Deadly Star

by CJ Petterson

  “I didn’t know what I had seen until Sully told me. I thought it was an asteroid or maybe a new comet. If you had left me alone, I might never have understood — ”

  Saint John smiled without humor. “Understood what? That it’s a bio-weapon?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re trying my patience, Doctor Campbell. I’m talking about the nanosatellite’s payload.”

  “What payload?”

  “I’m quite aware Mr. O’Sullivan’s been briefed on the purpose of the nanosat. I believe that also means he related that information to you.”

  “He’s my ex-husband with an emphasis on ex. He’s told me many times I’m need-to-know. I guess I didn’t need to know that part.” She watched his eyebrows knit together.

  “For future reference, you might remember you are not a very good liar.” He lit a dark cigarillo and blew smoke toward the ceiling. His face and manner smoothed out. “But then you won’t have a future reference, will you? And at long last, neither will Mr. O’Sullivan.”

  The realization of why she was still alive jolted her hard. “It’s not just me. It hasn’t been just about me or the satellite since that first day in my house. You want Sully.”

  “A fortuitous stroke of serendipity I simply could not ignore.”

  Mirabel’s eyes were drawn to the slash that was his smile as it stretched across the bottom of his narrow face.

  “You, my dear, will be the instrument of your ex-husband’s demise. Rather poetic, isn’t it? He and I have been at cross-purposes for so many years, and now I have a delicious opportunity to eliminate that problem. And as I said, I do so dislike problems.” He held out her cellphone again.

  She pinched her lips together and shook her head. She winced when her headache reminded her not to do that.

  “You really are quite incredible. You think it is within your power to deny Mr. O’Sullivan his appointment with fate.” He shook his head in mild disbelief, some evil amusement disturbing his face. “You are not amusing, however.”

  Saint John flicked through Mirabel’s phone listing and found Sully’s name. He thumbed in the number and listened for Sully’s answer then shoved the phone against the curve of her ear. When she yelped, he pushed her aside.

  “Yes, that was the beautiful Dr. Campbell. And if you don’t want that little scream to be her last, you will join us at the abandoned railroad station” — he looked at his watch — “in an hour. Alone, of course.”

  He toggled off the phone and dropped it back in her purse. Saint John took a long drag on the cigarillo and exhaled slowly. “Now, Dr. Campbell, we’re going for a little ride.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The sun had not yet surrendered its position on the horizon when Sully rolled to a stop within fifteen yards of Saint John’s idling Expedition. They faced each other in the parking lot of the railroad depot. In the distance, the building’s silhouette was disappearing into the gathering darkness.

  Sully shoved the gearshift into park. He cut his engine but left the headlights on then stepped out of the Jeep and stood spotlighted in the Expedition’s halogen beams. Pulling his SIG out of his belt holster, he held it by the trigger guard. Top-heavy, the barrel rolled over, and the weapon dangled upside down on his finger. He tossed the gun onto the passenger’s front seat then peeled off his Los Angeles Angels baseball jacket. Holding the jacket at arm’s length, he turned a deliberate circle. The move offered a clear look at the striped shirt he wore tucked into his jeans. When he stopped, he tossed the jacket on top of the gun and spread his arms wide.

  Sully’s arms had started to sag by the time Karadzic climbed out of the SUV and stepped backward to open the rear door. His left arm hung at his side, his meaty fist wrapped around the grip of a long-barreled handgun.

  Mirabel emerged from the vehicle and frowned, lifting her arms to shield her eyes from the headlights. Sully could tell by the way she held her hands that her wrists were bound together. He couldn’t understand the words, but he recognized Saint John’s voice. He watched Mirabel’s chin dip and lift. When she dropped her hands, Sully caught her eyes and nodded.

  “Back down the road, Mirabel,” he called out. When she hesitated, he said, “Just once, Mirabel, do as you’re told. Walk away.” She turned and walked toward the train station. After the blackness had swallowed her, Karadzic switched gun hands and waved Sully forward.

