‘This was your solution?’
The woman, her voice a hiss, barely more audible than a whisper to Leia. Neither she nor the man were in the room, though they were close judging by the sound of their voices. Next to her, Leia’s father remained tied, his hood in place still. She nestled into his side.
‘We needed leverage,’ the man said. ‘We’ll still get through this. Remi’ll understand. We’ll still get our money.’ Moments later they were both back in the room.
‘No. You won’t,’ Leia’s father said, even as his body remained slumped, unmoving. His voice was strong and stern and sent vibrations through Leia. ‘You won’t get your money. They’ll kill you both.’
Silence. Leia could imagine the worried faces behind their balaclavas.
‘The people who made you do this. I know them better than you do. I know what they’re capable of.’
‘Keep your mouth shut,’ the man said.
‘Or what? You can’t touch us. You need us. Your only hope of getting out of this alive, of getting your money, is if we’re okay. Any other outcome… and you’re dead.’
* * *
Frankfurt was dark and blisteringly cold when Devereaux arrived. Just how she liked it. There was a biting easterly wind coming all the way from Siberia and bringing with it the howls of wolves and bears. At least that was what Devereaux imagined the noises were as the freezing air whistled through the skyscrapers of Frankfurt’s financial district. It was 9 p.m. and the streets were quiet with only a few stragglers from the working day still remaining. The bars here were steadily emptying as those not bothered about a hangover in the office tomorrow morning headed off to more trendy and lively nocturnal areas of the city.
Nocturnal. Devereaux liked that word. It evoked thoughts of nighttime predators, prowling in the dark, stalking unseen.
Exactly what she was now doing.
She’d only been in Germany a few hours, but the information she’d been provided from Paulo meant she was happy enough to swoop immediately. No need to wait another day. Not when she had other places to be, other people to see.
She checked her watch. About half an hour to go, if the target kept to his usual schedule. She carried on walking, heading out of the financial area, and it wasn’t long before her surroundings became all the more dark and seedy. Still few people about, even despite the tempting offerings writhing in the red-lit display windows that lined this street.
Perhaps it was the weather keeping the patrons away tonight. Or perhaps they were all inside already, enjoying themselves.
This was Devereaux’s first visit to the Bahnhofsviertel district of Frankfurt. So far, she liked what she saw. She’d read up about the area on the journey here from the Middle East. A fascinating story, she felt. The red-light district in Frankfurt had grown hugely in the aftermath of World War II. The area had been lightly hit by the Allies’ bombing raids, which meant after the war plenty of hotels were still operational in Bahnhofsviertel, many of which were used to house military personnel from the US occupation forces. Naturally, the large groups of young men needed some downtime and titillation, and up sprouted the brothels to fill their needs as if delivered from Mother Nature herself.
She spotted Coco’s in the near distance. One of the smaller establishments on this street. Some of the buildings were six, seven stories high, but Coco’s took up a narrow two-story one toward the far end of the district. A tall, wide, and gruff-looking bouncer was stationed outside the closed door. Devereaux caught his eye as she sauntered along. He didn’t react. Cold, hard, purposeful. She kept going. Headed around the next street and circled around until she was in an alleyway behind the brothels. Pitch black, damp, frozen. The alley stank with industrial garbage cans piled high with waste, and dripping who knew what.
Devereaux came to the back exit for Coco’s. The metal door had no handle on the outside, but it did have a lock. She took out the torsion wrench and picks and quickly worked the lock until each of the pins was released. The door inched open and Devereaux slipped inside then carefully pulled the door back shut again.
She was in a dark room. Just a sliver of light coming into the space from the partially open door at the far side. A storage room by the looks of it, with racking on both sides of her, boxes filled with… She had no clue.
Devereaux edged forward, up to the doorway. She looked out into the garishly lit corridor. Several doors off it, all closed. Soft music was playing somewhere. She could hear voices too. Rocking. Murmurs of pleasure.
She looked at her watch. Shouldn’t be long.
Only a few minutes passed until she heard a buzz further along the corridor by the front. A moment later and she heard a thunk as the front door opened. Then footsteps and voices. She pulled herself back a little, further into the darkness of the room.
A man and woman came into view. The man wore a long overcoat, dressed for the winter. The woman teetered on five-inch heels and wore nothing but strands of lace. Devereaux took out her phone and carefully snapped a picture as they came her way. They reached the final door on her left, just a few yards from where she was standing. A knock. The door opened from the inside and the man headed on in.
