She pressed the Confirm button, booked a flight to New York City, and headed inside. She needed to decide which identity to assume while she carried out the job she had just been assigned.
Peering into the retinal scanner, she unlocked the door to her ready room, the space where she housed the items that helped her ply her trade. Passports, driver’s licenses, birth certificates, weapons, cash, and a dozen air-gapped computers that were highly prized and nearly impossible to hack. With the items in this room, she could become anyone she wanted to at any time.
She selected the passport she thought would offer the least amount of resistance when she attempted to make her way through US Customs, then stepped into the walk-in closet to select the wardrobe to match her chosen identity.
As she stood in front of the shelves, racks, and drawers filled with clothes, she remembered when her wardrobe was limited to her school uniform, a few pairs of jeans, a couple of T-shirts, and the “nice” dress her mother begged her to wear on special occasions. How times had changed.
She had been raised by a single mom. The two of them hadn’t had much in the small apartment they shared in the slums of Manila, but they’d had each other.
When Benjie Aquino, a local thief, offered her a chance to make some easy money, she had eagerly accepted the opportunity. Her mother was perpetually exhausted from working two and sometimes three jobs at a time in order to make ends meet, and Santana had been willing to do whatever she could to help out. She had accepted Benjie’s offer, agreeing to serve as a lookout while he robbed a high-end jewelry store in Manila’s main retail district. Her portion of the take had been negligible compared to his, but she had felt like a millionaire when she pocketed the money he gave her.
Her mother had cried when Santana presented her with the crumpled bills. Her tears of joy had turned into tears of sorrow after she pressed Santana for details about the money’s origins. Santana and her mother had gotten into a heated argument. Too stubborn to apologize, Santana had packed what little belongings she had and run away. That impulsive act was the biggest mistake she had ever made, and she had been paying for it ever since.
She gathered the clothes she needed and packed them in a suitcase. Then she locked the ready room behind her and headed upstairs to take a shower. She often wondered what her life would be like if she had chosen to swallow her pride all those years ago rather than give in to it.
“That’s the thing about hindsight,” she said as the water washed over her. “It always comes too late.”
She might not have been able to give her mother the life of luxury she had once thought she wanted, but she could still do the one thing that mattered most: keep her safe.
Chapter Three
Brooklyn felt like she had lost her audience. Her staff was attentive during her presentation, during which she detailed her impressions of the conference she had attended in Tokyo, and they posed incisive questions when she asked for their input, but they seemed more interested in the freebies she had snagged from the overloaded swag tables than the presentation itself.
“What am I missing?” she asked Charlie Evans after the meeting came to an end.
Charlie was not only one of the most talented programmers on her staff. She was also her best friend and her favorite sounding board. Their impromptu pitch sessions often carried over to the next day. Some of her best ideas had come as a result of bouncing them off Charlie first. No matter what the subject, she could count on Charlie to be honest with her. Sometimes brutally.
“Just the obvious, that’s all.”
The answer might have been clear to Charlie, but Brooklyn wasn’t seeing it. “Do you mind filling me in?”
Charlie, a caffeine addict of the highest order, popped a piece of hard candy with a soft espresso center into her mouth before she raked her hands through her hair. Like her eyes, her natural hair color was brown, but she preferred dyeing her locks a rotating rainbow of colors. This month’s chosen hue was electric blue with frosted tips worthy of a lead singer of an eighties-era hair metal band. Somewhere, Brett Michaels must have been eating his heart out.
“You’ve stated more than once that this company is second to none,” Charlie said. “Now none of the staff cares about what the competition’s up to. All they want to know is what we’re planning to do next. They don’t want to tweak someone else’s innovations. They want to come up with their own.”
“If I read you correctly, you’re saying I’ve done my job too well.”
“I told you not to take all those motivational speaking classes, but when was the last time you bothered taking my advice? Oh, I remember.” Charlie snapped her fingers. “When I suggested you should make a move on the hot blonde who was checking you out when you and I went to dinner last month.”
“The one you ended up going home with instead of me because you were the one she had her eye on in the first place?”
Charlie flashed the devilish grin that had helped her charm her way into dozens of women’s beds over the years. Brooklyn had always proved immune to her charms because, even from the beginning, she had suspected they would make better friends than lovers. As it turned out, they had made even better business associates. She wouldn’t be where she was now without Charlie on her team, and she couldn’t wait to see where they would eventually end up. Hopefully as rich as Steve Jobs and Bill Gates, but without the not-so-friendly rivalry.
“At least one of us got laid that night,” Charlie said. “Speaking of which, what did you get up to in Tokyo when you weren’t attending one boring panel after another?”
“The panels were informative, not boring.”
“To-may-to. To-mah-to. You say informative. I say snoozefest. But I’m willing to play along. What did you do when you weren’t being ‘informed’?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“Because you look like you’ve swallowed a freaking glow stick. Given your aversion to small children and the various bodily fluids that leak from their assorted orifices, I think it’s safe to say you’re not knocked up. That means you must have met someone while you were away.” Charlie propped her feet on her desk and locked her hands behind her head. “My roommates and I take turns making dinner. Russell’s next up in the rotation. His lasagna sucks ass, so if it’s all the same with you, I’d rather stick around here than head home. Spill. I’m dying to hear about Brooke Vincent’s latest carnal adventures.”
