“Somebody who’s normally more reliable.”
“Well, don’t be too upset with him,” she said. “A lot of hard work went into cultivating that lie.”
“Seems like a lot of effort for nothing. Unless you usually attend client meetings wearing a bald cap and a fake mustache, people will realize that not only are you a woman, you’re also full of shit. Not a great first impression.”
“You’re right, it’s not,” she said. “I thought if I could just get in front of clients who would never consider a woman for a job, that I could convince them to give me a chance. It worked a few times, but I’ve burned more bridges than I built. Being a woman in this field isn’t the easiest way to earn a living.”
“Not true,” I said. “One of the top hitters in the world is a woman.”
“The Persian, I know. She’s a legend. And you represent her.”
That was when the sound drained out of the room and all I could hear was my heart beating in my ears. Nobody knew about my connection to The Persian except the handful of clients that were able to afford her, and they would never talk. Just being associated with her, with the things she’d done, would earn you a life sentence. Likely more than one.
A thought occurred to me. I shifted in my seat, looked around the room, and said, “Are you a cop?”
“You mean like your friend back there, trying to blend in?”
“No,” I said without missing a beat. “He’s dirty. Are you the kind that’s actually good at your job?”
Of the six or seven people in the tiny coffee house, none of them looked out of place. No suspicious vans or random strangers standing around, killing time outside the windows. If she was a cop, I couldn’t spot her backup.
“Do you want to frisk me here in public?” she said, spreading her arms slightly.
“Don’t tempt me.”
Frowning, she leaned over and opened the collar of her blouse, letting me peer down. She’d hooked her thumbs under the straps of her bra so the cups pulled away, defiantly showing me everything.
No wire.
“Who told you I worked with The Persian?” I asked, easing back in my seat.
“Sorry,” Erica said, doing up the top button on her blouse, “I can’t tell you that.”
“If we’re going to play games, then this interview is over.”
“No,” she said, grabbing my arm. Tight at first, then quickly letting up. “No games. But come on, would you tell me who provided the information you have on me?”
I shook my head. “My interview, my questions.”
She sighed. “I can’t—”
“We’re done,” I said, pushing my chair back.
Her grip tightened again and she said, “Wait.” I waited.
“When I was with the KSK, my unit came under scrutiny for fostering extremist right-wing ideology. Nazi propaganda, disgusting shit like that.” She let go of my arm and I pulled my seat back to the table. “Nothing ever came of it. Beckett, my CO, was a lifer, with pull in all the right places. He just told us to be more discreet and pretty soon all the attention went away.”
“Is he the one you decked to earn your dishonorable discharge?” I asked.
“Best right hook I ever landed.” She smirked. “Still worth it.”
I didn’t trust her, but I was starting to like her.
“Anyway,” she went on, “a few months after they kicked me out I got word that he’d been killed. Official report labeled it an accident during a training exercise. His Barrett M82 jammed and the round exploded in the chamber. Those rifles are designed to take out tanks, so it wasn’t just a little pop. Shrapnel took off half his head.”
“Ouch.”
“Served him right. During the investigation into the ‘accident,’” she put air quotes around the word, “they discovered details for an attack he was planning on a mosque. The whole unit was in on it, but he was the one calling the shots. When he died, the plan fell apart. Everyone was court-martialed, and countless lives were saved.”
“You don’t think his death was an accident, do you? You think it was The Persian.”
“I know it was The Persian.”
So did I, as a matter of fact. I earned $100,000 in commission for putting her on that job. Turns out her CO’s fucked-up belief system also justified rape, at least when his victim was a different color than him. If he’d had half a brain, he wouldn’t have picked the daughter of an imam whose followers included at least one person with deep pockets and no compunction about revenge killings. He didn’t, however, so now he literally had half a brain.
One less rapist in the world is always a win in my book, regardless of who he chooses to victimize. When I took the job, I had no idea he’d been planning a domestic terror attack. Thwarting that was a nice little bonus on top of one of those rare jobs that already made me feel good about myself.
“We’d all heard about her,” she said, “The Persian, but she was a myth. A ghost story told around campfires in Afghanistan the night before a raid. After Beckett died, though, the rumors started that it was her. So I started digging. I found nothing that proved she had anything to do with his death, but I did find out more about who she was, the things she’d supposedly done. And the more I learned, the more I wanted to be like her.”
“Someone who kills people for a living.”
“I’ve always been someone who kills people for a living,” she said flatly. “At least this way it would be on my own terms—and for much better pay.”
“I’m still waiting for the part that explains how you got to me.”
She shrugged. “Just connecting the dots. You were a name that came up more than once the deeper I looked into her history. I wasn’t sure if there was a real relationship between you two or not, but when you texted me, I knew it was my chance to find out.” Her eyes pleaded with mine. “It is true, though, isn’t it? You do represent her?”
I took a sip of coffee. “And what if it is?”
