Killing Truth: A Leine Basso Thriller Prequel

by Berkom, DV

  As they moved past the scattered books, Leine stopped. Ilya gave her a questioning look, and she nodded toward the floor. One of the loose sheets bore a partial bloody footprint. She turned to survey the path leading to the outside door.

  There. What she’d missed at first glance: faint, bloody footprints bearing the same design, headed in the direction of the door and fading with each step.

  Careful to avoid disturbing any evidence, Leine advanced, gun first, to the brass lamp next to the bookcase where the secret room was located. She gestured to Ilya to stand aside and pressed the hidden button.

  The bookcase slid open to reveal a ransacked room. Drawers had been emptied and cast aside, artwork torn from the walls and thrown to the floor, protective glass shattered, papers and files strewn across the room. The neat stacks of blank passports were gone, along with Sparky’s collection of stamps.

  Determining no immediate threat, Leine slid her gun into her waistband and stepped around the counter. Spartacus lay sprawled on his back with his eyes wide open and mouth agape, a jagged gash across his throat. Blood puddled on the floor beside him.

  Leine crouched down and closed his eyes. His face had a waxy appearance, and his skin was ice cold.

  “He’s been dead a while.”

  Hands shaking, Ilya stared at the body, his face ashen. “Do you think the killer is still outside?”

  Leine shook her head. “Doubtful. They accomplished what they came for.” She scanned the room, her gaze landing on the closet near the back. Its door yawned open, revealing the now-empty interior. She patted down the body before rolling Spartacus onto his side to check his pockets for keys or anything else the killer may have missed, hoping to find the passport he’d made for her. A key ring with two keys was all she found: one had the BMW logo across the fob and the other looked like a generic door key, which she assumed was for the front door of the shop. She rose to her feet and made her way over to the closet, pausing to examine the space. Ilya joined her.

  “There is nothing inside,” he remarked unnecessarily. Leine stepped over the mess on the floor and slid her hands along the closet’s back wall.

  “There’s a trick to opening the rear compartment, but I didn’t watch him do it.”

  Ilya joined her in the search, running his fingers over the exposed trim, his earlier fear apparently forgotten.

  That’s good. He’ll be much easier to work with if he’s calm.

  “What are we looking for?” he asked.

  “Something, anything that seems unusual, like a piece of trim that moves, or a depression in the bricks. I’m not exactly sure.”

  They continued to feel their way along, eventually meeting in the middle.

  “Are you certain there is a hidden compartment here?” Ilya asked, a look of disbelief replacing his curiosity.

  Leine nodded. She frowned at the ceiling but saw nothing out of the ordinary. A slight depression in the wall just above eye level caught her attention. When she stepped closer to see it better, there was a loud click.

  They both looked down. At the same time the back section of the closet moved, revealing a gap in the corner.

  “Bingo,” Leine breathed.

  She gave the wall a push and the gap widened. Inside was another, larger space with dozens of boxes stacked floor to ceiling. A gun rack ran the length of one wall and contained an assortment of weapons—rifles, AK-47s, Mac-10s, and MP5s—and another display case containing several different types of semiautomatic pistols, including Glocks, Sig Sauers, Rugers, and Walthers. Leine peered into an open box to her left—hand grenades and flashbangs were nestled inside. Stacks of ammunition graced another.

  Ilya whistled. He walked to the rack and took down an MP5, testing its heft.

  “Now, this is an arsenal.”

  “Sparky liked to anticipate his clients.” Leine proceeded to fill her pockets with ammo, hand grenades, and a flashbang.

  Ilya stared at her. “Who are you?”

  “The person who’s going to help you avenge your uncle.”

  Ilya shook his head. “If you say so,” he muttered and set the MP5 aside.

  “Grab what you can safely conceal under your clothing. We’ll take his car. I know where he parks.”

  Ilya peered into an open box next to him and reached inside.

  “What about these?” he asked, handing her a bundle of passports held together with rubber bands.

