What a grubby, horrid country America was, he thought, not for the first time. He couldn’t wait until this job was finally done so he could get back to civilization.
His final destination was east of Montauk Highway near Two Mile Hollow Beach. Behind the chain-link, the address was more wood-shingled shack than house. There was a broken surfboard propped beside the front door and the rusting shell of an old Jaguar coupe under a listing carport. As he stood there, an old filthy dog that might have been a German shepherd came out from behind the ruined sports car and began barking.
A moment later, a man in faded blue coveralls opened the hovel’s front door. He took off a pair of oil-covered black rubber gloves as he came out into the yard.
“Down, Airplane,” Billy Dee said to the dog as he gave it a soft kick. “Manners, now, girl. We have a visitor.”
Billy Dee was a tall, lanky Australian with dirty-blond hair, dark-brown eyes, and a netlike crisscross of fine lines up and down his long, weather-beaten face. He had a reputation as a highly competent and discreet mechanic and designer who’d work for anyone for the right price. He’d worked for the cartels. Wall Street hustlers. Even Hollywood.
The back of the house was one big studiolike workroom piled with tools and spare parts. The British assassin couldn’t make out what half the stuff was. There was a drill press beside a 3-D printer. An engine crankshaft on a blue rag-covered workbench. Wired circuits on an elaborate breadboard hanging from the far wall.
“It’s a big job, is it?” the Aussie wanted to know. “I only ask because you came with the highest of recommendations.”
“Where is it?” the British assassin said, ignoring him.
“Straight to business, eh? No problem, friend. I got your baby right over here,” Billy Dee said as he brought over a milk crate from a corner and placed it down beside the crankshaft.
Inside the plastic crate was what looked like a mix between a metal skeleton of a robot and a bagpipe. It was a jumble of hydraulic cylinders and pistons and clamps and wires, all jutting from the torso of a large electric motor box.
“How does it work?” the British assassin said.
“Okay,” Billy Dee said excitedly as he lifted one of the pistons. “The signal opens the float switch in the control box here, which engages the magnetic contact over here, and—”
“I don’t give a fuck how it works technically, monkey wrench,” the assassin said coldly. “I meant, how do I work it?”
The Aussie looked hurt.
“Install the hardware, then hit that app I already e-mailed you. Everything pops up on your phone screen, the video feed, the whole shebang, and Bob’s your uncle, you’re in control.”
“What’s the range?”
Even more lines appeared on Billy Dee’s Old Man and the Sea face when he smiled. His crooked yellow teeth were sickening.
“What’s the range of a wireless cell phone signal? Infinite?” the Australian said, and began laughing. “That’s the real beauty here. You could be anywhere, mate. You could work her from the other side of the world.”
The British assassin smiled himself as he looked at the contraption, picturing it. It just might work after all.
He took out the large manila envelope with the hundred thousand in it and placed it next to the crankshaft.
“I’ll see myself out,” the British assassin said as he lifted the crate.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” said the Australian, already thumbing hundreds.
A moment later, the big Aussie made less noise than expected as he dropped to the workshop floor with the back of his head blown open.
The British assassin stepped over Billy Dee, straddling his waist, as he put two more in the bigmouthed grease m
onkey—this time in his temple—with his suppressed .22.
There was no way he could have let him live. Not at this point. The risk was too great.
The man had actually been right. This was a big job. The biggest probably of all time.
Too big to fail, he thought with a smile.
“Pleasure’s all mine, mate,” the British assassin finally said as he aimed his gun to take care of the dog.
Chapter 54