Vanquish: Halo, #2

Vanquish

by

eveleigh & turner

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The second book in the HALO series

A ruthless revolutionary group using cyber attacks and real world violence to create a New Order. The cold-blooded slaying of a friend. A meddling journalist. An accomplice with his own agenda. The past colliding with the present.

Paid assassin Alice Lombardi (aka Halo) finds herself drawn into a web of manipulation, deception and betrayal.

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Copyright 2018 eveleigh & turner

e-book licensed by Marble City Publishing

ePub edition

ISBN-10 1-908943-89-0

ISBN-13 978-1-908943-89-7

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This book is copyright under the Berne Convention

No reproduction without permission

All rights reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Grateful thanks to beta readers John Goldsmith, Susan Howe, Lucy Floyd and Jon Eveleigh.

A special mention for Val Trickey who named VIRUS.

Cover design by SWAN Creative

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FRIDAY 18thSEPTEMBER

Manhattan, New York 09:00hrs EST

The front door of a Victorian brownstone opens and a tall well-built man with a buzz cut appears on the top step. Dark suit tailored to conceal his holstered weapons, dark shirt, dark glasses. The wire from his earpiece curls inside his collar. He turns his head to check the street in both directions, the rooftops, the gated green expanse of Gramercy Park and the blacked-out Mercedes parked along the kerb with its engine idling. Satisfied, he signals the all clear.

The man who joins him is shorter, older and dressed in a five thousand dollar silk suit. Thick wavy hair brushed back from a face tanned by time spent on the golf course and sailing his yacht. Hook nose. Money-green eyes. He glances at his Rolex, impatient to be on his way.

The bodyguard speaks into his lapel mic, the driver’s door of the Mercedes opens and out steps a uniformed chauffeur.

Checking the screen of his cell phone, the businessman doesn’t see it coming. His protector does, even recognises the face, but it’s too late. No time to get a shot off. No time to shield the client.

The assassin slides back into the driver’s seat and pulls away without a backward glance at the two bodies sprawled across the steps.

The United Kingdom 14.00hrs GMT

All customers registered for the online services of a high street bank receive an email purportedly from a regulatory authority. The contents prompt an immense wave of withdrawals. The news carries and queues form at branches throughout the United Kingdom.

Within three hours the bank closes its doors, disables its ATMs and suspends its website to stem the haemorrhaging of funds.

The Prudential Regulation Authority launches an enquiry into the unfounded run on the bank.

World Wide Web 17:30hrs GMT

Social media sites Facebook and Twitter go offline and are replaced with a static page.

VIRALLY INTEGRATED RADIAL ULTIMATE SOLUTION

LET THE CLASS STRUGGLE UNFOLD!

LET THE PROLETARIAT ORGANISE!

LET THE ARMED RESISTANCE BEGIN!

WE ARE VIRUS

THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING

HALO

The blushing bride is about to have her day ruined. I don’t feel too guilty about it. She’s marrying a man old enough to be her grandfather and knows full well whence the money has come for her designer gown, the diamonds around her neck, the pearl and crystal-encrusted dresses of the eight bridesmaids and the lavish wedding breakfast for three hundred guests. She knows exactly what Carlos Alberto Moreno is. I’m about to make her an extremely rich widow sooner than she could have hoped.

Moreno rarely leaves his fortified estate in the mountainous area of Antioquia. Why would he? It comprises a luxurious house with its own cinema, fitness centre, spa, Olympic size swimming pool, tennis courts and helipad. From here he runs the biggest of the remaining drug cartels in Columbia. But the lovely Valeria wants to marry in the splendour of the Metropolitan Cathedral in Medellín, the department capital, and he can refuse her nothing.

The roof of an apartment block gives an uninterrupted view of the Basilica’s front doors. It puts me around half a mile off. No problem. The Nemesis Vanquish delivers repeatable accuracy at nine hundred yards and I only need one shot. Even better, I’m using my own rifle which arrived from London in a diplomatic bag of the foreign power paying for the hit. It will go home the same way.

On the odd occasion Moreno ventures into the wider world he’s surrounded by heavily-armed bodyguards. He’s around five-eight but his guys are all at least six-three. They work a version of the three man wedge formation beloved by American Secret Service security details, but it looks more like a rugby scrum with the squat little drugs lord hidden from view. No one’s ever been able to take the shot but today is different and that’s why I’m here.

In a few minutes the happy couple will step out into the late morning sun. A brief window of opportunity before the waiting henchmen move in.

