Kill for Me

by Tom Wood

  Victor kept his distance, at the upper limit of his binoculars, watching the guests and guards on deck. As night fell, those shapes moved around less, and he kept his focus on the guards and their behavior. They were amateurs, with no set routines and no real awareness. The kind of attack they were present to protect against was a full-scale assault. They would spot a speedboat thrashing toward them, but they were never going to see Victor coming.

  Maria and her guests partied well into the night, drinking champagne served by waiters in crisp uniforms. Maria looked just like her sister, albeit a decade younger. She had the same dark hair, same skin tone, same height, but she dressed a little more conservatively. Heloise looked like a movie star attending a premiere. Maria dressed like one trying to not be recognized. She drank with her guests, but she had the same flute of champagne for most of the evening. She chatted and flirted and danced with those she sought to impress, and they were impressed by her, the yacht, and the young women who fawned over them, hanging from their arms, kissing them on the cheek, and pushing their breasts against them. It wasn’t an original approach, but for middle-aged men it was close to heaven.

  They partied around the pool on the stern deck, accompanied by several guards who kept a discreet distance. They were watchful, but were trying to remain as passive and absent as possible. A show of force could be impressive, but too much and it could have the opposite effect. While it was supposed to convey strength, it could demonstrate fear. Maria didn’t want her guests to think she needed the protection. Hence, three or four were stationed on the stern while the rest of the sicarios were spread throughout the rest of the vessel. Victor couldn’t see them all—most were inside—but he knew they were there all the same.

  By one a.m. the party was winding down. Most of the guests had been dragged back to their cabins by the young women, leaving Maria and two others to converse. Maria’s back was facing Victor so he couldn’t read her lips, but the two men she was talking to were looking his way. One was so fat he took up an entire bench, his arms spread out along the backrest, relaxed and happy.

  “You know,” he was saying, “when you first invited me on this trip I figured I had done something wrong and I would end up at the bottom of the ocean.”

  There was a pause while Maria spoke in return. Victor saw her arms move as she gesticulated. Everyone laughed. The second man was more stilted, a little nervous, in his laughter. Maybe he wasn’t as convinced as the first that he would avoid ending up on the bottom of the Pacific.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” the man replied. “With Diaz dead, I assumed you were looking for someone to blame, not promote.”

  The second man had a beard and long hair tied into a tight ponytail. He swallowed before he said, “I need to think about the proposal. . . . I need time.”

  Maria nodded, perhaps offering some words of reassurance. The man wiped some sweat from his brow, explaining it away with, “I think I’ve had a little too much to drink.”

  There was more laughter. When it faded, Maria spoke again and the two men listened, nodding on occasion while she continued her proposal. Victor wasn’t sure if both men were in line to take over Diaz’s responsibilities, or if they were being asked to divide them between themselves. In either case, the first was enthusiastic and the second reluctant.

  They conversed for a while longer, but not about her offer. They laughed and joked until Maria stood to embrace the men, one at a time, who then left her alone on the deck. She retired soon after, her champagne flute still with liquid inside.

  Victor continued to wait. He waited another two hours, watching the yacht and the guards on board. They weren’t elite security, and as the night wore on and tiredness crept in, their discipline began to crumble. They smoked cigarettes and played with their phones. They left whole sections of the decks unguarded while taking trips to the latrine, which were not always quick.

  At four a.m. Victor set down the binoculars and checked his things. He wore a black neoprene dry suit, to which he added a harness, fins, an oxygen tank, mask, and regulator. To the front of his harness he attached a diving knife and a waterproof bag containing a pistol, suppressor, and spare magazines.

  He sat on the back of the boat and rolled over and into the water.

  • Chapter 64 •

  He couldn’t risk using a light so he navigated by compass only. It was attached to his wrist, markings visible thanks to the tritium coating that glowed in the dark. He swam just below the surface of the water, at a slow, steady rate. He didn’t want to burn any energy he didn’t have to. He was a strong swimmer but didn’t swim often. It had been years since he had last used a public swimming pool or else swam at a beach. In a swimsuit he was too noticeable, too memorable, even without the inherent risks associated with being defenseless in the water.

  The Pacific was cold, but nothing he couldn’t handle. The dry suit took most of the sting out of it, and after a few minutes of swimming his body generated enough heat to push away the rest. The water was quiet. For a while he was as calm and as at peace as he had ever been.

  That changed when he could see the yacht ahead, distorted through the water and illuminated by starlight. He veered toward the stern, where the anchor chain lay.

  It swayed a little, pushed and pulled by the current, but was taut and secure. Victor took hold of it with one hand and removed his fins with the other, clipping them to his harness. He removed the respirator and mask, again clipping them in place, and began to climb.

  The anchor chain was thick and dense, but it was slippery. He couldn’t get good footholds, so he relied on his upper-body strength to pull him up. The hull above the waterline was thirty feet in height, but the anchor did not rise all the way to the deck. Victor climbed the entire length of the chain, right up to the anchor port, where he paused for a moment to take some deep breaths. Even for someone of his fitness, the climb had been taxing.

