Sake Bomb (4 page)

Pistol steady in one hand, Kizzie plucked an
earring from her ear with the other. She held the long glass
cylinder up with her fingertips, shook it a little, then tossed it
over. “Drink.”

Silvia unscrewed the tube’s cap and warily
downed the contents. She tilted her head back to take it all,
gulped, and then opened her mouth to show it was gone.

A puzzled frown crossed Kizzie’s face. That
much of the liquid might do more than knock Silvia out. The dosage
was calculated for Zio’s weight, but given the ink from the pen
didn’t put him down, the benzos in the earring could very well keep
Silvia wide awake. Kizzie swallowed a sigh. The chemist back at
Langley needed a stern talking to.

They waited in thick silence, Silvia’s wide
eyes glued to Kizzie’s indifferent browns. Three minutes later,
Silvia slumped to the floor.

At least something worked.

Kizzie cleared the apartment then zipped up
her hoodie, covering the damaged top. A tear to the lining in her
right pocket and she pulled out the pouch of nitrile gloves secured
there.

With covered hands and elbow grease she
flipped Zio onto his back. Distant sirens cut through the early
morning stillness, ramping her efforts up a notch. Whether they
were headed toward her or not didn’t matter. She had to move, and
getting him in bed was no longer an option. Time for plan C.

Or, more specifically, time to invent a plan
C.

Kizzie yanked off his shoes and socks,
tossed them near the door. The slacks came off next and she shook
her head.

“You keep doing this shit backwards, hun.
Screw the sexy bad guy
then
drug him.” She sighed long and
loud, eyes locked on his cock. Almost enough to make her forget the
horrible kisses. How was it all bad guys were hung like moose? Was
a huge package the trade-off for bucking morality?

She worked him out of his shirt, threw it
and the pants aside; grabbed his arm, yanked until his torso was
twisted and a shoulder blade exposed.

Abandoning that task, Kizzie stepped over
Silvia and into the bedroom. She made a mess of the neat covers,
which, lucky for Zio, didn’t have a single clown on them. Rifling
through his nightstand drawer yielded an open box with six rubbers
remaining. She ripped one off, thought about the size of the man on
the floor and shrugged. “Why not? You’re a stud.”

Another condom in her arsenal, she opened
both on her way to the bathroom and let the wrappers flit to the
floor. One rubber went in the toilet, the other over the edge of
the trash bin.

Back in the hall, she recovered his cell
phone; pulled out her own and removed the false back. 12 MicroSD
cards were secured there—6 originals, 6 backups—each loaded with
spyware.

She opened the flap covering the external
storage port on his phone and ejected the chip, selected the one
that matched from her array. 30 seconds later, his storage chip
rested in its housing and his phone was in his pants pocket, the
spyware embedded in the core of the machine’s operating system.
When he used it later he’d never know the stealth software whirred
away in the background.

That was just icing. Zio could toss the
thing and they’d be back at square one.

The real target in this ruse was the elusive
Sanzio Galletti himself.

Not exactly the head of an international
drug cartel but, in spite of the name, Sanzio was no saint.
Second-in-command to his older, even more elusive brother, Abrahan,
and what the Brothers Galletti dabbled in was far more dangerous
than any street drug tweakers and geekers chased down to get up.
These men operated in information. Top secret information with the
potential to destroy governments and destabilize small nations.

Dangerous, indeed.

Twisting her skirt half a turn, she fingered
the hem, finding one of two inch-by-quarter-inch microsyringes
she’d carefully sewn in. Another rip—this outfit
really
wasn’t holding together well—and she forced the plastic
encapsulated tube out, shook the viscous gray liquid within. From
the stylus slot of her phone she extracted a sterile needle only
slighter thicker than the business end of an acupuncture needle and
screwed the connections together.

Pinch the skin between his shoulder blades,
insert the needle, slowly depress the plunger and
voilà!
,
he’d be tagged. As the fluid was forced through the needle and into
his body, it hardened into a continuous filament that transmitted
data to a satellite overhead. The type of cutting edge stuff DARPA
had probably already deemed obsolete. Things moved fast in the
world of clandestine operations….

The sirens wailed, closer.

