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The target dropped the bat and then dropped to the ground by the bed. He lay there, huddled on the floor, a hand up as if to shield himself. Shouting now, the man spoke English in a Scandinavian accent. “Please? Please! Who? Who is doing this?”
Kincaid shrugged, then leveled the weapon. He decided to answer the man’s question. “Cyrus.”
The man looked distant for a moment, and then, to the assassin’s surprise, a look of clarity came over his face, as if that term actually meant something to him. His eyes looked off, away from the gun in his face. Softly, he said, “Cyrus will kill us all.”
With that, Lancer shot the man through his extended right hand, and the bullet blew out the other side and then slammed into his left eye.
The 10-millimeter round burst from the back of the victim’s head and burrowed into the hardwood flooring.
Lancer turned away and began running for the stairs, his pistol still out in front.
As he descended, he tapped his earpiece.
“Target Gama Seven is eliminated.”
“Understood. Back alley remains clear. Law enforcement remains static. Contact after exfiltration.”
“Roger.”
Downstairs he headed to the rear sliding door. The police at the end of the cul-de-sac wouldn’t have heard the noise from the gunshots, but there was no way to be certain the neighbors hadn’t, so Kincaid didn’t go back out the way he came. Instead, he ran through the backyard, vaulted a fence, then raced in a low crouch through a garden blooming in springtime.
After navigating one more yard and two more fences, he climbed inside a white Chevy Malibu, fired up the engine, and headed off into the night.
Lancer had made five assassination attempts in four cities, killing four of his targets: Richard Watt, Borislava Genrich, Maxim Arsenov, and now a Norwegian named Lars Halverson, who, until just moments ago, ran a robotics firm in Boston.
And now he knew he had to get his ass up to Toronto for his next mission.
•••
Carlos Contreras looked over the twin-engine turboprop that had just landed there in Guatemala City; it appeared to be more of a cargo plane and less of a passenger aircraft. The fuselage was painted blue, and on its side in large yellow letters was the name MexCargo.
The pilot taxied up and then completely powered down the aircraft. Slowly, the rear cargo ramp lowered and a man stepped out wearing a nondescript beige flight suit with no insignia, and he didn’t step close enough to shake hands.
In Spanish, the man said, “Name?”
Contreras had been ordered by Cyrus to use a code name for confirmation purposes. “Pablo.”
“I’m Raul, the loadmaster.” While the man might have been a loadmaster for the aircraft, his name was definitely not Raul, because Contreras’s name wasn’t Pablo. The man sounded Mexican, he was twenty years older than Contreras, and he had shockingly mistrustful eyes, as if he worried Contreras was about to pull out a knife and attack him.
The pilot came down the ramp behind him; he was in his thirties, with red hair and fair skin. He introduced himself as John. He spoke English with an Irish accent, and by the look of it, he, too, seemed concerned about something.
Contreras said, “Are you guys okay?”
The Mexican loadmaster switched to English. “I’m fine. Why?”
The Irishman nodded his head. “We’re fine.”
“Okay.”
Raul said, “I brought you some equipment. You are to load all your other stuff in this plane and then check out the new gear.”
Contreras looked up into the hold of the aircraft behind the two men and saw two stacks of beige Pelican cases lashed to a pair of wooden pallets. Three smaller pallets each had a large box on top with the words “Greyhound V120” on the side.
This meant nothing to Contreras.
“What is all this?” he asked.
The man shrugged. “No clue.”
