Long had been right: My emotions had taken control and mentally committed me to Tark’s offer. Because of that, I needed to dig and see if there was some truth to the identity of that little girl. If I could find some shred of evidence, I would—and I hate to admit it—have a modicum of reason to ignore my internal warning sirens that said to walk away. I figured three days was what I needed for due diligence.
I slipped fresh clothing on and headed down the hallway to the guestroom where Long was sleeping. I opened the door and walked over to the foot of the bed. He lay still on his stomach with his head tucked completely under the pillow. How he managed to keep himself alive with his sleeping habits I would never know. I let him be and continued on to my office.
During the day, the windows allowed sunlight to flow into my office, creating a warm and cozy environment. The décor and furnishings were simple: a wooden desk, one fully stocked bookshelf, a hutch, and two leather chairs sandwiching an unpretentious coffee table.
The floor-to-ceiling bookshelf stood against the wall behind my desk. I had it custom built by a specialist, one familiar with my line of work. I ran a finger underneath the second shelf from the bottom until I felt a switch. Pressing it unlocked the shelving unit and allowed me to slide it along a system of rollers to the far left, revealing a small room.
The space was six-feet tall, four-feet wide and had a depth of five feet. That’s where I kept my equipment: two Sig Sauer P320 handguns with sound suppressors, an M4 assault rifle, a MP5 submachine, an HK416 carbine, and a DT SRS sniper rifle with built-in suppression. I owned a lot of firepower, but rarely did I use the assault rifles. I also kept a variety of fixed-blade tactical knives, throwing darts, fiber wire, a long sword, and gear packs of various sizes.
Infiltration was my specialty—a knife or fiber wire to the neck was usually how I eliminated my marks. Handguns were used in conjunction when needed, but it was rare. Limiting collateral damage wasn’t always a request from my employers, but it was something I strived for. Discretion, whether they wanted it or not, was important—especially if I wanted to continue working.
On a shelf toward the back of the space sat an unlocked metal container about the size of a loaf of bread. Inside it I stored numerous identifications and a stash of currency in dollars, euros, and pounds. I hadn’t touched any of it in two years.
Over the years, my American, British, and Hong Kong passports had served me well, but circumstances had changed. Long had confirmed my suspicions: people were looking for me. If I were to venture out beyond my safe zone, I didn’t want the added bonus of having to watch my back every step of the way. I slid the bookshelf back in place and returned to my bedroom bath. In the cabinet under the sink, I removed a bottle of hair dye and got to work.
An hour and a half later, my black hair had been colored a light brown. I also snipped off a good three inches from the length. Cosmetic contact lenses changed my eyes from dark brown to hazel. I put on a pair of thin-framed, non-prescription glasses, dressed myself in a black pinstriped pantsuit, and then headed to Long’s room. He was still asleep when I got there.
I cleared my throat.
He didn’t move.
I cleared it once more. Louder.
He moved but kept his head under the pillow.
I walked over to the bed. “Long! It really is a wonder how you manage to stay alive.”
“Huh?” he said in a froggy voice. He moved the pillow and rubbed both eyes with his fingers before looking at me. From the confusion on his face, I could see that my new look had served its purpose, at least with him.
“Sei?”
“Yes, it’s me. Don’t you think it’s time you evacuate yourself out of that bed?”
He propped himself up on an elbow, still trying to shake off the grogginess. “What time is it? What happened to you?”
“It’s nearly ten a.m. Listen, I have business to attend to. You’re welcome to stay here. Help yourself to whatever you can find in the kitchen.”
“You’re leaving? Where?”
“Brussels.”
7
The agenda for the day was simple, but simple always had a way of turning ugly. Before finding the doctor, I needed to obtain a passport to validate my new identity. Obtaining one was fairly easy, as long as you had the proper amount of money. My go-to person lived in Hong Kong—not ideal. Since my self-imposed isolation, I had not needed to leave Belgium or the EU for quite some time, but my current situation demanded I obtain a new one. But back to the issue of simplicity. My doubts were compounded for one reason: Albanians.
The Albanian mafia specialized in false documents, specifically Belgian passports. They had deep, long-established roots in the city of Brussels. Along with dealing in a wide swath of documentation, the gang was involved in organ and sex trafficking. The Albanian mafia had cornered the market on trafficking young women out of Eastern Europe to every part of the world. I didn’t know any of them personally, but I disliked them for what they did. You might find the nature of my moral certitude hypocritical considering my profession. But you should know that I only accepted contracts that were justified. In other words, those marks deserved it, and the world was surely a better place without them.
The train to Brussels took two hours aboard Belgian Railways. The commute provided me with a fair amount of uninterrupted time to further ponder my situation. Every decision I had made since Tark contacted me was completely out of character. I broke the very rules I had set up for myself. And for what? The hope that a picture of a little girl sent to me by some stranger could actually be my daughter? I couldn’t help but think my mindset at the moment mirrored those who fell for a Nigerian email promising wealth. Prey on what someone desperately wanted, and surely that person would do anything for it.
