In Good Conscience

by Gardiner, Cat

  “Hasta la vista!” she brightly shouted gunning the throttle, leaving them in her wake. Her blonde hair blew back, and Charlie lifted high above her when the wind caught them both. Behind the ski boat, a trail of foamy white spread on the aquamarine sea as she flew in the direction of Hungry Bay. Finally satisfying her need for high-velocity, she yelled, “This is for you, Lizzy,” into the air, turning the throttle even more.

  “Infierno” blew by them and was gone from sight within seconds, but she knew it wasn’t the last they’d see of the patrol boat.

  “Okay, hold up here and cut the engine,” Charlie shouted over the comms. “Keep a lookout for Batman in a few minutes, then I’m going deep. Pull in the canopy when I’m gone.”

  She did as he said, feeling euphoric that she might have actual intel to share with him and waited patiently for the drone to finish its recon work.

  “Lookout for sharks,” she cautioned having seen a few fins earlier and not quite sure if they were porpoise or not.

  “Will do!”

  It was back to being bored, but she spent the time admiring the mangrove trees that grew along the shoreline, but she didn’t need to wait long before the little bat dropped onto the deck.

  Looking up again, she shielded her eyes and gave Charlie a thumb up.

  “Here comes the remote.”

  The waterproof drone control and screen slid down the tow line, landing right next to Batman. Charlie gave her a wide wave, placed his portable oxygen respirator into his mouth, slid his goggles down, and a second later released his harness from the canopy. He plunged into the cool Atlantic like a bullet and was gone with hardly a splash.

  Never one for manual labor, she sort of resented having to pull in the parasail. Fighting wind, water, and the heavy fabric heavy was bound to break a nail. Oh well, this was what she wished for; she was Obsidian now and had to pull her weight on every assignment. They’d be returning home tomorrow, and she’d be back at the museum until the next op Charlie needed her to come along.

  Ten minutes later with aching arms, she leaned back in the pilot’s chair, propped her legs up on the dash and resumed waiting behind pink bubble sunglasses. Singing to the music, she wished that Lizzy could be here. These high-tech spy glasses were really hers, hard-earned in Paris. Back home, on the houseboat, she had her store-bought ones that connected to her personal social media photo archive. Shame her father didn’t think to capitalize on his invention commercially. He could have made a legit million and not have sold his soul for the dough by treason.

  ***

  Assassinations had never been this Peruvian girl’s career goal; she just fell into it when her ex-lover got involved in the drug business.

  She liked playing around with guns and was a good shot, but explosives were what gave her a thrill. Not that she had any proper schooling in bomb-making, but that’s what online videos were for. One can get anything online, and what she couldn’t find on the internet, she could access via the dark web.

  Some other sicarios and cruzadors working for La Muerta Mundial were jealous of her skill-set, which just came naturally. She was a petite woman, and possessed a few things that most of the men lacked: brains, feminine allure, and an inside track to stardom within the cartel. This mission was her turn to shine, sticking it to all those guys back home when she proved successful.

  The Dupont area of Washington was busy during the hot summer afternoon, and no one would take notice of her in the tattoo parlor. Her manner of dress was as eclectic as the music and people in this neighborhood. Her cocoa brown skin and the blue streaks in her black hair looked like any other denizen or building’s colorful graffiti art. Her style was as funky as her tats and unique as her accent. She fit right in … except her phone was a bomb detonator.

  “How long will you be visiting the district, Claudia?” the tattoo artist asked, completing the outline of an Incan sun on her ankle.

  “I will stay week more, maybe go on tour of government Capitol tomorrow.”

  “That’s cool. So, you’re having fun?”

  “Yes, there is much to do. I like Washington; the people are very nice.”

  The alarm clock in her burner phone vibrated from her pocket. “I check my text,” she said waiting for the artist to lift the needle from her skin before she removed the phone. “How much longer do you think tattoo takes?”

  “Hmm … maybe about another fifteen minutes.”

  “Good. I have meet-up with friend at 3:00.”

