Absolution Read online

  Seconds later the Opel sped off, and Leine raced to the other side of the intersection. She stopped and scanned the street. Zarko was halfway down the block, headed her way and shaking his head.

  “Someone was waiting for him in a black sedan.”

  The Bomb Maker was gone.

  3

  A hotel in Paris—six months earlier

  “What do you mean, you need space?” The hurt in Santiago Jensen’s eyes was enough to rip Leine’s heart in half. She was surprised there was no blood seeping from her shirt.

  “I have to go it alone. The last job took too much.”

  “That’s why you need me now.” Santa moved toward her, concern etching his face. Leine shook her head and stepped back.

  “No. Don’t make this harder than it already is.” She fought the impulse to wrap him in her arms and never let go, letting the world spin without them.

  But that would be foolish, and Santa would die.

  “Then talk to me.”

  Leine sighed. She owed him something for all the happiness they’d shared. “I’ve had a lot of time to think lately, and I keep coming to the same conclusion. I’m not good for you.”

  Santa crossed his arms and leaned against the dresser. “And why is that?”

  “You know what I’ve done. What I do.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “You’re a cop. Law and order. Rules and regs. Everything in its place.”

  “Your point?”

  “I’m not.” Leine closed her eyes, trying to think of the right way to say what she needed to say. “If I’m restricted by rules, I can’t do my job.”

  Santa scoffed. “You’ve done just fine so far.”

  “No, Santa. I haven’t. I’ve gone too far to come back.”

  His expression softened and he took another step toward her. She shook her head and he stopped.

  “I forgive you, whatever you’ve done,” he said. “You work for an agency that rescues children from sex traffickers. I doubt you’re the only one who’s gone too far.”

  He wasn’t going to make this easy, was he? With a sigh, Leine went over to her laptop and pressed several keys. The screen filled with photographs. She stood back and gestured for him to look.

  He walked over to see what she wanted to show him. His eyes narrowed and he frowned.

  “What’s this?” He nodded toward the grisly collage.

  “My kill wall.”

  “Your—” He glanced back at the screen. His expression changed from concern to shock as understanding lit his face. He stared at the photographs. “So these are trophies?”

  “In a sense, yes.” Leine pointed to one showing a man lying on a floor, eyes staring unseeing above him, a jagged wound across his throat. Blood soaked his torso. “That’s the man I killed when I found Chessa.” An American teenager, Chessa had been lured to an Izz Al-Din training camp to become a terrorist bride. Leine had rescued her, killing her handler in the process.

  “But you had to kill him to rescue her.”

  Leine pointed to another that showed three men laid shoulder to shoulder, all dead, all lined up together for a group photo. “Those three were only peripherally responsible for the kidnapping and sale of twin sisters to a human trafficking ring based out of Las Vegas.”

  “But you had a good reason.” Santa was reaching, she could tell.

  So could he.

  She shook her head. “Not really. I decided to kill them because they were part of the organization. They were no threat to me or the twins.”

  “Still, they were part of the problem.”

  “You don’t see it, do you? What I am, what I’ve done, is affecting your own belief in the law, your respect for it, how you serve it. You’re willing to excuse me crossing lines.”

  “Because I love you and trust you’re doing what needs to be done.”

  She pointed to a particularly gruesome photograph. This one was hard even for her to look at. It was of a middle-aged couple, their faces bashed to unrecognizable pulp. A bent fireplace poker lay next to the man in whose hand rested a Glock 32. She didn’t give him the chance to fire. She’d never experienced such fury before or since. She hoped she never would again.

  Santa winced. “What did they do?”

  “They ran a porn site. Live streamed infants being sexually abused for subscribers. They had a professional studio in their barn.”

  Being a veteran cop, he’d likely seen or heard of the practice. The look on his face told her his inner compass was swinging wildly, searching for firmer ground. He would have arrested them and brought them to trial.

  She beat their heads in.

  She continued. “It was quite the going concern. They had a massive investment portfolio.” Leine had made sure the feds knew about the account. Anonymously, of course. Most of the subscribers had been slapped with one charge or another.

  “I get it, Leine. You’ve done some things you’re not proud of. So have I.” His voice had less conviction than before. “But it’s in service to good.”

  “But what you’ve done is not the same. There’s a limit to how far you’ll go before you cross a line.”

  Santa bowed his head, deep in thought. He was close—teetering on the edge. It amazed her that he was still trying to accept what she’d done. What she did. She just had to tip him over. Shoving deep the pain of losing him, she compartmentalized the shreds of her heart so she could finish the job.

  “I don’t feel anything when I kill.” There. She’d laid her cards on the table. She’d become that which she’d always fought. A killing machine with no emotion, no ability for empathy.

  Santa stared at her a long time. “Have you thought about talking to someone? I know a good psychoanalyst—”

  Leine slammed the laptop cover down. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m damaged goods. I’ll never be what you need.”

  “You’re everything I need.” The determination in his voice was still there. “Don’t I get a say in this relationship?”

