CHAPTER 1
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
HONOLULU, HAWAII
“He’s getting out of his car,” Peyton whispered over the comm. He was stationed in front of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, playing the part of a tourist waiting for his family to join him. “Same two bodyguards as before. They’re approaching the door now.”
“Kells?” Jacko said from inside the hotel suite cabinet where he was hiding, seven floors up.
“In position,” Kells said. She was sitting in a chair in the hotel’s lobby.
“See them?” Peyton asked.
A few seconds later, Kells said, “Got ’em. They’re passing reception…. Hold on. Stopping.”
The radio fell silent.
“What’s happening?” Jacko asked.
“They’re talking,” Kells replied.
“Can you hear them?”
“No. Not close enough…. Okay, one of the bodyguards is walking over to the reception desk. The other one and the target are heading to the elevators. What do you want me to do?”
Jacko said, “Elevator.”
“Copy.”
“Peyton, reposition to the lobby and keep an eye on the bodyguard.”
“Copy.”
Jacko could hear movement over the comm, then from Kells, a nearly inaudible “Almost there.”
Fifteen seconds of silence were followed by a ding and the sound of elevator doors sliding open. Movement again.
“Floor?” a low male voice asked.
“Nine, please,” Kells said. “Thank you.”
Jacko heard the elevator doors close again, followed by the car beginning its ascent.
“On holiday or business?” another male voice asked, this one not as deep, with a slight, eastern European accent. Jacko recognized it as belonging to Jan Masiar, the target.
“Holiday,” Kells said. “Just arrived this morning.”
“Is that right? From where?”
“Seattle.”
“Beautiful city. Traveling with family?” Masiar asked.
“Three girlfriends, actually,” she said, acting like someone who never gave a second thought to personal safety.
“Well, that sounds like fun.”
The bell dinged again.
“I hope you enjoy your stay,” Masiar said. “Perhaps we will see each other again.”
Kells said nothing, but Jacko had no doubt she gave Masiar an encouraging smile.
The sound of the doors opening, then movement, and the doors closing again.
“He’s on seven,” Kells said.
“Nice job. I think he’d have taken you with him if you’d suggested it.”
“Gross.”
“Peyton, update on the other bodyguard?”
“Still at the front desk,” Peyton said. “He’s talking to a manager. I did a walk-by and it sounded like they were discussing the use of one of the meeting rooms.”
“Copy.”
Jan Masiar owned several manufacturing plants in Slovakia and was in Honolulu for an industry convention. It was only natural he would need space for a meeting.
Manufacturing wasn’t his only business, however. As a former general in the Slovakian army, with strong ties to many still in power, he had developed a very lucrative side business selling NATO secrets to Russia. For the most part he played it smart by passing on low-level intel he undoubtedly thought couldn’t be traced back to him. Initially that was true.
But success bred overconfidence, which had a funny way of breeding mistakes. And one piece of intelligence turned out to have great significance. Its delivery to the Russians resulted in the capture and execution of three valuable NATO informants in Moscow. A covert but intense investigation had been launched to find out how this had happened. In only a matter of weeks, it’d led to the former general, and to the realization that his traitorous behavior had been going on for a while. A termination order was given, and Jacko and his team had been sent to carry it out.
From beyond the cabinet, Jacko heard the suite’s door open. He turned on his palm-sized monitor. It was wirelessly connected to a camera he had hidden on the wall by the windows. The lens provided a view of the front door and most of the main room.
He watched as the bodyguard entered, a gun now in his hand, while Masiar stayed in the public corridor. The guard made his way through the room, checking behind furniture and curtains. When he started to open cabinets, Jacko couldn’t help but tense a little. The doors he was hiding behind were the fourth set the man opened, but as Jacko knew would be the case, the man did not see him.
That morning, Masiar had received a “gift” of two dozen high-end bottles of whiskey and tequila and rum, from the vice president of a company he had met at the conference who wanted to do business with him. The VP had been Jacko, and Peyton had been the hotel bellhop who had brought up the liquor.
When Peyton had suggested stashing the lot in the cabinets near the bar, Masiar had agreed. Each bottle was packaged inside a box, and they formed a perfect wall behind which Jacko could hide. If Masiar had said no to the cabinets or refused the delivery altogether, the team would have had to go with a less desirable option, which was a nonissue now.
The bodyguard went into the bedroom, where he stayed for nearly two minutes. When he reappeared, he walked calmly toward the main door, his gun back in his shoulder holster.
“All clear,” he said and exited the suite.
Masiar entered and shut the door. Alone now, at least in his mind, he tossed his suit jacket on the couch and walked over to the bar, only a meter from the cabinet where Jacko was. Masiar poured himself a whiskey neat, from one of the three bottles Peyton had conveniently left on the counter.
He walked over and sat on the couch, drink in hand. After taking a sip, he turned on the TV and flipped through channels, finally settling on CNN.
“Bodyguard’s on the move again,” Peyton reported from the lobby. “Looks like he’s heading upstairs.”
Jacko clicked his mic once in acknowledgment.
Three minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
Not moving from his seat, Masiar yelled, “What?”
A muffled response came from beyond the door. Jacko assumed it was a report on the discussion with the hotel manager, but the bodyguard’s voice was incomprehensible.
“All right,” Masiar said. “That will be fine. One hour, then.”
Another answer, shorter this time.
Masiar said nothing after the bodyguard finished speaking. He sipped his whiskey and watched TV until the drink was finished. He then headed into the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt on the way.
Jacko clicked his microphone twice, paused, then twice again, signaling it was showtime.
