by PM Kavanaugh
Since their meeting in Transport, Gianni’s attitude toward her had been aloof. No flicker of the heat and passion from last night. Gone was the man who had danced with her, kissed her, held her.
“Our client is Vittorio Felipe Vasquez.” Anika recited the details from the mission briefing for the third time. “He controls a paramilitary force that oversees the usual gamut of illegal activities—drugs, prostitution, gambling, arms dealing. All concentrated in the southern Pacific lowlands.”
So far, the El Salvadoran government had been unsuccessful in stopping Vasquez’s crimes and bringing him to justice. The best it had been able to do was to plant an operative inside his operations to monitor his next moves.
It had taken years, but the operative had finally entered Vasquez’s inner circle and earned the leader’s confidence. That’s how the government had learned of Vasquez’s desire to extend his operations north, all the way to the Guatemalan border. To do so, he had to eliminate a rival, Isobela Carmen Tobar, who happened to be his ex-lover. She was this mission’s target.
Vasquez had decided to hire a non-local assassin to carry out the hit. He wanted expertise and, more importantly, neutrality. He was concerned Tobar might catch wind of his plan and try to turn a local with the promise of their own territory as a reward. Vasquez preferred somebody with no interest in El Salvador, with only money as a motivation. He’d tasked the government mole inside his organization to identify the best person for the job.
This was where U.N.I.T. 605 entered the picture. The El Salvadorian government retained the agency to eliminate both Vasquez and Tobar, and shut down their unlawful operations so it could restore law and order to the territory now under their control. The agency offered to provide a husband-and-wife assassination team to carry out the first critical step of the assignment.
The plan was to kill Tobar, provide undeniable proof of her death to Vasquez (most likely, her decapitated head), then kidnap Vasquez and insert Agent Santos in his place. U.N.I.T. needed Vasquez alive so he could provide intel about the workings of his organization that could be fed to Santos. Agent Santos had completed the medical procedures to look, sound, and walk like Vasquez, even down to the limp in his right leg. Masquerading as the ruthless jefe and working in concert with the government operative, Santos would dismantle the paramilitary organization and give back control of the now-consolidated territory to the El Salvadoran government. As soon as the government had reasserted its authority, Agent Santos would be extracted and the real Vasquez would be returned to the country for trial and, in all likelihood, execution.
Once U.N.I.T’s plan was approved by the government, a fee of twenty million dollars was paid into the agency’s bank account. The mole recommended the American born-and-bred “Bianchis,” and provided the necessary documentation—courtesy of the tech ops team at U.N.I.T.—as proof of their skill, including past hits.
Vasquez accepted the mole’s recommendation to hire the Bianchis and approved the transfer of one-half of their fee—five million dollars—into a Swiss bank account. The money was sitting there now, waiting until the mission was complete, when it would be transferred again, this time into the agency’s account as final payment for services rendered.
Anika glanced over at Gianni, his still profile a statue carved from fine Italian marble. “Can I ask you a question?”
He nodded, not turning his head.
“Do you know what the weather was on our wedding day?”
“What?” Gianni’s head swung toward her, his eyes dark and intense.
“I mean,” Anika said, running her tongue across her upper lip in a nervous gesture, “on Antonio and Lena’s wedding day. There was nothing about the weather in the mission profile. I thought it might come up in conversation. You know, along with being asked about our...their previous assignments.”
“It’s best not to invent new information about backstories,” Gianni said. “Use the data ops has provided.”
Though his voice was dispassionate, or maybe because of it, irritation pricked the back of Anika’s neck. They were supposed to be a team on this mission.
“I’m not inventing anything,” she said. “I was trained that small details can make a cover more convincing. And according to ops, Antonio and Lena were married in Sonoma, California North on August twenty-eighth, twenty-sixty. I think most couples would remember the weather on their wedding day. So I looked it up. It was hot. Fried-tofu-on-sidewalk hot. Thirty-six degrees Celsius in the morning climbing ten more degrees before midday.” Still meeting Gianni’s gaze, Anika lifted her chin. “After the ceremony, the newlyweds ate ice cream.”
