Fear the Angel: Dash Carter, #1

By Chad Scott

Dash Carter is America's number one off-the-books asset in the shadowy world of black operations.  When a deadly plot to seize power is being directed from within the highest levels of the U.S. government, his new assignment to kill a target and collect critical intelligence goes haywire.  The resulting chaos leads to a national security crisis as an archenemy gains control over a weapon of mass destruction with the immediate intent of deploying it inside the United States.  Carter has to dodge ruthless killers from Europe to his homeland while racing against the clock to prevent a devastating attack.          

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rooks Creek Media
• Release date: Mar 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224823673

Chad Scott

Chad Scott is a first-time author who was inspired to write his debut novel by the thought of showing his son that amazing things can be accomplished when you focus your mind on doing something worthy.  He currently resides in Illinois with his wife, son, and family dog, working as a full-time Police Officer.  He is an avid sports fan who also enjoys traveling, CrossFit, learning languages, and experiencing all the world has to offer.

Book preview

The Angel of Death is the invisible Angel of Life – Henry Mills Alden

Chapter 1

ROME, ITALY

Dash Carter watched his target approach on the narrow Via di San Giovanni, coming from the direction of the Colosseum.  The piazza he was entering was unusually quiet for being so close to ancient Rome's most iconic landmark; at night it seemed almost forgotten.  A few trees and a couple marble benches adorned the little gathering space that greeted visitors to the shabby looking Basilica di San Clemente.  The target looked nervous, his head constantly swiveling from side to side, and the dim yellow hue of the few streetlights gave his skin a slightly jaundiced color.  For a man so accustomed to risky meetings with less than honorable individuals, he couldn't hide the tension in his face.  All his mannerisms did nothing to cloak the underlying apprehension that caused his heartrate to accelerate the closer he got to the meeting site.  Beads of sweat clung to his furrowed brow.

Perhaps it was because of what he was coming to sell.  

Dimitri Morozov was a fifty-one year old Russian businessman who made his fortune brokering arms deals.  Five-feet and eleven inches tall, a little over two-hundred pounds, he was thick, not fat.  He had thick black hair that was kept slicked back like a mobster, equally thick black eyebrows, and his face was clean shaven.  His cheeks looked puffed out and he had a strange nose that was narrow but then bulged out into an over-sized rounded tip.  Morozov wore a tight fitting black button-up dress shirt with gray dress pants and shiny shoes that had to of been recently polished.  There was a large watch on his right wrist that even from a distance looked expensive and gaudy at the same time.  

To his sides, and a couple paces behind him, were a pair of bodyguards who also doubled as enforcers.  Both were much larger men who carried themselves with authority and the knowledge that their mere presence exuded intimidation.  Carter knew the man at Morozov's side, Grigori, was a former Spetsnaz soldier.  Dressed in a short sleeved polo, his huge arms looked like telephone poles.  The bodyguards were well trained and very professional, Carter knew their instincts would alert them to the fact that the location was an ideal spot for an ambush.  

They would be right of course, but in a minute, nothing could prevent their deaths. 

Thanks to some creative tech work by a genius at a keyboard, Morozov was under the impression that he was attending an auction for the five deadly weapons that a client had asked him to sell for the highest price.  He was expecting to meet representatives from Iran, Venezuela, North Korea, the Palestinian Liberation Organization, and the Taliban, as well as a few wealthy Arabs who bankrolled a handful of other Islamic militant groups.  The neutral location had been arranged by a friend in the Banda della Magliana mafia, for a generous fee.  Surprisingly, none of the Muslim attendees rejected the idea of using a Catholic church for the clandestine auction house.  The problem for Morozov was that everyone else thought the meeting was actually happening a day later.  One of the resident computer hackers at Carter's organization had managed to change the logistical details on all of Morozov's outgoing messages so that all the potential buyers would show up the following day.  All they will find, is a crime scene.

The church had a small, enclosed courtyard that when entered through the front entrance had dark porticos with six columns each on the right and left sides.  Flagstone sidewalks in the shape of an X led to a crumbling white stone fountain in the center.  There was no lighting.  A combination of moonlight and the ambient glow from taller buildings adjacent to the church provided the only illumination. 

At the entrance, Grigori went inside first while Morozov and the other bodyguard stayed just outside.  Morozov continually looked back over his shoulder, his paranoia was evident and well justified.  He had no clue that his killer was lurking in a recessed entrance to an apartment building just catty-corner from the church.  Carter and the shadows were blended into one.  When his target and bodyguard two entered the courtyard, he moved.  

Carter was dressed in the traditional daily outfit worn by Catholic priests around the world:  black shoes and belt, black pants, and a black shirt complete with a white neck collar.  While not a religious man, it still felt strange to impersonate a priest while killing three men in a church, as if he was still being judged by a higher power.  He distanced the thought.  It was all part of the job.  The ends justify the means.

He opened the doors to the courtyard where he was immediately met by Grigori.  Carter tried to look as harmless as possible, hoping the priest costume would add to the deception.  He began speaking in Italian but stopped when Morozov moved forward and spoke in a thick Russian accent, sounding like his tongue was stuck to the bottom of his mouth. 

