Exit Strategy (2 page)

When the Riccios found out, they went to the Tomassinis, who went to the drug lord, who decided, among the three of them, that this was not an acceptable entrepreneurial scheme. The drug lord’s nephew had caught the first plane to South America and was probably hiding in the jungle, living on fish and berries. Moretti wasn’t so easily spooked, which probably speaks more to a lack of intelligence than an excess of nerve.

While I waited for him, I wandered about the platform, taking note of every post, every garbage can, every door-way. Busywork, really. I’d already scouted this station so well I could navigate it blindfolded, but I kept checking and double-checking.

My stomach fluttered. Not fear. Anticipation. I kept moving, trying to work past it. There was no more room here for anticipation than there was for fear. It was a job. It had to be approached with cool, emotionless efficiency. You cannot enjoy this work. If you do, you step onto the fast slide to a place you’ll never escape, become something you swore you’d never be.

I kept my brain busy with last-minute checks. There was one security camera down here, but an antiquated one, easy to avoid. I’d heard rumors of post-9/11 upgrades, but so far, this station had avoided them. Though I hadn’t seen a uniformed transit cop, I knew there could be a plain-clothes one, so I spotted the most likely suspects and stayed out of their way. Not that it mattered—in addition to the extra padding I was wearing a wig, colored contacts, eyeglasses and makeup to darken my skin tone.

I’d spent three days watching Moretti, long enough to know he was a man who liked routines. Right on schedule, he bounced down the subway steps, ready for his train home after a long day spent breaking kneecaps for a local bookie.

Partway down the stairs he stopped and surveyed the crowd below. His gaze paused on anyone of Italian ancestry, anyone wearing a trench coat, anyone carrying a bulky satchel, anyone who looked…dangerous. Too dumb to run, but not so dumb that he didn’t know he was in deep shit with the Tomassinis. At work, he always had a partner with him. From here, he’d take the subway to a house where he was bunking down with friends, taking refuge in numbers. This short trip was the only time he could be found alone, obviously having decided that public transit was safe enough.

As he scouted the crowd from the steps, people jostled him from behind, but he met their complaints with a snarl that sent them skittering around him. After a moment, he continued his descent into the subway pit. At the bottom, he cut through a group of young businessmen, then stopped beside a gaggle of careworn older women chattering in Spanish. He kept watching the crowd, but his gaze swept past me. The invisible woman.

I made my way across the platform, eyes straining to see down the tunnel, pretending to look for my train, flexing my hands as I allowed myself one last moment of anticipation. I closed my eyes and listened to the distant thumping of the oncoming train, felt the currents of air from the tunnel.

It was like standing in an airplane hatch, waiting to leap. Everything planned, checked, rechecked, every step of the next few minutes choreographed, the contingencies mapped out, should obstacles arise. Like skydiving, I controlled what I could, down to the most minute detail, creating the ordered perfection that set my mind at ease. Yet I knew that in a few seconds, when I made my move, I left some small bit to fate.

I inhaled deeply and concentrated on the moment, slowing my breathing, my pulse. Focusing.

No time to second-guess. No chance to turn back.

At the squeal of the approaching train, I opened my eyes, unclenched my hands and turned toward Moretti.

I quickened my pace until I was beside him. Tension blew off him in waves. His right hand was jammed into his pocket, undoubtedly fondling a nice piece of hardware.

The train headlights broke through the darkness.

Moretti stepped forward. I stepped on the heel of the woman in front of me. She stumbled. The crowd, pressed so tightly together, wobbled as one body. As I jostled against Moretti, my hand slid inside his open jacket. A deft jab followed by a clumsy shove as I “recovered” my balance. Moretti only grunted and pushed back, then clambered onto the train with the crowd.

I stepped onto the subway car, took a seat at the back, then disembarked at the next stop, merging with the crowd once again.

Job done. Payment collected. Equipment discarded. Time to go home…almost.

Outside the city, I sat in my rented car, drinking in my first unguarded moment in three days. Although the scent of the city was overpowering, I swore I could detect the faint smell of dying leaves and fresh air on the breeze. Wishful thinking, but I closed my eyes and basked in the fantasy, feeling the cold night air on my face.

This was my first hit without a gun. Distance shooting was my specialty, but my mentor, Jack, had been pushing me to try something else. Carrying a gun these days wasn’t as easy as it had been five years ago, and there were times when using one just wasn’t feasible. So he’d trained me in poisons—which to choose, how to deliver it, how to carry the syringe and poison disguised as insulin. Then he’d encouraged me to find an excuse to try it. With Moretti, it hadn’t been so much an excuse as a necessity.

The Tomassinis had confirmed that Moretti had suffered a fatal heart attack on the train. There had been some commotion and the police had been summoned, probably because Moretti had realized in his final moments that he’d been poisoned. That, Jack said, was a chance you took using concentrated potassium chloride in a public place, on a victim who knew he was a target. It didn’t matter. With Moretti, the Tomassinis wanted to send a message, and it was clearer if his death wasn’t mistaken for natural causes.

As for what else I felt after killing Moretti, I suppose there are many things one should feel in the aftermath of taking a life. Dean Moretti may have earned his death, but it would affect someone who didn’t deserve the pain of loss—a brother, girlfriend, someone who cared.

I knew that. I’d been there, knocking on the door of a parent, a spouse, a lover, seeing them crumple as I gave them the news. Your father was knifed by a strung-out junkie client. Your daughter was shot by a rival gang member. Your husband was killed by a man he tried to rob. I’d seen their grief, the pangs made all the worse by knowing they’d seen that violent end coming…and been unable to stop it.

