The Killer

FORTY-TWO

Milan, Italy

Sunday

21:33 CET

Sebastian Hoyt spent money so fast it was lucky his company generated a small fortune each year. As the sole owner of a modestly sized but highly lucrative consultancy firm, Hoyt conducted his business interests across a wide range of fields. In these he almost always acted as an advisor, broker, or middleman. He traded mostly in information, information he harvested from one area and sold to another. Information, he had long ago discovered, was one of the world’s most precious commodities, and it also happened to be one of the easiest to trade.

He advised the mafia on private investments to make the most of their money. He helped corrupt judges in Eastern Europe set up bank accounts for payoffs. He put arms dealers in touch with African militias. He supplied traveling Middle Eastern businessmen with access to call girls, alcohol, and narcotics. He brokered the dealings between contract killers and their clients. As long as Hoyt had access to people who needed information and those who could supply it, his bank balance would stay healthy.

The proposal he was checking through was boring him senseless, so he took a break and turned his attention to the Italian newspaper on his desk. It was a couple of days old and carried a small story about a shooting in Paris that was of interest to him. The article discussed what little the police had since discovered and named some of the dead. One of the fatalities was an American, James Stevenson, a hitman based in Brussels, whom Hoyt had conducted business with on several occasions.

One of Hoyt’s most recent endeavors was acting as a broker between a nameless client and the American mercenary. Hoyt had given the American work before, and no client had ever complained about Stevenson’s services. So when he was asked to hire an assassin who could assemble a team, Hoyt had gone where he had gone plenty of times before. He didn’t expect the hitman to be killed in a mass murder in central Paris that received news headlines all the way to Italy.

It was a shame that Stevenson was dead, but only because Hoyt had lost an easy revenue stream. Just to be on the safe side, he’d put some of his underlings on the scent to see if they could find out anything about what happened. It wouldn’t do his reputation any good if Stevenson had performed poorly. So far, the overpaid and undertalented simpletons working for Hoyt had given him nothing more than what he had read in the papers. In this instance it seemed no news was good news.

Even still, Hoyt had been expecting a communiqué from a pissed-off client for a few days now, but none had yet arrived. He was not overly concerned by this. The nature of such business meant that things could go bad and go bad publicly. The client obviously understood this, or maybe the hitman had been killed after the job’s completion so that the client didn’t care. Either outcome suited Hoyt. He didn’t know what the job had been and was glad of that fact. It was easier to sleep at night when he didn’t have to think about the messy consequences of his illicit dealings. Shame to have lost a revenue stream, but better to have maintained his reputation.

That last particular business arrangement had been obscenely profitable. The client had offered a $200,000 purse, of which Hoyt had passed on a mere $128,000 to the American mercenary. For a few e-mails and a delightful afternoon in Brussels, Hoyt had personally pocketed $72,000. If he rounded up his billable hours to a working day of seven, which he knew was being very generous, that became $10,285 an hour. Even for Hoyt that was an exceptionally good rate. If only all business deals could be so satisfying.

He opened his bottom drawer, took out a small black wooden box, and placed it on his desk. From the box he took out a hand-folded paper envelope. He tapped out some cocaine onto the desk and made a line of it with a razor blade. It was premium Nicaraguan, and the best money could buy-so finely cut it didn’t need any more chopping. Using a silver tube designed for just such a moment, Hoyt sniffed up the drug.

He slumped back in his chair, eyes closed, pinching his nostrils. Christ, that felt good. He resisted doing another line and packed the cocaine box away. Hoyt prided himself on his self-restraint. It was time to head home. There was no one else at the office, so he made his way to the elevator in semidarkness. His corporation, though highly profitable, was a small affair and consisted merely of himself, his personal assistant, five analysts, and a receptionist. They all worked from Hoyt’s plush offices in central Milan.

Hoyt had lived in Italy for so long that he could easily pass as a native. The decades under the Mediterranean sun had stained his skin a dark tan, and his Italian was fluent. His naturally dark hair and eyes aided the illusion. If asked where he was from he would say Milan. Hoyt loved Italy-the land, the culture, the language, the people. It just suited his tastes perfectly. It was perhaps not the best place to conduct business, but over the years he had found its location provided many advantages. With clients in both Western and Eastern Europe, Africa and the Middle East, Italy served as a fine centralized base of operations.

It was a short drive back to his townhouse. Hoyt lived alone, had never married. He liked women, but the idea of one day losing half of everything he owned did not appeal to his work ethic. Inside, Hoyt fixed himself a big martini and ran a bath. He was tempted to call up a particular prostitute who did a special thing with her tongue that he was particularly fond of, but he was probably too tired for anything like that. A few drinks, bath, and bed were all he needed. It was going to be another busy day tomorrow.

He was yawning heavily by the time he was on his second martini and getting into the bath. There was an unpleasant taste in his mouth that he dismissed on account of the large amount of cocaine he’d consumed throughout the evening. He lay with his head resting on a folded towel and his eyes closed, wondering why the hell he was so tired. He had been up late every night for a week, granted, but he had still gotten plenty of sleep. I’m getting older, he reminded himself.

The sedatives he had unknowingly consumed in the martinis ensured that he was sound asleep fifteen minutes later, that he did not hear the bathroom door open or the ever-so-quiet footsteps approach him.

A shadow fell access his unconscious face.

Reed squatted down next to the bath and took a large leather wallet from inside his suit jacket and rested it on his thigh. He unzipped the wallet and withdrew a small glass medical vial and hypodermic syringe. He unscrewed the cap and rested the vial on the floor before taking the plastic safety sheath from the syringe. He estimated Hoyt’s weight to be no more than 180 pounds, so, after picking the vial back up, he inserted the needle through the membrane and pulled eight centiliters of potassium-chloride solution into the plunger.

Gently, Reed took hold of Hoyt’s jaw with his free hand and opened his mouth. Reed placed the needle under Hoyt’s tongue and pushed the tip into the lingual artery. With a slow, smooth motion, he injected the solution into Hoyt’s bloodstream.

With calm efficiency Reed packed his things away in the order he had taken them out and stood. He washed out Hoyt’s cocktail shaker to get rid of any trace of the sedatives before placing the half-empty prescription bottle next to Hoyt’s glass. Reed then exited through the house the same way he had entered, disturbing nothing and seen by no one.

He checked his watch. It was 11:05 pm. The potassium chloride would induce cardiac arrest in approximately three minutes and would kill Hoyt within another two. The chemical would then break down into separate molecules of potassium and chlorine, both of which are found naturally inside the body after death, ensuring a pathologist would find no trace of the poison in Hoyt’s system. There was a chance the needle mark might be detected if a complete autopsy was performed, but with no indication of foul play the chances of this taking place were extremely slim.

Should Hoyt survive the heart attack, which was possible, albeit unlikely, he would still die. The attack would leave him in a massively weakened state and he would be unable to prevent himself from drowning in the bath. This would take no more than another two minutes, judging by Hoyt’s poor physical condition. Either result would be perfectly acceptable to Reed.

Several streets away from the apartment Reed climbed into his rental car. He took his smartphone from the glove box and composed a message to confirm the success of the operation. He looked at his watch and waited until the hands read 11:12 pm before hitting send.

Reed liked to be exact.