“Holy mother of God. What is this, Garrett?”

Garrett’s answer came out as a sigh. “That’s what I need you to tell me.”

Later that first day, his face white and pinched, Baldwin had sat in the upstairs room of Mr. Henry’s, a noisy bar in the District. Garrett sat beside him, silent. Garrett had insinuated answers would be forthcoming from this meeting, but so far, there was nothing. Baldwin drank draught Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, desperately trying to wash the taste of decomposition and fear from his tongue.

He looked out the window, watched people moving past, happy that they were unaware of the horror he’d experienced. How to keep them safe?

When he turned back a large, bald-headed man sat across from him, assessing. Shrewd eyes bluer than cold ocean water, a thick neck and fingers, he gave his name only as Atlantic, a moniker obviously befitting his appearance.

Atlantic said he would become Baldwin’s handler on these gruesome, silent cases. Baldwin listened attentively, mesmerized by the icy eyes, trying to place the older man’s nationality. He’d narrowed it to a Balkan state, could detect some touches of British influence in the drawn-out A’s, but couldn’t get a precise fix. It annoyed him.

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hours, though Baldwin knew it could only have been a few minutes. When he finished, Baldwin asked, “Why me?”

“Because you are the best we’ve ever seen. Because you’re a natural polyglot, can assimilate to any country. How many languages are you fluent in? Eight? Nine?”

“Thirteen.”

Atlantic tipped his head in respect and tapped the edge of the table like a snooker master. “Because you have the compassion to give these victims closure but the brains to keep silent. And because we ask.”

It had been enough of an answer at the time. Baldwin agreed to take on the position of profiler to the setup Atlantic called Operation Angelmaker. His first assignment was to track the Forest Killer. Baldwin had blown the case wide open in a matter of days. The killer was a legal attaché to Zambia. Baldwin stopped him before he killed his sixth victim. The man had been summarily deported with a stern warning to his government to never let him set foot back in the United States. The killer’s flashing grin as he boarded the jet home to Lusaka haunted Baldwin’s dreams. That was the first. There were more. Rarely on U.S. soil, the cases he worked were quiet, involved and deadly. Different killers, different MOs. Killing zones and sprees that needed to be kept as quiet as possible, that needed to be solved through back channels. These weren’t the men who made it onto Court TV, or even made it to court. These killers were protected. The governments of various countries kept silent assassins on the payrolls. Men and women paid to kill, trained to be sociopaths, sometimes broke from their proscribed paths, headed out on their own to satiate Judas Kiss

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their burgeoning needs. Developed a bloodlust that their government targets couldn’t sate. Tracking these assets was a vital function, one not left to everyday agents.

Operation Angelmaker had a real name, “The Joint Preparedness Task Force on the Convention of Potentially Dangerous Assets,” but TJPTFOTCOPDA just didn’t work as an acronym. So OA they became, a covert group so secret only the immediate members knew it existed. There was no congressional oversight, no Presidential discretion, just the head of the CIA and people on a purely need-to-know basis.

The arrangement Atlantic made with Garrett Woods was for Baldwin to be borrowed, from time to time, to oversee “projects.” What Baldwin actually did was profile these international serial killers, men the United States government would normally seek to put in jail. These killers were valuable to their country’s government, or valuable to the United States in some capacity. Men with unnatural proclivities, as Atlantic so aptly put it. Baldwin’s job wasn’t to keep them out of trouble, or keep them hidden, so much as predict where they might strike next. If the Angelmakers knew where a killer would hit, they could arrange for bait to be delivered, usually in the form of a contract hit that needed the assassin’s immediate attention. It kept the innocents from too much risk, and allowed them to keep closer tabs.

If he were honest with himself, the cross-cultural analysis was fascinating. Nature versus nurture didn’t exist in the Angelmakers. Evil superceded all. The program went against every grain of his being, but he understood the necessity of wet work. Baldwin 116

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had always been a good soldier. He agreed to work with the group with one condition. The United States government wasn’t much in the habit of using their assassins in their own backyard. If any of these men ever stepped foot on U.S. soil again, Baldwin would be notified. He knew what these maniacs were capable of. He insisted on the stipulation, and Atlantic agreed. He’d been working with the group for ten long years. They had at least fifty men and women in their sights at all times.

Garrett’s sudden heart problem was a fallacy. Baldwin had been pulled to Quantico so Atlantic could honor their agreement. He was being warned, and given the tools to suss out his enemy. A nemesis had disappeared from the OA’s radar screens. The killer had cleared out his home, taken all his papers, all his false IDs, and disappeared. The chatter on the circuit was he’d contracted a job in the States, but so far, no one would own up to the hit.

The assassin was an American, at least by birth. He’d been brought up all over the world, the brilliant, prodigal son of a career diplomat. He’d started killing early, sanctioned by the government. His extracurricular activities were hidden well, he had worked hard to be quite discreet. But he wasn’t quiet enough. Once he’d gotten the OA’s attention, they knew he needed to be watched. And now, all the field reports agreed. The killer known simply as Aiden was making a transatlantic journey. Baldwin had danced with Aiden many times. He could recognize his signature anywhere. Aiden liked to be thought of as an old-school assassin, an artist who used a silver garrote to strangle his victims. He had at Judas Kiss

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least forty kills to his name that they knew of; the actual number could have been much higher. He played the game, knew about the OA team, knew he was fed targets. He was an indiscriminate sort—he didn’t need a type, just needed a neck. That made him especially dangerous.

If the reports were right, if Aiden was truly in the States, Baldwin needed to keep a very close eye on him. If he could find him.

Eleven

Taylor and Fitz sat at a patio table in the back of Las Palmas. The front room was filled with giggling Vanderbilt co-eds and migrant workers on their lunch break, a testament to the quality of the restaurant as well as its reasonable prices. Taylor was nibbling a steak fajita quesadilla, Fitz was plowing through a taco salad. A pitcher of sweet tea separated them.

“So what did Price say?” Fitz asked.

“He understood, for starters. He’ll fight any disciplinary action taken against Lincoln. So Linc will feel a lot better about that. Poor guy, he was completely rattled. I don’t know if it was the dope or the sheer terror of having to report that he’d been smoking it. Can you imagine Lincoln with a few toots in him?”

Fitz laughed. “No. Mr. Fancypants has always struck me as the one scotch before dinner because it looks good, rather than enjoying it type. He isn’t much for losing control.”

“Well, that’s to be expected, if you think about his background. Damn, it would be nice to have him back Judas Kiss

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to work this Wolff case. I’ll bet there’s a ton of financial discovery, right up his little computer-literate heart’s alley. Marcus is back tomorrow, right?”