‘Enjoy yourself,’ the woman said in accented English.
‘I always do,’ the man said.
The door was closed again. The receptionist – if you could call her that – glanced in Devereaux’s direction for a second. Devereaux didn’t move. Just stared. The woman shivered slightly, but then simply turned and sauntered, hips swaying, back to the front of the building.
Devereaux sent the picture and waited. Shouldn’t be long this time. Paulo knew where she was. She certainly wasn’t convinced by this method of operation, but she wasn’t calling the shots so what did it matter?
From all her years of experience, she knew there were many different ways to eliminate a target. Broadly, the methods fell into three camps. Clandestine – poison, overdoses, induced heart attacks, and the like – was in many ways Devereaux’s preferred approach. Much less heat on her that way. Accidents – car crashes, falls down stairs, etc. – could be hard to organize and get right but were interesting to plan. Then there was sending a message. That was what Paulo and Kyri wanted from Devereaux, in Dubai, here, and for each of the other targets she’d been given. Sending a message meant violence. Often extreme. Sending a message meant blood. Witnesses too, if possible. Much more risky for Devereaux, but then that was why Paulo wasn’t carrying out his own dirty work, she assumed.
Still, she’d be lying if she said it wasn’t a whole lot of fun this way.
Her phone screen lit up when the message silently came through. Green light in the red light. Devereaux smiled to herself.
She put her phone away and stepped into the corridor and quickly moved up to the door. She pulled the handle down, darted inside, and pushed the door closed with her heel.
The man was just finishing getting undressed, pulling his underwear off his ankles. The woman – bra and panties still on – was to Devereaux’s left, filling a tumbler with whisky or brandy. Devereaux whipped the syringe from her pocket and lunged for the woman first. She stabbed her in the neck with the needle.
‘What the hell!’ the man shouted.
Devereaux tossed the woman to the floor. She smacked her head on the corner of the massage table as she went. At least that rendered her unconscious a little more quickly.
‘You stupid…’
The man was coming for her. Buck naked. His flabby belly jostled, his manhood swung freely. Devereaux almost burst out laughing.
Instead, she shimmied and grabbed his arm and twisted it around, and then hammered down her fist onto the elbow joint.
Snap.
She let go and grabbed his face, hand over his mouth, to muffle his scream. She kicked out his legs and shoved him onto the bed.
She took the second syringe from her other pocket and jabbed it into his neck. A smaller dose for him. Enough to keep him quiet, not enough to numb his pain or to send him to sleep.
With him docile and murmuring like a drunkard, she rolled him onto his back. His broken arm flopped uselessly by his side. Better safe than sorry, she secured him to the bed with two pieces of rope. One around his belly to pin his arms, the other around his legs. She shoved his tighty-whities into his mouth then looked over him. Her eyes fell on his groin. She pushed her hand into her inside coat pocket and pulled out the hunting knife.
She cackled, her eyes fixed. ‘Do you think I could slice it off in one swipe?’
She grabbed his flaccid penis and pulled it up straight. He moaned and writhed a little. As much as he could.
‘Let’s see.’
She swooshed the blade in a narrow arc. The man bucked and jostled and tried his hardest to scream. His lack of fight was almost disappointing. Almost.
‘Nearly,’ Devereaux said, laughing. She swiped again then tossed the dripping appendage onto his chest. She shrugged. ‘You won’t be needing that anymore.’
She lifted the knife high and stabbed it down into his gut, just below his sternum. The blade sank into the thick flesh there. His body jolted again, his eyes squeezed nearly shut. She clutched the handle of the knife with both hands and yanked and tugged to use the blade’s teeth to tear a gouge down to his waist. His abdomen opened up like a flower blooming. Well, except this flower was filled on the inside with blood and ropy intestines which spewed outward.
The man quivered a few seconds more, his panicked eyes fixed on the ceiling the whole time. Whether or not he was religious, he was surely pleading, begging, praying for this to be over with.
It soon was.
Devereaux took the underwear from his mouth. Wiped her knife on them then sheathed the blade. She took out her phone and snapped the photo and sent it to Paulo.
She crouched down to the woman who remained motionless on the floor. Still breathing. She’d be fine. Although a little shocked when she woke to find her client inside out. Perhaps it was time she found a new job.
Devereaux moved for the door.