Preview of Silentcide 2: Vengeance

One
Monitoring Québec City, Canada
Friday

Death was imminent. Watching would be divine.

Irene Shaw tingled with anticipation yet portrayed dispassionate elegance. Heaven forbid the hired help detect anything but her poised control over the pending termination of Chris Davis and Anna Monteiro. Their demise was long overdue yet rapidly approaching. The ambush promised to be splendid vengeance.

Irene’s intense blue eyes focused on four large monitors suspended over an ornate marble fireplace. Each live video showed the view of a killer’s bodycam or rifle-mounted camera. Two assassins had been stationed for over an hour at the north end of Terrasse Dufferin, a quarter-mile promenade overlooking the Saint Lawrence River. The third had been conducting surveillance of Old Québec City from a high-rise until recently ordered to reposition in the south. The fourth showed a ham sandwich being eaten at Tourny Fountain while the targets toured the adjacent Parliament Building.

The trap was almost ready. Irene detested waiting. Yet perfection required patience.

A handsome young manservant approached her, paused to be acknowledged, then delivered a third dirty martini in a frosted Baccarat crystal glass. “Thank you, dear,” Irene said with a suggestive smile. She ogled Pierre’s retreat from the Ops Room of her Philadelphia mansion while fondly recalling their last tryst. Then she placed a Sicilian stuffed olive on her tongue, withdrew the ivory cocktail skewer with her perfect teeth, bit down, and savored the zesty burst of gin, bitterness and blue cheese. Life’s simple pleasures were often the best. Excessive wealth paid for every other indulgence.

While placing the stemware on the Louis XV period end table, Irene’s bejeweled fingers spasmed. She cursed the sign of weakness. Arthritic hands were among a growing list of physical imperfections that had been accelerating since her sixtieth birthday twelve years earlier. Managing or masking her body’s degeneration was increasingly time consuming and expensive. Yet aging was just another formidable adversary to defeat. Irene was accustomed to winning.

In subservient silence, an elderly Vietnamese manicurist used an embroidered washcloth to pat dry the splash of martini before it seeped into the table’s rosewood inlay. The woman then retrieved a fresh towel for the top of the portable cosmetic workstation, gingerly lowered Irene’s hand again, and resumed airbrushing her fingernails. The illegal immigrant was a gifted artisan, nonjudgmental and discreet.

Irene Shaw stole a glance at the full-length dressing mirror. A few tufts of silver-white hair needed to be ushered back into the French bun. She admired the taut pink skin stretched over high cheekbones. Her authoritative eyes were accented by layered mascara, long lashes and dark microbladed eyebrows. Yet her neck needed a nip and tuck. She must remember to ask her assistant to make an appointment with the cosmetic surgeon. He was always booked months ahead. The doctor’s scalpel was sheer genius.

Irene’s thoughts shifted to Chris Davis, her protégé for the last twenty-eight years. Since he was orphaned at ten years old, she had meticulously honed his skills for silentcide, the art of undetected killing. Along with his younger sister, Michelle, they had become an outstanding team, far exceeding initial expectations. They had rarely failed to execute a silentcide commission on time and without repercussions from police. Their near-flawless record was remarkable. Irene had envisioned the siblings becoming heirs to her murder enterprise … until recently.

For some reason and without warning, Chris Davis had become rebellious. A simple disobedience would have been distasteful yet manageable. A bold resistance against her authority could have been dealt with harshly and then forgiven.

Yet his increasing acts of defiance were much deeper, reprehensible and unpardonable. Chris had refused to kill his assigned target, Anna Monteiro, because he had become infatuated with her. The police were also investigating his rogue actions in three cities. The needless body count was now at five. Worst of all was the avenging conspiracy: he had plotted to kill Irene.

His audacity was outrageous. The consequences would be severe. Soon, Chris Davis would lie in a pool of blood. Simultaneously, Anna Monteiro would die on this last day of the extended deadline as promised to the client. Two birds, one stone, and marvelous retribution. Plus, the spectacular slayings would be a stern warning to potential malcontents in her network of assassins. You don’t screw with Irene Shaw.