  “No prob. I’m almost done, just a couple of fill-ins and then cleanup and bandage.”

  Clients’ attention stayed distracted downward on their mobile devices and artists focused on the needles in their hands. Such was the very convenient way of operating out in the open these days. Incan-inspired artistry continued on her calf with pleasant small talk while she set the timer to the rooftop explosive, which she’d beautifully concealed in the air conditioning unit’s compressor across the street.

  “All done!”

  “I like very much. I like that you add red flames,” she said thinking of how they were so appropriate now that she was part of Diablo’s worldwide family. Internally, she braced herself because in three minutes, the entire block was about to feel the ground shake.

  Perfectly timed following a healthy layer of antibacterial ointment and a bandage …

  BOOM!

  In the chaos, she slipped out the back door with a smile on her face, scattering the wiped-clean pieces of the phone down the alley as she made her way to the street corner for a taxi.

  ***

  “Hey, Sarah, your contact in Bermuda was spot on. The location in Paget is definitely the place,” Rick Fitzwilliam said into his secure speaker phone as Batman the drone’s images came over Obsidian’s private server designed by their IT, Jack-of-all-trades, Quartermaster-esque gadget guru, Thomas Bennet.

  “I’ll be right down. I have some good news, too.”

  From behind his desk in the newly installed hidden workspace, he gazed up at the four monitors above him, eyes narrowing in his examination of the details from the intel that Charlie was sending on Operation Gombey’s recon mission.

  Like most of DC’s seedy, interconnected tunnel system that ran below the district, this location was safe from the Five Eyes, other prying international ones, or any domestic letter agency or crime syndicate. Further, it was both away from—and connected to—the Bingley Dance School. Above stairs a respected Italian specialty grocer, Prospect Salumeria, gave Obsidian the cover and protection they sought.

  Once a Cazzatto Compagnia Mafia front for racketeering, and other nefarious activities, the grocer concealed a cavernous office behind four subterranean meat lockers. This space became Obsidian’s new headquarters, the new epicenter for intel gathering and it was directly accessible through a narrow passage up into the dance studio on the next street over. Here he was safe—and so were Obsidian’s operations in what had been most likely a speakeasy during Prohibition. He paid handsomely for the luxury rental, proving that old contacts on the shadier side of contract killing could be beneficial, especially when they shared an enemy. Not every Italian wise-guy liked dealing with South American drug kingpins. It was a matter of power—trafficking vs. support—and the remaining non-Cosa Nostra syndicate bosses still operating in America wanted control of it all. The old-school, old-timers sympathetic to Obsidian’s situation also wanted Sanchez-Morales dead—or at the very least out of the American drug trafficking business. Even the Cazzatto Compagnia branch controlling Northern Italy had contracts with La Muerta Mundial, and although their agreements with the late Lord of the Jungle had been amicable, they were not as such with his son—the new kingpin.

  This place was perfect. After what happened to him in Peru, and to Darcy and Liz in Moscow, Rick hadn’t taken any chances on inadvertently exposing the school should he have been compromised upon his arrival back home. Within days, he’d made arrangements to secure this location. Pemberley’s destruction over a week
ago proved that Diablo had eyes on the street—on them.

  His girlfriend of almost three months entered the chilled room via the hidden door in the plaster and lath leading up to the supply closet in the dance studio. Strains of a cha-cha-cha breached into the room lined with metal desks, television monitors, and several old-fashioned cork peg boards for important visuals that he wanted on hand. He liked everything clean and clutter-free, intel housed digitally, but images staring him down helped to fuel the fire.

  Sarah’s breath misted in the cool air when she spoke in proper Queen’s English. “I don’t know how you withstand the temperature,” followed by a kiss to his welcoming lips. “You’re almost frozen.”

  “I like it in here. There’s a sense of warmth that comes from knowing that this place is hidden, and that no infrared, satellite, or spying eyes can breach the cold steel. Our server and identities within Obsidian are well protected.”