I traveled light, just a knapsack with a change of clothes and my necessary equipment: a tactical knife, a few throwing darts, fiber wire, a compass, and a small flashlight. My plan after obtaining a passport was to travel directly to Paris.
Once I arrived at the Gare du Midi station in Brussels, I placed my belongings, sans knife, in a locker, and then headed for Maurice Lemonnier Boulevard, a gritty thoroughfare just a short walk west of the station. Most of the locals referred to it as Kandahar Lane. There one could find splits of beef rotating in heated windows, Arab men drinking black tea, and Middle Eastern music blaring out of various shops.
Richard Reid, the shoe bomber who had failed to blow up a jet flying across the Atlantic, also called the area his home for a short time while he planned his pathetic attempt at terrorism. But I wasn’t interested in that area. I had my eyes set on the adjacent boulevard, the one lined with small bars and rattrap hotels, away from the Arab turf. The Albanian mafia controlled that neighborhood, and that was where I needed to be.
I had never conducted business or had any direct contact with the gang, so finding the right person who could actually help and not try to scam me was first on my agenda. Trouble wasn’t something I needed. The worry wasn’t for me though; it was for the other person.
I choose the bar directly in the middle of the boulevard. Inside, tired-looking Eastern European men had gathered around rickety tables and sat in narrow booths, speaking in hushed tones. Poor lighting coupled with thick cigarette smoke, which hung steady in the air, helped to mask their identities. No air conditioning, and along with overtures of stale man sweat, created an unhealthy atmosphere. The centerpieces for the majority of the tables were glasses of beer, cups of coffee, and crumpled packs of Marlboros.
I could feel everyone’s eyes latch onto me as I walked toward the middle-aged, burly man standing behind the bar. He was clean-shaven and had a tangle of sandy brown hair on his head. A scar running the length of his chin prevented any hair growth there. A cigarette dangled from his lips while he rolled up the sleeve of his blue button-down. His eyes had followed me from the moment I entered. He rested both hands on top of the dark wooden bar to support his weight, and his brow crinkled upon my app
roach.
“I’m in need of a passport, and I don’t have the luxury of time,” I said loud enough for his ears and his ears only.
He eyed me for few seconds before looking over to a nearby table and speaking to one of the men sitting there. “Ajo dëshiron një pasaportë.”
A skinny man dressed in blue jeans and a black silk shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest slid his chair back from the table, stood, and walked over to us. He had fair hair, light brown eyes, and a chiseled jawline. He looked younger than most of the men in the bar and personal hygiene appeared to have some noticeable foothold in his life. Instead of a cigarette, he favored a chewed-up toothpick that he rolled from one corner of his mouth to the other. I picked up the faint scent of cologne as he leaned against the bar beside me. “My name is Edon,” he said with a smile.
I glanced at his offering of friendship and then back at him before grabbing hold of his hand. “The name is Sei. Can you help me?”
“All business.” He clucked his tongue a few times. “What’s the rush?”
“If you can’t help, you’re wasting my time.”
His smile grew. “Pretty and feisty.” He looked over at the barkeep and motioned for him to leave. His gaze fell back to me, I imagined to further assess my intentions. Meanwhile I watched him roll the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other for the seventh time.
“What makes you think we conduct business like that here?” he asked pointedly. “What you’re asking for is illegal.”
I reached inside my suit jacket and removed a bulky envelope and placed it on the bar. “That makes me think so.”
He waited a moment before picking it up and peeking inside.
“I’m in a hurry. Could we move this along?”
Edon turned and nodded at the other two men still sitting at his table. Within seconds, they were standing behind me.
“Follow me,” Edon grunted.
8
Edon led us toward the rear of the bar and into a short hallway where the bathrooms were located. We exited the building through a squeaky door and into a narrow alleyway, wide enough for a small vehicle to pass through, but two steel trash bins ensured that would never happen. Old corrugated boxes, plastic bags, bottles, and the furry remains of a small animal littered the ground. Straight across the alley was a door to what looked like an abandoned residential building.
Before entering, one of Edon’s men motioned me to lift both arms and then kicked my legs apart. A knife in a leather sheath was anchored to my belt against my back. He removed it and placed it in the outer lapel pocket of his leather jacket.
Once inside, it was noticeably quiet, save for the shuffling of our shoes against the wooden flooring. The air was musty, and dim lighting lit the hallway. Clearly no one actually lived there, and the building merely served as a place for the gang to conduct business.
“This way,” Edon said, heading toward the stairwell.
We marched single file to the second floor and continued down a hall similar to the one on the ground floor. We stopped outside the third apartment from the stairwell, room 2C. Edon knocked twice and mumbled something in Albanian. A male voice answered from inside, and Edon stuck a key into the lock and opened the door.
The room was surprisingly bright considering the curtains were drawn. Floral wallpaper covered the walls, and shelves filled with books and other knickknacks hung on a wall. A few standing floor lamps and a potted plant made the space seem almost homely. Off to the right of the doorway was an open kitchen outfitted with an old stovetop and refrigerator. The off-white tile counters were bare except for an empty juice bottle and a used paper cup. A small breakfast table for two was pushed up against a wall. To the left, there were two armchairs, a sofa and a wooden coffee table with an old area rug underneath. That room had no business being in a building like that.