“Ms. Shaw,” came a booming voice from the computer screen on the nearby Baroque writing desk. Jürgen van Oorschot was the middle-aged head of Phonoi, the group named after the Greek personification of violent murder. His square chin, thin lips, bulbous nose, and narrow menacing eyes beneath a black crewcut created a fierce appearance.

“Yes, dear,” Irene acknowledged the ruthless man.

The former mercenary replied, “The targets have left the Parliament Building and are heading toward the promontory.”

A glance at the wall monitors confirmed the news. Camera four – from the man discreetly tracking the couple – showed them strolling on the lawn at Plains of Abraham Park. Camera three was a shaking view of Porte Saint-Louis along the old city wall as a sniper hurried toward his newly assigned position. The noose was tightening.

Irene looked down at the Vietnamese woman. “I’m afraid we’ll need to suspend this for now, dear.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the nail technician said while pushing aside the cosmetic station. She graciously lifted one of Irene’s feet, causing the Garra rufa fish that had been feasting on dead skin cells to dart wildly within the ichthyotherapy tank. After Irene’s second foot had been dried, the manicurist helped her into designer slippers, bowed, and humbly left the room. The closing door echoed off the mahogany walls, crown molding and coffered ceiling.

Irene retrieved the martini, plodded across the Persian rug, sat down in the Chippendale desk chair and adjusted her floral silk dress. She took a sip, relished the harsh warmth sliding down her throat, then took another. The emerging buzz blended perfectly with rising endorphins.

On monitor four, Chris and Anna appeared to be admiring the western wall of La Citadelle de Québec – a British fort built after the War of 1812 – until they abruptly stopped walking. Anna handed Chris a cell phone, stared for a moment, then curiously hustled away. Was she pissed? Had the love birds been arguing?

Irene asked into the computer screen, “Are you seeing this, Jürgen?”

“Yes, Ms. Shaw,” the commander of the assassination team replied into the boom mic on his headset.

“Where’s she going?”

“On her present course, there is only one way she can go,” he said with a reassuring voice, “and that’s directly into the kill zone. The boys will be waiting for her.”

Irene insisted, “They shouldn’t fire a single shot until she is reunited with Chris. Understood?”

“Understood,” he said with a nod.

Perhaps Jürgen understood, but did those idiots behind the triggers?

Irene intently watched Chris talking on the phone. He was animated, perhaps agitated, while pacing back and forth. His free hand alternated between waving wildly and rubbing his short blond hair. The conversation was obviously intense. Each ticking minute was putting greater separation between Chris and Anna.

Equally bad, the sniper on camera three was finally in position and getting camouflaged, but the unassembled rifle was still in the backpack. He was hideously slow.

A queasy feeling emerged in Irene’s stomach. The mission was cracking, maybe crumbling. She sensed another failure, similar to Monday’s assassination attempt on Chris at his house in Saint Paul that had cost Irene two people. Continued failure was unacceptable. “Where’s Monteiro?” she demanded to know.

Jürgen calmly replied, “She’s jogging along Governors’ Promenade.”

“Do you have eyes on her?”

“Yes, we have cameras along her path.”

“That wasn’t a rhetorical question, damn it. Show me.”

The top two monitors switched to views of the half-mile boardwalk suspended between the massive citadel walls and a 330-foot drop-off. The narrow walkway was filled with meandering tourists. Anna was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is she?” Irene asked with escalating agitation.

“She should be appearing on monitor two just about …” After a lengthy pause, Jürgen added, “Now.”

Forty-one-year-old Anna Monteiro jogged by with an effortless stride. Her black pixie haircut, fresh delicate face, olive complexion and sturdy build were a disgusting display of youth. Irene resented how the entitled hussy had bewitched Chris and turned him into a traitor. Killing him meant the loss of an outstanding asset and the collapse of her succession plan. What a waste!

Irene’s eyes narrowed to slits while staring at video feed four. Chris was still on the phone. Who the hell was he talking to?