I'm sorry Father, but do you speak English? 

Yes, replied Carter with his best effort at an Italian accent.  Welcome to Saint Clement's, Signor Vieri wanted me to greet you.  I believe the others should be here soon.  Dropping the name of the mafia boss was another ploy to lower their guard.  It seemed to work.  Grigori let out a long breath and his shoulders dropped in a sign of relaxation.  

With a sudden whip of his right arm, Carter removed a suppressed pistol from his rear waistband and squeezed the trigger as he brought the gun around to his front, aiming upward at the larger man's head.  The round entered at the base of Grigori's neck, tore through soft muscle tissue and windpipe, then exited the back of his head at the bottom of his skull.  He stumbled backwards a step while raising his hands in a futile attempt to cover the entry wound.  Blood gurgled out of the hole as he tried to breathe.  Grigori dropped to his knees and then fell over backwards.  Carter stepped to the left, fully raising and extending the pistol until bodyguard two was in his sights; the man was too slow to react, maybe too stunned.  A second quick squeeze send a round slamming into bodyguard two's forehead, precisely between the eyes.  His body collapsed lifelessly on the spot.  Carter took two steps forward and placed the tip of the suppressor against Grigori's forehead.  He fired.  Grigori went from flopping around on his back to silent and still.  Blood still bubbled from his neck and now began pooling under his head.     

To his credit, Morozov neither begged nor pleaded for his life.  Comically, he threatened.  He threatened to kill Carter's family, friends, and if you have a dog, I'll kill it too.  Pointless.  

Without a word to respond, Carter leveled his gun at his primary target and sent a round into his nose and through his brain.  Morozov's head snapped backward, but his body stayed momentarily suspended like it refused to acknowledge death.  Finally Morozov's body crumpled down, a marionette with cut strings.

The night was warm and thick with humidity.  Occasional sounds of nearby traffic was the only noise that Carter heard.  He moved to Morozov's body and studied him for a moment.  He put on a pair of rubber gloves, kneeled, and searched his pockets.  Nothing.  He ran his hands all over the corpse until he felt a rectangular shape under the man's pants by his right thigh.  He undid the dead man's pants and yanked them down to reveal red underwear with yellow polka dots.  Shaking his head at the absurdity of Morozov's choice of undergarment, he continued pulling the pants down, finding a beige money belt similar to what a thousand tourists would have to guard against the notorious pickpockets of Rome.  The credit card sized pouch was secured to the leg via an elastic band.  Carter found what he wanted inside the pouch, what he needed to complete the mission.  He took the Secure Digital, or SD, flash memory card and shoved it into a front pocket.  Carter surveyed the scene one more time, wondering what the first police officers would think upon arrival.  He actually smiled while imagining their initial reactions.  Three men, all shot in the head, one with his pants at his knees; even for a major city, this would be unusual.

After collecting the spent shell casings for his 9mm rounds, Carter exited the courtyard, shutting the doors behind him.  His eyes swept the immediate vicinity for any signs that someone knew what just happened behind the closed doors.  The shots themselves were nothing more than muffled metallic spits that even someone walking by on the sidewalk should not have heard.  There were three people out walking, one by himself and the other two appeared to be a couple; they were all a block away and not paying any attention to him.  A motor scooter was speeding away down Via dei Querceti and vehicles were steadily moving by on the busier Via Labicana.  Nothing indicated that he was in any risk of exposure.  Besides, if someone saw him right now, all they could be able to tell the police was that a priest was standing outside of the church.  Not much to go on.  

The moon was just a sliver in the sky.  Carter walked as casually as one would expect of a priest out for a night stroll around the Eternal City.  His pulse rate beat slow and rhythmically.  He certainly didn't look like he just killed three men.  Four days in Rome and he was disappointed to be leaving.  He would be back, maybe the next trip would be on his own time, he so much enjoyed the city.  All that he had to do now was to make the almost three hour drive north to Florence.  He had a hotel room there and was already checked-in under an alias.  He would relax, drink a glass of red wine, a chianti, and get a little sleep before flying out of Italy with his assignment completed.  

Carter felt a growing unease with each step.  Even though he had no explanation for the cause, he learned not to ignore such feelings.  He was still alive because he never ignored an instinct.  This assignment felt different, there was an urgency that had yet to be explained.         

For whatever the reason, Carter knew that life was about to get complicated.

Chapter 2

FLORENCE, ITALY

The three-man team stood out right away.  Not to anyone else moving through the hotel's lobby, but Carter recognized them for what they were in an instant.  Their tactical positioning was excellent.  Between the three of them, all the entrances and exits were covered, and they were all within eyesight of each other.  They regularly exchanged glances at one another as Carter watched.  They were undoubtedly a team.  Not a believer in coincidence, Carter knew they were there for him.  

All three looked fit, two were either late twenties or thirty somethings and the other man looked at least in the mid-forties, probably closer to fifty, and he sported a thick brown beard.  Dressed casually, Carter observed that one of the younger men had a bulge by his left hip indicating a concealed gun.  He assumed they were all carrying guns of some sort. 

