Perfect Assassin

by Wendy Rosnau

  “What are you saying? His pride kept him there? That doesn’t make sense. Why not just disappear to an island and plot revenge and enjoy his fat bank account while he recovered?”

  Pierce shrugged. “He’s a complicated bastard. His wife’s betrayal could have colored his judgment. He’s human after all. We did trick him. He never expected two more agents riding to the rescue. Bjorn’s impersonation plan worked. Holic never suspected that it wasn’t Bjorn and Nadja on the helicopter. He was fooled completely, all the way to the end. He might be locked up at Clume, but I don’t doubt he’s been busy inventing a new game.”

  “You don’t believe he allowed us to corner him on that mountain?”

  “No. I think he was outsmarted. But that doesn’t mean he’s ready to surrender even from behind bars.”

  “And the fake kill-file?”

  “Holic leaves nothing to chance. His spotless record proves that. Maybe a simple precautionary measure just in case.”

  Merrick felt a chill race up his spine. They were dealing with a madman. Holic was secured behind bars, but the kill-file was still out there in the hands of someone just as talented as the master.

  He watched as his agent rubbed his shoulder, and it reminded him that Pierce was slow to recover from one of the bullets he’d taken on Glass Mountain three months ago.

  “How’s the shoulder doing?”

  “It still gives me a little trouble now and then. But I’m good. Have you talked to Bjorn about Holic? Does he know the file he and Nadja recovered was a fake?”

  “Not yet. When he hears he’ll be back here on the next flight.”

  “And you don’t want that?”

  “Nadja’s pregnant. Right now she needs him more than I do.”

  “You getting soft, Merrick? A year ago you would have hauled his ass back here no matter what.”

  Merrick cleared his throat, not liking the way Pierce was eyeing him. “There’s more. I’ve spoken to Polax from EURO-Quest. He claims the Quest agent that Bjorn killed at Groffen was definitely working for the Chameleon. He believes that the body we’ve got on ice at the lab isn’t the Chameleon. He says the Chameleon didn’t die in Greece. That he’s still alive.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I agree. The Chameleon is dead. I need to believe that. But our experts haven’t been able to ID the body as the Chameleon. It keeps coming up as Pavvo Creon. But we know that’s not possible. He’s been dead for fifteen years. I have to tell you that I’ve been playing around with the idea that maybe Polax is right. Maybe we’re about to see the Chameleon rise from the dead.”

  “If he’s alive he could very well be the force behind Holic’s new game. But I’m still convinced that the Chameleon is dead.”

  “Yes, he’s dead. That has to be him lying on that slab. But there could be someone in his organization who is pulling Holic’s strings. We know that the Chameleon’s mobocracy is still running full-throttle across the country. We know that promises were made between him and Holic. Maybe Holic is now loyal to a new man. As you said, he takes his spotless record seriously. It’s true the kill-file originated with the Chameleon, but whoever has picked up the reins could still be influencing Holic’s actions.”

  “Enter in Holic’s love for money, and his equal contempt for us, and there you are,” Pierce added. “A binding relationship that even death won’t sever—or a change of rank at the top.”

  “The Chameleon’s dead,” Merrick said again.

  “I’m with you on that. I was there that day in Greece. I watched that yacht blow sky-high. We have his body at the morgue.”

  “A body with someone else’s face and matching blood type,” Merrick reminded.

  “We knew the Chameleon had had plastic surgery and taken Pavvo Creon’s face.

  “But his blood, too?” Merrick shook his head, then came out with the reason he’d asked Pierce to join him in his office. “Here’s the deal. I thought you might do the leg work on this one for me since Bjorn brought you in at the end, and you’re familiar with the mission’s details and its outcome. It’s not too physical or dangerous, both considerations since you’re still in recovery. Most of this work can be done from here, with minimal travel.”

  “Why not put Jacy on it? He was the controller for Bjorn. He knows the details, and probably has all the data meticulously filed for instant access. He’s the better man when it comes to details.”

