“Good.” He stands and grabs his satellite phone. “I’m not sure what she’s doing, but I might be able to follow her line of thinking.”
ZARA
An uncanny eeriness trolls the streets. There’s something about a town that’s been left to shambles that utterly wrecks the spirit. This wasn’t decimation from a natural disaster though. This was retribution at its finest—or ugliest, depending on perspective. From what I’ve unveiled, the former suits my opinion. I’m almost sad I didn’t get to witness the explosive leveling.
It seems two and a half years ago, someone obliterated a good portion of the reigning Mafias’ holdings here. The FBI even managed to snag a piece of the destruction. But they missed one important stream of revenue. Human trafficking.
So, since I have some time to kill …
I strut toward a small shack that sits behind a convenience store. This is all that remains of the two mobs that once ruled like royalty here. Even the leaders are missing. But their foot soldiers are rebuilding quietly. It’s bigger than the veneer the cracked pavement and flickeringOpensign would indicate. They’re shaping an empire in the gutters, with wealthy men’s money and women who will pay the price for vile greed.
How it all connects is still a mystery, but it does. I’m certain of it.
My answers aren’t here. But their warning will be.
Using Claudia’s phone, I summoned one of the financial gurus involved with this mess. His name is Darren. Darren thinks with his dick. He’s eager to show because Claudia fucks him—or did—and for some inexplicable reason, a man with bottomless pockets can’t resist the allure of a taboo lay. Or she was simply his cover, his way of staying connected to these heinous monsters under the guise of a sexual tryst. I also texted that I—she—had something vital to share with him, so that angle is covered as well. He takes a vested interest in the trafficking ring, so he won’t risk something falling out with that.
Inky clouds shroud the moon, and the stars don’t dare to shine for this forsaken community. I wait just left of a golden streetlight, enough for my blonde wig to be illuminated and allude to me being Claudia, but not enough to denote the difference in facial features. When he pulls up in an all-black Bentley Flying Spur, I internally scoff at the stupidity of driving a symbol of wealth into a town that’s been stripped of it. Not the best covert move, which only points to the egotism of this asshole.
He spots me right away, but before he gets out, I cup my gloved hand, encouraging him to follow me to the back of the store. Then I take off. My hooded trench coat conceals any shape differences between Claudia and me, so he doesn’t hesitate. His footsteps shuffle against the gravel with a gritty echo that annoys me. No fucking challenge with this guy.
There’s a cellar entrance behind the store that I lead him to. He’s familiar with this place, so he doesn’t dither. I wave my hand again, cloaked completely by the darkness now.
“Not so fast,” he grunts, but it sounds almost giddy, like he thinks this is a sexual cat-and-mouse game.
When he catches up to me, I stretch my feline arm and put a bullet in his head.
His coal eyes sparkle for a split second before he drops to the ground, slumped against the railing as his body slides down the steps. That worked well.
Wherever your soul goes next, I hope it does better.
Tucking my suppressed .45 caliber pistol away, I search for his phone. It’s in his inside coat pocket with a wad of cash. I use his face to unlock it, scroll through his emails to open one I need him to have read, and connect the cell to a forensic extraction device to download all the memory off it. After I set that aside, I stand and pull out a Stribog SP9A1, fitted with a silencer. It has a fifty-round drum with subsonic ammunition, so I won’t have to reload, and it’s as quiet as a whisper. This should be a quick in-and-out mission because the space isn’t that large and they aren’t expecting me.
The Morelli and Vittori foot soldiers are convening inside the bungalow. Ever since their leaders went missing—or met their end—this is where they hold their biweekly meetings. There are a handful who aren’t present, but I watched the others arrive about an hour ago, and I’m anticipating twenty-one. All are hands-on with the trafficking ring, but they’ve been lying so low since their other holdings were attacked that the Feds aren’t paying much attention to them. That’s a mistake because they are essentially a sleeper cell, awaiting the perfect moment to spring up again.
The missing members might still be able to do that, but it will require starting fresh once again. It’s not complete eradication, but it’s close. I’ll have to take that as a win.
Exhilaration pumps through my veins. When I pull this off, it will be a personal victory.
Right before Claudia’s fuckboy arrived, I barricaded the other entrance to the house, so the only way out is the way I’ll be entering.
As I crack the cellar door open, the aromas of marinara sauce and yeast waft out to meld with the crisp, musky odor of late autumn. “Round Here” by Counting Crows blares from a speaker, and a roar of laughter rises, growing with every brisk step I take up the basement stairwell and into the vintage kitchen. The house layout is from the 1940s, so it has quaint rooms and low visibility. I’ll use that to my advantage.
Before I make myself known, I utilize the cover of the white refrigerator to take out the six men collected around the peninsula countertop.
It’s so swift that no one gives me away, but another guy emerges with an empty beer bottle in hand, calling out, “I’m bringing back five Peronis. Beyond that, you twats will have—”
He spots the dead mid-sentence. Inconvenient.
I lodge a bullet in his head, but suspicion has already arisen due to his stammering. Two more wander in, weapons out, though they’re piled on top of the others before they can register what’s going on.
Yelling and gunfire emanate through the cramped quarters. They have nowhere to escape though, so I take out one foot soldier at a time while crossing into the adjoining dinette. It’s been just over a minute, and I have more than half of the targets neutralized. This would be devastating to a Mafia don. It’s a bit disheartening they aren’t around to witness it.
Crimson splatters the walls that are yellow from nicotine. The pasta sauce bubbles over on the stove. Beer spills. Glass shatters. Chaos ensues. There are slurs and curses and shrieks about the barricaded front door.
One guy manages to call me out, sending three others to rush me. I roll beneath the dinette table, hop to my feet on the otherside of the room, which disorients them, and pop all three of them.
There couldn’t be more than five left, so I dash through the carnage, shoot one in the chest, one in the head, and another in the neck as I rush through the kitchen and back down to the cellar. My numbers are confirmed when I catch sight of two charging after me. It’s their only exit. I can hear their cogs churning, wondering if they should follow. But they will. Of course they will because I could come back. And none of them want to be the last man standing over twenty of their men without presenting a killer. That’s certain death anyway.