The older man sat in a black leather armchair doing his best to look like he was reading a travel magazine advertising can't miss sights in Florence.  Most of the time his eyes were looking over the top of the magazine, examining the room.  The two other men were standing on opposite sides of the lobby, one by the two elevators and one by the front doors where the entrance to the restaurant was located.  They stood still, arms hanging limply by their sides, numb facial expressions, eyes scanning like their colleague; they looked somewhat out of place, being rooted to one spot seemingly without a purpose.  None of the hotel guests or employees showed any level of concern.  

The Hotel Palazzo di Michelangelo was perched in the hills south of the Arno River off Viale Galileo.  It catered to big budgeted tourists, business executives, the occasional celebrity, and obviously, assassins on the government's dime.  From the outside, it looked nothing like its five-star rating, the medieval gray stone façade that greeted guests was dull and unwelcoming.  The grand lobby provided a stark contrast with white marble flooring, matching columns, and a large bright chandelier that looked like it could light a football field.  A variety of colorful plants were strategically placed in corners and seating areas.  The hotel featured a Michelin rated restaurant with an outdoor terrace covered by a pergola with ivy.  The terrace and all the north facing rooms have dramatic views over Florence's historic city center.   

Carter watched from the front foyer happy that he had not been identified by the team.  Instead of coming directly to the lobby from his room to checkout, he exited the elevator on the second floor and then took the stairs to the basement level.  He weaved through a couple hallways mainly used by employees before climbing a different flight of stairs and leaving the hotel through a side door.  Carter walked around to the front, then stopped in the foyer to survey the lobby for a second.  He saw the team.  He very rarely came and went the same way twice.  He never got complacent.  Using proper field tradecraft was not just a skill, it was a way of life.      A predictable operative was often a dead operative. 

Carter was two months shy of turning thirty, having so far survived his career choice for nearly eight years.  He was an even six feet tall and kept his weight around one-hundred-eighty-five pounds; lean and muscular like an Olympic sprinter.  While he had plenty of strength and power, he was built for speed, quickness, and efficiency of movement.  Along with endurance and precision, those were the hallmark assets of someone successful in his profession.  His hair was light brown and he kept it short and neat, uniformly cropped to a quarter inch.  Carter had a square face, a broad forehead, a straight-edged aquiline nose, and pointed cheekbones with a faint lightning bolt shaped scar on his right one.  His face was clean shaven at the moment but that often changed depending on the assignment.  He had a number of old scars scattered across his body, the damaged then repaired skin were souvenirs of close calls in the field, reminders of the thin line between life and death. 

He was a chameleon; able to blend in and be forgettable.  Today however, he needed to be invisible.

Dressed in a navy blue button-up, sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow, and comfortable fitting khaki dress pants, Carter looked like a half dozen other men loitering in the lobby at the moment.  He wore dark Ray-Ban sunglasses with a thick matte black frame and a pair of brown suede Derby shoes.  He had two choices; go back the way he came or continue into the lobby to check out.  Both had pros and cons.  Continuing had the biggest con of possibly picking a fight with three men in the middle of a public space crowded with people.  He didn’t think they would engage him right then and there, but he also didn’t know the rules they were playing by.  As he was debating, the decision was made for him. 

The older bearded man dropped the magazine into his lap and lasered his sight into the foyer where Carter stood.  A heartbeat after that, Carter saw both the other two men turn their heads in the same direction.  Shit.  He still didn’t think they could actually see him, but yet they knew he was there.  He knew he had made a mistake and broke one of the rules of field operations hammered into him during training...Assume Nothing.

There was a fourth team member somewhere outside the front entrance.  He had been marked.  Someone knew what he looked like, confirmed it was him, and just alerted the team inside. 

Carter could not take the chance of getting caught in the lobby where he would be too exposed to the threats.  The mid-morning foot traffic inside was still heavy enough that there were also a lot of innocents at risk if things really went south.  If they were police, the team would move in without shooting to handcuff him.  But they were not the police; according to the first news reports he had seen on TV, the bodies in Rome were discovered shortly after six a.m. and the authorities were still trying to identify the victims.  There was no way he had been fingered not only as the killer, but also that he had left Rome and stayed the night in Florence, specifically at Hotel Palazzo di Michelangelo.  Likewise, his gut said the men weren’t agents of Italian intelligence, none of them even looked Italian.  Two could have been northern or eastern European, possibly even American or Canadian, and one of the young guys had a dark skin complexion with jet black hair, not Mexican, but most likely from South America.  Carter ruled out any other intel organization because the men simply weren't being very covert; this was to be a head-on, force by numbers type of operation without caring who saw.  That left a mercenary group as the only option.  To know who he was, and to be able to track him so expertly, spoke to their level of available resources and to their ability to access extremely classified information.  

He could not underestimate the seriousness of this threat.

The bearded man started moving toward the front door.  Time was up.  