  Leine flipped through them, stopping midway through the stack. Each of them had a photograph already affixed to the first page. A few she recognized as fellow operatives from the Agency. She scanned through the rest before she found one with her picture and the name Ava Brentwood. She removed the passport from the bundle and checked that it had been stamped. Everything appeared legitimate.

  Why did he make me wait for a passport when he already had one with my picture? It was possible that he kept several backups on hand for whenever the Agency or his other regular customers required additional identification with a quick turnaround.

  Damn. Always a step ahead. Memories of past jobs flooded back, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Pushing the grief of losing a friend to the back of her mind, she returned to the task at hand, adding her fellow operatives’ passports to her growing pile in case the police found the hidden room. She’d destroy them later.

  They loaded up with what weapons and equipment they could carry—including two handheld radios, Kevlar vests, and a length of rope—and left the secret room. Leine closed the hidden door and they exited the shop and the building, heading down the walkway toward a side street.

  The road was dark and deserted. Leine checked her watch. Eleven thirty. Unsure exactly where the sedan was parked, she pressed a button on the key fob. Halfway up the block a pair of hazard lights flashed.

  “There it is,” Leine said, nodding at Sparky’s BMW 3-series sedan. They hurried to the car, and Leine opened the trunk, where they deposited their weapons. She shrugged off her coat and covered them, making sure to keep the nine millimeter handy, and noted that Sparky had a first aid kit. Hopefully they wouldn’t need it.

  “We have to make one more stop,” Ilya said as he got in the passenger seat.

  “You mean the address your contact gave you?”

  “No. Another place, close by. There’s a package.”

  “And what’s in this package?” she asked.

  Ilya stared out the windshield. “Something that may help.”

  “More explosives, I take it.”

  Ilya remained silent, his lips set in a stubborn line.

  “Fine.” Leine was too tired to argue. What the hell, she thought. The more the merrier.

  Five minutes later, they were on their way to the Red Light District.

  Chapter 12

  Leine scored a parking spot next to a canal in the Red Light District and Ilya hopped out.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, and disappeared down the street. Since he refused to give her the address where the Frenchman was supposedly staying, Leine had made him leave his phone, wallet, passport, and jacket in the car as proof that he would return. She stopped short of having him leave his shoes. It was cold.

  Red and purple neon lights reflected in the inky black water of the canal. Groups of tourists huddled next to glass windows, jostling each other to catch a glimpse of the sex workers. Leine glanced at her watch. Almost midnight. The adrenaline surge she’d experienced when she found Sparky’s body had ebbed, leaving her drained. The persistent thought of a good night’s sleep was never far from her mind. Nearby, a restaurant window boasted a neon cup with steam coming out of the top. Perhaps a cup of coffee would do the trick. The restaurant’s window would provide a good view of the car in case Ilya brought back any “friends” or tried something funny. She got out, locked the doors, and went inside.

  As Leine waited for her espresso, she stood near the front window to keep the car in view. A short time later, Ilya returned carrying a package. He tried the passenger side doo
r, but when he realized it was locked, he leaned against the car to wait. He appeared to be alone. A moment later, the barista called to Leine that her drink was ready. She walked to the counter to pay and waited as the woman gave her change back.

  To-go cup in hand, she returned to the car. Ilya was lying on the hood with the package next to him, his head back and mouth open, snoring loudly.

  She opened the driver’s side door and slammed it closed. He snapped awake with a snort.

  “Wha’s happening?” Bleary-eyed, he glanced around, obviously trying to remember where he was.

  “You’re in Amsterdam. You did a shit job blowing up an arms dealer, and I’m here to help.”

  “Oh, yes.” He nodded, his cheeks darkening in the neon light.

  “Is that what I think it is?” she asked, gesturing toward the package beside him.

  He picked it up as he slid off the hood and got in the car without answering her. Leine joined him inside and shoved the keys in the ignition. He leaned over and pushed the package underneath his seat.