Yet in this case, it was the other victims I saw—the teens Moretti sold drugs to, the lives
he’d
touched. Killing him didn’t solve any problems. It was like scooping water from the ocean. Yet, the next time the Tomassinis called, if the job was right, I’d be back. I had to.

It was the only thing that kept me sane.

On my way out of the city, as the lights of New York faded behind me, the radio DJ paused his endless prattle with a “special bulletin,” announcing that the Helter Skelter killer may have struck again, this time in New York City. “Speculation is mounting that the Helter Skelter killer is responsible for the rush-hour subway death of Dean Moretti…”

My calm shattered and I nearly ran my car off the road.

TWO

Cool under pressure. If they posted employment ads for hitmen, that’d be the number-two requirement, right after detail-oriented. A good hitman must possess the perfect blend of personality type A and B traits, a control freak who obsesses over every clothing fiber yet projects the demeanor of the most laid-back slacker. After pulling a hit, I can walk past police officers without so much as a twitch in my heart rate. I’d love to chalk it up to nerves of steel, but the truth is I just don’t rattle that easily.

But driving up to the U.S./Canada border that morning, I was so rattled I could hear my fillings clanking. How could Moretti’s hit be mistaken for the work of some psycho? Any cop knows the difference between a professional hit and a serial killing.

Had I unintentionally copied part of the killer’s MO? The case had been plastered across the airwaves and newspapers for a week now, but I’d behaved myself. If an update came on the radio, I’d changed the station. If the paper printed an article, I’d flipped past it. It hadn’t been easy. Few aspects of American culture are as popular with the Canadian media as crime. We lap it up with equal parts fascination and condescension: “What an incredible case. Thank God things like that hardly ever happen up here.” But I no longer allowed myself to be fascinated. In hindsight, it was a choice that warranted a special place on the overcrowded roster of “Nadia Stafford’s Regrettable Life Decisions.”

I’d driven all night, as I always did, eager to get home as soon as my work was done. It was just past seven now, with only a few short lines of early morning travelers at the border. As the queue inched forward, I rolled down my window, hoping the chill air would freeze-dry my sweat before I reached the booth. Somewhere to my left, a motorcycle revved its engine and my head jerked up.

Normally, crossing the border was no cause for alarm. Even post-9/11, it’s easy enough, so long as you have photo ID. Mine was the best money could buy. Half the time, the guards never gave it more than the most cursory glance. I’m a thirty-two-year-old, white, middle-class woman. Run me through a racial profile and you get “cross-border shopper.”

In light of the Helter Skelter killings, they’d probably look closer at everyone, but I had nothing to hide. I’d switched my New York–plated rental for my Ontario-plated one. I’d disposed of my disguise in New York. The Tomassinis paid me in uncut gemstones, which are small enough that I could hide them in places no border agent would normally look.

I pulled forward. Second in line now.

It would be fine. Let’s face it, how many terrorists enter Canada from the U.S.? Even illegal immigrants stream the other way. Yet even as I told myself this, the agent manning my booth waved the vehicle in front of me over to the search area. It was a minivan driven by a white-haired woman who could barely see over the steering wheel.

I assessed my chances of jumping into another line, where the agent might be in a better mood, but nothing says smuggler like lane-jumping.

I removed my sunglasses and pulled up to the booth.

The agent peered down from his chair. “Destination?”

“Heading home,” I said. “Hamilton.”

I lifted my ID, but didn’t hand it to him. Prepared, but not overeager.

“Where are you coming from?”

“Buffalo.”

“Purpose?”

“Shopping trip.”

“Length of stay?”

“Since Wednesday. Three days.”

Now, I could have easily combined all this information in one simple sentence, but I never liked to display too much familiarity with the routine.

“Bring anything back with you?”

I lifted a handful of receipts, all legitimate. “A couple of shirts, two CDs and a book. Oh, and a bottle of rum.”

The agent waved away the receipts, but did accept the proffered driver’s license. He looked at it, looked at me, looked back at it. It
was
my photo. A few years old but, hell, the last time I’d changed my hairstyle was in high school. I didn’t exactly ride the cutting edge of fashion.

“Passport?” he asked.

“Never had any use for one, I’m afraid. This is about as far from home as I get.” I dug into my purse and pulled out three other pieces of fake ID. “I have a library card, my health card, Social Insurance number…”

I held them up. The agent lifted his hand to wave the cards away, then stopped. The wordless mumbling of a distant radio announcer turned into clear English.

“—fifth victim of the Helter Skelter killer,” the DJ said.

“Sorry,” I murmured, and reached for my radio volume, only to find it already off.

The agent didn’t hear me. He’d turned his full attention to the radio, which seemed to be coming from the truck on the other side of the booth. As the announcer continued, in every booth, every car, the occupants seemed locked in a collective pause, listening.

“Police are searching for a suspect seen in the vicinity. The suspect is believed to be a white male…”

I exhaled so hard I missed the rest of the description.

“Although police are treating Dean Moretti’s death as a homicide, they are dismissing rumors that he was the Helter Skelter killer’s fifth victim. Yet speculation continues to mount after a witness at the scene claimed to have seen the killer’s signature…”

The announcer’s voice faded as the truck pulled away. I strained to hear the rest, but my agent had already turned back to me again.

I held up my fake IDs, gripping them tightly to keep my hand steady. “Did you want to see…?”

The agent shook his head. “That’s fine. You should think about getting a passport, though. One of these days we’re going to need to ask for it.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

The agent leaned out from his booth to check the backseat, his gaze traveling over the crunched-up drive-through bag. Necessary cover. A spotless car can seem as suspicious as one piled hip high in trash.

I held my breath and waited for him to tell me to pull over.

“Have a nice day,” he said, and handed me my fake license.