Carter turned around and quickly scanned the outside patio area for any members of the team that he missed.  Other than hotel employees, he counted eight people.  The only person still there from his first pass was a woman sitting on a short stone retaining wall in front of a bush of red geraniums.  She was seated sideways to the door and directly facing the sidewalk from where he came from.  She was cute, tall and lanky, with shoulder length blond hair pulled into a ponytail.  She wore cut-off jean shorts and a yellow V-neck cut shirt.  Aviator style sunglasses covered her eyes, and she had a pair of ear buds in while holding her phone up in front of her face.  Was she really watching him?

His heart rate began to quicken, the adrenal glands beginning their biological function.  His training would override the body's natural response to a threat.  Carter exited the front door, keeping his eyes locked on the blond woman; she never moved a muscle.  He didn't like turning his back to his enemies, but it was only for a moment, and he had no choice.  Once outside he sprinted for the side door.  As he began pulling it open, he saw the two younger men round the corner.  He had to get back to his room.  Since they were waiting for him in the lobby, they must not have figured out what room he was in.  Most of his personal belongings could be left behind, but the passport for his alias along with a couple credit cards were still in the room and he didn't want to burn the identity.  If someone got a hold of the identity information, previous travels could be tracked and corresponding suspicious deaths could all be tied to him.  More importantly, Morozov's memory card was still in the room.

He sprinted down a couple first floor hallways, ignoring the near hostile looks from housekeeping employees and guests alike.  He found the stairs and raced up them to the fifth floor taking two steps at a time.  His quad muscles burned and his chest heaved with every deep breath.  He left the stairwell, the heavy metal door clicking closed behind him, and began jogging toward his room when he saw the floor indicator lights on the elevator climbing.  The number four light was on.  Carter flattened his back against the wall just to the left of the elevator doors.  His gun pressed into the small of his back, calling to him.  He chose to ignore it because if this was just some schmuck who was unlucky enough to share the same floor with Carter then he didn't want to stick a gun in someone's face who would then run off screaming for the police.  Or what if it was a family, what if it was kids?

It wasn't.  

The elevator 'tinged' and the doors slid open.  The bearded man stepped out, his own pistol held in a two-handed grip, pulled in close to his chest in what's known as the high ready position.  Carter's reflexes were as fast or faster than practically anyone else on the planet.  Before the bearded man could react, Carter swung his right hand up and back in a backwards chop and struck the man in the front center of his neck, just below the Adam's apple, with the outside edge of his palm.  By the amount of give in the man's throat, Carter knew he caused deadly damage.  The bearded man dropped his gun to bring both hands up to his collapsed windpipe.  The man tried desperately to suck in some air with no success.  He was dead already, he just didn't know it.  

Carter checked the defenseless man's pockets; he found nothing.  He shoved the bearded man back into the elevator and hit the button for the first floor.  He picked up the man's gun.  The doors closed.  Carter's last view of the man was of him lying on his side, legs kicking about wildly.  Wherever the elevator stopped next, someone was in for a surprise.  

He now knew that his room number was no longer a secret.  Carter hoped that he had bought enough time to get in and get out before the others arrived on the fifth floor.  Hope though, was not a reliable strategy.

Chapter 3

Carter paused inside the room to complete a series of breaths; in...one...two...three, hold...one...two...three, out...one...two...three.  The breathing technique slowed his system down, forcing his heart rate to level off.  He liked to control what he could.  He had endured so much stress inoculation training that his body did not respond to stimulus at even close to the same scale as a civilian.  He would never be in danger of his adrenaline causing so much of a spike that he would lose motor functions.  Controlling his breathing helped to center him, it helped him focus.            

He figured that if one of them knew what his room number was, then they all did.  He was expecting company sooner rather than later.  Everything that he had in the room could fit into his hard-sided carry-on suitcase.  The suitcase also contained a specially designed secret location for his pistol; lined with lead sheeting, it blocked any X-ray machines from seeing the hidden weapon.  His Heckler & Koch VP9 would not get packed right now though.  Carter had plans to use it.

He was glad to have the extra ammunition after adding the bearded man's gun to his arsenal.  It was a Glock 19 with a full fifteen round magazine.  It was always prudent to have a backup weapon.  He was down to only one pistol after disassembling the one used in Rome and tossing the parts into the Tiber River.  Two knives, one with a five-inch fixed blade and the other with a two-inch blade, rounded out his assortment of lethal tools.  A handful of items in the room could also be used as an improvised weapon in a pinch.  His training taught him to identify any object that could be weaponized, it was just a matter of intent.  

Carter grabbed the complimentary shampoo and conditioner bottles from the bathroom.  He dumped both bottles out onto the tile floor just inside the room's door.  He used a plastic cup to then drop some water on the floor before smearing it all together with his hand.  When entering the room there was a small closet on the right, then the bathroom, then a kitchen nook with a mini-fridge.  A checkerboard tile floor ran the length of the entrance hall until it met a forest green carpet at the point where the room opened up into the bed area.