  “You mean to tell me that you left a package of explosives sitting out in the open while you decided to take a nap in the middle of Tourist Central?” Leine shook her head in disbelief.

  Ilya rubbed his hands over his knees and looked down at his shoes. “Well, I—um, not exactly—”

  “You should have had one of these goddamned neon lights over your head, flashing ‘Free explosives here.’” She looked out the window in an attempt to calm down. It wasn’t working. Leine’s blood boiled. Sleep deprivation, doubts about her boss, and having to deal with a careless, irresponsible juvenile delinquent who would probably get her killed wasn’t a good combination.

  “Or maybe you could just hand it to a passing tourist. Great story, right?” She gripped the steering wheel. What the hell was she doing with this idiot? She was a professional. She knew how to get the address.

  He’d probably cave within minutes.

  Back off, Leine. He’s just a kid.

  Ilya cleared his throat and continued to stare at his shoes. It looked like he was on the verge of tears.

  You’re not cut out for this, Ilya, Leine thought. It had been a strange night. He fucked up an assassination attempt by missing his target and killing several innocent people. If that weren’t enough to mess with his head, he also had to confess the debacle to his uncle’s friend, who was probably some ranking member of the Russian mafia. To top it all off, a woman he didn’t even know just dressed him down for his boneheaded move.

  She would have to figure a way to keep him busy while she took care of Robicheaux.

  “Seriously, Ilya, you need to think about this. We’re heading into some dangerous territory. One mistake, one stupid move, and you could get us both killed. You know,” she continued, “you could just give me the address and let me do my job. That way, you can live to tell your uncle’s friend you took care of the Frenchman, and then he can pay you, or whatever it is you’re doing this for. I won’t say a word. Scout’s honor.” She held up two fingers, but the reference went over his head.

  “What do you mean, ‘let you do your job’?”

  “I’m not new to the game, Ilya, and I’ve never had to blow anything up to complete a mission.” She nodded at her handgun. “There are cleaner ways to accomplish the same objective. Not to mention safer, with a much lower mortality rate.”

  Ilya’s eyes grew wide, his expression bordering on incredulous. “You cannot be—you are an assassin?”

  She gave him a look. A frown flitted across his features, consternation obvious in his eyes. Her patience wearing thin, Leine waited as he struggled with this new information. A few moments later, he lifted his head to meet her gaze.

  “I apologize. I did not know you did such a thing for a living. In my country, women don’t usually—” He cleared his throat and straightened in his seat. “Of course, I should have known this. I am yours to instruct.”

  Leine studied the young Russian for a moment. He gave the impression of sincerity, but she’d have to watch him. Sighing inwardly, she resigned herself to dragging him along. At least he was comfortable around weapons, having grown up with an uncle who dealt in small arms.

  “You’re not ready for a job like this, Ilya. That much is obvious. You have to let me do what I do. I promise you that your uncle’s friend will be none the wiser.”

  Ilya pressed his lips together, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “No. I must do this. I, Ilya Pasternak Kovshevnikov, must avenge my uncle’s death.” Tears shone in his eyes. He gave them a savage swipe with the back of his hand.

  Shaking her head, Leine pulled back onto the street and headed east.

  The job had just become infinitely more complicated.

  ***

  Leine used the sedan’s GPS to guide her onto the road leading to the North Sea. The temperature outside was cold but not freezing, and the roads were dry. Several kilometers and three turns later, Ilya instructed her to stop. She cut the lights and pulled off the road, concealing the car in a group of trees. They were across from a fenced lot surrounding several warehouses built on a wharf near the banks of a dark waterway. A dense fog had settled over the area, partially obscuring the buildings. There were no streetlights.

  Stashing both her agency and Spartacus’s cell phones and several euros under the seat she exited the BMW. She scanned the deserted road in both directions. Nothing moved. The air itself felt as though it had paused for breath. Ilya joined her, glancing furtively left and right.

  “What is this place?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper.

  She drew her gun and pivoted, noting the weeds growing through the asphalt beyond the chain link fence.

