By the time Captain Laria arrived, all other witnesses, except for the bouncer, had been released. The police had no reason to hold the customers, who had nothing significant to report. The girls also had nothing to say. As was usual with gang killings, everyone claimed they did not see or hear anything. The crew who worked in the club claimed they did not even know Don Giordano. Nobody noticed the woman who brought him into the VIP. The investigators knew they were lying, but did not care too much about the death of a hoodlum.
Of course, Giordano's bodyguard and three lieutenants knew their boss had been assassinated. But they were not about to work with the police. All law enforcement could do was to arrest her and lock her away. They would find their own way to deal with the situation. When they get their hands on her, she'd curse the day she was born.
Cody Laria ducked under the yellow tape. He stepped over Giordano's body, the Texas boss of the white slavery ring. Cody had known all along about the disgusting business of his gang. He just did not have sufficient evidence to nail the cocksucker in a court of law. None of his informants in the criminal underworld were willing to testify in open court. Even if one of them was somehow foolhardy to do so, the jury would not believe witnesses who had rap sheets as long as the length of their forearms.
The bouncer was the only exception. Aware that he was being watched, he did not say anything at the scene. But later he called the captain. Captain Laria took careful notes of what the bouncer had to say. Later, he followed up with a detailed interview of the bouncer at police headquarters.
A week later, close to midnight, Cody stood inside the arrival hall of the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport. He was alone. The next day was his day off. Hours before, he had just completed the investigation of Giordano's death and filed the report to his superior. The only pertinent information came from the bouncer. All he could tell was that she was tall, blond, and athletic. Nobody else could or would provide any other information.
The sketch artist had worked with the bouncer to produce a generic picture that would narrow down the search to several million women in the country with German, Swedish, or Norwegian descent. Law enforcement personnel in Minnesota and the Upper Midwest had been notified. But since the victim was a suspected crime figure, it had been considered low priority. Giordano would soon be another cold case.
It was her habit to spend a week in the Caribbean after each job. Most of the jobs were strictly business, with clients paying top dollar for her unique skills. One huge advantage she possessed was that few people in the American criminal underworld were familiar with her. She had lived her previous life in Australia and had been trained there.
She had three rules. The client had to be a U.S. government agency. The target must be a criminal element. And women and children were off limits. She would call off the hit if innocent bystanders were present. Collateral damage was not acceptable to her.
It was never about the money, although it certainly did not hurt. For her, it was the adrenaline rush that kept her in the profession. And with Cody, she worked purely for altruistic reasons. It did not hurt that Cody was interested in the same interests outside work.
Cody had a list of criminals involved in sadistic and heinous ventures. Many of them could not be brought to justice using the legal system. Every year, she would perform a pro bono deal for him. Sexual deviants were the animals she detested the most. Kidnappers and arms dealers were close runner ups.
Cody drove her BMW to the airport, parking it in the long-term parking lot some distance from the airport. Although he had switched the plates, it was still risky to drive her car to the airport. Someone from the club might recognize it. He could have driven another car. But like her, Cody was an adrenaline junky. It was what had attracted them to each other. It was what had sustained the strange relationship they had.
Cody saw her at the back of the entire crowd from the 747. She preferred to be the last passenger to clear customs. She was wearing a white tube top and low-slung skinny jeans. The bikini lines on her bare shoulders were obvious.
They embraced hard. She was strong, tightening her grip until he felt slightly difficult to breathe. Then she eased up and smiled. In the airport shuttle bus, they looked at each other knowingly, although no words were spoken.
The shuttle bus driver glanced at the rearview mirror and saw the appearance of a loving couple with their hands all over each other. If he hadn't known, he would have guessed that they were a honeymooning couple. But they had no luggage. And it was rare for someone who could afford a shiny new BMW to park in the economy lot. The driver waited until they entered the BMW before he fished out his iPhone and made his call.
As soon as the BMW left the parking lot, her head was between his legs. He drove with one hand, the other struggling to remove the belt around her tight jeans. She unzipped his jeans with her lips, taking in his manhood. Then she pulled down the one-inch zip holding up her jeans.
His driving was erratic, but he knew there were no cops on this stretch of State Road 75, heading north. When they pulled over at a gas station, they purchased a box containing twenty-four cans of Budweiser.
An hour later, they were in a Motel Six near Sherman. He knew she liked the rough sheets and hard bed. The tobacco-soaked walls and soggy pillows seemed to turn her on. The dirtier the place, the more she felt and behaved like a cheap whore. Cody wondered what she would be like in a urine-soaked back alley in his native Miami.
A video screen popped into his imagination. His arms were around her, walking on the nasty streets of Miami. They turned a corner and was surrounded by a gang of eight men. A gun was pointed at him. Her top was yanked to her waist and her jeans pulled to her knees. He was forced to watch as they take turns violating her.
But Motel Six would have to do tonight. It was only a week since the death of Giordano. The streets were still buzzing with talk of the ninja lady who did it. Cody felt safe here because he knew the owner, an ex-con he had helped to obtain the necessary business licenses.
Ripping off each others clothes and tumbling into the hard bed, they quickly satisfied each other. Then they inhaled cheap beer and fucked their brains out again. They went to the bathroom, threw up, repeated the cycle again and again, until they lost count and passed out.
The next morning, she was still sleeping when he left to buy her favorite big breakfast meal from McDonald's. While he was gone, a dark Mercedes pulled up to the motel. Three masked men dressed in black emerged. The driver remained in the car, the engine running.