A glimmer lit Gianni’s eyes and the lines around his mouth softened. “What flavor? Nocciola?”
“Hazelnut?” Anika crinkled her nose. “I’d prefer chocolate.”
“A mixed cup, then.”
“Shared?”
“Of course, tesoro.”
“Tesoro. That’s Italian for treasure,” Anika said.
“Yes. Antonio’s endearment for Lena.”
“That’s not in the profile.”
“No, but it is a small detail. Unless you disagree, or prefer something else?”
“‘Tesoro’ is fine.” Even though it was her cover’s nickname, the endearment from Gianni’s lips, his tongue rolling out the “r,” sparked a glow in Anika’s chest that radiated to her limbs. “And I’ll call you ‘Nino,’ short for Antonio. Okay?”
Gianni nodded, a small smile playing across his mouth. “Anything else?”
The thaw in his behavior encouraged her. “The souvenir vid. Why didn’t we have to make one?”
“We decided that Antonio and Lena are extremely cautious people. Given their line of work, it makes sense they would carry clean handhelds on every assignment. No contact information, no message history, no personal mementos. All that would be secured in their house, without risk of possible hacking and public exposure.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“I discussed it with Second. She agreed with my thinking.”
“When did you think of it?”
“Early this morning.”
“So, after...” Anika trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. After our first—no, third—time.
Gianni nodded.
“Otherwise, last night wouldn’t have happened? Unless,” Anika said, emboldened by the warmth in his eyes, “you could no longer resist my charms?” She smiled at him, hoping he would match her flirtatious tone. Say something like, From the moment I saw you, I’ve wanted you.
Instead, Gianni’s eyes hardened to stones. He leaned away from her. It was like a wall of bullet-proof glass had slammed between them. The swift change stilled the breath in her lungs.
“You realize this mission is dangerous, don’t you?” His words penetrated the imaginary glass. “It’s not a sim. The targets are real. The ammo is real. No ops support. You need to get your head in it. Forget about everything else.”
An icicle of fear pricked a trail down Anika’s back. Her pulse tapped a fast beat. “I understand,” she said, a catch in her voice.
“Do you?” His eyes locked on hers as the muscle near his jaw flexed.
His handheld buzzed and he turned away from her to answer it. “Yes?” He stood up. “Yes, Second, we’re on schedule.” He walked toward the back of the plane and, when the call was over, sat down in the single seat across the aisle. Ignoring Anika, he studied his handheld.
She turned her head to look out the small window. Brilliant swaths of pink and magenta painted the sky above a floor of purple clouds. But she didn’t see the beauty. She saw only the dark vacant eyes of the Serbian hostile she had killed. I do understand.
Chapter 14
“To success. ¡Salud!” Vittorio Vasquez raised his wine glass in a toast.
“¡Salud!” Anika replied, her voice joining with Gianni’s.
They were seated next to each other, with their host at the head of the dining table set with heavy china, gleami
ng silverware, and crystal goblets. Anika took a sip of the ruby-colored wine. An expensive vintage, it was a delicious blend of spicy and smooth. But the knowledge they were sharing a meal with a brutal criminal left a sour taste in her mouth. The only way to get rid of the taste was to complete the mission. She couldn’t wait to do that.
After they had landed on a private airfield, Gianni and Anika were met by a driver who brought them to the estate about a hundred kilometers outside the coastal city of La Libertad. Per the mission profile, Santos had stayed with the jet. If all went according to plan, he would spend a boring couple of days and nights in the small jet until the hit was carried out. And if the plan went south, Anika and Gianni had an escape vehicle at the ready.
In the meantime, they were guests of a jefe del crimen with ambitions to spread his power and terror throughout the country. In person, Vasquez was more attractive than the images shown at the mission briefing. His dark eyes were deeply set in a square face framed by equally dark wavy hair. He looked older than thirty-two, the age stated in U.N.I.T.’s intel. The closely-cropped beard and long scar over his left eyebrow probably contributed to that impression, but more likely, his premature aging was due to a lifetime of chaos and bloodshed.
