by Cindy Dees
He asked abruptly, “Can you ride a bicycle?”
“Yes. Why?”
“That gives us a few more options. We need to do it someplace dark and relatively deserted where no bystanders will get involved and potentially get hurt.”
Fear flared in her gut. “Hurt? I thought this was all going to be fake.”
“It is. But Good Samaritans are unpredictable. We wouldn’t want some bystander to pull a weapon and try to engage you in a shootout.”
She stared at him, appalled. It was bad enough to pretend to kill him. No way was she going to hurt a civilian. Her misgivings about the whole stunt intensified.
“What does a bicycle have to do with all of this?” she asked.
“We’re considering using a bicycle as your getaway vehicle. It’s quiet and hard to trace. We’ll steal a bicycle, use it for the attack, and return it to its owner before anyone knows it’s been borrowed. Also, it will discourage any witness on foot from giving chase to you.”
Great. People were going to be chasing her? “The police know about all of this, right? They won’t shoot me on sight, will they?”
“They’ve been fully briefed, and Jennifer has secured their cooperation. They’ve offered to do anything they can to help. They’ll make a point of being far away from the murder scene, but will come in with all kinds of sirens and fanfare afterward. First thing tomorrow morning, they’ll launch a highly visible manhunt for you. We’ll stage the shooting close enough to a surveillance camera to have bad footage of it for the police to put on TV. That should convince Annika it’s real. When you fill in the details that jibe with the eyewitness footage, she shouldn’t question the fact that you actually shot me.”
Eve was still hung up on the first bit of what he’d said. “The police will be hunting me?”
“Of course. We have to make it look believable for Annika.”
Eve shuddered. What had she gotten herself into? “Are you sure this is the only way to prove to Annika that I’m violent enough to play in her sandbox?”
“You tell me. You know her better than the rest of us. Will she accept anything shy of an actual murder as proof of your violent intent?”
“No. She doesn’t do anything halfway.”
Brady shrugged. “Then tonight I die.”
The street they’d chosen for Brady’s murder was in a business section of the capital, George Town, that was dark and deserted at this time of night. She wore black pants and a black turtleneck, her blond hair tucked up inside a black watch cap. Brady had insisted on her smearing black camouflage grease on her face and hands as well. She felt a little bit like a circus clown riding her stolen bicycle down the street.
She had a messenger bag slung over her shoulder, and the pistol inside it weighed a ton. Brady had assured her over and over that it was loaded with blanks. He’d even unloaded the weapon and shown her the dummy rounds when she continued to fret over the safety of the weapon. She’d only subsided when he reminded her dryly that he had as vested an interest as her in making sure there were no actual bullets in the gun.
Her pedaling slowed as she neared the intersection H.O.T. Watch had chosen for the murder. Her gut clenched at the mere thought of the word. She hated anything to do with harming another human being; it went against everything she’d ever stood for. The violence around her had taken far too high a toll in her life. It was not the way to solve any problem.
The alley where she would shoot Brady should be just ahead on her left. Her feet slowed, and the bike drifted forward. She looked around carefully but saw no one. They were alone. Brady would come out of that alley momentarily. He would be wearing a disguise—including a blond wig she’d insisted he model for her in his room to her peals of laughter. He’d eventually smiled reluctantly, too.
He would be carrying a briefcase in his right hand. He would check his watch on his left wrist, turn away and give her his back for the “shot,” then tug on his left ear. The ear tug was the signal for her to proceed.
There he was. She wouldn’t have recognized him had she not known it was him. He was dressed as a street person in a filthy T-shirt and a pair of baggy pants. He checked his watch and then he turned away from her.
Braking awkwardly, she pulled the messenger bag forward to hang down in front of her. With a last look around, seeing no one, she reached inside and grasped the weapon tightly.
Brady’s left hand slipped into his pocket. No doubt to activate an exploding squib with a remote control. She been amused when the high-tech squib turned out to be a plain old condom filled with corn syrup, red food coloring, and chocolate syrup mixed to look like blood.