  “I asked him, but he turned me down. He says he’s retiring from Onyxx.”

  “I don’t believe it. Give him a little more time. It’s not easy to shed a skin that fits, and this business fits him and his talents. As much as we would like to deny it, we all fit the mold. I hear he’s finally out of the wheelchair.”

  “It’s true. Vic Kandle tells me he’s got a heavy limp and it’s permanent, but other than that, he’s on a comeback.”

  “That means he’ll be getting bored up there on that Montana mountain one of these days.”

  “We can only hope.”

  “This kill-file…Onyxx is still convinced it’s on a time schedule and targeting active agents?”

  “We believe it’s the Chameleon’s hate list. And the targets aren’t all field agents. But all are government intelligence of some kind. Not all the targets are active. There are a few retired names on the list.”

  “I take it our names are on the list, too?”

  This was the amazing part Merrick didn’t understand. “My entire team is on the list. You and the other rat fighters. Men I’ve worked with in the past, but not me.”

  “You’re not on it?”

  “Damn strange, don’t you think? I should top the list. We’ve been enemies for fifteen years.”

  “That’s more than a little strange.”

  “Our problem is, we’re back to square one now that a replacement has started to make Holic’s hits for him. We’re hunting for an unknown face, with no data on where he comes from.”

  “And that’s where I come in?”

  “Like I said, the paperwork on this can be done from behind your desk. With minimal leg work. I’d like you to schedule an appointment with the authorities in Brno, and check out the market square where the hit took place. Get in touch with British Intelligence and find out everything you can on Alton Bromly and his activities over the past nine years. Your nose is one of the best we have. You’ve always been able to see things no one else sees. Maybe we’re missing something.”

  “Is that a nice way of saying I have a criminal mind?”

  “No offense, but your past, as you said, fits the mold.”

  “I know why I was asked to join Onyxx. And it wasn’t my good looks,” Pierce joked.

  Merrick handed Pierce the file on his desk. “It’s all in there. Everything we have on Bromly and his years of service to Interpol. Look it over on the flight. Prep your deviant mind. There’s also a copy of our bogus kill-file in there.”

  Pierce took the file. “Has Holic talked?”

  “I’ve interrogated him a number of times since we locked him up. He claimed from the moment we captured him that the file wasn’t authentic. I didn’t believe it. I had no reason to until yesterday.”

  “Have you talked to him since Bromly was hit?”

  “Last night I flew up to Clume to see him. And now, after talking to you, I think you’re right. Holic has a new agenda.” Merrick opened his drawer and pressed Play on the tape recorder. “I took a recorder with me last night and taped my conversation with him.”

  Within seconds Holic Reznik’s Austrian accent filled the room.

  “You’re back, Merrick. Does that mean the killing has begun? Your silence must mean it has. And now you’re here to ask me who has filled my shoes, ja?”

  “Who is your replacement, Holic? Who has the kill-file?”

  “If I tell you it would end all the fun. I told you that your kill-file was a fake, but you didn’t believe me. Do you believe me now? The look on your face tells me you do.”

  “Who
is your replacement, Holic? Give me the name of the man who has taken up your cause.”

  “A ten-million-dollar question. Are you willing to match that?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look at my hands. I can barely feed myself thanks to Bjorn Odell and that bitch, Nadja Stefn. I’m too young to live my life sucking my food through a straw. A heavy price to pay for killing a few insignificant people, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll ask again. Who has the original kill-file? Who shot Alton Bromly?”

  “Perfection has replaced perfection, that’s who. Like fine wine, it’s all in the fruit and how it’s taken care of while it matures on the vine.”

  “You talk in riddles.”

  “A riddle that, if you figure it out, will answer your question, Merrick. But you won’t be able to. I own the winning hand in this game, and you know I do or you wouldn’t have flown up here to pay me a late-night visit.”