Done playing nurse, Kizzie made quick work
of cleaning up, tucking the used items into the empty bag and then
into her pocket. She slid on her sandals and placed a call.

“
Thank you for calling Dornwell
Holdings,
” an automated dulcet intoned. “
If you know your
party’s extension, please enter it now… For English, press—
”
Kizzie punched in a code and waited. Ten bars of terrible hold
music filtered through the receiver—an inventive mashup of
classical, jazz, electronica, and
‘please-oh-please-kill-me-now’—and then a groggy human voice
whispered, “Tony’s pizza.”

Kizzie rolled her eyes. Some people were
just so paranoid. “Large pineapple and anchovy. Hold the
anchovy.”

A slight huff came from the man on the other
end. “Comin’ to pick it up?”

“Don’t I always?”

He ended the call, and Kizzie stooped to
recover her earring. She checked Zio’s palm—no ink—wiped down the
gun and forced it into his hold.

Her phone vibrated. “Something wrong?” Agent
Fletcher asked, obviously annoyed at being disturbed at this
ungodly hour. She couldn’t blame him so spared him her usual dose
of sass.

“All done.”

He cleared his throat. “
Done
? We
agreed to move in two weeks.”

“Did we? He’s locked and loaded. Activate
the phone; body tracer’s in.” Fletcher fumbled around on his end
and Kizzie continued. “Might want to check into a Silvia Moniz as a
K.A.”

“Got it. Phone’ll be a minute. Just
confirmed the filament is live. Fixed position, a couple miles east
of the airport…consistent with one of the addresses you pinned as a
possible hideaway.”

“Ding, ding. Give the man a Kewpie
doll.”

“Glad you’re out safely, but this was a
dangerous op, Kizzie.”

“And here I thought I’d be gettin’ licked by
kittens.” Okay, so she couldn’t hold the sass back for too long.
She headed into the kitchen.

“You should’ve called backup, or at least
let me know you were going in beforehand. You could’ve been
killed.”

Just
being
in Belém was like dying
for Kizzie. She’d been there long enough as it was. She steeled
herself against the memories.

“I had an in, I took it.” With a wet napkin
she wiped down the wall near the light switch. “You got what you
wanted, right?”

“Yeah.” Fletcher sighed. “We’ve been trying
to pin down Galletti for almost two years. I owe Connolly big
time.”

“He didn’t spend the evening getting groped
by this asshole, did he? You owe
me
, on top of what you’re
already doing. How’s the phone coming?”

“Few more ticks.”

She couldn’t wait. Kizzie made another sweep
of the apartment, ignoring all the beady little clown eyes and the
very tempting idea of tossing them to the floor and striking a
match. Silvia was crumpled at the butler’s feet, Zio was tagged and
resting quite peacefully after a night of passionate, meaningful
non-sex. That’d have to do.

Time to g–

His phone trilled. Kizzie went for his pants
and stopped short. “Did you get that?”

“Get wh—”

“Galletti’s phone. He just got a text
message.”

“Wha— You’re
there
? At his house!
Jesus, Kizzie, what about guards? What if someone fol—”

“Fletch…” She didn’t need his concern, she
needed confirmation, and after all she’d been through to track the
man down she’d be damned if things went wrong at the last minute.
Not to mention this could’ve all ended in the
elevator—
without
the grind and jab—had the ink from the pen
worked as it was supposed to. Desk agents
…

The sirens practically screamed in her ear
now. Her pulse raced but she fought the urge to flee. Just a few
more seconds. She had to be sure.

The long pause on Fletcher’s end as data
transmitted back to Langley made Kizzie’s skin crawl.

“Picture,” he finally said. Kizzie made for
the door. “A boy, maybe seven or eight. Mean anything to you?”

“Follow up on it.” She ended the call. The
screech of sirens faded. One last look back at the chaos she made,
Kizzie opened the door.

Two hours later, she was speeding down the
highway, warmed through with relief. “All right, Belém,” she
mumbled to the city 100 miles in her rearview, “Now we’re
even.”