  Sully leaned over to switch off the Jeep’s headlights. He unbuttoned his shirtsleeves and put a roll in the cuffs as he walked. His snakeskin boots crunched in the dirt and gravel. Spotlighted in the Expedition’s lights, he appeared unhurried, relaxed.

  When he got close, Karadzic grabbed his shirt and pushed him in front of the open rear door. “Mr. Saint John has a gun aimed at the middle of your forehead.” He slipped his own gun into his belt. “But I’d just as soon you try something.”

  “You saw me get rid of the SIG.”

  “Don’t mean nothing.”

  “Wouldn’t to me, either.” Sully knew he’d be searched for a hidden gun or knife.

  Karadzic squatted and ran his hands inside the tops of Sully’s boots then up his legs. Sully grunted when the thug’s hands got rough and personal. Karadzic straightened and spun Sully around. His narrow lips stretching into a thin smile like a scratch across his square face, he pulled Sully’s arm out and felt up and down the sleeve. He reached for the other arm.

  “Enough,” Saint John snapped from the darkness.

  Karadzic pulled his gun out of his belt and nodded to the open door. “Get in.”

  “Your master’s voice?” Sully asked just before Karadzic slammed a hand between his shoulder blades and shoved him against the door frame. Sully regained his balance and slid into the back seat of the SUV.

  Karadzic shut the door behind him.

  In the dimness of the small interior lights, Sully checked for escape routes. His eyes had taken in all he needed to see by the time he settled into the whispering leather. Saint John held a Glock aimed at Sully’s chest. The Jamaican’s black suit was too fitted to hide another weapon, but there was a bulge in the seat pocket in front of him. Though there were no inside door handles on the rear doors, the door locks were up. Sully turned his attention to Saint John.

  “It’s been a long while, Sully,” Saint John murmured and touched the glowing coil of the car’s cigarette lighter to a cigarillo.

  Sully pointed to the brown stick. “Those things will kill you.”

  The tip of the cigarillo flared. Saint John held the smoke in his mouth for a few seconds then let it escape through his lips. He sidled a look at Sully out of half-closed eyes. “Let’s see, where was it we last met?”

  “Hong Kong.”

  “You remember.”

  Sully rubbed his chest with his fingers. “I have a scar and an ache on rainy days to remind me.”

  “How fortunate it does not often rain in California. Why are you here, Robert? In California, I mean.”

  Not a good sign, Sully thought. He used my given name. “For the same reason you are.”

  Saint John sidled another look at Sully. “Remind me.”

  “You took a contract on my ex-wife, and there’s the matter of your employer and his mystery satellite. And your handler is stinking up the countryside with corpses. Doesn’t it bother you that he killed one of your informants? It bothers me.”

  Saint John’s eyes opened wider then quickly veiled again. “Nobody ‘handles’ me,” he snapped. “For what it’s worth, I accepted the contract on Dr. Campbell before I knew who my target was, but when I found out” — he paused and smiled — “I thought it kismet.”

  “What makes that particular satellite so special?”

  “Science is remarkable. You of all people should know that. Your wife — ex-wife — is on the cutting e
dge of new discoveries. Think of it. Someone has now acquired the ability to genetically engineer the world’s most important food crop from a satellite. And such an ironic twist. Launched in Japan, aimed at Japan,” he said and watched Sully’s face. “And the U.S. and North Korea and — “ Saint John took another drag on the cigarillo. “But then, you know all that.”

  “What I don’t know is why.”

  Saint John ignored Sully’s question. “You’ve piqued my curiosity. You know who my employer is?”

  “Does the name Soujiro Itoh ring a bell?”

  Saint John considered the information for a moment. “I didn’t think you could surprise me,” he said.

  Just then, Karadzic slipped into the driver’s seat. He rested his gun on the center console and fixed his eyes on the rearview mirror. Saint John nodded and set the Glock next to his leg. Sully wondered if the act was a deliberate temptation or carelessness born of arrogance.

  “Now, where were we?” Saint John said softly. “Oh, yes. You were about to tell me the name of the one you so quaintly call my ‘handler.’”

  “You’re not going to believe this. I think you may even die laughing when I tell you.”