She could do this. It was all pretend. An elaborate game of cowboys and Indians that children might play…or Basque separatists and army soldiers, in her case.
Brady tugged his ear.
She raised her gun and was shocked to discover how badly her hand was shaking. Her palm was slick with sweat and she grasped the weapon with all her strength. Good thing she wasn’t actually having to shoot him. She doubted she could hit the side of a barn right now if she tried.
She brought the bicycle to a stop and remained seated, one foot on the pavement to balance her. Remembering the powerful recoil of the pistol that had knocked her over the first time she shot a gun, she did her best to relax her arm as she squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
The sound echoed deafeningly in the concrete canyon of banks and office buildings. Brady slammed forward face-first onto the ground so convincingly she forgot for a moment that she hadn’t actually shot him. A spray of something wet and red misted the air where he’d just been standing. He lay perfectly still, and a dark puddle started to spread beneath him.
Reflexive horror blanked her mind. Oh, my God. Brady.
Every cell in her body screamed at her to race forward. To render aid. To save him from what she’d just done to him. The bike wobbled violently and Eve had to slam her other foot to the ground to keep herself from falling over. Shaking violently, she jammed the gun into her bag. She pedaled hard, struggling with the handlebar to control the bike’s shimmying as she took off. It took her several moments to regain her balance. Lord, she was a mess. She was so rattled she could hardly ride a bike.
She wheeled past where he lay unmoving on the sidewalk, and nausea tore through her gut. She never needed to see a real shooting victim as long as she lived. Racing down the street, she forced herself to concentrate on getting away from the scene of the crime without falling and killing herself. The irony was not lost on her.
Brady was maybe a half-dozen blocks behind her when the first sirens screamed in the distance. She pedaled faster. She couldn’t afford to be anywhere near the murder scene when the police arrived. Not to mention H.O.T. Watch expected television crews to show up quickly thereafter.
The Caymans police had agreed to remove Brady’s “body” rapidly, so he wouldn’t end up starring on the evening news playing a corpse. He’d been concerned that overseas news outlets might pick up the story and that members of his family might accidentally see his “dead” face.
As prearranged, she locked the bicycle into a bike stand outside an apartment building Brady’d shown her earlier. From there she made her way to the beach, stripped off her black shirt and pants to reveal a bathing suit. After taking a quick swim to wash the grease off of her hands and face, she stuffed the clothing into her bag and made the long walk back to her hotel, just another tourist out for a midnight stroll.
The whole episode had taken under an hour, but she was utterly exhausted when she got back to her room. The emotional strain of seeing Brady fall “bleeding” on the ground had drained her much worse than she’d expected. She crawled into bed and pulled the covers up around her ears, but it didn’t help the shivering that had set in.
It was fake. It was all right. Brady was fine. But she couldn’t get that nightmare image of him out of her head, motionless and bleeding by her hand.
By the time she woke up th
e next morning, the murder was the talk of the island. It was splashed all over the news, and fuzzy images of a man pitching facedown to the ground and a brief flash of a lean figure wearing black and riding a bicycle were being shown nearly continuously on every channel. Her heart in her throat, she listened to the news coverage and was relieved to hear that the police reported having no leads or suspects in the murder.
The plan today was for Eve to return to the beach and hope that Annika would come looking for her. Even though H.O.T. Watch knew where Annika was staying, they were reluctant to make the terrorist suspicious of Eve by having her show up unannounced at Annika’s front door.
Jittery, Eve made her way down to the beach and the hotel’s cabanas. Within minutes her telephone beeped to indicate an incoming text message. We have you in sight. Brady says hi and don’t forget to use sunblock.
Relief so profound it made her feel like crying rushed through her. She needed to see him, to hold him, to reassure herself that he was really alive, but the text from H.O.T. Watch was better than nothing. The plan was for Brady to stay hidden in the island’s morgue until all the press went away from the place. His headquarters didn’t want to take any chances with the ruse being discovered. She didn’t know when she’d see him again.