  “You’re telling me ten million dollars will call off your dog?”

  “The money means nothing without a pair of working hands to spend it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You have an expert team of surgeons at your disposal. They operated on my hands not long ago. But I think they can do better. They could give me back full use if they knew what was at stake, don’t you think?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. My hands restored to full use by the best surgeon you employ.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Then I guarantee that the killing will continue, Merrick.”

  “This is madness, Holic. End this insanity.”

  “Only you can end it. Another agent will fall soon. Then another and another. Did you count the names on the list? The list I altered so you could check them off as they fall. It’s a very long list, isn’t it? Who do you think will be next? Take a guess. A wild guess is all you have, but maybe you’ll get lucky. The odds are against it. Your list was meant to torment you and your superiors, nothing more. To give you names without dates. Ingenious, don’t you think? Has it been keeping you up nights? You look tired, Merrick. It’s like a puzzle that doesn’t fit, ja? Let me assure you that it will never fit until the last man falls.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “No, I’m a perfectionist, and without my hands I’ve been forced to find an alternate to remain in the game. After all, my reputation is at stake. How could I surrender without giving back to you as much as you’ve given me? The clock is ticking, and this time, time is on my side.”

  Merrick turned off the recorder and looked at Pierce. “After talking to you, I have to agree that Holic doesn’t know how to lose. That he will continue to play his sick game until he’s dead. It’s true our medical staff has the technology to restore mobility to his hands, but—”

  “Then Onyxx would be responsible for putting a gun back into the restored hands of the devil.”

  “My superiors would never go for that.”

  Pierce stood. “Of course you’re right. But then their names aren’t on that list. It’s damn easy to make decisions when your own ass isn’t the one being pinched.”

  Merrick caught the censure in his agent’s voice. “The rules here are black and white, but necessary. If we make deals with every criminal we apprehend, where would that leave us? The bottom line is we have the assassin under lock and key. The entire mission wasn’t a failure. Holic is ours.”

  “And from his iron cell he’s unleashed a competent replacement. One that appears to value perfection as much as he does.”

  Merrick swore. “I’ll admit, at the moment, Holic has us by the balls.”

  “Then we can only hope that his successor slips up. And if he doesn’t, you better start looking for another team to replace us, because we’re in for a slaughter.”

  Chapter 2

  Thomas Walrich’s body was discovered ten hours after he toppled face-first into the Amo River in Florence, Italy. A bullet traveling two hundred and eighty yards struck him in his right temple and he went swimming a second later clutching a briefcase, his mousy-brown toupee clinging to his forehead.

  After his final exit, and sudden plunge into the Amo, both the briefcase and the toupee were swept away with the current. The briefcase was recovered two weeks later in Empoli. The toupee, caught in a yacht’s twin caterpillar engine, ended up in the Tyrrhenian Sea, lost forever.

  The authorities notified the appropriate agencies after recovery of the body. A positive identification was made, and within twenty-four hours Adolf Merrick received a phone call telling him that another operative had fallen—the stats on his death cloning those of Alton Bromly’s. It seemed that Holic’s replacement was on target again, and Merrick would be forced to make a check mark on his useless copy of the kill-list.

  This time, Thomas Walrich, an American agent on secret assignment in Italy.

  That made two assassinations within three weeks. Pierce was right: at this rate they were in for a slaughter.

  Suddenly Holic’s words came back to haunt Merrick. The clock is ticking, and time is on my side.

  Adolf reached for the phone and called Pierce. He relayed the information, sending his agent now on to Italy to follow up and escort Walrich’s body home the minute it was released. Then, in the quiet of his office, he sat back and stroked his short gray beard.

  He had to admit that the Chameleon was still controlling his life. Hell, all their lives, if the bastard was still alive. But how could that be?

  “You’re dead, and yet you live.” Merrick muttered the words, then closed his eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck, the pain hammering his temples warning him that he hadn’t been sleeping well again, and as a result his tension headaches were back.

