Page 31 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
Nicholai taught us that discretion is everything—We were trained to be ghosts, unknown to any law enforcement on earth. Our DNA, fingerprints…don’t exist. And in order to maintain that anonymity and accomplish the kill, I have to lure him out—without alerting his security.
Leaving the club, I return to the car and the stash of weapons I raided from the villa earlier. He may not visit the place, but he maintains the mandatory arsenal. In the back, I loaded guns, grenades, and C4. Poison could have been an option, but I didn’t exactly have a stash just hanging around. That’s always been Una’s preferred method rather than mine. Still, if I can’t kill him with what I have, then I’m in the wrong job.
I pick up the bag of C4 and take out a couple of blocks along with the detonators in the zipped pocket of the bag. Coupled with a few wires and a timer, that’s all it takes to set the charge. And then I wait.
An hour goes by before two black Mercedes pull up in front of the club, and a hoard of men get out, weapons in hand, uniform suits in place. The back door of the first car swings wide and Enrique steps out. Four men fall in around him, shadowing him—shielding him with their bodies. Even for a mafia boss, it seems extreme, or maybe he’s just smart. After all, he did send Elite into Nero Verdi’s home. If I were him, I’d have a lot of security, too. The only reason Una isn’t slitting his throat while whispering sweet nothings in his ear is that she fears the immediate threat from the Elite. She’s closing ranks, protecting the home front. It’s me who’s coming for him.
As soon as they enter the club, I exit the car. Lifting my gun, I take aim at the bouncer. There’s a small pop from the silencer as my finger squeezes the trigger. The bullet hits him in the forehead before he crumples like a rag doll. I shoulder the bag of C4 and drop a grenade in my pocket. I don’t have time to plan this the way I usually would, and the lack of subtlety is distressing. I can’t leave Adelina alone too long, though, and I refuse to put her this close to Bianchi by having her with me. I approach the two parked Mercedes. Taking the first block from the bag, I set the timer for fifteen minutes and move to the back of the vehicle. I do a quick check to ensure no one’s around before I bend down and reach far beneath the bodywork, sticking the explosive to the fuel tank, and then I follow suit with the second car, unsure of which one he’ll get into.
I move over to the dead bouncer, grab him beneath his arms and drag him around the corner into a back alley. With the club set in a basement, there’s only one way in and out. No chance of them stumbling across him as they make a hasty exit.
I go back inside the club. As the evening has worn on, it’s gotten busier, and bodies fill every available space, swaying and writhing against each other. Wealthy men occupy private booths, watching beautiful women. It’s the way of the world. Every country, every city. It never changes.
I cut through the crowd, careful to cling to the shadows and maintain watch over the mezzanine. Bianchi sits with his back to the railing, women flanking him both sides. His guards remain close, observant, but only on their immediate surroundings. I make my way to the only bathroom in the small club and wait for a single man to leave before I take the grenade and pull the pin, tossing it into one of the toilet cubicles. I’m out the door and halfway across the dance floor when the bathroom door blows off. Screams of hysteria drown out the music, and smoke billows into the club. Everyone rushes to the door, like prey fleeing en-masse. A stampede. I keep walking, going with the flow of traffic.
Once outside, I cross the street and go to the car. From there, I watch it all unfold. Chaos ensues in front of the club as people run like the devil himself is chasing them. And then, just as I anticipated, Bianchi’s men rush outside, guns drawn. I don’t see him through the crowd until he’s ushered into the first car. A few seconds later, the two Mercedes are speeding down the cobblestone street. I check my watch. Two minutes. I start the car and follow at a safe distance.
Five, four, three, two, one.
I slam on my brakes just as the first car erupts into a ball of fire. The second collides into the back of it before exploding seconds later.
