I said, “Even if they are, we have a mission here. What do you want me to do about it?”

“I want to get their names in the system. Get the Taskforce to check them out. We know who escaped, but the Taskforce hasn’t looked at this thread.”

I rubbed my face, not needing this distraction. “Fine, fine. I’ll do that. Can we get back to our mission? We’ve got a killer here with intelligence training. I’m not too concerned about a bunch of escaped juvenile delinquents chopping off heads in Syria.”

She said, “Because they’re not holding a knife to your throat. But what if they’re holding it to someone else’s? Right this very minute.”

52

Jacob leaned against the rough-hewn brick, trying to remain inconspicuous. It was a losing battle, and he knew it. He simply looked like he was up to no good. A single man, standing by himself in the gloom of night. He imagined he was representing exactly why the street had such a nefarious name.

Originally looking for an entrance to a canal, away from the gondoliers and tourists, he’d used Google Maps to find Rio Terrà Assassini. He’d walked it, a mere ten minutes from his hotel, and liked what he saw. No stores and only one bistro farther up the lane, it was narrow and off the beaten tourist path. The far end was nothing more than a set of concrete steps that dropped into the murky canal water, the walls of the alley just over ten feet across. A perfect spot to pull up a small boat, and, since it dead-ended into the canal, no tourists or locals would be using the alley as a thoroughfare.

Walking back to the hotel, he’d become intrigued by the name. He’d Googled it, and found that the alley had a little bit of a story behind it. Assassini referred to the assassinations and murders that had occurred in that small stretch of stone, with pickpockets and thieves preying on the wealthier class trying to sneak to the nearby brothels located in Calle della Mandola. The discovery surprised him, but it was fitting. Centuries could go by, but the killer instinct was drawn to the same locations.

He saw a group of Korean tourists leave the wine bar fifty meters away and turn toward him, clearly going the wrong way in the maze that was Venice. He tried to appear as if he had a purpose, kneeling down and pretending to work the rope anchored above the stairs. When he stood back up, he met the eyes of the lead tourist, and the man stopped dead in his tracks, seeing something he instinctively wanted to recoil from. He muttered something in Korean to his partners, then they all turned abruptly and began walking much faster back the way they’d come.

Jacob cursed and looked at his watch. Nine forty-five. Where is Carlos?

Their target was due here in fifteen minutes, and he wanted to get him immediately into the boat, while the man was still compliant and before he could alert any potential contingency he had planned.

He had a lot of information he needed to get from the target, and he wanted to do it out on the ocean, away from anyone who could hear him scream, should force become necessary.

First, they needed to find out where he’d stashed the lady. They had only two more nights, and didn’t have the time to go searching. Second, they needed to know unequivocally if he’d talked to anyone. He knew the boys were clean, because he’d spoken to Devon. They were currently boozing it up in a pub a half mile away and had no idea what had transpired with their chaperone, but that didn’t preclude the target from having alerted his mistress.

Those questions were significant, but the primary one was whether their target had planned to be gone for the duration of the day tomorrow. The boys indicated that they were on their own, and the target had stated he was doing business meetings, but Jacob wanted to know if that was true, or if he was planning on spending the day in bed with his lover.

Jacob wasn’t too worried about a missed business meeting, as the mission would be done in a week. The worst they’d do was call the target’s phone and leave a voice mail.

After the mission, he could care less what they found, but all of that was predicated on the target doing what he told the boys. If he was lying about the meeting and instead intended to get lathered in sweat with his honeypot tomorrow, it would be an issue, because the target was never leaving the boat alive tonight.

The thought brought back memories of the Kurd, reminding Jacob of what he was doing. The meat of it. The heart. He felt the filet knife hidden in his sleeve, knowing what it would taste in the next thirty minutes. An action that plenty of kids back in the school had blustered about, but never actually done—something Jacob could no longer say.

Jacob wondered if the act was worth the sacrifice. Once he did this killing, he was on an irreversible path. There would be no turning back. He would be a hunted man forever. The only place he could return was the cauldron of the Islamic State, forced to subjugate his newfound sense of worth for the rest of his life. Ironically, a sense of worth provided by Omar and the Islamic State.

But what was the alternative? Leaving now would mean abandoning his friends Carlos and Devon. They weren’t smart enough to stay alive on their own. If he quit, fleeing to a new life, the mission would fail. Carlos and Devon would return to the Islamic State, convinced their faith would allow mercy. And they’d be tortured to death, ending up on a gruesome tape much like the very one they’d made earlier in Syria.

Hussein was already dead. Jacob felt some guilt at that. He could have gotten him out, but he had not, and he wouldn’t do the same to Carlos and Devon. Everything he had been through, both in the white house and the Islamic State, told him that family was worth far more than anything else. When everything was boiled down, that was all that was left, and he now included Omar in that circle. The one man who’d ever shown him respect.

He thought about Omar and his skill. He could work for a man like that. He could do what Omar wanted, and he could achieve a bit of success. Maybe more than a bit. He’d recognized his skill, and felt a loyalty to Omar that he’d never experienced before.

He caught movement behind him, and saw a fifteen-foot aluminum-hulled boat float out of the gloom, a grinning Carlos working an outboard motor. He cut the engine and glided in. Jacob grabbed the bow and used the anchored rope to tie it fast.

Carlos said, “Sorry I’m late. Had a little trouble with the boat.”

Jacob stood up and said, “You didn’t have to hurt anyone, did you?”

“No, no. The owner was working late. I just waited for him to leave. I’d have called, but it worked out.”

Jacob nodded and Carlos said, “Did he come?”

“Not yet. Should be here any minute.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

Jacob looked back up the alley, seeing a man break out of the crowds from the wine bar. Walking into the light, Jacob recognized the target.

“He’s here. Get ready.”

*   *   *

Chris Fulbright passed the bistro in the alley and slowed, straining his eyes. He saw two shadowy figures at the end, a canal behind them. He glanced back, as if there would be some help behind him, then continued on, much more slowly than before.

He came within the feeble light from a second-story window and saw that the men were mere boys, maybe twenty years old at the most, which raised a primordial instinct. He was unfamiliar with anything smacking of danger, but something deep in his gene pool registered a threat.

In his head, the odds were they’d been sent by the German conglomerate and were nothing more than hired messengers. But something about them was off. Feral.