  He walked his feet up the hull until they were braced on the lip of the anchor port and he waited, contorted but reasonably comfortable, and listened. When he was certain there was no one in the immediate area above him, he pushed off with his legs and jumped for the railing above. It was only a short distance, but he was jumping at an angle to follow the curve of the hull, not straight up but out.

  He caught the rail in both hands, gripping hard to fight the force of his lower body still moving with the jump, legs swinging out below him until he had used his core strength to slow and stop the momentum. He focused on his ring fingers to better activate his lats and pull himself up with enough speed to then vault over the railing, fast and smooth, and dropped into an immediate crouch on the other side.

  In seconds, the waterproof bag was open and he had the pistol in hand.

  He was already lying flat on the deck when a sicario stepped outside. Victor lay behind one of the sun loungers, which was just high enough to hide him from casual view. The gunman took several slow steps and applied his thumb several times to a disposable lighter to ignite a flame. Victor could see a little from his position, peering beneath the lounger. He kept his gaze on the feet and ankles, which were parallel to the lounger, until they pivoted and Victor saw the worn heels of the man’s shoes.

  At that point, Victor slithered, stood, and darted across the short width of the deck, coming up behind the sicario. He kicked him in the back of the knee at the same time he wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, one palm snapping over the mouth and nose to catch any cries before they escaped. The sicario struggled hard, hands shooting up to grab Victor’s arm in an attempt to prize it free, but weakening too fast to apply any strength. Victor maintained pressure until the sicario had ceased fighting back, and then for a little longer.

  Victor tipped the man overboard.

  Inside, the yacht was decorated like a gaudy hotel. Most of the lights were off, but there was plenty of starlight coming through the windows. Thanks to the exte
nsive plans online, Victor knew the fastest way to the master bedroom. He took his time, however, keeping quiet and listening for threats. There were many rooms and hallways, and only a few guards awake and active, but they weren’t patrolling. They were tired; they were bored. They were easy to avoid.

  The master bedroom lay on the sixth deck, accessible via two sets of stairs—one fore; one aft—that spiraled from the fifth deck, which was laid out with a private lounge, game room, kitchen, and two bathrooms, all for the exclusive use of Maria Salvatierra.

  Not just Maria, Victor saw, as he followed a trail of discarded garments, female and male.

  There were no guards stationed outside the master suite. No one imagined a threat could get this far. Few targets were ever prepared for someone like Victor. Besides, Maria valued her privacy.

  He heard movement above him, from the master bedroom—bedclothes rustling, bare feet padding on carpet, a man’s yawn.

  Then a door closed with a quiet click of the doorjamb, but no catch. No lock.

  Victor dashed up the spiraled steps, moving fast but still quiet, on the balls of his feet. He saw a huge, circular bed in the center of the room. A naked woman lay outside of a sheet that had been bunched at the end of the bed. She was asleep.

  On the far side of the bed was a closed door.

  Victor crept past the bed and made his way to the door. He could hear a man urinating on the other side, aiming for the porcelain in an effort to be quiet.

  The door was unlocked, so Victor eased it open at the same time the man was finishing up. Victor was inside the bathroom before the man had turned around.

  “Shh,” Victor said, gun pointed at the man’s face.

  Soft palms belonging to the young boyfriend or gigolo Victor had seen before rose. Twenty-four or -five, bed-messed hair, smooth from nose to navel. He wore a pair of black silk boxer shorts and several gold chains around his neck and wrists, but nothing else. No place to hide a weapon.

  He was terrified—no sicario—and was frozen to the spot as Victor glanced around the bathroom, searching for the best way to restrain the guy. He didn’t want to shoot him. Even with a suppressor, it would wake Maria up and possibly alert nearby guards. There were towels and robes with belts.

  The guy seemed to understand Victor’s position, else fear took over him, because he attacked.

  He was young and in shape, but an amateur. Victor slipped the clumsy punch and whipped him in the temple with the butt of the gun.

  The boyfriend or gigolo was already off balance, having thrown the haymaker while on the move, so the blow to the skull took him from his feet. There wasn’t enough room for him to fall straight down, and he collapsed into—then bounced away from—the marble shelf housing the washbasin. Victor caught him before he crashed to the floor tiles, limiting but not eliminating the inevitable noise, and eased him into the bathtub.

  Glazed eyes looked up at Victor, unfocused but awake, so Victor hit him again with the gun to make sure he stayed in the tub.

  Maria was stirring when Victor reentered the bedroom. The noise from the en-suite bathroom had woken her, despite his efforts to reduce it. A light sleeper.

  She sat up to say something, at first mistaking him for her lover, but her breath caught in her throat when she saw Victor emerge from the shadows.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “I’m your murderer.”