The plan now seemed hopeless. To be successful, Chris and Anna needed to enter the trap together. Irene was ready to abort when Chris suddenly ended the call, pocketed the cell, and began running down Avenue du Cap-Diamant. Within fifteen seconds, he leaped onto a platform and disappeared down a ramp.

“Tell your man to follow him,” Irene commanded.

“He is,” Jürgen said as monitor four showed bouncing movement.

“Hell, I can go faster than that. Get his ass in gear.”

Before the tracking assassin reached the entrance of Governors’ Promenade, Chris was seen on monitor one dodging summer tourists as his pace on the elevated boardwalk intensified. His androgynous facial features were red with exertion and determination. A minute later, monitor two showed him sprinting along a straightway beneath the enormous base of the fort. The tracker was hopelessly behind as his labored breathing grew louder over the speakers of the Ops Room. The man would never catch the prey. And the sniper on camera three was still assembling his rifle. At this pace, he’d be unprepared for the first shot.

The incompetence outraged Irene. After gulping the rest of the martini, she hurdled the stemware toward the fireplace. The shattering glass startled the Afghan hound sleeping on the camelback leather couch.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Brutus my dear,” Irene said with a comforting tone.

The fifty-five-pound purebred shook his long silky coat and circled twice before plopping down to resume his nap.

Irene aimed her wrath at Jürgen. “Your men three and four are bungling amateurs. Complete dolts! They’re totally unfit for the high standards of Phonoi. I want them dealt with after this mission is over. Got that?”

“Yes, Ms. Shaw.”

“Are your other two men ready?”

“Yes, Ms. Shaw.

“For god’s sake,” she bristled, “stop saying ‘Yes, Ms. Shaw’ and show me what they’re seeing.”

“Yes, Ms. Shaw,” Jürgen habitually replied, flinched at his mistake, then switched the video feeds on monitors one and two.

Camera one was a bird’s-eye view of Terrasse Dufferin. The sniper was positioned within scaffolding along the main tower of Fairmont Le Château Frontenac, an iconic railway hotel and late nineteenth-century landmark. The entire 1400-foot length of the promenade was visible below him. Camera two was from a man on the ground at the Samuel de Champlain Monument. He was pretending to watch a street performer while awaiting orders to advance to the flash point.

“Jürgen, give me a full zoom on camera one.” Within a millisecond, she added, “Do it now.” When his response was too slow, she took control.

She pushed the command button on the desktop, placed headphones on her coiffed hair, raised the mic to her scarlet lips, zoomed in on monitor one, and began issuing commands. “Number One, see that long staircase at the far end of the boardwalk? Anna Monteiro will be coming down any minute. Number Two, start moving now and be prepared to engage. Number Three, for god’s sake, stop screwing around. Lock and load your damn weapon. Number Four, move your sorry ass. Acknowledge.”

The word copy simultaneously boomed into her ears four times. The team knew who was now in charge and the penalty for disappointing her. They were no doubt hyped up.

“Brutus,” Irene cooed to the Afghan hound. “Come to Mama.” The aristocratic dog sprung off the couch, lumbered over, and placed his long snout on her lap. “Such a good boy,” she said while stroking the flowing hair on his ears. The love of her life always calmed her agitated temperament. “Mama will take you for a nice long walk after this nasty business is done. I promise.” The animal’s chocolate-brown eyes sparkled with approval.

“Visual on target B,” came the announcement from the sniper on top of the hotel.

Irene concentrated on monitor one. Anna had passed the landing of a very tall staircase and was coming down the last flight of forty stairs. She was moving quickly. Was she trying to escape Chris? Or was this simply an obnoxious display of her daily obsession for running?

Regardless, she was jeopardizing the ideal point of attack in the center of Terrasse Dufferin unless Chris caught up soon. It was also essential that all four guns be in position for the deadly crossfire. But Chris was off camera and only one killer was in range and ready.

The pending debacle was infuriating. Anger pulsated across her forehead.

Irene watched as the crowded boardwalk modified Anna Monteiro’s pace, forcing her to weave among the throng of people. She was walking parallel to the second sniper, hidden in the brush behind a long wooden toboggan slide used during winter. Within thirty seconds, she appeared on his camera. Her back would soon become the perfect target for a .30-06 cartridge.