He moved the boxes out of his way, opened the cabinet door, and quietly crawled out. From the bedroom doorway, he could hear water running from a faucet in the master bathroom. He peeked around the jamb and saw Masiar’s shirt lying across the end of the bed.
The water stopped.
Jacko pulled back into the main room and pressed himself against the wall, in case the target reentered the bedroom. But then the shower came on.
He smiled. This was the moment he’d been waiting for.
He slipped into the bedroom and shut the door, to reduce the chances of any unusual sounds reaching the guards outside the suite. He pulled a pillbox out of his pocket and removed the capsule. With his gun in one gloved hand and the capsule in the other, he approached the bathroom. From the splats of water hitting the floor, he knew Masiar was indeed in the shower.
Jacko had reconned the bathroom when he first arrived. It was a large space, with a standalone tub at the far end and a long counter with dual sinks to the left of the doorway. A privacy wall protruded from the entrance on the right side, preventing anyone from seeing directly into the shower.
Jacko moved along this wall and peered around the end at the double-wide glass shower.
Masiar stood in the middle of the stream, face tilted up, eyes closed. Every few seconds he ran his hands over his head, squeegeeing water onto his back. Next came a round of lathering, followed by another rinse. After another minute of just standing under the showerhead, Masiar turned off the water.
As soon as the target opened the door, Jacko swung around the wall, his gun pointed at Masiar’s face. “Not a sound. Nod if you understand.”
Masiar froze, his eyes wide.
“Nod if you understand,” Jacko repeated.
Masiar nodded.
“Good. Now turn around.”
“What do you want?”
Usually Jacko wouldn’t have hesitated to smack a guy with the barrel of his gun for not following directions, but one of the conditions of the mission was to avoid any obvious body marks. So, he chose instead to stick the gun in the man’s face. “Do it.”
As soon as Masiar turned, Jacko smashed the capsule against the base of the man’s neck, directly over his spinal cord. The shell broke and the gel-like liquid inside flowed onto the man’s skin, where it would be quickly absorbed.
Masiar jerked and tried to reach around for the spot.
Jacko slapped the man’s hand away. “Don’t.”
Apparently, not all of the old soldier had left Masiar. He whirled around and grabbed for Jacko’s gun. Jacko yanked the pistol back and shoved the older man in the chest with his free hand.
Masiar stumbled backward into the shower and slipped on the wet tiles. His legs flew out from under him and down he went, whacking his head against the back wall and landing with a thud.
Jacko tensed, ready for the son of a bitch to jump back up, but Masiar remained on the floor, unmoving. Jacko kicked the man’s foot, thinking he might be faking, but the target’s leg moved without resistance.
Jacko took a step into the shower and saw blood pooling under Masiar’s head, some of it flowing toward the drain.
He checked the man’s pulse.
There was none.
“Well, shit.”
The target had gone and killed himself a full minute before the drug would have done the job. And in a messier fashion, too.
He stared at the body.
The gel would have terminated Masiar without leaving a trace, and after the cleaner set the scene, even the bodyguards would have been fooled into believing the target had died of natural causes.
But maybe the way things had worked out wasn’t so bad. People died in showers all the time, didn’t they?
Yeah. Yeah, they did.
This would work. Bonus: the cleaner wouldn’t have that much to do now.
Speaking of.
Jacko clicked on his mic. “Jacko for Durrie.”
“Go for Durrie,” the cleaner replied.
“Target down. I’m ready for you.”
CHAPTER 2
Durrie looked over at Angel Ortega. “Hit it.”
Ortega turned on the electric motor and lowered the window-washer scaffold two stories to the seventh floor, outside the suite Masiar was renting. Specifically, to the windows of the suite’s bedroom.
Durrie and Ortega raised the screen they’d rigged to the side of the scaffold opposite the building, concealing what they were about to do from the view of anyone on the ground or in the surrounding structures.
“In position,” Durrie said as soon as the blind was up. “You ready?”
Inside, the curtain pulled back, revealing Jacko, the ops leader.
After a nod from Durrie, Ortega attached two suction-cupped glass handles to the pane, then placed a premeasured, ten-layer strip of cloth over the windowsill, anchoring it with painter’s tape. From a spray bottle with a straw-directed outlet, he applied a heat-activated solvent to the rubber holding the glass in place, all the way around the pane.
No matter how much of the work Durrie made Ortega do, the kid never complained. Which was great, given that Durrie was sick of doing the crap work. He preferred to focus his efforts on more interesting things.
When Ortega had finished with the spray, he picked up the acetylene torch. “Live fire,” he warned, and lit the device.
“I got this,” Durrie said, reaching for the torch. This was more interesting. And besides, with Jacko watching on the other side of the window, he needed to do something.
While Durrie ran the flame over the treated rubber, Ortega held on to the suction handles. The solution was fast acting, and as soon as the torch passed over a spot, the rubber underneath instantly turned to liquid that ran down the glass to the waiting cloth.
After the circuit was complete and the rubber was no longer doing its job, the glass rocked back and forth in the frame. It could not, however, be pulled out just yet.
Durrie took over holding the glass, while Ortega used an electric screwdriver with a specially designed bit to unscrew the metal frame. As each piece came free, he set it on the scaffolding.
The trickiest part of the operation came after the last piece of metal was removed. Working together, Durrie and Ortega very carefully pulled the pane away from the building and set it on the scaffolding.
A quick inspection of the glass revealed no cracks or nicks, just streaks where the melted rubber had run down. Ortega would deal with that.
“You good?” Durrie asked.
“Yes, sir,” Ortega replied.
That was another thing Durrie liked about Ortega. Respect. That was how a number two should always act.
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