With the Vanquish mounted on the roof’s parapet wall I have the main doorway in my sights. Bells peal, the doors open and there they are in all their finery. If the bride thinks that demure little smile is convincing she’s wrong but there’s no mistaking the arrogance and self-satisfaction spread across the face of the groom.

Money can buy a nubile young bride but not the time to enjoy her. A squeeze of the trigger sees the end of a very short marriage. Moreno’s head jerks back and down he goes.

Valeria’s immediate reaction is an undignified scramble to put distance between her and the body of her husband.

Not a speck of blood or brains on her lovely frock. She’ll be able to use it again.

A burn phone came with my rifle. I hit the pre-programmed number. It’s answered on the second ring. A male voice says ‘ETA three minutes’ and then he kills the call.

A fifty-seven second takedown and the Vanquish is stowed in its bespoke backpack along with the phone. Less than two minutes roof to ground, using the outside fire escape, and I hit the street as an SUV with mirror-tinted glass pulls out of a side turning. It slows as it passes; I lob the backpack through its open rear window and keep going.

At the junction with the main road I flag down a cab for the airport. We join the stream of traffic to a wailing of sirens and everyone moves over to let through the ambulance and police vehicles heading for the cathedral.

My assistant, Gabe, will be monitoring the South American news agencies but we have our little rituals so I text the message he’ll be waiting for: It’s done.

The flight leaves on schedule and I’m in the air less than an hour and a half after taking the shot. Time to relax.

The seat belt light is extinguished prompting a mass firing up of electronic devices. I’d intended to nap through the fifty minute journey to Bogotá but within seconds it’s obvious something’s up.

My Spanish has improved lately but I’m not catching much of the rapid-fire jibber-jabber sweeping through the cabin. Whatever is happening has certainly got everyone worked up. Can’t believe it’s my handiwork causing so much excitement.

‘Qué está sucediendo?’ I ask the young woman in the seat next to me.

‘Facebook ha desaparecido!’

Facebook has disappeared. Blimey, it must be the end of the world as we know it.

She angles her Smartphone so I can see the screen and it’s obvious the site has been hacked.

I don’t know what the hell VIRUS is but there’s something familiar about the middle section of its message.

The hotel room is a fragrant oasis of calm and comfort. Fancy brocade at the windows, crisp white linen on the bed, big fluffy towels in the bathroom. Rather different to where I’ve laid my head recently.

Three and a half months. Five countries before Colombia: Argentina, Chile, Bolivia, Brazil and Peru. Just another backpacker staying in budget hotels or hostels.

An episode resulting in a high body count, and certain relationship complications, had made a protracted trip abroad advisable. I also had some thinking to do. I’m not a deep thinker: the meaning of life - forty-two is as good an answer as any – has never kept me awake at night. When I don’t want to face something I lock it away in a little box and ignore it. Those boxes had mounted up. The time had come to open them and face their painful truths.

I’ll never be able to forgive myself for the carnage my actions brought down on the few people I care about but time on my own has allowed me to find a way to live with it.

South America has been good for me but I miss London, the view up the Thames from my apartment, my cat and my pain-in–the-arse assistant. Time to go home.

Only here for one night so I don’t bother to unpack. Grab a bottle of mineral water from the mini bar and stretch out on the bed with my iPad next to me – Gabe will be in touch soon – and the TV remote control in hand. Colombian stations mention Moreno’s assassination in passing but are much more interested in the hacking of the social media sites. It’s of more interest to me too so I keep clicking until I find an American news channel.

The blonde anchorwoman sitting in front of a screen showing the message from VIRUS is all teeth, tits and tan. Apparently Twitter was hit along with Facebook and both are now back online. Barbie looks deeply affronted by the cyber attack. Probably had her tweet flow rudely interrupted.

‘Allowing for overlap, Facebook and Twitter have a joint membership of more than one and a quarter billion. This means the message from VIRUS had a potential audience of around a third of the world’s internet users. Put another way, they could have reached more than one seventh of the world’s population.’

Now that’s getting the word out there!

‘We’re joined in the studio by Ed Nelson, an expert on cyber crime. Good afternoon, Ed. So who are VIRUS and what do they want?’

Yep, tell us about that, Ed.

‘Good afternoon, Laura. First off I’d like to say that the figures you quoted are conservative. News of the Facebook and Twitter hack went viral and this would have created huge traffic from across the internet, not just social media users. Folk would have wanted to see what all the fuss was about.’

‘So would you say this is the most serious example of hacking the

World Wide Web has ever experienced?’

‘The most far-reaching, yes. How serious it is remains to be seen. As yet we know nothing definite about VIRUS but given their use of The Red Army Faction – often referred to as The Baader-Meinhof Gang – mission statement presumably they are an ultra left wing group.’