His time was running out.  He retrieved the memory card from its hidden location inside the air vent.  One would think that priority intelligence was always in the operative's possession, but it was actually quite the opposite.  In the event an operative was captured or killed, it was important that the intel still get to where it needed to be and not fall into the enemy's hands.  As in this case, a hidden location was used and if something happened to Carter, his bosses would be able to learn the memory card's location through a pre-arranged communication setup, often a saved email draft.  A new operative could then be dispatched to pick up the package.  

Perhaps it was over-confidence, but Carter decided the memory card was safer with him.  If the team hunting him was as professional as he believed, they would likely have found the hiding spot after a very thorough search.  

As he stepped down from the rolling desk chair that he used to reach into the vent, there were two loud knocks on his door.  In a forced high pitched voice, a man on the other side of the door announced, Housekeeping. 

It would have been comical had the situation not been what it was.  

The two men arrived at their target's door nearly out of breath.  They had done a quick sprint up the stairs to the fifth floor after their team leader had been discovered by an elderly woman in the lobby.  Her ear shattering wail alerted them to a problem.  They passed by the front of the elevator as hotel employees also converged, only to see their fallen comrade dead.  

Each man had a gun in his hand.  One stood on the right side of the door, the other on the left.  They knew their target was a dangerous man and they took every precaution to prolong their chances of success.  The door was shut and locked.  

Both men tensed knowing that they would need to make a dynamic entry and clear the target's room.  From what they had been told, they doubted their target would have cornered himself in his own room, but the evidence of the stress they felt was plain on their faces.  Their skin shimmered in layers of sweat.  The man on the right, the senior man who was now in charge, nodded his head at his partner to signal it was time.  He was also the bigger of the two and he braced for a stomp kick to the door.  The man powered his right leg forward, striking the door with the bottom of his foot just above the doorknob and sending it flying into the room.

The man on the left went in first, fast and somewhat crouched so that the other man could shoot over the top of him if needed.  The goal was to use the maximum amount of speed and aggression to their advantage.  They wanted to make the target play defense because playing defense led to mistakes and mistakes led to death.  The new team leader followed a step behind.  

Unfortunately for them, their speed and close proximity is exactly what their target had counted on.  

Carter knelt behind the bed, elbows resting on top of the soft comforter, pistol pointed at the door.  It's not that he was expecting the bed to provide any protection from bullets coming his way, it was to break up his outline and not make himself such an obvious target.  

The door exploded open with splinters of wood from the frame soaring the length of the tile floor.  The first man entered with his own gun up and ready to fire.  He was a short, squat looking man with a bald head and bushy eyebrows.  His second step on the tile floor landed right in the middle of Carter's shampoo booby trap, the combination of the man's speed and the slippery floor taking away any possible traction.  Baldy’s lead foot shot backwards rapidly with a squeak.  He stumbled forward, his upper body almost parallel to the floor, both arms flailing out to the side in an attempt to gain balance, the gun still in his right hand.  Carter shot him once in the crown of his head before he was able to regain any footing.  His momentum carried him forward until he belly flopped down to the floor.  

The second man was tall with a mop of curly black hair, dressed in a black tee shirt and blue jeans.  He came through the door so quick and so close to Baldy that he had no chance to avoid getting tangled up with his pal as the guy ungracefully attempted to maintain his balance in front of him.  His left foot slid on the shampoo slicked floor at the same time his right foot and ankle became intertwined with the bald man's legs.  The result was Curly crashing down on top of Baldy’s corpse, his jeans getting splattered with some of his partner’s blood and brains.

Carter stood and aimed the front sight of his pistol carefully, slowly squeezing the trigger.  The round struck the Curly’s right forearm, causing him to release his grip on his gun, the weapon clinking on the tile as it landed on the floor.  Curly howled a yell of pain while feebly reaching with his left hand toward his pistol.  Carter was moving toward the mess of bodies and blood when he fired a second round into the left wrist of the tall man.  Another yell filled the room.  Carter grabbed Curly by his hair and dragged him forward out of the entry hall, forcing him to crawl on his badly injured arms.  Once he was off the tile, Carter pulled him up into a sitting position and shoved him back against the wall.  The man's gaze bore into Carter with contempt.  Without a word, or a warning, Carter fired a third time, this one targeting the man's right knee.  Carter moved quickly to cup his left hand over Curly’s mouth so he had to swallow down his scream.  

Carter had a dry, gravelly voice, and it came out now as a hoarse growl.

If you lie to me or don't tell me what I want to know, I will continue adding to the pain.

Carter removed his hand and sat back on the end of the bed.  He kept his weapon aimed at Curly who now only had one working limb; not a real intimidating threat, but Carter learned the hard way to never let his guard down.  

Who do you work for?

We're contractors, whoever pays the bill, Curly replied, his voice slightly above a whisper.  Carter tried, but he could not pick up an accent.  

So, who is paying the bill for this fun operation of yours?

The tall man shook his head, I don't know, really.  I'm just a field guy following orders.  He winced when he finished talking as though he expected a fourth gunshot to slam into him.  It never came.  

Who's the boss then?  

Garrick, the older man with the beard.  He arranges all our jobs.  

Well that's convenient since I can't interrogate him.  

