Page 169 of Dagger in the Sea

In my hand, that dagger.

Denver

50

Turo

I frozemy ass off on the never-ending flight, no matter the blankets, the heat, the hot coffee. Without the distraction of other passengers, the small plane seemed like a narrow white cave where there was no escape. Excruciating.

I slept. I didn’t sleep. Visions of my mother’s bloodied and mangled body wrestled with my sanity. Clung to me like stinging jellyfish that wouldn’t let go. Mauro’s face, swollen, smug flashed through the circuits of my exhausted brain. Valerio jeering at me. An overly made up blonde ordering veal Marsala, the smell of that cloying sweet wine sauce. Ciara stomping out of my apartment, mirror smashing in her wake. The new prostitute assuming her submissive pose in my guest bedroom.

“What can I do for you, sir? How can I please you tonight?”

Evgeny’s cruel, cold, expectant smile as he gripped Adri’s arm.

The taut chords of violins, violins, violins in the darkness.

The clink of two icy, ouzo filled glasses in the sunlight.

I felt my nakedness to the elements, the heat, the cold, the wet, the burn. I was stripped bare.

“You have a choice to make, Turo.”

My mother’s ultimatum that had once sent me reeling now gave me a rush.Yes, Mother, I’ve made my choice.

The Rocky Mountains spread out before me, and the plane’s engines groaned as we finally descended. I sat up straight in my seat and put the hood of the designer black sweatshirt hoodie jacket Alessio had given me over my head. What did Hamlet say on the boat back to Denmark from England after he’d narrowly missed assassination?

“From this time forth, my thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth.”

Fine words. But again, no action.

I’ll show you bloody.

* * *

“Long time no see,”his voice growled at me behind a cargo warehouse at the Denver airport.

A tall, bearded, tattooed biker with a scarred face and leather gloves hiding the fact that he was missing both middle fingers stood before me, hands on his hips. A President’s patch was stitched on his worn leather jacket over his formidable body. The mere mention of his name in underground circles made people shudder. So many wild colorful rumors flew about his cruelty, his ruthlessness.

And they were all true.

Yes, when pushed, men like Finger pushed back. Hard, brutally hard.

We both had been pushed.

“Finger,” I said, shaking his powerful hand. “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice. I appreciate it.”

“Not a problem. Not far. Figured you flying out here, asking so fucking nice, it’s big.”

“It is.”

“Hey,” Mishap said, his chin lifting. He was a smaller version of Finger, fewer tattoos, no such obvious ugly scars on the outside, but his eerily calm demeanor and terminally haunted eyes hinted at deep, ugly scars on the inside. He was an old friend of Finger’s, a former Special Forces assassin and now a special anonymous contractor for hire.

I nodded. “Mishap.”

“What do you need?” Finger asked.

“An assassination,” I replied.

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