Charlie was well aware of the machinations Brooklyn often resorted to in order to help BDV Enterprises maintain a high social media profile. She had helped Brooklyn pull off some of the stunts. The rest Brooklyn had told her about over burgers and beers.
“She didn’t have any.”
“Really?” Charlie looked skeptical. “That’s a first.”
“It was a business trip, not a vacation.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
Brooklyn wasn’t proud of some of the shenanigans she had pulled, but she knew the work she and her team put in was on par with or exceeded their peers.
“I wanted to try something different this time. I want our company to be taken seriously, not considered a flash in the pan.”
“Substance over style. I can dig it.” Charlie nodded in agreement. “Now tell me her name.”
“Whose name?”
“The woman who’s got you looking like the Cheshire Cat, provided he ditched the tacky stripes in favor of stylish little black dresses.”
The office had emptied out after the meeting, leaving Brooklyn and Charlie alone. Brooklyn hadn’t spoken to anyone about the mysterious woman she had met on New Year’s Eve, but she hadn’t been able to think about anything or anyone else in the interim. She grabbed a chair from a nearby desk, pulled it closer, and took a seat.
Charlie officially occupied the office next to hers, but she only used it when she wanted to have one-on-one conferences with members of her team. On a daily basis, she preferred to work in the open concept outer office so she could feel like part
of the action instead of one step removed.
“I would tell you her name if I knew it,” Brooklyn said, “but we were never formally introduced.”
“Sorry. Try again. You’re a classic oversharer, B. If someone asks you a question that requires a two-word response at most, you break into a seven-minute soliloquy. Do you honestly expect me to believe you bumped uglies with someone and didn’t bother catching her name before you dropped trou?”
“We didn’t have sex. We just talked. Well, flirted. Shamelessly, I might add.”
“How did you meet?”
“I went for a drink in one of the hotel bars and she rescued me from a drunk businessman who didn’t know how to take no for an answer. When I asked for her name, she said she preferred to remain anonymous.”
“That could be shady or sexy, depending on your point of view. What did she look like?”
“Like Cary Grant and Bruno Mars had a baby and they dressed her in bespoke suits instead of onesies.”
“Oh, my God, that’s fucking hot. Did you get her phone number at least?”
“No, but I gave her mine. I told her if she’s ever in town, she should dial the number and ask for Olaf.”
“Ex-squeeze me?”
Brooklyn blushed as she remembered the code names they had agreed to answer to rather than revealing their real identities. “It’s a long story.”
“Then grab us a couple of beers from the break room and help me fill in the blanks. Or is that what she said?”
Brooklyn got up to retrieve the drinks. “Your lack of social graces is mind-boggling. You know I only keep you around because you’re such a kick-ass programmer, right?”
“That and my winning personality.”
Brooklyn waggled her hand back and forth as if she were weighing the odds. “That’s subject to debate.”
Charlie tossed a paper clip at her. The vast majority of their printouts were soft copies rather than hard in order to protect the environment, but Charlie kept a full cup of paper clips on her desk so she could have something to fiddle with while she worked. Some people chewed their nails or squeezed stress balls. Charlie preferred twisting the tiny metal objects into various shapes. If she ever washed out as a programmer, which was highly unlikely given her vast array of skills, she could have a successful career making balloon animals.
“You love me and you know it,” Charlie said.
“Unfortunately, you’re right, but my therapist says I’m making tremendous progress.”
“I’m happy to hear that. Now stop stalling and fetch those beers. My boss will kill me if I’m late to work tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I hear she can be a real ballbreaker.”
“Now that she’s getting laid on the regular, I think her attitude might take a turn for the better.”
Brooklyn conceded defeat, knowing this was an argument she couldn’t win. One chaste kiss had fueled nearly a week of feverish fantasies. If she and TDH ever became intimate, she might never get any work done. Despite her lofty ambitions, she was willing to accept the tradeoff.
In the break room, she peered into the refrigerator. She kept a selection of beer and wine on hand for after-work get-togethers that often evolved into impromptu brainstorming sessions. Like some authors she knew, a few staffers’ creative juices didn’t start flowing until they’d had a drink or two. She didn’t judge their creative process. She just reaped the benefits.
She grabbed a couple of craft beers and used a bottle opener to pop the tops. Then she looked for a pair of koozies to keep the beers cold while she and Charlie talked. She opted for two she had grabbed during the first industry gathering she had attended when she was an unpaid intern with big dreams and a pile of student loan debt. Her debt had gotten smaller over the years, but her dreams had continued to grow. Some days, she felt like a lottery ticket holder right before a multimillion dollar jackpot was drawn—filled with ideas for the future but devoid of the capital needed to make her ideas come true.
When she closed the cabinet, she heard what sounded like the tinkling of ice in a glass.
