Lazlo shook his head. “A Black Ops agent and El Gordito?”
“Perhaps this guy had connections useful to El Gordito?”
“What about the actual assassin?” Lazlo demanded.
“We doubled the original payment to Shadow Dragon to cancel the hit.”
“But you said once a hit is ordered and paid for, Shadow Dragon would probably follow through, no cancellations. Did he confirm the hit was off?”
“Not yet. But the payment went through to him and it was another million, for Christ’s sake!”
“Fuck! I hope you’re right!” Lazlo exclaimed. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tipped a cigarette out and put it to his lips. It was getting dark. The trees would soon all melt together as one deep black mass with only a faint glow from the starlit sky above.
“You took up smoking again?” inquired Cromwell.
“Well, there are boxes of smokes lying around, and I had nothing to do but wait,” replied Lazlo.
“They were my father’s stash,” said Cromwell, laughing.
Lazlo clicked open his lighter and tugged at the flint wheel. A spark ignited a tall flame. He didn’t need to cup his hands around it as the air was perfectly still. He pressed the end of the cigarette to the flame and heard the crackle of the tobacco catching fire as he drew in the smoky air. The end of the cigarette burnt bright orange.
Suddenly, a spray of blood hit Cromwell in the face as the side of Lazlo’s head exploded.
Twenty-Seven
Five hundred yards away, part of the forest floor moved. Wearing a tight, forest-print camouflage outfit, Shadow Dragon got to her feet and slung her Remington 700 PSS sniper rifle over her back and prepared for the twenty-five-minute run that would take her to the Jeep, which she had parked a little way behind the FBI agent’s Crown Vic sedan. It had been an easy kill. Cromwell had led her right to him, and the location could not have been better––isolated and with no wind. Perfect. He would never catch her. She had a five-hundred-yard start on him, but she didn’t need it. Cromwell would waste valuable time, after the initial debilitating shock of losing his friend, in deciding when it was safe to emerge from the cover of the cabin. He would feel the need to drag his friend into the cabin to spare him being ripped apart by a bear or wolf. It would take him around forty to fifty minutes to get back to his car by foot, and then he’d have to drive for twenty minutes to reach cell coverage. Over an hour and a half would pass before he could alert anyone to the assassination and get help. She would be long gone by then.
To Shadow Dragon, reputation was everything, and she had built it on one simple, brutal rule. If a client ordered and paid for a hit, it would get done. 100 percent certainty. No cancellations, no matter what. In the shady, dishonest world of her clients, there were often more parties interested in a hit than just the buyer. Thanks to her rule there was no possibility whatsoever of a buyer cancelling, keeping the cancellation secret from the other parties and blaming her for the non-execution. A dead body was irrefutable proof of her effectiveness. It kept her reputation intact, her prices high, and her bloodlust satiated.
Her clients could only reach her through referrals and vetting services made available via trusted and specialist criminal organizations. Given that the acceptance of her cancellation rule was a key element of the vetting, she had reacted to the requested annulment of the hit on Lazlo with frustration and fury. Then, on further reflection, she became curious as to how her longstanding system had failed her.
The FBI might have some of the best intelligence specialists, but the techie on Shadow Dragon’s payroll was no slouch either. She only knew him or her as ‘Anonymity.’ A mutual business partner had introduced them online. All she knew was that ‘Anonymity’ was one of the top ‘Black Hatters’––the street name for cyberpunks who maliciously hack government and corporate sites for fun or money. Anonymity hacked for money and asked no questions. Shadow Dragon paid well.
The computer outlaw had also been able to break into The Path to Paradise server, not through a known backdoor but by brute hacking force, and had confirmed that someone had taken control of the account of the buyer nicknamed La Tarántula. Anonymity had identified that the account was under the control of the FBI and, specifically, a Senior Intelligence Operative named George Cromwell. Shadow Dragon hadn’t cared that the FBI was involved— she was going to make good on the deal and keep her reputation intact. The FBI would eventually lead her to her target. She just had to wait it out.
For all his good intentions, Cromwell had eventually led her to Lazlo’s door. He was no lightfoot in the forest, so he had been easy to track. The next kill would be much more challenging; crowds, cameras, police patrols, and tight spaces to work in. She was going back to New York City.
Two Hours Earlier
There was a knock at the door, and Special Agent Chapman entered the captain’s room. John got up from the chair in front of the captain’s desk, expecting that Chapman would sit down, but he remained standing.
“We intercepted a hit that was ordered against Lazlo on the dark web. It came from an IP address belonging to one of El Gordito’s lieutenants, Victor Sanchez.”
The captain stared in surprise. “Why wasn’t I told?”
“I’m telling you now, Captain,” said Chapman. “Look,
