The Accidental Assassin (3 page)

I LEANED AGAINST the wall of the elevator and fiddled with the lock picks in my pocket. Running into the girl with the bright eyes and killer smile had been a nice surprise. I’d barely been able to take my eyes off her when she came into the little café. Her chipper American accent and friendliness with the staff had been charming. When leaving, I’d decided to send her a drink—a small way to thank her for brightening up a dreary day. In a city this large, I hadn’t expected to see her again. Certainly not in the building where my target lived.

Turning back to business, I ran over what I had found. Song’s apartment had been spotless, but I’d expected as much. The man had been in the trade for entirely too long to not make sure his hands were clean. The tell-tale sign was that he was
too
clean. There wasn’t a porno or single inappropriate email on his hard drive, but there had been a key tracker I’d had to disable. I had enough in the portfolio I’d received to be convinced of his involvement, but I kept hanging back.

The elevator dinged to signal I’d reached the ground floor and I stepped out. Something about this hit felt off and I was uneasy. I’d learned over the last few years to trust my gut even if my brain couldn’t figure out why.

Pushing through the doors, I nodded to the doorman and made my way around the corner to my hotel. I’d decided to stay close so that I could do a little more snooping before completing the assignment. It wasn’t a fancy place, but more than met my needs. Hell of a lot better than the last place I stayed. Bangkok had been a dirty nightmare.

I pulled at my tie as I shut my door and opened my laptop. Using the passwords one of my contacts had sent me, I downloaded videos from the local traffic cameras.

Song left every morning and took one of three routes to a small office in Canary Wharf. He wasn’t varied in which path he took each day. The man had fallen into a pattern that would be his ultimate downfall if I couldn’t get to him in his apartment. Flipping through the images, I paused on the car he drove. Other than a bullet, a bomb would be the simplest way to get rid of the pig. Even if it was much messier—which would probably make my client happy.

I snorted and got up to pour myself a drink. Any pimp that had been in the trade for as long as he had didn’t have an easy death coming to him. Considering the harsh life my mother had lived, I never turned down the chance to kill a pimp. I looked down at the amber liquid in my cup and frowned. He certainly didn’t deserve an easy death. Then again, most of the people I came in contact with didn’t; myself included.

I glanced back at the images of the dead prostitutes. High class women that brought in large amounts of money. These weren’t the women you would find on the corner or in a dark alley. No, you’d find them on the arm of a parliament member or a rich businessman. He had used them and then got rid of them for some reason. And in ways that had been particularly painful for the victims. The last one stared up at me with glossed over blue eyes. They would have been pretty before she died, would have shined with seduction and the promise of long nights, and behind that would have been the bored gaze of a person doing their job. I’d seen the type before.

My thoughts drifted back to the blue eyed girl in the elevator and I tried to push her out of my mind. Her eyes were so open, so unguarded. I’d seen the surprise in her face when I ran into her at the apartment, her self-consciousness when I’d looked her over, her embarrassment at being caught staring at me. It had all been there like an open book, beautifully written in the delicate lines of her face.

Monsters didn’t belong with the innocent. I was looking at pictures of dead call girls. I murdered people for a living.
And I was fucking good at it,
I reminded myself.
It takes all kinds of people to make the world go around, and I was like the vultures that cleaned up the carrion on the side of the road. I got rid of the diseased pests that made the world a darker place. I was far from an avenging angel; I liked what I did. The satisfaction of taking out the garbage. But I knew better than to think I deserved a happily ever after. There would be no picket fence in my future.

Shoving the bright smile from my mind, I went through the rest of the information I had on Song, his contacts, and the people that worked in his office, before deciding what type of bomb to use on his car. I had several options, but I wanted one that would make a statement. Opening a small case I’d brought with me, I pulled out some of the pieces I needed and set to work. Tiny wires, a burner cell phone, and explosives. It didn’t have to be complicated, just effective.

Once it was ready I leaned back in my chair and drained the last of my scotch before setting the empty glass next to my creation. It was an ugly thing that would make an even uglier scene. Every time I’d been in the garage this week no one had been near Song’s car, which meant the risk of bystanders was low. I’d be close enough to monitor the situation and make sure no one innocent came anywhere near the blast zone, but far enough away that I wouldn’t have to risk exposure.

The next morning I nodded at the owner as I left the hotel to head for Song’s building. The owner was squinting at her computer, but looked up and smiled at me.

“You’re up early, Mr. Martin. It’s not even in six in the morning! Will you be returning for breakfast?”

“No, I’m meeting a friend today.” I smiled back, easy with the lie and fake name. I wanted to get to Song’s apartment with enough time to do everything I needed.

“Ah, well. Have a good morning.” The crinkles at the corners of her eyes deepened.

“Thank you. You too.” I pushed through the door and walked the short few blocks to the building that housed Song’s flat. It had rained already this morning and more was forecasted. I hoped it would hold out until after the job was complete. I stopped and bought a paper from the man at the stand on the corner of Song’s block. I flipped through the pages, organizing the paper as I looked for the business section and scanned the street.