“Where the hell is Chris?” Irene bellowed at Jürgen while slamming her fist on the desk. With a startled whimper, the Afghan slinked away.

“Any second now, Ms. Shaw,” was his totally unsatisfactory answer.

The delay was excruciating. Rapid heartbeats echoed in her eardrums as she clenched her jaw. The rage was blazing until the sniper atop the hotel reported, “I’ve got eyes on target A.”

There, on monitor one, was Chris. He was bolting down the staircase, pushing people aside as he jumped down two stairs at a time.

The strategy was working. The mission was a go.

An intense calm swept over Irene. With composed authority, she confirmed the assignments. “Number One, your target is A. That’s Chris Davis. Number Three, your target is B. That’s Anna Monteiro. Number Two, you’ll verify they’re dead and finish them off if needed.” She didn’t bother giving instructions to Number Four. It was doubtful the fat sloth would arrive before the carnage was over. “Are my assignments clear?”

In her headset she heard, “One, affirmative. Two, affirmative. Three, affirmative.”

“Good. Now hold your fire. I repeat, do not fire until my command.”

Chris leaped onto the boardwalk, sprinted for fifty feet, appeared winded, stopped, cocked his head, searched the crowd, then began yelling something in desperation. If he was calling out for Anna, she either couldn’t hear or was ignoring him.

Time to execute.

“On three, gentlemen,” Irene announced while staring at Chris and Anna on the monitors. “One. Two.”

An instant before Irene said “Three,” Chris doubled over with his hands on his knees as if gasping for breath from running. The bullet intended for him hit a teenager. Anna had suddenly turned around and was beginning to wave. The abrupt stop caused an elderly couple to bump into her. An old man spun violently from the velocity of a bullet before collapsing.

Chaos ensued. The crowd scattered. Screams of terror. Most people ran up a small hill lined with historic cannons. A few crouched or lay flat on the boardwalk. Some hid under benches. Anna plus two others took cover beneath a decorative cast-iron gazebo overlooking the river.

Irene was inflamed by the incompetence. “Keep firing!”

Successive bullets slammed into the base of Anna’s kiosk and ricocheted off a nearby ornamental fence. It was impossible to see if Anna had been hit.

Monitor one showed Chris climbing up the wooden slats of the toboggan slide as chunks of debris exploded around him. He leaped into the foliage and disappeared. Immediately, the video feed of the sniper on the ground began gyrating. Sounds of a fight blasted in Irene’s ears.

Then an eerie silence. Chris’s furious face filled monitor three. “Hi there, Irene,” he said with contempt. “Your time is coming soon, dear. Very, very soon.”

Irene shrieked, “Number One, start firing into position three.”

The hotel sniper said, “I don’t have a visible target, Ms. Shaw.”

“I don’t give a damn. Empty your magazine. Now.”

A series of bullets shattered trees, bushes and rocks as fast as the sniper could work the bolt, refocus, and squeeze the trigger again. The sound was deafening.

Suddenly, his camera tumbled until coming to rest beneath a scaffolding platform. A splash of blood covered the lens. Now both snipers were down and presumed dead.

The bodycam of the killer from the north showed him racing down the boardwalk while approaching the kiosk. He had a two-handed grip on the company-issued SIG P229 pistol and was taking aim at Anna. As his index finger slipped into the trigger guard, he was blown backward. Chris had claimed another victim using the commandeered sniper rifle.

Irene was stunned by the debacle.

The last functioning video displayed the surveillance tracker reaching the bottom of the staircase. He was wheezing and coughing as he held out his weapon.

She shouted, “Number Four. Team is dead. You’re alone. Chris Davis is on the hill behind the toboggan slide. He’s armed. Anna Monteiro is in the next kiosk. Make this happen!”

A successful outcome seemed doubtful.

Irene leaned within inches of the desktop computer screen and berated Jürgen. “Your plan sucked. A real shitshow. We’ll discuss this later.”

Despite his attempt to remain stoic, Jürgen’s battle-hardened face turned ashen. “Yes, Ms. Shaw.”