“Did you get started without me?” she asked, holding a bottle of beer in each hand.
Charlie was always quick with a retort so Brooklyn was surprised not to receive a response of some kind.
“I can think of only two things that leave you speechless: work and women. You’ve already shut your computer down so I know it’s not work. Who am I about to be stood up for? Is it the barista from your favorite coffeehouse or the—”
The words died in Brooklyn’s throat. Charlie was sitting exactly as she had left her. Her eyes were open and her lips were still curved into a smile, but a large bullet hole had blossomed in her forehead. Blood and bits of what looked like brain matter covered the laptop, the bowl of espresso-filled candy, and the container of paper clips on her desk.
The bottles of beer slipped from Brooklyn’s grip as her body went numb. The noise the neoprene-covered bottles made when they hit the unforgiving linoleum floor was muffled by the sound of her scream.
Chapter Four
Santana didn’t know what had just happened. She’d had her target in sight for nearly an hour, but she hadn’t been able to pull the trigger. At first, she couldn’t risk taking the shot when the office was filled with potential witnesses. One or more of them might have been able to spot her before she was able to make her way off the roof and down to the sidewalk ten stories below.
Most of the other staffers had cleared out fifteen minutes ago, but the target had lingered to talk with one of her fellow employees. Because of the partially obstructed sightline from her vantage point, Santana hadn’t been able to see with whom the target was conversing. All she had been treated to were glimpses of shapely legs here or an expressive hand there. When the figure had retreated completely from view, she had finally been able to make her move.
Only she hadn’t been able to take the shot.
She had gone through all of her normal rituals, but something hadn’t felt right. She hadn’t felt right. Something about the interaction between Evans and the woman she was conversing with made her hesitate. Even though she couldn’t see both of them clearly, she could sense the dynamic between them. A true, honest friendship she couldn’t bring herself to end.
She had tried to tell herself that this hit was no different from the dozens of others she had performed. Her other targets had had friends and families, too. But none of her other targets had been as seemingly innocent as this one. She hadn’t been their judge or jury, but she had certainly been their executioner. Tonight, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to fulfill any of those roles.
She had decided to postpone the hit until another day. Until her thoughts weren’t as jumbled as they were tonight. She had been about to abandon her position when she heard a shot ring out. A shot that she didn’t take.
The sound had come from behind her. She had looked back just in time to see a furtive figure in the window of an abandoned warehouse. Though the spot was farther away from her vantage point, it was the perfect location for a sniper’s nest. It offered a clear view of Charlotte Evans’s office building and provided plenty of cover for whoever was lurking inside. The person who had just performed the job she couldn’t bring herself to.
The shooter retreated. She started to chase after them, but she doubted she’d be able to catch up to them before they got lost in the crowd on the busy sidewalks down below.
“Shit.”
She swung her rifle back toward the office building and peered through the telescopic scope. What she saw made her forget how to breathe.
The office of the tech company Charlotte Evans worked for—BDV Enterprises—was housed in what was once a piano factory. Most of the building’s original fixtures remained intact, including the faded lettering on the weathered brick exterior. The windows and sleek interior design, however, were thoroughly modern. The place would have looked right at home on a spaceship in a sci-fi movie.
Evans had remaine
d upright rather than falling face-forward on her desk, but Santana knew she was dead. No one could survive such a devastating head shot. But it wasn’t the sight of Evans’s lifeless body that stunned her. It was the realization that the woman Charlotte had been talking to was the same woman Santana had shared drinks with in Tokyo on New Year’s Eve. The gorgeous woman with chestnut brown hair, hazel eyes, and a luminous smile. Santana had rescued the woman from an overly aggressive suitor, then chatted amiably with her over cocktails and sushi. When the clock had struck midnight and the woman had pressed a good-bye kiss to her cheek, Santana had felt like the prince being abandoned by Cinderella at the ball. Instead of a glass slipper, she’d had only a humorous nickname to remember her by.
“Olaf.”
The word hung in the cold air like a plume of smoke, then slowly disappeared. Peering through the scope, Santana saw the woman scream. The sound, even though she couldn’t hear it, pierced her to her core.
She wanted to go to her. To wrap her arms around her and tell her everything would be okay, but she knew none of her platitudes could possibly ease the pain—the fear—she saw on the woman’s face.
She remained motionless—transfixed, actually—until she saw the woman reach for her cell phone. Based on typical response times in the area, police and paramedics would arrive within fifteen minutes. Rush hour traffic might delay them a bit, but not long enough for Santana to sit around wasting time staring at a woman she had met once and thought she would never see again.
Moving quickly but efficiently, she broke down her rifle and gathered her belongings. She took a second sweep to make sure she hadn’t missed anything, then draped her duffel bag over her shoulder and headed for the door that had allowed her to access the roof. She closed the door behind her and walked down the hall, resisting the urge to run. In this situation, patience was not only a virtue, it was a requirement. Panicking could draw unwanted attention. Though she hadn’t fired her weapon, she would have a hard time explaining what she was doing carrying it on the streets of New York City.
Heart of a Killer Page 3