Sitting in a chair was a man, early fifties, wearing wire-framed glasses. He had neatly combed black hair with streaks of gray throughout. His attire consisted of gray slacks, a white dress shirt, and brown leather shoes. A large silver watch adorned his left wrist, and a gold ring hugged his right pinky. Lastly, and most notably, he had his nose buried in a book. The four of us stood there quietly, waiting to be acknowledged.
The man cleared his throat and then peered over the rim of his glasses to settle on me. He held his gaze for a moment or two, his brow concentrated.
“What do you need?” he asked in a calm voice as he lowered his book. He had the same accent as Edon but much thicker.
“A Belgian passport, and I need it now.” I answered.
“Everyone needs everything right away.” He let out a breath and placed his book on the coffee table.
Edon handed him the envelope and whispered into his ear. The man acknowledged with a head nod and then stood.
“Follow me,” he said.
Edon and his men remained behind as the man led me into another room. A laptop, along with compact printer, sat on a wooden desk. There was a leather swivel chair behind it. Against the far wall was a stool in front of a large patch where the wall had been stripped of its wallpaper and painted white.
“Sit there.”
I watched him pull the drapes open, and then he removed a small digital camera from the desk drawer.
“Do you have a name preference? An age?”
“A Belgian name and I’m twenty-five,” I replied.
He snapped a picture. “Okay, wait in the room next door. Shut the door on the way out.”
“Why?”
“If you want your document, you will do as I say. Now go.”
In the other room, Edon sat in one of the armchairs and motioned for me to take a seat in the other. One of his men stood near the front door, his arms folded over his chest. The other, the one who had pocketed my knife, stood in the corner behind me. Neither of Edon’s associates had said a word since joining us in the bar. I doubted that would change.
“Coffee?” Edon asked.
“No, thank you.” I replied. I didn’t trust the Albanians and figured there was an equal chance that I would get what I wanted or they would attempt to cheat me in some way.
Ten minutes passed. I heard no movement or noise coming from the other room, not even the whir of the printer. The silence bothered me, even though I know replicating a passport in ten minutes wasn’t possible, at least not one that was credible.
“How much longer?” I asked Edon.
He said nothing and only continued to smile at me and roll his toothpick. I didn’t like the idea of not being able to keep an eye on the man behind me, so I stood up.
“You should stay seated,” Edon said sternly.
“And I asked you a question.” I spun around and opened the door to the other room. It was empty, and the window leading out to the fire escape was open.
9
The Albanians had made their choice.
I turned to the man nearest me. A quick throat punch stopped him mid-step and left him gasping with both hands around his neck. I moved behind him, using him as a shield from the others, while I retrieved my knife from his front pocket. I punched it in and out of the back of his neck, and he dropped to the floor.
I glanced at Edon and then at the guard standing near him. He was reaching inside his jacket with his right hand. I threw the knife and struck him in the right side of his chest. He yelped and his right arm dropped. I closed the distance in seconds, removed the knife, and shoved it in and out of his neck twice before he fell to the ground. I could hear him gurgling behind me as I faced Edon, who still sat in his chair. He seemed to be in shock, as he surely could have attacked me by then.
“Things didn’t go as you had planned, now did it?” I said moving toward him. I pressed the blade up against his neck. “Where did the old man go?”
“You stupid bitch.”
No sooner had he uttered those words, I slit his neck. While I had neutralized the situation quickly and efficiently, I still had a problem. I needed that
passport. I figured the old man couldn’t be far.
I returned to the room and looked outside the window. Standing pressed up against the building on the fire escape was the man.
“Get back in here,” I ordered.
He looked around and then down the stairs of the fire escape.
“I won’t ask you again,” I said.
“Okay, okay.” He climbed inside, and I shut the window behind him. He peeked into the living room and saw two bodies lying on the floor with pools of blood around their heads.
“Unlike them, you have a choice,” I said. “Complete the transaction or die.”
“Calm down. I’ll finish it,” he said moving behind the desk. He removed a small lockbox from the lower drawer and fished out a key from his pants pocket to open it. Inside were stacks of brand new Belgian passports.
“Work fast.” I checked the lock on the front door. “Are there others on their way?” I shouted from the living room.
“What do you mean?”
“You should know that each time you ask me to repeat myself, I have an overwhelming urge to end your life.”
“No one is coming,” he said with widened eyes.
While he worked, I used the kitchen sink to wash the blood from my hands and my blade. I then stood near the window to keep a watch on the alley below. I kept expecting that at any moment more Albanians would appear, equipped with more firepower than I could handle.
It took almost forty minutes for him to create my passport. It felt like days. A quick look showed me that everything appeared in order. My new name was Sophie Bouchon.
“Don’t kill me. I did what you said.”
Clearly, the stack of stolen passports and his flawless work told me he was indeed the gang’s forger. I couldn’t be sure if Edon or the old man made the decision that I could be easily taken advantage of. Either way, it made no sense. Surely killing customers wasn’t a sustainable business model.
His trembling hand held up the envelope of money. “Here, take it back.”
Contract Page 3