  “Quite; it also helps when it’s 35 Celsius outside,” she replied, glancing up at the center monitor. “Wow. The mansion in Bermuda is just as Leonards described. That little drone does a bang-up job.”

  “Here’s the image of the underwater cavern where they’re smuggling drugs through narco submersibles. It’s the perfect entrance.”

  “Is that Hungry Bay? How on earth did Charlie get through the mangroves?”

  “Yeah, he’s pretty amazing. We’re lucky to have him on our team.” He glanced up to her rosy cheeks bending over him, chilled from the 58-degree temperature. “Just as we’re lucky to have you onboard.”

  “Tell that to your ex-girlfriend. Now I understand why you all refer to her as a spitting cobra. For the one-hundredth time … These feet. Do. Not. Dance.”

  “I’m sorry about her … It’s not about dancing; that’s for sure. Hell, I don’t even dance, and it’s not even about me, per se. It’s about her inability to deal with rejection and replacement.”

  “And so soon, too. I suppose her ego is getting the better of her.”

  “It is.”

  “While I didn’t expect that we’d get on, I did at least expect her civility.”

  “I’ll talk with her if you’d like. We’re a team and, I agree, can’t have this discord, especially now.”

  “I fancy I can handle myself. I survived kidnapping in the Amazon; I’m not afraid of her,” she smiled, and he couldn’t help gazing into her blueberry-colored eyes filled with humor. Her down-to-earth manner and pretty face coupled with her intelligence and unique wit, not to mention her excellent intel gathering capabilities made her a perfect fit for him and his romance-challenged history.

  “I hope she doesn’t cause you to re-think our relationship and the arrangement we made.”

  “Definitely not, no itchy feet on my part. Both Jane and well … Liz … certainly have made up for Caroline’s cool welcome. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Hmm. What about his welcome?

  Clearing his throat, he broke the awkward tension. “What’s your good news?” he asked with a pensive smile.

  “We located another home for Morales!”

  “You’re kidding. Where?”

  “An associate at the London Times—a … um … friend—continued with my exposé on drug trafficking into England. I cautioned him off the investigation, but after Peru, he felt that the story was too hot—too fresh—for him to let go of. His enquiries with a source in the Royal Navy led him to Panama.”

  “Makes sense. Under Noriega, Panama was a hotbed of trafficking in a cozy relationship with Escobar’s Medellin cartel, and now it’s a hotbed for money laundering.”

  “Indeed. We may have a solid lead here. If only Morales can stay in one place long enough to get eyes on him.” She walked to the titanium box resting at the edge of his desk and absently ran her hand over the cover, silently pausing with a furrowed brow. It was no secret how upset she was about Leesburg—and Liz. Her gaze fixed on the photograph pegged in the center of one of his information boards. Taken by the drone of the sharpshooter who got away after raining fire down upon their family, it was there to remind him that not just Diablo would meet his death on Operation Gombey. The sniper’s masked face and ghillie-suited body was haunting, his cold and blank dark eyes barely visible through the narrow slits of the mask were menacing, but they had to find him first, which right now seemed an impossible endeavor considering that biometric scans had failed in identifying him.

  “Thank goodness for the drone’s internal memory card,” she said. “Any word on the ballistics?”

  “Let’s just say the locals are either stalling or they’re backlogged. I’m guessing forensics stumbled upon military grade thermite—that would explain both their holding back information and the fact that the fire department couldn’t extinguish the mansion. Don’t worry … we’ll get him and Diablo.”

  “How … What’s going to happen now? You know … in Bermuda?”

  “Well, Charlie’s making the final assessment and arrangements and we’ll have a go-plan for Operation Gombey in 72 hours.”

  “A kill shot, you mean?”

  “Thus far, our target is not in residence, but Bermuda is a good place to start—rattle his cage a bit, let him know that Iceman has finally taken his challenge and is coming for him just like he wanted.”

  “I am surprised that Darcy has waited this long; he was gutted.”

  “Believe me, it’s been a struggle, but surprise and preparation are our best advantage. He’s using the time wisely by planning his counterattack. “ ‘He will win who, prepared himself, waits to take the enemy unprepared’.”

