19. Stefi
19
STEFI
I never wanted to be an assassin.
In the early days after I faked my own death and fled, I kept my head down. I moved from town to town, traveling on fake passports that Ramon, the crooked cartel soldier, helped me get.
From Mexico, I took a harrowing overland trip to Nicaragua, armed only with the knife Joao gave me as a wedding present. I talked my way on a boat heading to Northern Africa, then bounced between the countries lining the Mediterranean Sea.
In the middle of my second trimester, I ended up in Istanbul. Turkey was the perfect place to stay hidden. Henrik Bach had pissed off enough people there that if he set foot in the country, his life would be forfeit. My Turkish was fluent, and I was able to blend right in.
I wanted a quiet, peaceful life for my child, the kind I never had a chance to have. I got a job at a restaurant and rented a room near the Galata Bridge from the owner’s mother.
I worked there for three months. Three months looking over my shoulder, wondering if staying in one place for too long was risky and fretting about whether Bach was going to find me. I was heartsick about losing Joao, and my hormones were all over the place. I held it together at work, but then I’d get home and weep for hours on end. The only thing that offered a glimmer of hope was the child growing inside me.
Our child—Joao’s and mine.
But then Pavel Dachev found me. . .
I shake the memories loose before they can tug me under.
It’s been a week since I last talked to Joao. I’ve ended up in Hamburg, in a small aparthotel on the outskirts of the city. I want to reach out, of course I do, but so far, I’ve resisted the clawing urge to call him. I have to stay away. I came too close to telling him everything the last time we talked, and I don’t trust myself not to blurt out the truth.
My laptop beeps. I click on the notification to find a message from Q waiting for me.
Q
Are you still looking for Varek Zaworski?
When I first started hunting the people in Bach’s network, I quickly hit a block. The support I’d taken for granted—fake identities, passports that would withstand scrutiny, access to weapons, intel on my target—all fell away.
The hardest part was the intel. It’s not like there’s a convenient database of men and women I need to kill. My targets took great pains to conceal their involvement in Bach’s horrifying little scheme.
I started hanging out in the dark and unsavory corners of the Internet, and over the years, I found a couple of informants who gave me what I needed.
Q is one of them. I know nothing about them. I don’t know their gender, where they live, or who they work for. As best as I can guess, they’re either one of Henrik Bach’s disgruntled former employees or, like me, they’re an assassin who managed to escape his clutches.
Joao’s warning rings in my mind. Be cautious and paranoid, and double and triple-check any intel coming your way because it could be another trap.
It’s a little unusual that Zaworski’s name has come up again so quickly after Zurich. A coincidence that should cause me to pause. But Q has proven themselves many times over as a reliable source of information, and my usual caution evaporates in the face of an opportunity to get at the former bounty hunter.
Yes.
He’s celebrating his fiftieth birthday party at a club in Warsaw.
My heart starts to race. I know Zaworski rarely leaves his village—it’s one of the reasons I hurried to Zurich without double-checking Marcus O’Shea’s information.
But O’Shea’s intel led me to a trap. What if Q does the same?
I hesitate over the keyboard, conflicted. Yes, it’s suspicious that Q’s reaching out with a tip about Varek Zaworski, but at the same time, I’ve been able to eliminate dozens of targets because of their tips. I have no reason not to trust them.
Besides, trap or not, a real chance to take out the bounty hunter doesn’t come along every day.
I reach a decision.
Tell me more.
Q sends me the details. This weekend, Varek Zaworski will be traveling from his village in the south of Poland all the way to the capital to celebrate his fiftieth birthday. It looks like it’s going to be one hell of a bash. Zaworski has rented out Warsaw’s fanciest nightclub, and the guest list has over two hundred and fifty carefully vetted people on it, flying in from all over the world.
I have four days. It’s not enough time to prepare, not nearly enough.
This weekend? You couldn’t let me know more in advance?
I have other priorities. You’re not my only client.
I can’t let this opportunity slip through my fingers. I just cannot. I owe it to Michaela. Her death has haunted me for years. I feel her warm blood splatter across my face in my nightmares and hear the crunch of Zaworski’s boot as he pushes her lifeless body over the cliff.
I need the guest list.
It’ll cost you. Fifty. Okay?
Fifty thousand dollars. What the hell. That’s much higher than Q’s usual prices. It’s a lot of money, more than I want to pay, but if it gets me a way in, it’s worth it.
Yes. We have a deal.