Laura turns to the screen behind her and reads out loud. ‘Let the class struggle unfold. Let the proletariat organise. Let the armed resistance begin.’

I knew I’d heard that before.

‘Terrorists?’ she asks.

Ed steeples his fingers and pauses before replying.

‘What we’ve seen today is an internet crime brought about by impressive hacking capabilities. Whether this escalates into cyber terrorism which then tips into the real world only time will tell. One thing we can be sure of is that the national security agencies will be investigating VIRUS with the intention of closing them down before they can strike again.’

Incoming video call. Mute the TV and connect.

It’s mid-evening in the UK and Gabe is at home. He’s in the kitchen sitting at the breakfast bar where several years ago I came close to shooting him. Water under the bridge.

Dressed in black as ever. Today’s tee-shirt is The Sisters of Mercy ‘First and Last and Always.’

‘Good work, Alice. Most fortuitous, you being on the doorstep, so to speak.

I’m pleased to report that payment for your first assignment under the new management has been received in full and what’s more, your remuneration has increased substantially.’

Gabe isn’t given to outward signs of emotion but he gets a percentage of my earnings, and has expensive tastes. He’s almost smiling.

‘Nice. An unexpected plus to killing my former boss,’ I say.

‘Indeed. Moving on, something rather curious has happened.’

‘The Facebook and Twitter thing?’

‘That is indeed rather curious but no, this is unconnected. Well, I assume so. Charlotte rang. Her contact at Sicarri wants to talk to you as a matter of the greatest urgency. And before you ask, she has no idea what it’s about. This guy’s name is...’

‘Xavier. I remember Charlotte talking about him. Let’s find out what he wants. Pass my number along. The one for the phone I’ve been using over here. I’ll be dumping it soon anyway.’

‘OK, will do. So, you’ll be moving on to Venezuela tomorrow then?’

‘No, I’ve decided to come home.’

This time he does smile. A rare occurrence.

‘Be good to have you back, Toots.’

‘I’ve told you not to call me that!’

The bath tub is freestanding, double-ended – shame I’m alone – with claw feet. Very decadent. I fill it as high as I dare and throw in all the bottles of complimentary potions. The water turns a rather lurid mauve and the bubbles threaten to spill over the sides.

After months of lukewarm showers in communal facilities – rewarding on occasion – and even outdoors, this is heaven. Sink down until the bubbles are under my chin and rest my head on the waterproof cushion. My eyes close. My phone rings. He hasn’t wasted any time. I connect via my ear piece.

‘Hello, Xavier.’

‘A moment, please,’ he says. Nice voice. Deep, cultured, mid-Atlantic accent.

I know what he’s doing. Let him, it makes no odds to me.

Ten seconds and he’s back. No pleasantries, straight in with, ‘I lost two operatives and a client in New York this morning.’

Careless. Ooh, does he think I did it?

‘Your name’s in the frame.’

Now I wonder how that happened.

‘Well I can assure you it wasn’t me. I’m not even in the U.S.’

‘No, you’re in Bogatá.’

He’s good. The trace has taken less than twenty-five seconds.

‘It’s nearly seven hours since the hit. You could have got to Colombia in that time.’

‘Yep, I could have, but I didn’t. Do you want to tell me what happened? I didn’t realise you did protection work.’

The Deep Web is full of killers for hire, ranging from guys who can’t simultaneously walk and chew gum to some highly-skilled individuals and outfits. Sicarri – Latin for assassins – is run by a group of ex-U.S. Navy SEALS and has a very slick website which I like to look at from time to time. Their price list for worldwide ‘disposals’ – a rising scale starting with Joe Public and peaking with celebrities and politicians – is what interests me and I’ve never noticed they offered other services.

‘It’s something we’ve gotten into recently. It pays to diversify.’

Not if you lose operatives and clients.

‘So who was the client?’

He’ll tell me because he knows I could find out within minutes on the net.

‘Boss of a hedge fund that collapsed due to his rogue trading and cost investors five hundred million dollars.’

‘Well I can see how he wouldn’t be very popular. So how did you lose him?’

‘We were working a two man detail. One on close protection and the other as driver and backup. This morning would have been the usual protocol. Five minutes before the client was due to leave his house the inside guy would’ve rung the driver and told him to bring the car round. When it arrived he’d have checked the immediate area, called the client out and signalled the driver to get the doors. Whoever was in that car pumped six 9mm rounds into each of the men on the steps. The Merc was found five blocks away with our other guy dead in the trunk.’

This is why I don’t do protection work. It’s far harder, and more dangerous, trying to keep someone alive than killing them.