  Tears pricked Leine’s eyelids. Her heart was shredded. What more could she say? If she didn’t leave soon she’d surrender and allow him to grant her absolution for her sins. No, she had to push him away. Had to leave.

  Or else he’d die.

  “Well, I need more than you.” She almost choked on the words, but they did what the kill wall hadn’t. The stricken expression on his face was more than she could bear. She busied herself shutting down the laptop. Tucking it under her arm, she turned to say goodbye. His stunned look told her he’d finally accepted she was leaving.

  “You’re really going to throw everything away? Didn’t our time together mean anything to you?” His voice was low, but anger sparked the words.

  “Of course it did.” More than you’ll ever know. She stifled the emotions threatening to derail her exit. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I hope someday you’ll understand.”

  He followed her into the hallway where her bag waited by the door. She’d packed her things that morning. She turned to face him and stopped herself from reaching out to caress his cheek. His green eyes were dark with unexpressed anger. She couldn’t blame him. She’d react the same if their roles were reversed.

  This is the last time you’re going to see him, Leine. She wanted to leave him with words to remember her by, but came up empty. It’s for the best. He’ll be safe. As long as he’s alive, I can live with myself.

  “This obsession you have—of justice at any cost—it’s going to consume you.”

  “It already has.”

  With that, she shouldered her bag and walked out the door into her new life.

  And away from the most genuine love she’d ever known.

  4

  Two hours after the debacle with the Bomb Maker on Tower Bridge, Leine and Art met on the banks of the Thames near the Tate Modern. The wide concrete promenade near the art museum was filled with happy, animated tourists and passersby, lending a light atmosphere to the brisk fall day—in direct contrast to Leine’s dark mood. Two little girls dressed in matching coats and knit leggings screamed in delight as their father blew massive soap bubbles in the air, dashing back and forth in an impressive effort to pop each luminous bubble before it landed.

  “So we’re back to square one.” Art gazed out at the Thames. Despite the cold, he wore his jacket open to the weather.

  “Worse. Daniel’s out of service for the foreseeable future.” Leine stared unseeing at the dark brick wall of the museum. The imposing structure seemed to magnify her frustration at the disastrous meeting on the bridge. Daniel had been whisked to the hospital and was currently undergoing surgery to repair the knife wound to his torso. Expected to survive, he’d been the first to volunteer for the initial meeting and was Art’s right hand. Although she was relieved he would recover, his injury was a huge loss in her search for Salome.

  “We’ll find her.”

  Leine turned around and leaned on the railing, her gaze moving from the family playing on the quayside to the ship traffic plying the river. “There must be some way to locate her. She can’t have just dropped off everyone’s radar.”

  “Have you tried Lou? Maybe he’s got some ideas.”

  “Maybe,” Leine replied. She’d have to be careful when she contacted him. She didn’t want to chance putting Lou in Salome’s crosshairs. “Did you leave anyone at the hospital to keep an eye on Daniel?” she asked. “The Bomb Maker doesn’t strike me as a complacent man. He’d want to tie up loose ends.”

  “I’ve got two guys there now. One’s stationed outside the ER, and the other is roaming. They’ll spell each other when Danny’s assigned to a room.”

  “Good.” Just then, a river cruise glided by, snippets of running narrative fed through loudspeakers echoing on the light br
eeze, reminding her of the terrorist attack Salome instigated in Paris months before. She’d used a similar boat on the Seine.

  “We need to find Damil.”

  Art glanced at her. “You mean the guy who helped Salome in Libya?”

  “He also set the explosives under the Pont de l’Alma. That tells me she trusts him.” Damil had also been Salome’s go-to guy when it came to finding suicide bombers.

  “You met in Libya?” Art asked.

  Leine nodded. “He was shaking down a ten-year-old street kid in an alley in Tripoli. If I hadn’t happened along, he and his friend would have killed her.” Yet another reason she hadn’t contacted Jinn while she was in London. It was safer to leave her be. She also didn’t want to disrupt the kid’s new life.

  Art shook his head and muttered a curse under his breath that sounded a lot like scum-sucking bastard. “I know a couple of people in Libyan intelligence. If Salome’s guy was active around Tripoli I’ll bet there’s a photograph or two of him. You could circulate the picture with a few people and see if you get a hit.”

  “That could work.” Leine nodded thoughtfully. “I know someone there who owes me a favor. Let me try him first.” Paul Miller was a CIA operative who worked out of Tripoli Station and had coordinated the intelligence agencies involved in fighting the terrorist attack in Paris. He’d be able to access the information if it was there. If Paul wasn’t comfortable providing additional data on Damil, she’d ask Lou to circulate the photograph. The director for SHEN had contacts in several intelligence circles. Combined with Art’s connections, there shouldn’t be a problem finding him.

  The next afternoon, Leine had her picture. Paul Miller had sent three. One showed Damil in profile from the waist up. The second was a grainy black and white surveillance video that captured him walking into a train station. The third completed the trifecta, showing his features head on as he went through customs and immigration. Shot from above, the last photograph had more than enough data points for facial recognition software. True to form, Miller had advised Leine that the images would be the extent of his help in the matter due to liability issues he assumed would be triggered by her “interest.” Leine encrypted the files and forwarded them to Lou and Art.