  “The Art of War,” she voiced with surprise.

  “Yes. In my experience, only a fool would knowingly provoke Darcy’s ire and now Morales is entirely unprepared for what the Iceman will unleash. My cousin is assessing the target’s package.”

  “Package?”

  “What the enemy values most.”

  “Hmm. I recall all too well the destruction he and Knightley brought with them into Peru.”

  “That was child’s play, just your run-of-the-mill extraction. However, with that said, if Morales does show in Paget—it’s the end of the road for him.”

  “Good. I want him to pay for you, me, Julia Bertram, and Liz.” She opened the cover of the box and removed one of the Electro Magnetic Pulse pistols that Bennet had created for them. “Will your cousin need this?”

  Chuckling, he rose then removed the Glock from her hand, placing it back in its case. “No. Darcy may be a deadly marksman, but he’s going to employ his SEAL training on this one: underwater demolition, and, if necessary, his hands. He’s going old school.”

  “You sound like you feel bad for Morales.”

  “Not in the least. Make no mistake—I want him to pay as miserably as possible. What he doesn’t know is that no man has loved a woman more than my cousin loves Liz. Diablo struck at the wrong man’s heart. There are dark places hidden in Darcy’s soul, scarring born from traumatic experiences in his youth. Nothing—not the military, his sister, or I could keep him from entering those places. But Liz, that’s a different story … there’s no stopping Iceman now. His anger is like a man on fire.”

  She looked up at him with an odd expression, as if frightened or disbelieving—or was it something else?—perhaps a question of whether he loved her like that. Loved her with every fiber of his being, with every breath, loved her enough to die and kill for her without second thought, only acting on the impulsive thundering of his heart as it ripped from his chest?

  Did he love Sarah like that? He’d have to search his heart for that answer. Heck, he wasn’t sure if she even had those feelings for him. Sure, he’d die for any man or woman; it was the Marine in him, but would intense love be the reason? He was the best at failed relationships, not everlasting ones. “What is that look?”

  “Nothing … just … a woman is fortunate to be loved that much by her partner,” she shrugged with a thoughtful smile and an uncomfortable few seconds of silence passed
between them until the fruit of Jane’s bubble sunglasses snapped them from their musings.

  They turned to view the images as they flashed onto a screen above them: Jane’s suntanned selfie, Charlie’s legs, Charlie’s backside, the ocean, pink glitter toenail polish.

  “It looks like Jane is having a lovely time,” Sarah laughed, but he didn’t reply.

  The next few images were different angles of a boat straight outta hell. “Infierno. I’ll contact Leonards about the boat,” she said.

  “Do these guys look familiar?”

  “No, but the bloke on the left is quite a bobby dazzler.”

  He elbowed her before pressing a few keys on his laptop. On two other screens, their faces went through international and domestic facial recognition tracking, examining the smallest details of their face with lightning speed. It would take some time, but hopefully they’d get a hit.

  Two additional photos scrolled onto the monitor. “Well, well, well. Look what we have here,” Rick said.

  “What is it?”

  He zoomed in on the guy’s forearm. “This spider tat … he must have been one of Nadya Karakurt’s soldados. More than likely he’s working exclusively for Morales since Knightley killed her in Moscow.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Yeah, what is it with these gangs and cartels?—they give themselves away with their friggin’ tattoos.”

  Heavy metal “I Stand Alone,” ringtone rang out and he answered without greeting. “I was just talking about you.”

  Knightley’s usual blasé attitude was replaced by concern. “Hey, we have a huge problem.”

  “A missed step in the merengue? Or are we talking a blown Achilles?”

  “I haven’t left for my dance lesson yet. This is a major blowout. Switch on the local news.”

  He glanced at Sarah. This couldn’t be good; the last time he got bad news over the television was witnessing Darcy jump into a hail of bullets to protect the daughter of Operation Virginia Reel’s target. Now that was a cluster-fuck.