They would forfeit any future contracts if they sold out to a mark.” Juan Carlo ended the sentence with a hint in his voice of another option.
“I won’t just sit here and wait until someone puts enough money into one of your men’s pockets to make them look the other way.” Even though he had many years on the street, El Jefe wasn’t aware of how far over the line he had just stepped.
“My men are all professional escudos. They are above re- proach. While you may live and work among the honorless scum of the streets, the true professionals of the world live and die by their code of honor. While you think the solution to every prob- lem is to buy the allegiance of your enemy, they have no alle- giance to be bought. Only a contract to fulfill.”
El Jefe took in the recriminating speech while pacing across his office. The movement was going to take him too near the win- dow. Without command or instruction, Tarik, one of the dozen escudos under contract, shifted naturally to redirect El Jefe’s path and be close enough to obstruct a shot coming from the window. It was one of hundreds of tiny things that these professionals did that kept their principles alive without most people noticing what they were doing.
“What do you suggest?” El Jefe asked, finally responding to the inferred question.
“In my profession we often become acquainted with both sides of the business. Know thine enemy and all that,” Juan Carlo said. “If you want to use your money to stop this, place contracts on the contractors.”
“Is that possible? I thought there was some kind of code among assassins. They don’t kill their own.”
“I can spread a small sum around to get the name of any known contractors in town. Once we have the names, I have an individual you can contact. Enough of those jobs get collected, on and no one will want to collect on you.” Juan Carlo paused briefly. “Unless the source of the contract bumps up the price on you. It’s a dangerous game.”
“Let us play. Spend the money and get me as many names as you can. I will turn these rabid dogs on each other.”
✖
The smile never touched his eyes despite the accompanying laughter. Tortuga sat at the end of the bar, nothing behind him but the bathrooms and back door, and flirted with the slightly overweight, middle-aged, corporate housewife down at the bar looking to boost her waning self-esteem. He was doing a good job of feigning interest in her latest workout craze and deliver- ing the appropriate flattering comments between her glasses of white synthfindel.
She wasn’t his original plan for a cover. Tortuga was going to play the drunken tourist tonight, but this was better. He split his attention, ten percent to keep the vapid corpwife on the hook, and the other ninety percent to try to figure out who else in the bar was here after a contract.
in the crosshairs. Though their code prevented anyone from re- vealing who was paying the contracts, Tortuga was pretty sure he wouldn’t need more than one guess. Carlos de Guevara de Castro, a.k.a. El Jefe, was playing a little offense. It was a move Tortuga appreciated and had expected to occur earlier with Juan Carlos as his professional shield.
The delay had thrown him off his pace. And now, instead of wrapping up the hit, he was hanging out at a bar trying to play Spot the Hitman. There were over a hundred people in the crowded bar, most there with groups of other corporate tourists or friends. He made quick scans to confirm everyone was part of the group and not a new addition trying to blend in, finding two new additions to keep an eye on. Those, combined with the ten other possibilities among the solos, pairs, and small groups, gave him an even dozen people to watch while emptily engaging in trivial banter with Claire, the aging corpwife.
One of the possibles broke off from his group and headed for the bathrooms. It was a good chance to create an opening. Tortuga ordered another double, which the bartender was slyly filling from a bottle Tortuga had given him earlier in the day, and Claire another white synthfindel before excusing himself for the restroom.
The bathrooms were spacious and clean. Four stalls, seven urinals, and six sinks were the utilitarian portions of this black marble, steel, and glass haven of excretory necessity. He passed a middle-aged corp suit, dressed the part of a Havana tourist but identifiable by his watch and sunglasses, both rewards for years of corp service, and spotted his potential hitman at the urinal in the corner. He passed at least five open urinals to get to that cor- ner spot. Even if that corp suit had been smack dab in the middle of the wall, the corner was one urinal farther than the customary urinal gap men gave in open restrooms.
Tortuga went for the stall. Furthest from the pissing potential hitman. After sliding the lock into place he quickly slipped under the wall of the stall to the next spot over. He gave a quick glance and saw his target turning and heading away from the corner but had to quickly use a little stall gymnastics to balance up off the floor. He listened to the footsteps, trying to ascertain clues to any actions that might be going on other than walking. When the steps stopped and the water, started Tortuga eased up a bit on the vice grip he had on the bootknife that was already half unsheathed.
There was no warning when it came. It wasn’t a movie, no dra- matic cocking sound or ninja-like “hiya” preceded the hard crack of boot on stall door. Short bursts of chuffing followed, then click- ing as the silenced SMG tore up the empty stall.
Tortuga had to act fast. He had premium reflex ’wares, but he never left them on in social situations. Even the instant of men- tal effort it would take to send the electrical impulse to activate them was more than he could spare now. Instead, he dropped to the floor, planted both feet on the stall wall, and shot himself along the floor under the other two stalls, pulling the knife as he extended his legs.