  “Amuse me.”

  “’Tis the wee Deputy Esther Lee who pulls your strings.”

  “You’re lying.” Saint John nodded to Karadzic. “Tony, show Mr. O’Sullivan what we think of liars.”

  Karadzic twisted around.

  “Wait.” Sully pointed a delaying forefinger in Karadzic’s direction. “It’s true, SinJen. I said you wouldn’t believe me. If I were lying, I’d certainly have come up with someone more believable than Esther Lee. Intel came back this afternoon.”

  Saint John waved off Karadzic. “What proof does your intel offer?”

  “Right after Mirabel discovered the satellite, Sheriff Thompson’s deputy retired. For health reasons, he said. Then, just before you got here, Esther Lee drove into town. She carried a set of impeccable credentials — false, of course — and got the job. I’ve also seen her disguised as a very old Japanese woman. Amazing disguise.” His mouth opened again then he stopped. More of the puzzle pieces shifted into place, and he remembered descriptions of a notorious, faceless killer. Damn, I know who she really is.

  “You’ve related some minor circumstances that might point to the female deputy. However, you’ve said nothing that would convince me she’s my contact.”

  “On the contrary, SinJen. I’ve described your contact to a tee. Given how she likes to operate, you probably met her as some androgynous unseen figure. It’s a sure bet you’ve seen the Mercedes. The faithful Yakuza chauffeur?”

  Saint John’s eyes narrowed as he blew out a column of smoke. “Game over, Sully,” Saint John snarled.

  “Deputy Esther Lee’s real name is Miiko Itoh.”

  “Soujiro Itoh’s sister,” Saint John said in a soft voice. He lowered his eyes.

  I’ve hit a nerve, Sully thought.

  Miiko was a storied enigma. While Saint John digested the news, Sully mentally flipped through the pages of her CIA dossier.

  Born in 1966. Educated at Stanford in California and Oxford in England. A loner with disassociative identity disorder. A brother who uses drugs to control her. A pathological executioner. Her first high-profile kill came when barely a teenager — Anwar Sadat in Egypt in 1981. Interpol believes she fired the kill shot credited to members of the Egyptian Islamic Jihad. Olof Palme in Stockholm in 1986. Always disguised. Her likeness existed only as a computer-generated image, a composite gleaned from remembrances of college classmates and brief sightings.

  Until now, until she became Deputy Esther Lee, no one had known what she really looked like. If Saint John failed to execute his contract, Miiko would kill him and move Mirabel’s name to the top of her own hit list.

  “I see you know her.”

  “I know of her reputation.” Saint John looked toward the door window where his face reflected darkly back. “She is ninja. A shadow warrior exquisitely trained in the art of assassination. In hand-to-hand combat, it is said she has much skill with daishō.” Saint John spoke softly, his voice drifting up into a pitch-perfect, nasal Oriental accent.

  Sully nodded. “Ninjas cannot use daishō in battle. They cannot carry both the long sword and the small sword. Only a true Samurai may use both the katana and wakizashi. It’s fortunate for her enemies that she has great reverence for the laws of her ancestors … if for no other.”

  Saint John sucked in a long drag. He spoke through the smoke drifting out of his mouth. “Fortunate indeed.”

  “She’s considered unbeatable with the special sword of her profession, the ninja-ken.”

  “She is tiny, like a gnat, and gnats can be swatted,” Saint John said in a bored voice.

  Sully shrugged. “She is tiny, like a killer bee, and swatting makes them angry.”

  Saint John swiveled his head to focus dark eyes on Sully and smiled. “I shall miss our little jousts,” he said, his tone carrying real regret. “You were a most formidable and worthy opponent.”

  Past tense, Sully thought. Here we go. He glanced at the rearview mirror and made eye contact with Karadzic.

  Saint John inhaled deeply on the cigarillo, sucking air noisily through the tobacco. He held his breath for a long moment, relishing the nicotine uptick. Then he lifted his chin and watched the smoke waft upward in soft wobbly loops out of the “O” formed by his mouth. “Well?” he said when the loops disappeared. “Nothing to say?”

