CHAPTER 1
HE HAD NEVER hired a hitman before. The thrill of putting his scheme in motion outweighed his fears of it all going wrong. He’d planned this for months, detail by detail, until he was certain it was foolproof.
From his seat at a corner table near the back of a teahouse, he cast a glance toward the front. It was a typical scene, one he witnessed often around Cairo. Groups of men sat on couches, sharing a smoke from long, flexible pipes attached to a tall, thin, metal shisha instrument. Tourists congregated at tables, laughing and smoking between sips of tea. Vapor from the pipes filled the air with fruity aromas.
Through the haze, he focused on the arched doorway at the front. Six minutes and thirty-two seconds until their rendezvous.
When a waiter stopped at his table, he ordered tea, the local kind—a clear red liquid served cold in a glass cup. After a few sips, he pushed the drink away. It was much too sweet.
He took out his phone and typed a few messages, then at seventeen seconds until the hour, movement from the front of the teahouse drew his attention. There she stood, a short, broad-shouldered woman with straight, chin-length black hair and Cleopatra bangs. A few curious glances were shot her way as she meandered around the tables and chairs. Her eyes flickered back and forth until they fixed on him. They were cold and dark, like the shaft of a tomb, sending an icy draught down his back despite the warmth of the teahouse. The carefully vetted killer stood before him in the flesh. His stomach twisted.
With a curt nod, he slipped his phone into his pocket and sat up straight. He gestured at the chair across from him. Without taking her hands out of her pockets, the woman sat down. She stared at him pointedly, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“How’s the karkadé?” She jerked her head at the cup.
“Delightful.” He broke eye contact, placed his backpack on the chair next to him, and sifted through its contents until he found a slip of paper. Using the tip of one finger, he slid it across the table’s glossy tiled surface.
She stared at the newspaper clipping but her stony features revealed nothing. Eventually, she took it in her right hand. Her eyes darted left and right as she read through the article, then focused on the photograph at the end. No blink, no twitch, nothing to hint what she might be thinking. The woman’s gaze shot back up to meet his.
“She your ex?” she asked with a flash of amusement in her eyes. She dropped the clipping onto the table.
“No.”
“She owe you money?”
“She owes me nothing,” he said sharply, one side of his upper lip twitching. That better end the questions.
“Right.” The woman leaned forward, setting her elbows on the table. “Quick and painless?”
“That would be fine. But I want photographic proof.”
“No problem. You’ll have pictures by midnight tomorrow.”
He smiled, lips tight. If it weren’t for months of searching the darknet, long flights, and thousands withdrawn from his bank account, it was almost too easy.
“I have half of the payment with me.” He put his backpack on the table and pushed it toward her. “The rest you’ll receive once I’ve seen the photos.”
She opened the flap, nodded, closed it, and placed the bag on the chair beside her. “I’ll contact you as soon as the job is done.”
Eager to leave, he pushed his chair back and stood. He didn’t want to be seen with this woman longer than necessary. It was only at her insistence he’d agreed to meet in public. Without another glance, he strode to the door.
“One more thing,” the woman called.
He stopped and glared over his shoulder. She watched him from her seat, her eyes narrowed. Reluctantly, he trudged closer to the table.
“What did she do wrong?”
His face grew hot. Why did his motives matter to her?
“That’s completely irrelevant,” he spat, fingernails digging into his moist palms.
“Tell me, or forget about it.”
His heart raced. She was ruining his perfect plan. He couldn’t take his money and walk away now. It had taken him a year of preparation to get this far.
“Why do you want to know? Are you the police?”
She crossed her arms. “This is how I do things.”
Jaw clenched, face burning, he snatched the bag from the chair. The woman’s eyes followed his movements, and he stopped. Now it made sense.
“One thousand on top if you stop asking questions.”
She drummed her fingers on her upper arm, turned her head, and gazed into the crowded room. After a moment, she refocused on him, her dark eyes blank. “Ten.”
He ran his tongue over his teeth. “Five.”
She leaned back in her chair, pensive. Then she shrugged. “All right.”
“Done. Another five. Pictures by midnight tomorrow.”
With a scowl, he shoved the bag into her arms and walked out of the teahouse. Once in the narrow street, he rolled his shoulders. It was done. He strode in the direction of a main road, his shoes clacking against the cobblestones. A closed-lip smile crept across his face. If everything went the way he’d planned, by tomorrow night, Leila Sterling would be dead.
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