‘And you think this was me because...?

‘The close protection operative was Rick Walker.’

Buggering bollocks. He was a good guy. I shut my eyes and picture the man-mountain topped with sandy hair and a smiling freckled face. He was always smiling. Afghanistan, 2008, only months before I left the army. A joint British and American black op. I saved his life and then he saved mine. We celebrated both incidents with some very satisfactory casual sex.

‘And so...?’

‘The client was dead at the scene but Rick died on the way to hospital. The last thing he said was your name.’

XAVIER

Of course there was more to it than that. As he bled out in the ambulance Rick had managed four words. Four words passed on by the good-looking brunette paramedic who had fought to save him. She’d written her phone number on the reverse of the note.

Without the benefit of facial expression or body language he had to rely on voice patterns and Halo gave nothing away. News of a friend’s death, the suggestion she was involved, but she hadn’t missed a beat. Cool customer. He’d expected no less from someone with her rep.

The hit on Moreno had her signature all over it. News reports put the shot at just after eleven that morning so there was no way she’d been in New York when his two operatives and client bought it. If it had been her she’d have taken out the mark with a long distance rooftop shot and no one else would have got hurt. The accusation was an attempt to rattle her cage, get her interested and then get her onside.

‘Just my name?’ she’d asked.

He told her the message. No immediate reply.

‘Look, Halo, I’m guessing there must have been some changes since the brigadier was killed. Are you available for hire? This is kinda personal for me and whoever did it is going to pay. I could do with your help.’

‘It’s yours, and you don’t need to hire me. Rick was good people. If the contract was on the banker the shooter shouldn’t have taken out your guys. We don’t kill each other. Well, not if it can be avoided.’

Disappointing, but not surprising, that she’d ignored the reference to her late employer. Shot dead during a robbery at his stately home. Yeah, right. Not a story anyone in the business was buying into. But she’d taken the bait about Rick which was more important.

‘So do you understand the message?’ he asked.

‘Sort of. Maybe. I’m not messing you about, Xavier, it’s just if Rick meant what I think then I just don’t know how that could be possible. I need to do some asking around. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know something.’

‘I’ll give you a number. Do you have a pen?’

‘No, I’m in the bath.’

Intriguing mental image. Paid assassin in the buff.

‘So...?’

‘All I’m wearing is bubbles.’

Was she flirting? Rumour had it she liked to play for both teams. Always interesting.

There’s something very hot about a dangerous woman. He was looking forward to meeting this one. Soon.

He smiled for the first and last time that day.

Twenty minutes later he’d packed an overnight bag and was heading upstate. A ninety minute drive to the family ranch in the Mid Hudson Valley.

Time working out how to tell his kid sister she was a widow. Her unborn child would never know its father.

VIRUS

22:05: £££

So it has begun at last. Feels good, doesn’t it?

22:05: €€€

Very good. The waiting was long.

22:06: £££

Time spent planning is time well spent. You must learn patience, my young friend.

22:06: €€€

You think me young?

22:06: £££

Compared to me, yes. But today I feel young too, and full of hope.

22:07: €€€

Of course. The death of a bloodsucker, a corrupt bank brought to its knees and more than a billion people knowing the world is about to change. It is a very fine start.

22:08: £££

Your exit plan went well?

22:08: €€€

Without problem. The Americans are not as clever as they think.

22:08: £££

Was it wise to kill the other two men?

22:09: €€€

Never leave witnesses.

22:09: £££

I see the sense in that but it’s important at this early stage not to alienate the masses with the death of innocents. $$$ wasn’t pleased.

22:10: €€€

There are no innocents. I do my job. $$$ should do his. Remind me again what that is?

22:10: £££

Ironic as it is, even a revolution to destroy capitalism has to be funded. The money from $$$ has allowed us to put our plans into action.

22:10: €€€

We will not need it for much longer. You will move again soon?

22:11: £££

Yes. The people want to know what we are about. They will not have to wait long.

22:11: €€€

The New Order!

22:11: £££

The New Order!

HALO

She has a walk like all kinds of wonderful.

A flamboyant Latin American beauty with tumbling black curls, lipsticked pout and swaying hips. The figure-hugging dress defies underwear. Exotic. Exciting.

The eyes of every man here follow her as she makes her way across the room but from the sidelong smile she shoots at me I’m guessing they’d be wasting their time.

Several bourbons have failed to take my mind off Rick’s death, or his message. I need a better distraction.

The girl crosses shapely legs, sips her cocktail and smiles my way again.

