She threw herself across the open doorway and fired at the first silhouette she saw. His compatriot stumbled back and fell into the wrought iron fencing that separated the rooms from the closed swimming pool.
Lisa did a forward leap over the body in the doorway and rolled beside the other dead man, bringing her pistol up and scanning the expanse of concrete that ran along the rear of the motel.
The other two men were either in a room looking for her or had doubled back to the front of the building. Lisa crab walked to the corner before bolting for her car. She slid to a stop and stared at the old cop car. Her pulse pounded at the idea that they might have wired it to blow while she slept. Her hand hovered over the door handle when the sounds of the other two men yelling and running toward their downed cohorts caught her attention.
Lisa cursed under her breath and ran across the parking lot as fast as she could. She pulled open the rear door of the Mercedes and slid into the backseat, pulling the door shut behind her. She laid low in the rear floor, her Sig Sauer held tightly to her chest.
Time seemed to slow as she waited for the men to return. She could hear them barking at each other in Spanish as they approached the car. She barely caught one of them bitching about calling this in and who would be held accountable, when the front door opened.
Lisa held her breath for a moment and when the second man fell into the front passenger seat, she fired two rounds through the rear of the S Class’s expensive leather seat, then sat up and pressed the still smoking, and very hot, barrel of her suppressor to the driver’s head.
“Who sent you?” Her voice dripped with venom as she thought of the terror her sister had endured, trying in vain to console her children.
The driver stiffened and Lisa pressed the barrel tighter to his head. She switched to Spanish. “I asked, who sent you?”
The man shook his head slightly, his lips pressed tightly together. Lisa felt rage as she pulled herself higher into the rear cabin of the car. With her left hand she pulled a lever activated knife and laid it across the driver’s neck, then lowered the barrel of her pistol until it was pressed to his crotch. “Last chance.”
The man inhaled deeply and shook his head.
Lisa grunted a laugh as she squeezed the trigger. The man howled and lurched forward, both hands cupping his ruined reproductive organs.
She kicked the back door open and reached for the driver’s door handle. She grabbed the man by his lapel and dragged him from the car. She pressed a booted foot to his shoulder and lowered the barrel to his forehead. “You can still live…”
The man’s face was a mask of pain-filled hatred as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead tighter to the end of the pistol. In heavily accented English he spat, “Fuck you!”
Lisa squeezed the trigger again then stepped over the quivering body. She glanced inside the Mercedes and saw the keys splayed on the center console. She reached across and opened the passenger door then pushed the other assassin’s body to the pavement.
She glanced at her disposable getaway car and tsk’d as she slipped the Mercedes key into the ignition. “I guess I’ll have to make do with this piece of imported crap.” She smirked as she threw the transmission into reverse and backed unceremoniously over the body of the driver. “Oops.”
She threw the car into gear and pointed the nose north.
Southern Florida
Durham Joseph White hunkered behind an overgrown cypress and watched as the men trudged through the moist, soft ground of the Everglades. They did their best to avoid the wetter areas, but even then, they often found themselves stepping in the wrong place, a string of epithets in rough Spanish echoing throughout the marshes.
DJ slipped behind a thicker bush and brought his rifle to bear on the group. Very few people ventured into the ‘glades, but fewer were stupid enough to wear patent leather shoes and linen suits. The Panama hats were a dead giveaway that they didn’t belong. The fact that the men carried AKs, Uzis and Tec-9s were also good indicators that they probably weren’t in the wetlands to hunt gators.
DJ followed the pair as the leader continued to look at an electronic device in his hands and point. The only place they could possibly be headed was the ramshackle hut that he had cobbled together as a hunting cabin decades ago. When he chose to “fall off the planet” he decided to make the cabin home.
DJ cursed to himself as he broke away from the group and worked his way back along the game trails he used. He knew that at the pace they were going, he had plenty of time, but he still wanted to buy himself more.
He shot through the underbrush and turned sideways to slip past the sawgrass. He pulled a crusty rope from an old mahogany stump and stepped into the flat bottomed aluminum boat, pushing off with the ball of his foot before planting his ass and grabbing an oar.
He glanced at his watch then began to paddle, ducking under the branches that he knew like the back of his hand. He crossed the seasonal puddles and broke into the waterway just as the tides were shifting. He knew he’d have to increase his pace if he wanted to have enough time to set his trap.
DJ dragged the paddle in the water, slowing his approach then stepped out onto the soft ground. He dragged the boat