The doorman wasn’t at the entrance, which raised a red flag. He had been at his post every morning for the last week—so what was different today? I hung back for a while, watching the entrances to see if anyone came or went. Eventually the doorman exited the building with a blonde woman wearing a business suit. They spoke for a few minutes before he pointed to the garage. She laughed and turned toward the ramp that led to the cars. From what I could hear, she was there to pick up an employer’s vehicle. She tripped a bit on her way inside and giggled, her brief case swinging wildly.

I narrowed my eyes as I watched her enter the building. My gut told me to not trust her cheerful façade. I looked down at the paper in my hand and debated leaving for the day. If Song kept to his schedule, he wouldn’t be using his car again until next week, which meant this was my last chance for a bomb. Otherwise I’d be stuck with something more personal and that wouldn’t create the same type of message. My contact had assured me that no one else was on the same case, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

For the first time I cursed not having a partner. Some assassins worked with teams, but I’d always thought that was the best way to get themselves killed. The first thing you learned in this business was to trust no one. If you trust someone, they can betray you. If they betray you, you’re dead. But I had to admit it would be helpful to have someone else monitoring the building while I climbed under a car. Shooting Song on his drive to work would have been much easier, but would likely kill bystanders.

The garage was quiet, except for the woman chatting on her cell phone. I could hear some of her inane gossip as she fiddled with her car keys before climbing into the driver side. I made my way to Song’s car and watched the woman pull out of the garage from the corner of my eye.

I sidled up to the trunk and crouched down to look at the underside of the vehicle. It was a foreign model; one of the more expensive sedans. I worked quickly, careful to keep track of time while making sure everything was set up correctly. I wanted to be able to detonate the bomb once he was in the street, not in the building. It would make the largest splash that way and I was nothing if not thorough.

Once I had it ready, I slid it out from under the car and checked the burner phone one more time. Everything was ready to go; I just needed to wait for Song. Making sure that no one was watching, I headed for the exit.

THE RAIN WAS thick this morning and I had to fight my urge to stay in bed and sleep away the day. I was trying to go to the gym every morning, but perhaps it would be good to break that routine, too. Of course, I’d started working out every day so I would take better care of myself, which wasn’t really a habit that I should break. Or should I? I could try.

I rolled over and squished my pillow into a comfortable shape but couldn’t go back to sleep. I tried to remind my body that it was still early back home and that sleeping in would be understandable, but it wasn’t working. My internal clock was all over the place.

Sighing, I gave up and headed for the shower. The shower was nice, large, with a special nozzle that was supposed to simulate rain. In fact, everything in Danny’s place was nice. Fancy stove, expensive American style refrigerator, and art work that made me drool. Not to mention the apartment—flat—itself was in one of the most expensive buildings in the neighborhood. I hadn’t thought a contractor would be able to afford something like this, but maybe his job explained his expensive taste. Or, more likely, he got all of his expensive fixtures at a discount.

Unimpressed with the weather, I sat down at the table and looked at Mr. Green the Plant. “So far England is amazing. Everything has this undertone of history mixed with modern technology. But the rain? Every day. Every. Day. What’s up with that?”

I didn’t wait for the answer that would never come and thought about my options. Not exactly a great day to go exploring. I could hit up the coffee shop and stop by the store across the street to stock up on ingredients for one of the new recipes I wanted to try. That would keep me busy, at least, and somewhat dry.

As I got dressed, I noticed my phone flashing on the night stand. Thinking it might be Tess checking in, I grabbed it and waited for the voice mail.

“Ms. McKenzie, I’m calling from The Studio on Fourth about our open position. I know it’s last minute, but we had a cancellation this morning and would like you to come in for an interview. We look forward to speaking with you at eight.”

“Holy shit!” I scrambled around for something to write their address on and shut the phone off. I never thought I’d get an interview with that designer. An interview. In less than an hour. This could be my chance to stop answering phones and finally start using my art degree. “Oh, shit.”

I looked out the window and groaned. I’d have to drive. There was no way I’d be able to get there on public transit in time. The thought made my stomach clench and I debated not going at all. The new me, the try-everything, give-everything-a-shot-me, put her foot down. I couldn’t miss out on the chance to have job and a reason to stay in exciting London. I had to try.

I searched the closet for something suitable to wear and threw on a dark dress suit before pulling my hair up into a bun. Dumping my jewelry bag out on the bed, I chose large teal earrings and a chunky necklace. Designing jewelry was my passion and I wanted to wear pieces that would show off my skills.

I glanced in the mirror briefly and hurried out the door before realizing I’d left my phone and needed to go back inside for it. I locked the door again and made it halfway down the hall before I remembered I’d left the address on the table.

“Fuck me!” I said just as one of the other tenants opened their door. I frowned at the little old man staring at me. “Excuse me.”

“I’ll take the first option.” He cackled and I felt my face flush.

“Not really up for consideration.” I hurried past him, ignoring the leer he directed at me.

“Then don’t offer!” He slammed the door and I fought the urge to shoot him the bird. Grumpy old cuss. Grumpy, old, perverted cuss.