  If they couldn’t come up with a match and weren’t able to find Damil, she’d have to figure out a Plan B. Who did she know that might have more information about Salome’s whereabouts? Leine racked her brain for someone, anyone who might be willing to help her. Short of infiltrating Izz Al-Din’s terrorist network, she was coming up blank.

  But there were people she’d worked with at the agency who had gone out on their own. Elite assassins were in demand the world over, either as personal security or freelance hitmen and women. Leine had fielded a few of those job offers herself. She might be able to glean some information from one of them. As long as they wanted to be found.

  And there was one person she hadn’t tapped yet who might be interested in helping her, although his loyalties weren’t always clear.

  She pulled out her phone and called her old friend, Spencer Simms.

  5

  Soho, London

  Leine had just finished a simple meal of fresh fish and steamed vegetables in her rented flat in Soho when her phone alerted her to an incoming message. It was from Lou.

  Found a match for your photograph.

  She opened the attachment and read through the report before leaning back in her chair. Damil was in London. That the two main players in Salome’s last bombing attempt were in the same place at the same time could only mean one thing.

  She was planning something.

  Leine’s upcoming meeting with Spencer Simms took on a new level of urgency. He was due in to St. Pancras Station at 6:30 that evening. She checked her watch—she had just enough time to contact Art to tell him about the facial recog match, and to let him know where and when she was meeting Simms.

  Like Leine, Simms was a former assassin. Unlike Leine, his loyalties lay wherever the most money could be found. A former colleague at the agency, for the past few years Spencer Simms had been working security for a wealthy French businessman with ties to organized crime. In that capacity, Simms was a walking encyclopedia of European underworld figures. He’d also saved her life.

  She just wasn’t sure she could trust him.

  “Rumor has it some unsavory characters from Libya have been seen lurking about London.” Spencer Simms took a sip of his drink and surveyed the bar. The trendy wood- and brass-filled pub near King’s Cross where Leine suggested they meet was light-years away from his preferred haunt in a seedy neighborhood in Paris.

  He’d just arrived on the Eurostar from Gare du Nord and appeared to have slept most of the way. His thick blond hair stuck up in back, giving him a boyish quality, one he’d exploited in his days as an assassin. He’d seduced more women into giving up their secrets than there were croissants in a French boulangerie.

  “Anything that could connect it to Salome?” Leine asked.

  “Not really. But you know and I know it’s a pretty safe bet.”

  “What’s she planning?” Leine mused aloud.

  “If it were me, I’d pick up Damil and persuade him to talk.”

  “That’s the plan.” Leine pulled up the CCTV picture on her phone and slid it toward him on the bar. “The only problem being that Salome would know someone was onto her. As it is, there are multiple agencies looking for the Bomb Maker for several attacks—I don’t know of anyone looking for Damil.”

  “Use the right leverage and you could have an entrée into her network of thugs. Move on the information quickly enough and she might not get wind of your carefully crafted plans.”

  “Depends on whether Damil turns against his master. That’s a long shot. We don’t have enough time to do it right.”

  “True.” Spencer drummed his fingers on the bar as he thought. “Even so, I think Damil is your best bet. You did say he was the nephew of one of your contacts from the old days, right?”

  “He was. His uncle is no longer with us.” Damil’s Uncle Henri had been one of Leine’s weapons suppliers in Paris. He was recently deceased, the result of an unfortunate career move on his part.

  “Too bad. Would’ve been good leverage.”

  “It still might be.”

  Spencer paused, his drink midway to his lips. “How so?”

  “He’s aware I was involved in the incident leading up to his uncle being killed. Salome made certain of that.”

  Spencer lifted his chin. “Ah. Nothing like revenge to motivate a man.”

  Leine sighed. “Kidnapping him appears to be my best course. Still, I’d prefer something less obvious. Abduction can backfire in a big way.”

  “Murphy’s Law, you mean?” Spencer smiled and finished his drink. “Let me know if you need anything. This vendetta of yours sounds right up my alley.”

  “It’s not a vendetta.”

  “Oh? Then what would you call hunting down an adversary with the intention of ‘neutralizing’ her?” He used air quotes around the word neutralizing.

  “A public service.”

  “Is the money good?”

  “There’s no money.”

  Simms smiled and shook his head. “You really haven’t changed, have you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were always about justice. Money didn’t matter—taking out the bad guys, now, that’s what really turned you on.”

  “Which is why I had to leave the agency.”

  Simms snorted. “Don’t tell me you didn’t suspect that weasel Eric was into lining his own pockets.”

  Leine looked away, her anger rising. Eric, her immediate supervisor at the agency, had been using agency resources to fulfill questionable contracts, which included hiring Leine and her fiancé, Carlos, to eliminate people who weren’t deemed threats to national security. When Carlos discovered his scheme, Eric shut him down. Permanently.

  She shook off the bitter memory and took a sip of wine. “No, but I found out, didn’t I?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up old ghosts.”