Shark Bait

29. This is how it’s done

TWENTY-NINE

THIS IS HOW IT’S DONE

SHARK

After almost five hours with La Falena, I’ve extracted the names of every one of his “clients,” associates, and even the (likely innocent) nail tech who drew five stars on his big toe.

Since he started rattling off names before I started carving out his kneecaps, I had to multitask and take notes on the hotel’s notepad while using the scalpel at the same time. Any surgeon worth his salt will tell you that a focused rather than a multitasking kind of approach to surgical removal of body parts is far more efficient, but I made do with what I was given.

I check my watch. It’s almost eleven, and Troy’s brother should walk into the hotel room any moment now. The local police units set up next door will finally get the correct feed on their monitors, and boy, are they in for a surprise.

I take a seat next to La Falena, whose body is propped up in a sitting position on the couch. I watch the twinkling lights of the beautiful city of Venice. At this hour, young people dressed to the nines wake up the old streets, looking for love, lust, and everything in between, not knowing that men like the one next to me are preying on their desires.

From now on, there’s one less man who women like Troy have to worry about.

This service to humanity won’t buy me a ticket to heaven, but I might get pinned with a bleeding heart medal down in hell. Not bad for a little refugee boy even the orphanage gave up on.

Someone knocks on the door.

That’s Denver. A few minutes ago, I left the door ajar so he could let himself in. Which he doesn’t. Not immediately, anyway. I guess he needs an invitation.

“Come in,” I say just when my watch pings that it’s 11:04. The police cameras have switched to real-time feed now, and Denver is walking into the well-lit space. I couldn’t have him walking into a dark cave, and I also cleaned myself up so I’m presentable in front of Troy’s brother.

Denver pauses at the end of the hallway. “Hello?” he says, as if he’s on the phone with a stripper while his wife sleeps in the bedroom.

“Hi,” I answer in the high-pitched voice of a chipper stripper. “Come on in. Don’t be afraid. Nobody here’s gonna hurt you.”

He’s reluctant.

“You got the money?” I ask since he’s standing behind me and the dead guy on the couch.

“Yeah. Oh yeah.” He walks toward us and stops when he sees the scene before him. Green eyes the same color as Troy’s widen, and the duffel hits the carpet that La Falena crawled on. Sans kneecaps. Denver covers his mouth with a hand, but no, he won’t make it. He turns green and starts looking around.

“The bucket is on the desk behind you.” I point.

Denver spins and grabs the bucket just before hurling into it.

Well done. I clap. The forensics team would absolutely hate me if they walked in on a scene full of vomit they’d have to scoop out and test and then find out it was all for nothing since an innocent man made the mess. But, foreseeing Denver’s reaction, I made sure the bucket was handy.

I’m a police-friendly assassin. Always clean, considerate of my orphanage brother Niksha, who complains about messy crime scenes.

I check my watch. It’s been almost a minute. What’s taking the response unit so long? I shake my head. It would be a sad day to find out they set Denver up with a bunch of turtles who can’t make it to the scene in under thirty seconds.

A minute and a half goes by, and Denver’s done throwing up. He’s standing at the desk with his gaze first landing on the carpet, then on the mini bar, and finally settling on the streets of Venice outside. “I brought the money. I want my sister, and I’ll leave.”

“The camera you’re wearing on your right pocket won’t see me if you’re turned away from me.”

He snaps his head my way. “I’m not?—”

“Turn your body this way,” I order.

He grits his teeth, disliking my orders, but facing me anyway.

“Where is your protection unit?” I tap my watch. “It’s been well over a minute. Why aren’t they here already?”

“Um…” He seems unsure if he should tell me about the cops at the stakeout.

“Oh please.” I roll my eyes. “Look at this guy. Do you think this is my first rodeo?”

I hear running footsteps coming down the hallway. They’re not screaming Police, police, so they want to keep the guests calm. A quiet operation is in everyone’s best interest, including mine.

I rise from the couch with my hands already tied neatly behind my back. I even arrested myself. See how I’m useful like that?

Polizia wearing blue uniforms and suits swarm the room. They’re shouting (so much for calm and quiet) while I kneel and lower my head, wondering if any of them will freak out when they see how I left things with La Falena. I don’t want any of them to get scared if I move a finger and shoot me on the spot.

For that reason, I don’t even breathe.

Strong hands grab me and yank me up.

A lethal-looking man in a charcoal suit with familiar dark brown eyes and an unfriendly grimace stands before me. He assesses me from toe to tip before he lifts the mask off my face. A slight parting of his lips that would go undetected by anyone who doesn’t know this man is the only sign he allows me to see before his expression is schooled again, and the facade of a cold-hearted CIA agent is back on his face.

He slides the ski mask back over my face.

“Niksha,” a woman says from behind me. “My jurisdiction. My perp.” A brunette of average height with short-cropped hair wearing a dark blue suit comes to stand in front of me.

She takes in the scene and curses. “You did this?”

“I hope that’s a rhetorical question.”

She narrows her eyes. “Take him in. Room four.”

The polizia manhandle me and try to rush me out of the room, but Denver finally comes to senses and stands in the way. “Where’s my sister?”

I open my mouth to answer, but he cocks his fist and punches me in the nose. My head bounces like a small boxing bag while blood spatters all over his neck and shirt. Blood coats my mouth, and I make sucking noises as I lap it up. “Lean in and I’ll tell you.”

He’s reluctant.

“Don’t be scared. I won’t bite your ear. Or cheek. Or any part of you.” I smile at the memory of an old popular heavyweight boxing match where one of the competitors bit off the other’s ear.

“Sir, you must move,” the cop on my left says to Denver.

When he doesn’t, they go around him and pull me toward the exit.

I’m halfway down the hallway when Denver catches up and stops them. They’re trying to get him away from me, pulling him off, but he hugs me like a bear and puts his ear near my mouth.

“Make sure she gets her guitar.”