  “Not to a dead man.”

  Saint John’s cackle was cut short when Mirabel pounded her fists against the window next to him and screamed, “Sully!”

  The half-second distraction was all Sully needed. He shoved the heel of his hand under Saint John’s chin at the same time he grabbed the Glock.

  Mirabel yanked open the door just as Karadzic spun in the driver’s seat, firing as he twisted around. She dropped out of sight, and Karadzic swung back toward Sully. The high seatback interfered with Karadzic’s aim, buying Sully precious time. Bullets blew out the back window.

  Sully held Saint John’s Glock at arm’s reach and fired. The round entered Karadzic’s brain through the left eye socket and tore out the back of his skull. He thudded back off the steering wheel then flopped sideways over the gearshift. His upper torso wedged between the seat and the instrument panel.

  As Karadzic descended into his personal hell, Saint John yanked at the weapon in the front seat pocket. It caught on the soft leather. Cursing, he slammed a fist against Sully’s cheek as he struggled to free the gun.

  Sully shook off the blow and launched his body at Saint John. The Contractor squeezed off a round that ripped through the front seat. Sully jammed the Glock hard against the Jamaican’s Adam’s apple and squeezed the trigger. At such close range, the shot was deafening.

  A stippling of black powder appeared on Saint John’s skin as his body jerked upright. His head dipped forward, eyes wide, focused on Sully. A confused look crossed his face. His mouth gaped, but no sound came out. The bullet had shattered his larynx.

  A trickle of blood escaped one corner of his mouth. By the time his eyes showed he comprehended what had happened, the light was fading out of their black centers. His head drooped heavily toward his chest. His body crumbled into an indiscriminate pile of limbs, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  Sully sucked air into his heaving lungs and looked around at the carnage. “That was for Mirabel, SinJen. And Dan and Frank.” He gulped a couple of deep breaths to slow his racing heartbeat. “You shouldn’t have made it personal.”

  He threw the Glock on the seat, shoved Saint John’s sprawled legs out of his way, and scrambled out of the SUV.

  “Mirabel!” he yelled and prayed she would answer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Mirabel st
umbled out of the darkness. “I waited so long. I was afraid … the shots … Are you hurt?”

  He shook his head. “Are you okay? Did you get hit?”

  “I’m fine,” she said as he ran his hands over her face and shoulders.

  He pulled her close and enveloped her in his arms. “I have to admit this is one time I’m glad you didn’t listen to me. When you pounded on the door — ”

  “I had to do something.” She didn’t take her eyes off his face as he peeled away the gray tape binding her wrists. When he had freed her hands, relief caused her knees to wobble. He gripped her tightly. “It’s okay,” he whispered and stroked her hair. “I’ve got you.”

  The huskiness in his voice broke through years of defenses, and she drank in the sound. It warmed her like a golden Irish whiskey, strong and smooth. “Oh, Sully. I was afraid I’d lose you.”

  It didn’t matter he was no longer hers to lose. Years after their divorce, she was still linked to what they had shared. Tears breached the dam of her eyelashes and streamed over her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest.

  He laid his cheek on her head and waited for her sobbing to stop. “Did they hurt you?”

  “No,” she whispered. After several minutes, the rattle of a car engine made its way into her consciousness. She lifted her head and saw the Expedition. She knew the answer before she asked the question. “Are they — ”

  “Yes.”

  She shivered at the coldness in his voice. “You killed both of them? Just like that?” She tried to snap her fingers and failed. “They weren’t animals.”

  A knot appeared on Sully’s jaw when he clenched his teeth. “That’s true. Animals kill to live. Those two killed because they enjoyed it. Every law enforcement agency and intelligence service on this planet has been after those two for more than a decade.”

  She struggled to get out of his grip. He lifted his hands away, and she stumbled back. “You’re the same as they are — a hired killer! The only difference is that it’s our government who does the hiring.” She spat out the accusation, angry at him, angry at herself for not recognizing years ago something about him was different. “Admit it. You enjoyed killing them.”