Mrs. Igorevich screamed, dropping the cups and saucers. They shattered on the carpet. The housekeeper shot her in the head. Bits of her brain and skull fragments splattered on one of the wall paintings.
Siyana Antonova lowered the gun. The Igoreviches had been identified as the most likely of the fundraiser attendees to blab to the feds. Their deaths would send a shockwave through the rest of the traitors. Nobody else would talk.
The murders were ill-timed, of course, but she wasn’t worried about the agents learning about the shooting. Their investigation wouldn’t get much further, she knew.
With the stink of cordite hanging in the room, Siyana retreated to her room just off the kitchen to grab her getaway kit.
Virginia
STILETTO STOPPED making notes as soon as he heard crickets through the open windows.
He needed to be totally off the grid which meant not using a computer or any electronics that could be traced.
He had back-up cash stashed. False passports—at least three to choose from. Every field agent had cover identities prepared outside the Agency in case they ever needed to disappear. The cash had come from unused operational funds Scott had secreted away. Unethical, maybe. Probably. But the money was there for emergencies and this extraction certainly qualified.
To him, anyway.
He needed transportation out of the country, and that proved difficult. Scott couldn’t use any Agency assets or individuals easily connected to him. That meant minor-league smugglers. There was one in Canada Stiletto knew about who ran goods through Eastern Europe. That would be his first stop.
Finally, he took a break, brewed more tea, and stepped out to the backyard to light a cigar, a Montecristo ’93 Vintage Club Cabinet. He listened to the crickets and looked at the half-moon in the night sky.
He thought of the consequences once again, and once again dismissed them.
Scott could not sit by idly while a friend suffered. For doing the right thing. He had to do the right thing too. Maybe it was a sign. Perhaps it was time to move on or, should he survive and be fired, join Ali Lewis in San Francisco.
He took his time with the cigar, enjoying the coolness of the night. His tea went cold before he finished. He tossed the remaining liquid into the yard.
Back inside, he fixed ham and eggs and ate standing in the kitchen. He cleaned up and went into his bedroom where he packed a tote with clothes and other travel necessities. Scott found himself moving slowly. With each item he was getting closer and closer to crossing a line he might not be able to cross back.
He showered and sat up in bed going over his notes one more time.
The bank opened at nine in the morning.
Scott planned to be there when they unlocked the front door.
Chapter Five
“HE’S LEAVING the house,” Tom Winkler said. He spoke into the com link in his ear. It resembled a normal Bluetooth unit.
“We see him,” said the secondary unit.
Winkler stepped on the gas and followed Stiletto’s car.
It wasn’t the most ambiguous assignment Winkler had ever been given, but it was unusual to trail one of their own without at least knowing what the problem was. The order from the top was to follow Stiletto and make sure he went to work. Huh? If he didn’t, Winkler had orders to intercept. At least that part he understood.
Morning traffic provided ample cover for him and his secondary team. He rode alone while the other team was a pair of fellow shadowers as equally confused about the assignment as he was, and if Stiletto did what he was supposed to do, they could call it a day.
It was about twenty to nine by Winkler’s dash clock, and Stiletto pulled into the parking lot of a bank. Winkler cruised by, found curbside parking half a block away, and went back on foot. Stiletto remained in his car. The bank wasn’t open yet.
Into his com set Winkler said, “What’s your location?”
“Opposite end of the block from you. We can see him if that tree doesn’t move.”
Winkler looked. The tree in question sat just off Stiletto’s back bumper.
“Copy, the tree should be fine.” He grinned. They might not understand the job, but there was no reason not to have fun with it.
Winkler found cover behind the building next door, a cigar shop also still closed, and waited by a Dumpster with a chain-link fence between him and the bank parking lot. Stiletto appeared not to be looking for a tail. He’d made no attempt to shake surveillance on his drive to the bank. Winkler’s mind raced with possibilities. Was this some kind of test? Or was Stiletto a dirty agent the boss was trying to catch? Winkler didn’t know the man so he had no idea of Stiletto’s abilities or rank in the Agency; he had an assignment, that’s all. And a brain teaser it remained.
Winkler used his cell phone to check in with the office and report his position.
THE BRANCH manager unlocked the doors.
Stiletto wasn’t the only one to enter right away. A man in a business suit made a bee line for the loan desk while a soccer mom headed for the tellers. Stiletto stopped in line behind her and it only took a second to get in front of a window. He showed his ID and ATM card asked to see his safe deposit box.
Presently the teller brought him to a small room where the safe deposit boxes lined three walls. She left him there. A table sat in the center of the room. Stiletto found his box, opened it with a small key, and took out the rectangular box inside.
Lifting the lid, Stiletto began transferring items from the box to a tote bag he carried. Several stacks of cash, used bills; one passport from the three in the bag, which identified him as a Canadian; a box of .45 ACP ammunition; a burner cell phone, which he powered up and dropped into a coat pocket.
He closed the lid and let out a long breath. Wow. He was really doing this.
Stiletto returned the box to the locker and gave the key a sharp twist.
STILETTO APPROACHED his car at a brisk pace. He was in a hurry now. His scan picked up normal activity until he saw a man in his mid-30s walking toward him.
“Stop right there, Stiletto.”
Scott froze, watching the man approach, the man holding up a hand instead of a gun.
A sedan with two occupants turned into the parking lot and blocked the driveway near Stiletto’s car. The exit, a few feet away, remained unblocked.
Stiletto opened the back door of the Chevy and dropped the tote inside. He shut the door and took two steps toward the approaching man, who stopped short and seemed a little surprised by the move.
“What is it?”
“We’re here to escort you.”
“Where?”
“To work.”
Stiletto laughed. “That’s rich. Was this the General’s idea?”
“I have no idea. I just have my orders.”
“Stuff ’em.”
Stiletto turned and reached for Chevy’s door handle.
His next move wasn’t exactly a reflex. He watched the man’s reflection in the window of the car. The man moved toward him, slipping a collapsible baton from under his sport jacket. Stiletto pivoted, snapping his right leg up and out, the high kick connecting with the man’s right arm, the hand of which held the baton. The man yelled and dropped the baton, not falling over until Stiletto delivered another fast kick to his midsection.
By then the two men from the sedan were out of the car and running to him. Stiletto snatched up the fallen baton and extended it with the snap of his wrist. The two men stopped, holding up their hands. One said, “Whoa, it’s not supposed to be like this!”
“Stay back or it will get worse,” Stiletto said, opening the door and dropping behind the wheel. He started the motor. The two men from the sedan ran to their comrade and pulled him out of the way as Stiletto reversed and squealed his tires racing for the exit.