It's the truth.  

Ok then, how did you find me here?  

We were in Rome until about 3am.  Garrick got a phone call, and then told all of us we were going to Florence.  

Who... Carter was cut-off before he could finish the question.  

I don't know, responded Curly quickly.  He doesn't tell us details.  

"Were you here for me or the memory card?

Both...kill you and recover the drive.

And there is four of you?  

In lieu of a response, Curly just shook his head.  Carter understood that the man was not going to give up any information about his teammates.  The man slumped before him was a professional and took pride in what he did, he would die before completely selling out.  

Carter stood and walked over to Baldy’s body on the floor.  Like the bearded man, the bald man had nothing in his pockets.  

Your boss had no phone on him, where is it?  

We carry nothing when we're in the field.  We have a van, parked near the train station.  Everything is in there.  

Carter got the complete description of the van and the best directions possible to its location.  He was familiar enough with Florence to know the area around the train terminal and had a good idea where to go.  There was a public parking lot just outside the Porta Santa Maria Novella that served passengers of both the trains and the adjacent bus station; he would start there and circle the area.  But first he had to tie up loose ends at the hotel.  He fired two rounds into Curly’s heart.  It was cold and ruthless, devoid of any remorse.  He was simply doing his job.  

He collected up his belongings and exited the room.  He was alert for any sign of the blond female from outside or any other potential hostile.  He stopped at a mirror in the hallway to examine his appearance.  His plan was to walk out the front door like any other guest, so he couldn't look like he had just killed three people.  Fortunately, he found no traces of blood spatter on any of his clothes.  He punched in the elevator call button knowing that only the elevator to the right would respond.  Prepared for more combat, he exhaled a relaxed breath when the elevator doors opened and nobody was inside.  

Carter was on a need-to-know basis with his employers and at the start of this mission they deemed that he did not need to know what intelligence was actually on the memory card.  At the time, that was ok, he followed orders and it had no influence over tactical considerations.  Now, Carter decided that he needed to know.  A growing number of people were being ordered to kill him and clearly there was a spy in the upper echelon of the national security establishment who was willing to turn traitor for whatever secret the drive held.

Carter had to be very careful where he currently placed his trust.  He had a lot of questions.  He intended to get answers.

Chapter 4

Carter found the van, or more accurately, the van found him.  

He was three steps outside the front door of the hotel when a white sprinter van with a black and blue globe logo on the side came careening off Viale Galileo into the circular entrance drive, narrowly missing the babbling fountain in the center by mere inches.  Under the logo were the Italian words Logistica Globale, just as the tall man described.  Whether or not this was the exact van or a second one didn't matter, it was not a coincidence.  The van's arrival meant more bad guys.  

The van screeched to a halt as the rubber on the tires tried desperately to grab onto the hand-laid red bricks that made up the drive.  Police sirens were wailing in the near distance.  He wondered if the mercs, whoever they were, were willing to get into a shootout with the police.  This place was about to get messy.

Hopefully his choice to stay the night didn't cost the Hotel Palazzo di Michelangelo its five-star rating.        

Carter spun one-hundred-eighty degrees and began weaving his way through the lobby traffic.  He did not wait to see who exited the van.  The lobby had been steadily filling with people over the past few minutes, a number of them reporting gunshots on the fifth floor.  Carter moved quickly.  He kept his hand on the grip of his pistol which was partially concealed inside his now open button-up, he wore a gray tee shirt underneath.  Pretty soon the bodies in his room would be found to match the complaints of the gun shots.  The first responding police officers would have their hands full trying to get a handle on exactly what was happening at the hotel; the next wave of officers would be locking down the whole place.  The security perimeter would likely expand even past the grounds of the hotel.  Carter had to be gone before that happened. 

He ran through the visualized floor plans stored in his memory and decided that the kitchen provided the quickest escape route.  He could exit out a staff door and find an employee’s vehicle that could be easily commandeered.  Reversing course again, he jogged back toward the front entrance, veered off to the right and pushed through the double glass doors into the restaurant.  A breeze blew straight into the restaurant from all the open windows facing the terrace.  It provided a very brief cooling sensation as it caressed his face.  He ignored the hostess, continuing on to the kitchen.  A pair of cooks dressed in all white, covered in white aprons, and wearing tall white chef’s hats, looked up at him as he entered their domain.  One of them yelled for him to Get Out in Italian.  The smells of breakfast lingered in the air; bacon and sausage sizzling in frying pans, freshly cut fruit, warm bread and pastries.  Carter wanted to grab a croissant sandwich he saw sitting on a plate at the end of the cook’s counter.  He left it. 

Carter kept his eyes moving, searching for threats who could be hiding in the maze of appliances.  At this point he really had no idea how many enemies were on site.  It was clear that the tall man had lied during his painful interrogation.  The bearded man named Garrick may have been ‘his’ team leader, but he was not the one in charge.  Somebody was pulling the strings from somewhere else in order to send a second team in.  Not the blond woman either.  The real leader was likely stationed at an overwatch position nearby to best be able to monitor the action.  Carter couldn’t worry about that for now.  The loud shrieking of sirens made it clear that the first responding police officers had arrived. 

