The boy had stopped again, but this time only four or five doors ahead of her. That smile beamed again, and he pointed to a doorway. “We are here,” he announced.
He pointed at the pink facade of a row house that might once have been grand, but now sagged with age. It occurred to her that this is what San Francisco neighborhoods might look like if no one painted or did repairs for twenty years. The heavy wooden door used to be purple. It was equipped with a substantial old-style knob that looked to be made of brass. Brandy wondered if she would be able to raise a high gloss from it if she polished it aggressively.
She stood in front of the door on the crumbling brick sidewalk and shot a glance to the boy.
He smiled.
“Should I knock?”
He jabbed a finger toward the door. “Just go in,” he said.
Brandy hesitated. This didn’t feel right at all. Why was he making such a point of her going first? Was this some sort of a trap?
“It’s okay,” the boy said. “I am not allowed.”
Oh, now that made sense, didn’t it? When you’re arranging to have someone killed, you didn’t need nosy street urchins hanging around to witness the event.
“The man is waiting for you inside,” the boy said. He sealed the deal with that magnificent smile.
For crying out loud, what was she so nervous about? She was meeting an envoy of the secretary of defense. It was as if she were walking into a meeting with Secretary Leger himself. There could be no safer place in the world for her. This was what tradecraft was all about.
There’d be no doing it slowly, though. She needed to proceed with the commitment of pulling off a Band-Aid. She climbed the stoop, turned the knob, and pushed the door open.
In the transition between the bright sunlight and the darkened interior, she felt completely blinded.
She called, “Hello-oh!”
What the hell was that? The second syllable of hello escaped without her thinking, driven by a piercing pain above her right breast. For half a second, it registered as a thick pin-prick, but then in the next half second, she realized that it was growing in intensity. She brought her left hand up to touch the pain, and then another jolt struck her again in the chest. This one hurt ten times worse than the first, and though she wanted to yell, she could produce no sound.
The agony was exquisite-completely off the scale. It caved her in in the middle, and as she doubled over, she got the first glimpse of blood on the floor. How about that? There was blood on her hand, too. And on her blouse. She felt the world spin, and as she struggled to steady herself against the wall, she lost her grip on the envelope. She saw it slipping through her fingers in slow motion, and while she tried to reach for it, nothing about her body was working right anymore. She had no choice but to watch it sail across the filthy linoleum.
As she slid down the wall to join the envelope on the floor, she saw a form step out of the shadow on the side of the center staircase. He carried something at his side. Something in his hand. As he closed to within a few feet, he raised the object at arm’s length and pointed it at her head.
Brandy gasped. “Please don’t-”
Three bullets for a single kill was embarrassing, but there was no other way. True silence was a necessity in the middle of the day, and that meant using subsonic loads to launch a bullet through a suppressor at a slow enough speed that the round would not create its own sonic boom in flight. For light loads like that, Mitch Ponder used a. 22 with a full copper casing. If he could have gotten close enough to guarantee a one-shot kill, he might have used a fully suppressed. 45, but by the time the combustion gases made it through the baffles of a. 45 suppressor, there was never enough left to eject the round. If he’d wanted to live in a world where you only get one shot at a target, he’d have been born in the nineteenth century.
Silhouetted as she was against the sunlight, a head shot was out of the question, so he’d gone for center of mass. Even then, the distortion of the light caused him to miss the heart twice. Just as well, he supposed. If he’d hit the sternum, the slow, light bullet might not have penetrated the chest cavity at all.
“Please don’t,” she said.
Mitch hated it when they begged. No matter how small and underpowered the weapon, a bullet through the eye at close range always made it to the brain. Finally, she lay still.
Mitch stooped to pick up the envelope his target had dropped and gave it a quick glance to make that no blood had splashed that far. He wasn’t sentimental about these things, but in his line of work, you didn’t want objects in your possession to be spattered. He smiled. Another advantage to using small rounds.
He saw a shadow on the floor and recognized the silhouette as Jaime, the boy who’d been his legs for this job.
“Did I do good?” the boy asked. His tone brimmed with pride.
Mitch stayed on his haunches and pivoted his head. “You did very good,” he said.
“Then pay me now?” Jaime held out his hand, palm up.
Mitch smiled. “Absolutely.”
He proved yet again that a bullet through the eye always made it to the brain. The boy was dead before his knees buckled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
According to the meticulous research package that Venice had assembled, at the height of his career, Bruce Navarro had lived the life of the privileged. Big house, expensive cars and mistresses on both coasts, with a couple more rumored to be ensconced in Europe and Asia. On his tax returns, he reported an annual income north of two million dollars. The bulk of it came from perfectly legitimate clients as the result of legitimate and capable legal work. Nothing in the record proved that Sammy Bell or the old Slater crime syndicate had any direct connection to The Navarro Firm, but Venice had been quick to point out that in her haste she might easily have overlooked a “legitimate” client that was in fact a cutout for a criminal enterprise.
The information provided by Alice Navarro Harper turned out to be invaluable. The man once known as Bruce Navarro was now Tony Planchette, and his new address was Standard, Alaska, twenty miles or so west of Fairbanks. He’d stayed in reasonably steady contact with his sister over the years, despite the continuing surveillance from both sides of the law, by blanketing Jersey City with junk mail advertising whatever bogus product best served the coded messages on the cards. Technically it was mail fraud, but Gail thought it was a brilliant-albeit expensive-means of covert communication. He mailed thousands of cards so he could communicate with his one sister.
When Alice shared the stack of coupons she’d accumulated over the years, Gail realized that the accumulated newspapers and magazines in the house were a ruse to camouflage the stack of messages in the minds of anyone who might want to conduct a search. Bruce used a random rotating cipher, the key for which was embedded in the numbers under an otherwise meaningless bar code. The text itself often read as gibberish that must have annoyed the crap out of some of the recipients, but at the rate of one every six or eight weeks, apparently no one ever got angry enough to call the authorities.
Besides, this was America. If you wanted to pay the freight to post gibberish to the community, it was your God-given right to do so.
The essence of the various messages was fairly chatty, offering details on how he was adapting to an invisible life. Gail got the sense that they were as much a reassurance to his sister that he was still alive as they were any real communication.
And, unless Alice was concealing something, there was no mechanism in place for Bruce to get any information in return. For Bruce’s safety, Alice had to assume that all of her outgoing communication was carefully monitored, and all it would take to raise the heat to intolerable levels would be for them to suspect that she was corresponding with Bruce. That alone would confirm that he was alive, and from there, nothing good could possibly follow.
This was Gail’s first trip to Alaska, and as she drove her rented Jeep away from the airport parking lot of the Fairbanks airport, she was surprised how featureless an area it was. No hills to speak of, lots of trees and squatty