  • Chapter 65 •

  The pictures on Lavandier’s dossier site failed to do justice to Maria Salvatierra. She was an attractive woman, even in the gloom. There were no lamps on in the room. The roof was transparent, however, and light seeped in from the bright stars. Maria’s skin was silver. Her eyes were black.

  She looked much like Heloise, but Maria’s was an effortless beauty. In part because she was younger than her sister, but also she didn’t have the same coldness in her eyes. Maria’s seemed warm, almost innocent. Victor reminded himself that she was as ruthless an individual as anyone he had encountered. People saw what they wanted to see, he had been told. Did he want to believe that she was somehow innocent?

  She said, “What are you waiting for?”

  He said nothing in return. He admired her poise: afraid but not panicked, gaze locked on Victor and the gun in his hand, uncaring about her nakedness, unashamed and focused on her life and not her modesty.

  “Do you think I’m scared? Do you think I haven’t seen a gun before?”

  “You’re scared,” Victor said. “Everyone is when a gun is pointing their way.”

  “You too?”

  Victor stepped closer. “I’m different.”

  Maria didn’t react to the increase in proximity. She continued to stare at him with the same unblinking eyes. Her body was tense and still. There were no weapons in the room that Victor could see. She relied on her men to protect her. Without them she was vulnerable, even if she didn’t act like it. There were no stalling tactics, no rapid-fire questions to distract him while her sicarios grew closer. She wasn’t expecting the young guy to come out of the bathroom either. She had to know Victor wouldn’t have left him in a position to do so.

  “What are you waiting for?” she asked again.

  “Your sister hired me,” Victor said in place of an answer.

  Maria took this in without reacting; then she looked away. “Of course she did.” There was regret in her voice. “While I’ve even allowed myself to believe that one day we might stop this madness. Declare peace. Make up. Maybe one day have a relationship again. I thought I was the stronger sister too. I thought it would be me who found a way to stop this.”

  “Everyone’s strong until they meet someone stronger.”

  “Let me guess,” Maria began. “That effete fool Lavandier hired you. It was his idea from the start, I’m sure. I’m convinced the war started because of the poison he dripped into my sister’s ear. I sometimes wonder who is really my rival.”

  “I met him along with Heloise,” Victor said. “I couldn’t tell you who had the original idea. I can’t say I thought to ask.”

  “It’ll have been his, I’m telling you.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  “You don’t care who hired you? You don’t care why?”

  “I’m paid to kill, not understand.”

  “Then understand that the war won’t end with my death. There will be revenge attacks within hours. My lieutenants will take over and carry on in the exact same way. Nothing will change.”

  “I’m sure your sister knows this.”

  Maria was sitting forward now, animated. “She doesn’t have what it takes to rule this country. That she had to hire an outsider to do what she cannot says everything.”

  “What does or does not happen after I’m done here is not my concern.”

  “It should be your concern,” Maria said. “She’ll betray you. Heloise will turn on you as soon as she pays you. She’s a snake. She is utterly empty inside. Even my father was scared of her. Can you imagine such a thing? A father scared of his child? Yet it’s true. Should she actually pay you, you still won’t be safe, because she’ll realize that if you could get to me you could get to her too. She won’t be able to sleep at night until you’re dead. She’s as paranoid as she is vindictive.”

  Victor remained silent. Maria, however, wasn’t done.

  “Do you really expect to get off this yacht alive?”

  Victor said, “I do.”

  “You have a silenced gun, but no gunshot is silent. I have dozens of armed men on board.”

  “You have a dozen, to be exact,” Victor said. “And most of them are asleep right now. Those who are awake haven’t been shown to be of much use.”

  “You have it all worked out, don’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “Then what are you waiting for?” she asked for the third time. “Does Helo
ise want me to suffer first? Are you going to torture me?”

  “She doesn’t care how you die, only that you do.”

  “Then a message, surely. Some cruel barb she spent weeks composing, so she can sit by her pool with a spritzer and toast my death with a smile.”

  He shook his head. “There is none.”

  “You’re not the first person to point a gun at me,” she said. “But I think you might be the calmest. If I couldn’t see the intensity in your eyes, I might think this was some elaborate prank.”

  “I’m deadly serious.”

  “Then I’m really struggling to understand what you’re doing right now.”

  She was as impatient as she was confused.

  Victor said, “Maybe I’m not sure myself.”

  “A hit man with a crisis of conscience?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Hardly.”

  “Then what is this?” Maria stared at him. “Why haven’t you killed me yet? Because you’re taking a long time to pull a trigger.” She glanced down at herself. “Or are you just getting your money’s worth?”

  He shook his head. “You were right about your sister, only she’s already betrayed me. She broke our agreement.”

  Maria was silent. Her poise cracked because she was surprised and eager to know more. She was silent, though. She waited for him.

  “She hired a second killer to come after you,” Victor said. “I was clear that this would be unacceptable. I was explicit that the contract would be void if any of my conditions were not met. I wasn’t joking.”

  “Yet here you are,” Maria said.

  He lowered the gun down to his side. “I’m not here to kill you.”