  “Not sure. The buildings look like they haven’t been used in years.”

  Ilya shivered and pulled his jacket tight. “But this is the address.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  Leine walked to the trunk and returned a moment later carrying an MP5 with a night scope and suppressor attached, a pair of binoculars, one of the Kevlar vests, and the two handheld radios, one of which she handed to Ilya. In addition, she’d stuffed a flashbang into her jacket pocket.

  “Wait here. I’m going to see if I can find anything that will lead us to Robicheaux. There must be a reason your uncle’s friend gave you this address.” Leine shrugged on the vest and zipped up her coat—it barely fit over the Kevlar. At least it’s not raining. Cold she could do. Wet she could stand. But cold and wet was a thoroughly shitty combination.

  “Key the mic once for yes, twice for no, and one long followed by a short to let me know if we have company.”

  Ilya nodded that he understood. “You will come back for me, yes?”

  “Sure, Ilya. Just make sure to stay out of sight, especially if someone drives by.”

  “We should sneak into the building to see if Robicheaux is inside,” he insisted. Something silver glinted in the darkness. A knife. “Then I will slit his throat and watch him bleed.”

  “No, you won’t.” Her tone brooked no argument. “Wait here to see if there are any gunmen patrolling the grounds. You’re not to leave this car at any time.”

  Ilya opened his mouth to say something, but Leine shook her head.

  “I need you here in case things go sideways.” If the Frenchman was somewhere nearby, she couldn’t risk having Ilya blunder into the operation. He’d put them both in danger. “It’s better if I go in alone to see how many men we’re up against. Once I’ve done the reconnaissance, I’ll contact you via radio. The first series of clicks you hear will be the number of guards. The second will be whether I’ve found Robicheaux. If he’s there, I will subdue the guards and call you on the radio.”

  “So I can kill him,” Ilya said, his eyes gleaming.

  She ignored his comment. Leine had no intention of notifying him if she found Robicheaux, but he might stay put if he thought that was what she was going to do. “Do we have a deal?” Leine held out her hand.

  Ilya n
odded as they shook. “Then I will blow up the evidence, yes?” He gestured toward the car. “There is enough C-4 in the package to blow the hell out of any building.”

  “Then what? There’s an art to setting explosives, the knowledge of which you clearly don’t possess.” A picture of the man she killed in Mexico flashed through her mind. “The noise alone will bring everyone in the vicinity to see what happened, including local law enforcement. What’s your escape plan in case that happens?”

  Ilya crossed his arms. “Fine. What is your idea?”

  “Like I said before, I need you to be my point man.”

  “What is this point man?” Ilya’s eyebrows knitted together.

  Leine stifled the inclination to grab him by the throat and in an even voice said, “That means exactly what I just said. Stay here with the radio and warn me if you see anyone else.” She handed him the set of binoculars. “I work better alone. If I find Robicheaux, like I said, I’ll call you on the radio.”

  “No,” he said, an insolent expression on his face. “I will come with you.”

  Leine’s face warmed, her anger rising. You have no idea how close you are to dead, kid.

  “Sorry, Ilya, that’s just not going to happen. Now, you can either be my lookout, which, by the way, is an important job, or you won’t be a part of this at all.”

  Ilya lifted his chin. “And how will you stop me?” he asked, widening his stance.

  The young Russian was on the ground in less than a second. Leine put pressure on his ulnar nerve, and the knife fell from his grasp. Keeping her knee on his back, she removed a length of rope from her pocket and tied his wrists together. Then she ran the rope to his feet and tied his ankles.

  “I am sorry,” Ilya managed, lifting his head so his face wouldn’t be crushed in the dirt. “Please let me go. I will do as you say.”

  Testing the knots once more, Leine stood up, walked to the back of the car, and opened the trunk. She stuffed as much of the equipment as she could into the pack and transferred it to the backseat. Back at the trunk, she removed the items that hadn’t fit, and hid everything behind a tree.