Eve baked in the sun for an hour feeling horribly exposed and terrified that someone would recognize her and accuse her of being a killer at any minute. Her nerves were frayed and she was about to abandon her post when, down the beach, she spied a familiar figure. A lean woman with short black hair and wearing a red bathing suit strode down the beach purposefully. She was coming in Eve’s direction.
Annika.
Here went nothing.
Chapter 8
Wearing yet another disguise, Brady left the morgue, blending in with the desultory early afternoon foot traffic and making his way back to his hotel room. Once inside, he rushed to the window to scan the beach below. No sign of Eve. He swore under his breath.
He pulled out his cell phone and dialed H.O.T. Watch quickly. “Harry, it’s Brady. Where’s Eve?”
“She left the beach about twenty minutes ago with Annika.”
“Where did they go?” As he spoke, he changed quickly into shorts and a T-shirt that would help him blend in with the local populace.
“You can’t go after her, sir. You need to keep your distance and let her do her job. If Annika’s people spot you tailing Eve, not only would they be suspicious of you but they could hurt Eve.”
Harry was right, dammit. Frustrated, Brady asked, “Where are they headed?”
“They appear to be en route to Annika’s house. We have parabolic microphones installed across the street, and we should be able to pick up some or all of the conversation.”
“Do we have infrared imagery?” Sensitive heat-detecting cameras could be pointed at a structure and literally see through the walls.
Harry responded gently, “This is an infiltration op, Commander Hathaway, not an imminent attack.”
Which was a polite way of the guy saying that using infrared cameras at this juncture was neither called for nor logical. Brady sighed. He adamantly wished he were standing in the control room at H.O.T. Watch ops right now, with ready access to all of its high-tech surveillance capabilities. As it was, he was stuck in this cursed hotel room with only secondhand reports of what was going on with Eve. Impatience surged through him.
“We’ve got to get some sort of video monitor here in my room with whatever visuals we’ve got on Eve. I’m going to go crazy if I can’t see more of what’s happening during this mission.”
Jennifer Blackfoot spoke up, “She’s gotten under your skin, hasn’t she?” his colleague accused.
“No, she hasn’t,” he protested. “I’m just worried about her. Annika’s violent and unpredictable, and I worry about Eve dealing with her.”
Jennifer’s voice lost the faint echo of being on speaker phone. She’d come on the line to talk to him privately. She asked quietly, “Are you going to be able to hold it together, Brady? Do you need me to take over this op?”
“No, I’ve got it,” he snapped. “I’m good.”
But he wasn’t good, and he damned well knew it. Moreover, Jennifer knew it. The hell of it was Jennifer knew exactly why he was such a mess, too. He had to chill out and fast, or she would go over his head and get him pulled from this op. She’d probably be right to do so, but his heart shouted in protest at the notion.
Where are you, Eve? What the hell’s happening to you?
Eve was impressed when Annika made a point of walking past a police patrol on the beach. Testing Eve’s nerves, was she? And not even subtly. Good thing Eve wasn’t guilty of any actual crime—she never had been any good at hiding her guilt. As it was, she studiously avoided looking at the police officers for fear that one of them might show some small sign of recognition of her and blow the operation.
They passed a second patrol a few minutes later. Caymans law enforcement types were making their presence highly visible today in the wake of last night’s murder. The tourists were the cash cow that kept this island afloat, and it was vital that they feel safe.
Eve said casually to Annika, “Looks like the island’s finest are out in force looking for me. It makes a girl feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”
Annika glanced at her sharply.
“What?” Eve asked innocently.
“You are more calm than I expected.”
“First you didn’t think I could do it. And now you’re surprised that I’m not crying and having vapors. What kind of moron do you think I am? I’m Viktor’s sister, and he was no dummy.” Although it had been pretty stupid of him to fall for a psychotic terrorist and let her talk him into getting himself killed.