Less than a year ago I sat on a similar bar-stool, dressed up to the nines and looking to celebrate a very tricky but successful hit. The man I met that night went on to be the first ever to say he loved me. Within hours of saying it he was tortured and beaten nearly to death. Not my doing. Certainly my fault.

With just the change of name I use exactly the same words he used that night.

‘Hi. I’m Alice. That’s a great dress. Can I buy you a drink?’

Every army has its elite units. They all command the respect of the world’s soldiers but the exploits of two are legendary: the Israeli Sayeret Matkal and the French Foreign Legion.

Sayeret Matkal is the most effective counterterrorism force in the world. A myth, a rumour of a rumour, a secret fraternity of soldiers who strike as if from nowhere and rarely fail. They fight like partisans, in small groups, often disguised, rising, attacking and then fading away. They exist solely to defend, and avenge, the State of Israel. They do not join international task forces. I’ve never met a Sayeret Matkal, more’s the pity.

The French Foreign Legion on the other hand turns up for anything that looks as if it’ll be a good scrap. I encountered them first in Bosnia, then as part of the KFOR force in Kosovo and finally the coalition force for Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan. Without exception they were the toughest – both physically and mentally – mostly highly-disciplined and focused troops I ever served alongside. These guys trained, trained again and then trained some more. Multiple nationalities melded by an intense esprit de corps.

Thirty-six and never been in love. I’ve come close twice but in both cases it ended almost before it began, and badly. The first time was in Afghanistan around the time I knew Rick Walker. A Finnish Legionnaire. Luukas Korhonen. Six foot six of muscle and latent aggression. At first it was just a burning sexual attraction – I wanted to jump his bones every time I caught sight of him – but then something about this complex and flawed man started to touch me more deeply.

The Finn. Tell Halo.

But Rick, we both saw him die.

Didn’t we?

Like to think I’ve beaten my fear of small spaces but if I can avoid lifts then all the better. As I make for the door leading to the stairwell a male voice rings out.

‘Madam! Excuse me but where are you going?’

I turn around and the uniformed security guard smiles.

‘Sorry, Ms Lombardi, I didn’t recognise you with that new hair-do. Welcome back.’

Instinctively I raise a hand to my head and pat the curls I didn’t know I had until a stylist reduced the length and weight of my sun-damaged mop by more than half. It looks alright. A bit girly though.

Gabe sits with feet on desk, mug of tea in hand and reading his preferred tabloid. Pretty much where I left him three and a half months ago. He will have moved during that time but not with any speed. His natural languor is something I find very soothing. It belies a needle-sharp intellect.

‘Well look what the wind’s blown in,’ he drawls.

His lanky body unfolds from the chair and I assume he’s off to make me some tea but no, I’m enveloped in a bear hug. I hug back. This isn’t like either of us but given recent history it feels right. We don’t speak. It’s all been said before.

He ruffles my curls and gets a dig in the ribs.

‘Oi, I’m not a friggin’ poodle!’

‘No, definitely more pit bull but I couldn’t resist it.’

Hmm. Might need to rethink this style if that’s its effect.

When he’s made me some tea, refreshed his own and produced biscuits for dunking, we get down to business.

Given the main reason for my self-imposed exile was to distance myself, both mentally and physically, from my life in London, communication between us had been kept to a minimum. Once a week Gabe would text AOK and I’d reply the same way. Now it’s time to catch up.

‘The law-abiding side of the firm has been doing well. Several new clients and a higher than average candidate success rate,’ he tells me.

No surprise. Lombardi & Co – head-hunters in the international banking sector – was set up to give me a convincing cover and prospers because of Gabe’s background in the industry, his talent for networking and ability to weigh up people accurately. I do next to nothing.

The good news stops there.

‘Your court case came up some weeks ago. I entered a Guilty plea on your behalf along with a grovelling apology and some nonsense about a family crisis. You’ve been banned for two years and fined £3000 which I’ve paid from the business account. I think you got off lightly.’

During the headlong dash to confront an old enemy bent on revenge, and save my lover’s life, I’d clocked up three counts of speeding, another three of running red lights, two of going the wrong direction along a one way street and one of using the bus lane. All in less than an hour.

I know what’s coming next: an update on Martin. I want to hear it yet don’t want to all at the same time.

‘Martin was discharged from hospital a month after you left the country.’

Unbidden, the image of his smashed face and broken body lying in a hospital bed flashes in my mind’s eye. It was the last time I saw him and there’s unlikely to ever be another.

‘Dev’s been checking on him regularly as per your instructions.’

Good old Dev. If there’s anyone who can tail a Metropolitan Police detective without being made it’s him.

‘Is he back at work yet?’ I ask.

‘Ah,