Anika had pored over his profile, forcing herself to study the horrific images of his victims—dismembered corpses, mutilated bodies, red-rimmed eyes of grieving mothers and wives, stunned gazes of children. Orphans, Anika thought, a potent mix of anger and sorrow swelling inside her. Who would care for them? Other family members? Or had they been sent to live in an orphanage, a cold institutional place like the one where she had grown up?
Tobar’s profile wasn’t that much different. Certainly no better. She was directly responsible for thirty-three deaths that they were aware of, only slightly fewer than Vasquez. Together, their foot soldiers had killed hundreds more. The two leaders embodied no-shades-of-gray evil. They deserved their fate. This mission synced with Anika’s reasons for joining U.N.I.T. Besides giving her a place to belong, the agency also gave her a reason to belong, a chance to do good in the world. Eliminating these two monsters and stopping their illegal operations certainly qualified.
A young girl who looked about fifteen appeared through an arched doorway with plates of grilled bistec, rice, beans, and fried platanos. Eyes downcast, she moved in near-silence, her mid-length cotton dress swaying around her slender figure. After she had set a plate in front of each of them and refilled their wine glasses, she disappeared in the direction she had entered. Her presence reaffirmed Vasquez’s lucrative successes. Over the past decades, human servers had become increasingly rare, mostly found in the homes of the ultra-wealthy.
I guess crime does pay, Anika thought. Until it doesn’t. She was eager for the moment when Vasquez would face his reckoning.
“How did you two meet?” Vasquez asked. “I understand it was through your work.”
Here we go. Anika’s mind sharpened on the details from the mission briefing about the unusual circumstances of Lena and Antonio Bianchi’s first meeting.
“You’re referring to the job in Kurdistan,” Nino replied. “I presume you’ve watched the videos, both the client referral and the real-time documentation of the hits?”
“Of course,” Vasquez said, nodding. “I always questioned the official story as reported by the media. I was fascinated to learn the truth, to see the exact moment when the bullets struck their target, from the vantage point of the one who fired. Two vantage points, I should say. Both of yours. I was particularly intrigued by your client’s decision to hire not one but two experts to dispose of the newly-elected president. How did he acquire the necessary funds, I wonder? From the Russians?”
“I didn’t know at the time,” Nino said. “I respect my clients’ privacy. As long as they meet my financial requirements, I am satisfied. But not Lena.”
Lena smiled at Nino. “You know me so well, sweetheart.” She glanced at Vasquez. “I like to know who’s bankrolling my clients. The Russians did give Dost the money.”
The client under discussion, Rafiq Dost, was the well-known leader of Kurdish dissidents. He had campaigned unsuccessfully for the presidency. In the aftermath of his loss, Dost turned to the Russian government for help. He asked for money to hire a pair of assassins, twin brothers, to kill the president-elect. In exchange, he offered the Russians favorable access to his country’s natural resources after his presumed rise to power in the vacuum created by the assassination.
Only part of the plan worked. The president-elect was indeed assassinated, but Dost never gained the power he sought. Instead, the vice president-elect—now the default president-elect—hired U.N.I.T. 605 to hunt down the twin assassins and Dost. Once captured, the dissident leader was turned over to the new Kurdish government. At his trial, he claimed sole responsibility for the assassination in order to secure leniency for his fellow dissidents. The role of the Russians and the existence of the assassins were never publicly revealed. Dost was found guilty and hanged. But his capture, trial, and punishment all took place after his post-mission meeting with the assassins—who video-recorded a referral from every client as part of their fee.
U.N.I.T. acquired a trove of client referral and assassination videos when they captured the twin brothers, now serving several lifetimes of imprisonment in a secret location. The authentic videos from their many jobs, with only minor tweaks made by the tech ops team, had been a crucial resource in helping build credible covers for assassination missions, including this one. As far as Vasquez knew, Nino and Lena had been the ones to take out the Kurdish president, not the twin brothers.