A beam of light suddenly cut across the ivory-colored laminate floor.  Carter stopped in his tracks, pulling the VP9 from his waistband. 

With reinforcements arriving, he was aware that any of the mercenaries still at the hotel could have spread out to cover exits.  Carter moved laterally and crouched behind a stainless steel freezer that was perpendicular to the rear kitchen door.  The beam widened into a full rectangular shape of light as the door was pulled fully open.  A shadow momentarily moved through the light a split second before the blond haired woman charged into the kitchen, a pistol was fully extended out in front of her as she searched for a target.  It was possible that one of the newly arriving shooters saw Carter enter the restaurant and radioed his movement to the woman, who then chose to storm inside in an effort to intercept.  It was an amateur mistake.  She should have stayed outside, behind some cover, and attempted to pick him off as he exited.  He assumed that if this group was assigned the task of hunting him, that they were supposed to be good.  Maybe she was new, maybe it was hubris, maybe she was trying to prove a female could get the job done when the men had not yet.  Carter told himself not to let her mistake downgrade the anticipated skill level of the other team members.  Keep your edge.

The woman pivoted in his direction, sweeping the barrel of the gun right where his head poked above the freezer top.  She did not immediately recognize the outline of a human head and began turning away from Carter's location, but then stopped as if the image finally clarified in her brain.  She snapped her head to the left, her eyes fixating on Carter.  Her weapon trailed behind her eyesight however, and Carter reacted quicker.  He stood and fired a quick shot that struck her just to the right of center mass.  The impact jerked her backwards a step, her gun hand whipping in a wild upward motion as she squeezed the trigger.  A round flew into a jumble of overhead hanging pots, a metallic bang indicating that it struck one before continuing on, finally lodging into the ceiling.

As she flailed, she was still a threat.  

Carter shot the woman a second time in the chest and she completely fell over backwards.  He moved quickly to her, getting there while there was still life in her eyes.  The two holes with burnt edges in the front of her shirt were at the center of expanding circles of red.  She was struggling for every breath, the first shot had collapsed her lung.  Blood began to gurgle out of her mouth.  She would not be answering any questions.  

Seeing her face for the first time, the thought struck Carter that she could have done many other things in life other than what led her to stare up at him during her final seconds.  She was about thirty, green eyes, a pale skin with freckles on both cheekbones and nose, pouty lips.  Attractive.  Fear and desperation lingered in her eyes but then vanished at the same time as her life.  Carter reached down and shut her eyes.  

Like everyone else, there was absolutely nothing on her that he could use for intel.  

The woman was using the same Glock that he had taken from her colleague, so he grabbed her spare magazine that was tucked in her back pocket.  He left out the kitchen door, moved to his right while keeping his back against the hotel's wall, pistol up and looking for targets.  The employee parking area was full, but he decided against stealing a car.  Carter wasn't sure he had the time to check multiple cars to see if they were open, and then if they had keys in them, and then if not, if he could hotwire it.  He also didn't want to leave a trail for either the authorities or the mercenaries to follow; the employee would report his or her vehicle stolen, and then it would be found wherever Carter dumped it, leading to further investigation.  

He looked around the corner and saw no bad guys, or police, coming his way.  He stuck the VP9 back in his waistband because a visible gun would obviously draw attention that he did not need.  He buttoned up the front of his shirt so he was back to looking like a plain guest at the hotel.  With his luggage in hand, Carter walked to the front of the hotel and began waving his free hand wildly over his head to catch the attention of a group of police officers trying their best to organize all the guests exiting the hotel.  The officers saw Carter approaching and one pointed for him to join the loosely gathered group standing off to the side of the circular drive.  Behind the group was a painted white wood gazebo, partially covered in vines, and ringed with rose bushes.  Carter obediently joined the group, easing his way toward the back.  He then slowly moved backwards, under and through the gazebo.  Nobody in the group paid him any attention, they were too transfixed on the proceedings at the hotel.  On the other side there was a short walking path splitting two tall Italian cypress evergreen trees.  Carter took the path and came out onto the side of Viale Galileo.  A steady line of emergency vehicles were haphazardly parked at various angles down the middle of the road preventing any traffic from passing.  He began walking east, away from the hotel scene.  He knew that the road would eventually turn into Viale Machiavelli and go to the Porta Romana traffic circle; he would not have any trouble finding a cab from there.  

Carter had observed that the Logistica Globale van was still parked in front of the hotel, surrounded by police.  The second team was not leaving the same way they arrived.  

He had killed four of them, the entire first team.  He had no idea how the second team would fair with the police at the hotel but figured their hunt for him would be severely slowed.  In case there was a third team, and even a fourth, he needed to completely alter his exit strategy.  A new alias with new travel plans.  But first things first; he had to put distance between him and the Hotel Palazzo di Michelangelo, and the pile of bodies that he dropped there.  

