace café four floors above her room, while her bodyguard stood just inside the café by the hostess podium. Michelle took another bite of her granola bar and washed it down with a suck on the hose next to her mouth that connected to the two-liter bottle resting by her side.
The hot water tasted terrible coming through the rubber tube, but it was also wonderful. In this heat, water of any kind was pure joy.
Turned out this was one of the hardest shots she’d ever set up; technically easy, but emotionally difficult. The target being a woman didn’t bother Michelle. At a deeper level, she understood women could be every bit as guilty as men. She was living proof of that. Her code of no kids didn’t come into play here. Also, the problem wasn’t because she wanted Gavrikov to live. Even though Michelle had never met Gavrikov, she hated her because Gavrikov made women into sex slaves.
During any assassination, emotions were a dangerous thing. After killing someone, Michelle always had to deal with an emotional hangover, but this was different. Sh
e was emotional during the shoot, driven to be the one to make this blight of a person go away.
The intense desire to pull the trigger made it doubly hard to wait in the baking sun. Long hours of waiting in misery came with the job. She was used to that. Never before on a professional hit did she want to pull the trigger. The longing was new and strange. Professionalism and self-preservation won over impulse and impatience, and she waited for all the right things to converge.
Michelle despised what would come after she killed Galina Gavrikov. She’d fold up her ghillie suit, change clothes, break down the rifle, and walk away.
Walking away from the actual shoot was good. Leaving nineteen women in the clutches of men like Manny and Marcos Gutierrez made her boiling mad.
She had reviewed every viable option to free the women. From everything she could see, the Gutierrez brothers had their security tied up tight. Without major backup and a full coordinated team there was no way she could do it.
Without detailed inside knowledge, Michelle assumed a few things: the women had traveled for three, possibly four weeks in a container on a ship from Russia, and sometime during the last few days they’d arrived in Acapulco. Their container, with them still inside, had waited on the docks in the hot sun. With only some five-gallon plastic buckets for toilets, and nothing to clean with, the stench had to be sickening. Thinking of the trip made Michelle furious. Imagining what came later made her sick.
Michelle vowed to herself, when the time came, she would do something about this horror. If not here, then somewhere, sometime.
Some things she already knew. After the women were checked and inspected like so many heads of cattle, the money would follow. Her client’s inside man at the shipyard got word out that the inspection happened earlier that morning so the money transfer should happen sometime today.
Gavrikov finished her lunch and returned to her room. Her bodyguard went with her and checked the room before she entered.
Right on time. Come on in. Thatta girl, check your hair. Lipstick okay? Nope. A little touch up. Good. Wouldn’t want you to look any less than perfect for this afternoon’s business. Now, sit your ugly ass down and wait for Marcos. How about you check your messages or surf the net a bit? This won’t take long.
Hard Betrayal (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Series 2) Page 9