“Where do your funds come from?” Lena asked Vasquez.
Anika forced herself to meet his gaze, especially when his pupils contracted to knife tips.
“My customers. Mostly Americans. Los Estados Unidos is still the biggest market for my...ah...type of goods and services.”
Lena tilted her head in acknowledgment of the truth of his statement. Her fellow citizens did, indeed, provide a robust marketplace for Vasquez’s illegal businesses.
“But back to Rafiq Dost for a moment longer. In his referral video, he said that he didn’t tell either of you about hiring the other.” Vasquez chuckled. “I imagine it was quite a surprise when you discovered the truth.”
Nino took Lena’s hand in his. “A lovely surprise,” he said, smiling at her.
Anika returned the smile, pleased that she didn’t overreact to his touch, unlike when they had first arrived at the estate. As soon as they exited the car and started walking toward the front door of the main house, Gianni had reached for her hand. She had started at the gesture of affection, given how cold and silent he had been during the last hours of the plane ride and the short drive to the residence. Gianni had spoken a low reprimand. “Work your cover.”
Now, Lena squeezed his fingers. “Oh, Nino, you say it was a lovely surprise. But I recall a different reaction at the time.”
Vasquez leaned forward in his seat, glancing between them. “Tell me.”
“Nino perceived Dost’s behavior as disrespectful,” Lena said.
“It was disrespectful,” Nino added.
“I think you made that clear when you tried to shoot him during the follow-up meeting.”
“I would have done so if you hadn’t drawn your own weapon on me.”
“I needed to make sure Dost survived long enough to authorize the balance of my payment,” Lena said.
“I was only aiming for his shoulder.” Nino gave a lazy shrug. “He would have survived.”
“Who hit the target?” Vasquez asked.
“We both did, of course,” Lena said. “During the president-elect’s inaugural speech to the nation. Nino and I had taken up different positions, calculated different angles for the kill shot. Our eyes met through our scopes. It was...” She paused for effect.
Nino raised her hand to his lips, his breath warm against her skin. “Magical,” he said, finishing the sentence.
“But which one of you made the kill shot?” Vasquez’s eyes shone with disturbing curiosity.
Anika’s stomach clenched. She dropped his gaze to hide her disgust.
“That depends.” Gianni kept hold of her hand, his touch a buffer against the client’s cold-bloodedness.
“On what?” Vasquez’s eyebrow quirked up, creating a crease in his scar.
“On the current year. Odd years, I made the fatal shot. Even years, Lena did.”
“You alternate taking credit?” Vasquez asked, both brows lifting.
“We agreed it was best for each other’s well-being,” Lena replied. “We even formalized the agreement in our wedding vows.”
Vasquez threw back his head and laughed, then raised his glass. “You two are quite the pair. I almost feel sorry for anyone who becomes your target.”
Anika raised her glass to hide the smile that tugged at her lips. This time, the wine went down smoothly. No sour aftertaste.
“You married soon after that meeting, as I recall,” Vasquez said. “Wasn’t it only four weeks?”
“Six,” Nino replied. “I would have preferred sooner, but Lena made me wait, clever woman that she is.”
“Good things come to those who wait.” Lena leaned toward Nino and pressed her lips against his temple. “Isn’t that right, darling?”
“I hope the fog didn’t spoil your special day,” Vasquez said. “I always thought San Francisco would be the perfect city if not for the fog, the earthquakes, and the smoke from the wildfires. Oh, and the decaying sea wall.”
A trill of satisfaction sang through Anika. She had been right to research the weather as part of their aliases’ background. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Nothing would have spoiled our wedding day.” She sat back in her chair and looked at Vasquez, whose gaze was a bird of prey, vigilant for any sign of weakness. “We were married in Sonoma, a small town seventy-six kilometers north of San Francisco. And the weather was perfect.”