Tortuga knew what came next. He stopped himself just past the last stall wall, did a quick kip up, and then jumped up to hang from the side of the last stall. He could picture the other hitman— obviously not a veteran or he wouldn’t have taken a shot without
Tortuga took the crouched pose and watched his mark, the tides were now turned. The other man was not leaving alive. The dead man walking slowly, stepping from stall to stall, using the barrel of his SMG to push the stall doors. It was a smaller model, possibly even one of the micro-Uzi Vs that had been popping up all over Havana in the last month. The model didn’t matter, though. Only the distance.
Tortuga moved as the last stall door began to open. It was a single step and a flick of the wrist that ended it all. Nothing flashy. One moment the aspiring assassin was carefully and methodi- cally clearing the stalls, the next he was contemplating a motion in the corner of his vision just before the ten-centimeter dikote blade slipped through his temple and stopped all thought.
Tortuga caught the body before it hit the ground, hauled it over to the last stall where all this had started, and dropped him unceremoniously onto the toilet. The stall was a disaster, but most of the damage was limited to the back and side walls. The latch on the door was damaged, but Tortuga had a plan for that. He quickly removed the dead killer’s belt and wrapped it around his waste, looping it around the pipes of the toilet along with his waist. Tortuga stuffed both of the dead man’s hands between the space in his legs and into the toilet. The move would keep blood from running down an arm onto the floor once he removed the knife, which still jutted from the temple of the dead assassin. The door of the stall was the last issue and was handled by a simple chunk of wood from the damaged wall, wedged into the gap of the next stall and preventing the door from swinging in.
Tortuga finished by yanking out the knife, wiping it on the dead man’s pants, and rolling out of the stall. He snatched the dead man’s gun, washed his hands, and checked himself in the mirror.
He was back at the bar in under two minutes total. Claire was happily accepting their drinks, and she laid a very suggestive hand on his thigh as he sat down.
✖
“They found another one dead at La Bellero. No one has come forward to collect, so I presume it is another victim of El Tortuga and not the man himself,” El Jefe said.
Juan Carlos stood nearby with an expression of pained re- straint. He wanted to speak, but he knew it was not his place. It was always hard to admit when you were wrong.
“What? No comments from my security. I thought you’d be happy with the loss of another potential assassin,” El Jefe said.
“El Jefe, I think we may have made a grave mistake. The efforts we have put in place have definitely thinned the pool of assassins in Havana, but it has also provided Tortuga with access to their re- con information. Tortuga is becoming a greater threat with each death.” Juan Carlos let his eyes fall.
“He is the only assassin still coming after me. No matter what he knows, your job is easier.”
“In my profession an informed enemy is the deadliest foe. We will tighten security for this evening, and a transport will be pre- pared for the morning. We’ll get to the dock before sunrise and sail for Key West.”
West already has an advance team on site. This is not a request.” El Jefe’s only response was silent assent through gritted teeth.
✖
Tortuga tried to focus. He had the ideal location, the perfect shot, and three fully laid-out escape routes, along with two back- up routes. This was the moment of truth—but all he could think about was how he somehow ended up taking an assassin back to his room with him, thinking she was a simple desperate corpwife. Claire hadn’t missed a beat that first night. She flirted, played coy, and then ended the night with a little flirty, half-reluctant come-on. She played a great guilty corpwife, pulling away from him at the last minute. Earlier tonight, while Tortuga was work- ing a second bar, she strolled in and plopped down at the bar in a much more somber mood. She ordered synthwhiskey instead of synthfindel and had three shots down before she “spotted” Tortuga at the end of the bar. He gave her a little smile and a toast with his glass, and she gave a half-hearted smile in return and went back to drinking. Another three shots led to a trip to the bathroom, where she stumbled into him as she tried to pass. Tortuga helped her to the bathroom door, waited for her to get out, and then directed her to the seat next to him. He ordered water for her, along with some doughy pretzel things from the kitchen to soak up some alcohol. Then he got her sob story. The husband had accused her of doing exactly what she was doing the night before, then ranted for a while about his own desirabili- ty, and then storming off.
The whole thing was a line and a hook, and Tortuga took a solid bite. She sobered a little, she played the wounded ego card, and she invited him to complete the tale her husband had already spun.
Tortuga was under her, naked and very distracted, when she popped the spur from her palm and tried to jam it into his heart. The neck would have been a better option, and probably success- ful, since her petite frame, though muscular, didn’t have the pow- er behind the blade to punch through Tortuga’s thick Evo Ironhide orthoskin and SpIn Unbreakable titanium bone lacing. Her spur jammed on his breastbone, and her skull didn’t respond well to his titanium-laced knuckles. A second punch followed the first, and eventually her mangled face lay on a pillow, unrecognizable and exceptionally dead.