Annika conceded reluctantly, “You have his courage if nothing else.”
They walked in silence after that. Annika led her to a dilapidated bungalow in what had to be the poorest section of town. The tiny yard was overgrown, and the shack hadn’t seen a paint can in Eve’s lifetime. They stepped inside onto bare concrete floors. Two decrepit sofas faced each other in the main room, and three rough-looking men lounged on them.
The nearest one had a shaved head and was, predictably, called Curly. The others, a pair of small, dark-haired, dark-eyed brothers named Pierre and André, grunted as Annika introduced her. The two men looked Basque and not particularly interested in her. But Eve’s skin crawled at the way the bald one, Curly, undressed her with his eyes. He’d bear watching, that one.
“Eve, here, killed that guy on the news this morning,” Annika announced.
Curly’s gaze flickered in slightly more interest. He said in a heavy Basque accent, “I still get to make the kill, no?”
Annika rolled her eyes. “Of course.”
Eve asked boldly, “Who’s the target?”
Annika threw her a quelling look. “All in good time, little chick. You’ve barely got feathers, let alone learned how to fly.”
She glared. “I killed a man last night. I’m blooded. I’ve earned my way in.”
“You’ve earned nothing,” Annika spat, “except a chance to prove yourself worthy of serving the cause.”
Inside, Eve quaked at the insanity tinging Annika’s voice. Total nut job, that woman was. Eve crossed her arms and struck a provocative pose. Wearing only a skimpy bikini and a nearly as skimpy cover-up, she shoved her chest up and out. “Worried about a little competition maybe?”
Annika’s gaze narrowed dangerously. “Don’t play with fire, little girl. You’ll burn to death.”
Eve turned and headed for the door speaking over her shoulder in disgust. “I’m out of here. When you can treat me like the adult I am, we’ll talk. Until then…” she uttered a foul epithet in French describing what Annika could do with herself.
The men burst out laughing, startling Eve badly. She reached for the doorknob and prayed no one noticed how her hands were shaking.
“Wait,” Annika said in a conciliatory tone.
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Eve turned around slowly. “Who’s the target?”
“Someone important. More important than you can imagine. He’s rumored to be coming here for a series of secret meetings very soon. And I’ve got a job for you. You’re the perfect person for it.”
Eve moved back into the room trying to feign an eagerness she was far from feeling. “Anything. What can I do?”
“Sit on a beach and look useless,” Annika announced.
“I beg your pardon?” Eve was puzzled.
“There’s a resort—the Three Palms. Very exclusive. Very high end. I need you to get onto its private beach and hang out there. Watch who comes and goes and report back to me. When our target arrives, you’ll let me know.”
“How am I going to spot the target if I don’t know who he is?” Eve asked.
“Oh, you’ll know who he is when he arrives,” Annika replied, smiling like a shark on the hunt. The expression sent a chill down Eve’s spine.
“How do you want me to stay in touch? Cell phone? Email? Dead drop?”
Annika rolled her eyes. “I’ll contact you when I want an update. Until then, do what you do best. Blend in with the beautiful people and keep your eyes open. I’ll be in touch.”
Eve nodded thoughtfully. A male target. VIP. Inbound to the Three Palms soon. She stepped outside and was startled when a trio of youths whistled and made bald suggestions to her about what they’d like to do with her. She laughed as if they were cute and she would actually contemplate taking them up on their various raw offers in this lifetime. Not.
The Three Palms, huh? It was an incredibly exclusive resort. The obvious approach, likely the one Annika expected her to take, was to pose as a high-priced call girl canvassing the joint for business. Small problem: a place like the Three Palms would take a very dim view of working girls prowling their beach.
She headed back to her hotel, turning over various plans for getting onto the private beach and being allowed to stay there for the hours or days it would take to stake out this VIP target of Annika’s.