Deliver Us From Evil (A. Shaw 2)

“Said she tried, but you’d changed your number.”

“Okay, so maybe I did.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I felt like it. Any other personal questions?”

“Were you two sleeping together?”

This comment made Shaw noticeably stiffen. Frank, perhaps sensing he’d gone too far, looked down at the folder in his lap and said quickly, “Okay, we’ll be wheels up in thirty minutes. We can go over the next job on the wings.”

“Great,” said Shaw dully. He rolled down his window and breathed in the morning air. He did most of his work in the middle of the night and many of his “jobs” ended in the early morning hours.

I work for something loosely called an agency that doesn’t officially exist doing things around the world that none will ever know I did.

“Agency” policy allowed its operatives to go right up to the line of legality, often crossing it, sometimes obliterating it. The countries financially and logistically supporting Shaw’s agency were part of the old G8 vanguard and thus technically constituted the most “civilized” societies in the world. They could never employ brutal and sometimes lethal tactics through their own official channels. So they circumvented that problem by secretly creating and feeding a hybrid beast that was only graded on results achieved through any means possible. Typically, neither personal rights nor the benefit of legal counsel entered the equation.

Frank studied him for a moment. “I sent some flowers to Anna’s grave.”

Surprised, Shaw turned to him. “Why?”

“She was a fine woman. And for some reason she was head over heels for your sorry ass. That was the only flaw I could find in the lady, her poor judgment in men.”

Shaw turned to look back out the window.

“You’ll never find anybody that good ever again.”

“That’s why I’m not even bothering to look, Frank.”

“I was married once.”

Shaw closed the window and sat back. “What happened?”

“She’s not living anymore. She was sort of like Anna. I married way above my pay grade. That stuff never strikes twice.”

“At least you made it down the aisle. I never got that chance.”

Frank looked like he was going to say something else, but lapsed into silence. The two men rode the rest of the way to the airport without speaking.

CHAPTER

4

THE GULFSTREAM rode into the air on smooth winds. Once they’d leveled off, Frank brought out the usual file: photos, background reports, analyses, and action recommendations.

“Evan Waller,” began Frank. “Canadian. Sixty-three years old.”

Shaw picked up a cup of black coffee with one hand and a photo with the other. He was staring at a man whose head was shaved down to the scalp. He looked fit and strong and his facial features were sharp and angular, like an image on a high-def LCD screen with megahertz levels. Even from the photo the eyes seemed to house a current of electricity that looked capable of shooting straight out at Shaw, delivering a mortal wound. The man’s long nose appeared as though it started mid-forehead and ran arrow straight to the top of his mouth. It was a cruel mouth if there ever was such a thing, thought Shaw. And this man was no doubt cruel and evil and dangerous. If he weren’t all of those things, Shaw wouldn’t be looking at his photo. He never went after saints, only violent sinners.

“Looks good for his age,” said Shaw, dropping the photo onto the small table.

“For the last two decades at least he’s been into anything that makes lots of

money. On the surface he’s golden. Legit businesses, keeps a low profile, gives to charities, is into helping third world countries build infrastructure.”

“But?”

“But we’ve discovered that his underlying wealth is built on human trafficking, mostly young Asian and African teens mass-kidnapped by Waller’s people and then sold into prostitution in the Western Hemisphere. That’s why he’s so into third world development. It’s his pipeline. He uses that as a way to get the product he needs. And his legit businesses launder the cash from those activities.”