She had tricked him. She would have killed him were it not for his ’wares and her inexperience. That was unacceptable. A mistake. That’s what he couldn’t let it go.
With the error heavy on his mind, Tortuga lined up the shot using every bit of data he had gathered. He couldn’t see El Jefe, but he didn’t have to. He had the information he needed.
At the perfect point in his breath, he eased the trigger back and unleashed fate.
✖
Armored glass screeched when pierced. Human ears burst when struck by a round moving at 900 m/s. Feather pillows exploded when hit by a ten-gram slug.
his mind heard the screech only a moment before the air was filled with down feathers. The guard whose ear had burst was best described as unphased. He had a large pistol out and ready in one hand; his other hand was already helping El Jefe out of his bed. He was calling on the radio that the principle was under attack, all calm and professional.
El Jefe was not calm.
“What the hell are you doing? Fire back. Get that son of a bitch,” he yelled at the guard as he pulled him from bed and into the hallway. El Jefe was unceremoniously dragged through the hallway while chatter exploded over the radio and gunfire exploded all around the hacienda. Neither the chatter nor the gunfire was indiscriminate. Rounds were being fired at the hotel across the street. Not at every room, but at one specific room, where the shot had to have come from. The chatter was con- cise. Modified plans and movement details. El Jefe couldn’t hear it, but Juan Carlos was directing everyone with the precision of a neurosurgeon. Fire to suppress the shooter, gaps to allow another shot to reconfirm a location, instructions on moving El Jefe, commands to prep vehicles, messages out to request drone support, calls to inform the local police of the issue. It was the coordination of a true professional.
The hallways El Jefe was pulled through were a familiar blur. He had lived in them for years, but the speed and chaos made them strange to him. The floor had far more scratches than he remembered, and the wood seemed darker . They were obscure and unimportant details, but it was what he noticed.
The wood of the house gave way to the dirt of the drive as he was shoved into the back of a large van. Once inside he recog- nized the shape and fittings of a Citymaster. Five more pairs of uniform sunglasses were in the back with him alongside Juan Car- los and whichever body-shielding thug had been in his bedroom when the chaos kicked off.
“We’re headed to the docks. The event was an hour ahead of schedule, but we can adjust. We’ll have you on your yacht in twenty minutes and in international waters before sunup. Tortuga failed,” Juan Carlos said everything but the last two words with professional calm. Those he spat in disgust.
✖
Tortuga moved down the back stairwell through route two. Route one was compromised by excessive bullets in the air. He paused at the door into the rear stairwell when an incoming message ARO popped into his field of vision. It was a contract message.
“Mark: El Jefe, a.k.a. Carlos de Guevara de Castro. Contract Status: Fulfilled. Payment en route. Cease efforts.”
Tortuga expended a tiny bit of effort to open his work account and found the message true. What he suspected was some kind of ploy by a hacker in El Jefe’s employ instead revealed a signifi- cant increase in his account balance. He ordered the sum moved immediately—standard operating procedure—and then calmly stepped out into the back alley. A dozen steps later he was blend- ing into the sparse traffic on the Havana street. Five minutes later he was a ghost in the wind.
/dev/grrl could feel the brisk breeze whipping her hair across her face as the boat slowed to enter the Canal de Entrada that led into the Port of Havana. The same wind molded the flowered sundress to her body, the hem popping and snapping behind her, but she couldn’t feel it through her skintight body armor, artfully tinted to blend invisibly with her natural tones. To her left, port- side, modern warships of the Caribbean League Navy— high-speed littoral cutters—lay at anchor beneath Mor- ro Castle. To starboard, Castle San Salvador rose above a marina brimming with luxury yachts. For centuries the two fortresses had guarded the vital channel between them against pirates and invaders, but now they were little more than photo ops for tourists.
Keeping one eye on the world around her, /dev/grrl opened an AR window—hidden by her stylish shades— in front of the other and reread Kane’s message: “I need your expertise for a special task. Come to Havana. Order a bad mojo mojito at the Floridita. I will contact you.” Not the strangest request from Kane—base-jumping onto a passing airship still held that title—nor the most cryptic. But it was unusual for him not to dispatch one of his crew—usually Scrimshaw or Dread Pirate Tim—to bring her in. Something different was up. The thought made her grin. She watched as the boat docked at the ferry terminal on the Old Havana side.
A swarm of three-wheeled scooters festooned with festive lights crowded the barricades protecting the pas- senger ramp at the Old Havana ferry terminal. The AR agent tagged them as cococabs and informed her the minimal shell barely shading the back half was meant to protect two passengers from the elements. The drivers