Major crime scenes were the same all around the world.  Crime scene tape set a perimeter where curious galleries of spectators could watch with rapt attention as emergency personnel worked furiously.  People stood in awe as rumors quickly began to fly regarding the events inside the hotel.  Up to twelve bodies.  It was a Mafia gunfight.  It was terror attack.  Only a few people, including the initial police responders, really knew any facts.  It didn't stop the swelling crowd outside the yellow tape from all becoming crime experts.  

One man in the crowd was an elegant looking middle-aged man who stood absolutely still and said nothing.  He was average height and trim.  He had longish gray hair that retained an underlayer of its original black color, and it was combed neatly with a part over his left eye.  His face had an equally gray beard.  His face was long with a pointed chin, he wore expensive Burberry sunglasses that hid his brown eyes.  The man's business suit was also expensive; a charcoal suit with faint black pinstripes that had been tailored on Savile Row in London.  The top button of his suitcoat was buttoned, underneath he wore a black dress shirt without a tie.  The man stood with his hands in his pockets, not amused at what he was witnessing.  

Unlike everyone else gathered around him, he knew exactly what happened.  He was fucking pissed.  

One of his teams had been killed, all four of them, and one of his teams was inside the hotel now doing their best to come out looking like innocent bystanders.  Through his earpiece, he heard the team leader announce that he found Caroline dead and that the target had likely left the hotel out the back of the kitchen.  The man tried to identify the target moving outside the hotel, but in all the chaos it was not practicable.  Given the amount of time that had passed, he knew the target was gone.  The man gave the order to the second team to ditch all their weapons and work on acquiring less tactical clothing to switch into.  Nothing said suspicious like four guys in black commando outfits.  The second team's status was still yet to be determined; stuck in the hotel, but not yet spotted by law enforcement.  The man keyed his radio to relay one more order.

Unit 2, under no circumstances are you to fight it out with the police.  If all else fails, I'll make some calls and get you guys released.  Let me hear that you all understand.  

He heard four men's voices acknowledge the order.  He removed a small passport sized picture of Dash Carter from his pocket and studied it.  He glanced at every face he saw, understanding that Carter may have disguised himself well, hoping he would get lucky and see one that he recognized.  He did not.  

Fuck, he said quietly, but not silently.  An older woman in her seventies with gray curled hair was standing next to him, she turned and scowled at him for the use of such foul language.  He could care less.  The sunny sky was making him hot as he stood there and his mouth was starting to dry.  The police were starting to work their way through the onlookers to see if anyone may fit the bill as a potential witness, or suspect.  He turned and began walking away, doing so at a controlled pace as if he had lost interest.  The man had a long walk to get back to where his car was parked; back to the Piazza Michelangelo, down the Monte alle Croci stairway, and along a series of narrow, turning streets to the parking garage across from the Terzo Giardino.  He could use the time to clear his mind, to think about his next move.  

He also needed to think of a way to put a positive spin on the update to the man who hired him for this job.  He couldn't exactly say that the target escaped with the thumb drive while drawing a huge police response after killing half the operatives on the operation.   That just sounded bad.  

Exactly twenty-seven minutes later, the man kept walking past the parking garage with his car and stopped at a crosswalk in front of a bakery that expelled the delicious aroma of hot bread from warm ovens.  Next to him, a group of teenaged girls giggled while huddled around the same cell phone.  The man crossed Lungarno Serristori and entered the riverfront Terzo Giardino, finding an old stone bench in the middle of what looked like a messy, neglected patch of land.  That was how the garden was designed to look.  It was another form of Florence's artistic nature, a garden created by spontaneous plants, rustic crisscrossing paths, and wooden sculptures.  

Sitting on the bench, he pulled out his phone and dialed.  This was not going to be a pleasant conversation. At least the view across the Arno was nice.

Chapter 5

ROME, ITALY

Two men stared down at the corpse displayed on the cold metal tray with emotionless expressions.  The tray was held by two steel arms that slid in and out of the refrigerated drawer where the body was stored to prevent the rapid onset of decomposition.  The dead man was naked, his skin looked like a thin sheet of white plastic that had been stretched as far as possible, his eyes were closed, his lips were slightly apart and had taken on a purple color.  His black hair was frozen in place and looked like each strand would snap with the slightest touch.  Where his nose should have been, there was a hole, the torn skin edges around the rim were tinged with red.

The General is going to be irate, said Farzeen Khani.  He had a deep, grating voice that made every word sound excessively harsh.  While English was not the Iranian's first language, he spoke it flawlessly with a hint of a British accent.  

Next to him, an older man with snow white hair stood with his arms folded.  His forehead had deep creases while the skin on the bottom half of his face seemed to be stretched to fit as snug as possible over his cheekbones and jaw.  He had a very dark tan.  

My people at the Polizia di Stato say there was nothing found on his body at the crime scene.  The man with the white hair handed seven pages of paper to Khani.  The initial report and inventory of everything found in Dimitri's hotel room.

Khani skimmed over the details in the report.  The only item that he saw of interest was Morozov's cell phone, found in the hotel room, in the drawer of the bedside table.  It was of interest that Morozov had left it in the hotel