July 25
^th

Bruges, Belgium

A
t a table in a bar
on the
Grote Markt
, Phillip Marchande took a healthy swallow
of the most overpriced blonde Brugse Zot the place had to offer.
The window to his immediate left—an unlikely seating arrangement
for him—provided a clear view of the plaza, the restaurant, and the
waitress. An iPad and the half-drained pilsner kept him company
while he watched her from a safe distance with the aid of the zoom
function on his sunglasses.

Behind him, a German couple argued over
their next destination. The wife would win, but Phil found it
amusing her husband thought he had a chance. Phil learned a long
time ago that a woman with her mind made up could only be deterred
by divine intervention or chocolate.

From the other side of the window a gawker
pressed his face to the tinted glass, hands shading his eyes as he
looked in and blocking Phil’s view. His brow furrowed. Why the hell
did people do this when the doors were open? Half a beat later, the
man moved along and Phil found her again.

A tray of mugs perched on the fingertips of
one hand, she wended through the outdoor tables, approaching one
full of young men.

She looked…healthy. Her small frame had
finally picked up weight, filling out the drawn lines of her face
and adding a slight curve to narrow hips. The tee shirt clung a
little tighter to her small breasts. Looked good on her. And though
she’d just had a birthday—turned the ripe old age of 20—she
appeared much younger than the last time he’d seen her. Had to be
Bruges’s atmosphere—all charming castles and old belfries;
horse-drawn carriages and cozy shops. An idyllic place like this
would do someone like her a great deal of good. She deserved the
fairytale.

Drinks dispensed, she held the empty tray
flat against her middle, cupping the bottom edge with both hands.
Her lips turned up pleasantly while she spoke with one of the men.
He replied; his friends laughed. She flipped dyed brown hair off
her shoulder and smiled wider. Was she flirting?

Phil wanted to grin…and rip the guy’s head
off.

He swallowed more beer.

She ducked inside the restaurant and Phil
returned to the task he’d abandoned. The form on the tablet’s
screen already contained the pertinent information: Charles de
Gaulle airport. Arriving in two days. He reviewed the reservation
and paid by gift card. Info forwarded to his boss, he changed the
screen to the weather. The drive down to Paris would be a wet
one.

The phone vibrated in his pocket. A discreet
tap to a button on the sunglasses and the caller’s info appeared on
the lower corner of his right lens. He let it connect, left the
line open.

“Good or bad?”

The arguing couple got a bit louder, masking
the sound of his caller’s voice. Phil grabbed up his tablet and
headed for the door, deserting his expensive drink. “I’ll get both
anyway.”

“Another hit off the necklace, three days
ago—just a mile or so away from one of my usual spots.” The man on
the line chuckled. “I’m sure she heard of my prowess and came
looking for me.”

Outside, the young woman stood at the table
of men, now stuffing a business card into her pocket. Phil’s eyes
narrowed.

He cut through a line of people at a cart
serving
frites
; headed away from her, striding toward the
large statue in the center of the
Markt
. A sharp turn left
and he blended in as best he could with a tour group wandering by.
“Not keeping a low profile, are you, Stix?”

“Have I ever kept a low profile? All part of
the life,” Stix replied off-handedly. “I’ll leave all that
‘low-profile’ stuff to you and X. Though, word has it he hasn’t
been too incognito himself…”

Phil almost stopped short, full attention
now on the call. “What have you heard?”

“Not enough to ruffle your feathers,
Marchande. But there was a whisper,” Stix said, voice full of
mischief. “Some beautiful young vixen...who isn’t Nai.”

Phil smirked, catching a glimpse of his prey
one last time as he went by.

Back to important things.

All this time and only three hits off the
necklace? This wasn’t working as planned. He broke away from the
group and doubled back, heading for the statue again while making a
quick check of his watch. She’d be getting off soon. “The bad?”

“Network’s down again.”

His jaw clenched.

Using a network was hit-or-miss, or more
miss than hit, apparently. Tracking in major cities was spotty—too
much interference and the relay got scrambled. Outside of major
cities was worse—with fewer chip readers, chances of getting a hit
were slimmer. The few blips they had didn’t pinpoint a specific
location, more a general area they were hoping to determine a
pattern from. To do that, they needed more hits. “How long will it
take to get back up?”