  “Will you ever be gone from my mind, you evil bastard? You’ve taken everything from me. Everything important, and still you continue to torment me. Will this nightmare never end?”

  The phone rang again, and this time Merrick hesitated before answering it. He glanced at the number as it came up and when he recognized it, he frowned in puzzlement. It was Sarah Finny, and for a moment he wondered why she would be calling him. Then he glanced at the calendar and saw that it was Thursday, and below the day’s date he’d written, Dinner with Sarah at 6:00.

  He checked his watch. Saw that it was past seven. Wincing, feeling like an ass, he hesitated a few seconds longer before picking up the phone.

  “Hello, Sarah.”

  “Adolf, is everything all right with you? I thought we were—”

  “Yes, everything is fine, Sarah. I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty at this sort of thing. Dinner completely slipped my mind. I rarely have appointments outside the office.”

  “This was dinner, Adolf, not an appointment.”

  “Of course. That’s what I meant to say. I haven’t been asked to dinner since Johanna and I… Ah, do you still want me to come, or is it too late? If you’d rather cancel, I understand.”

  “I’ve spent two hours in the kitchen. The food is—”

  “I could be there in twenty minutes. But I understand if… Okay, I’m on my way.”

  The night Jacy Moon Madox got the first call it started to snow in the mountains. But snow in late September wasn’t unusual, not in the high country of Montana.

  His brother had sounded drunk on the phone, but that wasn’t unusual either—Tate was a beer drinker and not just a two-bottle limit with dinner.

  Out of bed and out of sorts, Jacy pulled on his jeans and took Highway 2 to 89. Once he reached Browning he headed south. The Sun Dance Saloon was on the outskirts of Heart Butte on the Blackfoot Indian Reservation. It was a dark, honky-tonk, old-West beer-and-chili joint with saddles for bar stools, booths lining the walls, a circular dance floor and a half dozen pool tables.

  He had picked up the phone at ten-thirty, and it was almost midnight when he parked his black pickup in front of the Sun Dance, climbed out.

  “Hey, Moon.”

  “Tommy.”

 
Jacy nodded at the barrel-chested Indian as they passed on the front porch. To the locals Jacy was simply addressed as Moon. It didn’t matter that he’d left the rez at the age of fifteen to join the Hell’s Angels with his brother Tate, or that half the blood flowing through his veins was from a German immigrant, the now-deceased forest ranger, Corbel Madox. All who lived in these parts knew Jacy had been born under a full moon to Nola Youngblood. And if that wasn’t significant enough, he was Koko Blackkettle’s grandson, the visionary who could see things before they happened.

  Jacy limped through the saloon’s front door with a scowl on his face. He searched the dark corners and saw Tate seated at a booth off the end of the bar, a number of empties lining the table in front of him.

  He slid into the seat opposite his brother, and just as he was about to speak, his phone rang for the second time that night. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the caller’s ID. Grunting when he saw it was Merrick, he answered his phone with an edge to his voice.

  “This better be important, it’s the middle of the damn night out here, and remember I don’t work for you anymore.”

  “I needed to talk to you.”

  “If it’s about what we chatted about weeks ago—”

  “Another agent fell today. One of ours.”

  “And he was on the list?”

  “Yes. Tom Walrich.”

  Jacy didn’t recognize the name, but that didn’t mean much. There were hundreds of agents floating in and out of Onyxx headquarters.

  “I just called to update you. Thought you should know.”

  Make me feel guilty for retiring and try to pull me back in, Jacy thought. But he wasn’t going to take the bait. He would never be a hundred percent again, and that’s what Onyxx agents were all about. He wasn’t one of them anymore, and Merrick needed to accept that and forget about him.

  “If you’re not coming back in, watch your back out there. You’re on the list. Retired or not, if and when your number’s up, it’s up. And right now we can’t do a damn thing but watch and wait.”

  “Who’s working on the case?”