Paradise Island, Nassau, where the activities were endless. The casinos, the amusement parks, the restaurants, the golf courses, there was enough action to keep a tourist busy for a month before they did the same thing twice.
It was by complete accident that he stumbled upon Cat Island. As an avid boater, Kalinikov rented a forty-foot yacht to cruise around and found the place by pure chance. The island was home to less than two thousand people with little to do but snorkel, sightsee and play on the beach. Not much competition for the bright lights and wild entertainment Nassau offered, which was a hundred miles closer to the US mainland. In preparation for retirement, he purchased a home years earlier, just a five-minute walk from the sixteen-room resort where he was now a regular customer.
Kalinikov sipped his coffee and took in the ocean breeze, never losing his fascination for the palm trees, the warm climate, or the stretch of wooden planks imbedded in the sand pretending to be a boardwalk. In all of his professional life, he’d used disguises to fend off any direct evidence against him, but the new world had changed the game. With digital technology and ubiquitous surveillance cameras, Kalinikov knew he’d chosen a good time to retire.
As Kalinikov peered up to spy his wife again, a man approached from the right side of the boardwalk. He veered off the stretch of planks and headed toward Kalinikov’s table. By the time the assassin looked up, his radar was too late. The man was already there, holding his hands away from his body to show no weapons. His mouth grinned, but his eyes were sad, almost as if he was ashamed to be there.
“I’m unarmed,” the man said. His eyes were worn, as if he’d walked all night to get there.
Instinctively, Kalinikov pulled the gun from his shorts waistband. He kept it trained on the intruder under the table. There was something familiar about the man. His informal demeanor was not forced or insincere.
“It’s me,” the man said. “Tommy Bracco. Remember that bar in Payson, Arizona? We shared a drink together.”
Kalinikov remembered. The FBI agent’s cousin. The gangster. He considered shooting the man, then scooping up his body and disposing of him. He might be able to do it quickly enough to avoid detection from the only employee working the patio bar that morning. But something about the man made him pause. How had he lost his touch so quickly?
“Put your hands down,” Kalinikov ordered, glancing around and finding no one as usual.
Tommy lowered his hands. He wore jeans, a tee shirt and some casual walking shoes. He knew enough to keep his distance.
“I must be rusty,” Kalinikov said, more to himself than anyone else.
“Ah, don’t beat yourself up. You weren’t expecting trouble. Your antenna was down. It means you’re relaxed and enjoying retirement.” He gestured toward a nearby chair. “May I join you?”
Kalinikov considered how long he should allow this intrusion to last. It wasn’t good to have his past follow him so closely. Yet he needed some answers before he could bury the body.
“Anton,” Tommy said. “I’m not stupid. If I was a threat to you, I would tell you that I had the place surrounded or some crap like that. But that’s not the truth. I am completely alone.”
Kalinikov thought of the advantage for the man to come out and confess his solitude. There was none. If he came with backup, he would announce it. It would almost guarantee that he wouldn’t be shot. He motioned to the chair and Tommy sat down, hands on the table as a professional courtesy.
“I spent five years developing an alias without any trails leading to this place,” Kalinikov said, his hand still on the pistol under the table. “It was a carefully constructed plan. I need to know how you found me.”
Tommy shrugged. He looked a little embarrassed, as if he was about to explain a card trick and make it all seem so ridiculously simple. “You see, when we
It was by complete accident that he stumbled upon Cat Island. As an avid boater, Kalinikov rented a forty-foot yacht to cruise around and found the place by pure chance. The island was home to less than two thousand people with little to do but snorkel, sightsee and play on the beach. Not much competition for the bright lights and wild entertainment Nassau offered, which was a hundred miles closer to the US mainland. In preparation for retirement, he purchased a home years earlier, just a five-minute walk from the sixteen-room resort where he was now a regular customer.
Kalinikov sipped his coffee and took in the ocean breeze, never losing his fascination for the palm trees, the warm climate, or the stretch of wooden planks imbedded in the sand pretending to be a boardwalk. In all of his professional life, he’d used disguises to fend off any direct evidence against him, but the new world had changed the game. With digital technology and ubiquitous surveillance cameras, Kalinikov knew he’d chosen a good time to retire.
As Kalinikov peered up to spy his wife again, a man approached from the right side of the boardwalk. He veered off the stretch of planks and headed toward Kalinikov’s table. By the time the assassin looked up, his radar was too late. The man was already there, holding his hands away from his body to show no weapons. His mouth grinned, but his eyes were sad, almost as if he was ashamed to be there.
“I’m unarmed,” the man said. His eyes were worn, as if he’d walked all night to get there.
Instinctively, Kalinikov pulled the gun from his shorts waistband. He kept it trained on the intruder under the table. There was something familiar about the man. His informal demeanor was not forced or insincere.
“It’s me,” the man said. “Tommy Bracco. Remember that bar in Payson, Arizona? We shared a drink together.”
Kalinikov remembered. The FBI agent’s cousin. The gangster. He considered shooting the man, then scooping up his body and disposing of him. He might be able to do it quickly enough to avoid detection from the only employee working the patio bar that morning. But something about the man made him pause. How had he lost his touch so quickly?
“Put your hands down,” Kalinikov ordered, glancing around and finding no one as usual.
Tommy lowered his hands. He wore jeans, a tee shirt and some casual walking shoes. He knew enough to keep his distance.
“I must be rusty,” Kalinikov said, more to himself than anyone else.
“Ah, don’t beat yourself up. You weren’t expecting trouble. Your antenna was down. It means you’re relaxed and enjoying retirement.” He gestured toward a nearby chair. “May I join you?”
Kalinikov considered how long he should allow this intrusion to last. It wasn’t good to have his past follow him so closely. Yet he needed some answers before he could bury the body.
“Anton,” Tommy said. “I’m not stupid. If I was a threat to you, I would tell you that I had the place surrounded or some crap like that. But that’s not the truth. I am completely alone.”
Kalinikov thought of the advantage for the man to come out and confess his solitude. There was none. If he came with backup, he would announce it. It would almost guarantee that he wouldn’t be shot. He motioned to the chair and Tommy sat down, hands on the table as a professional courtesy.
“I spent five years developing an alias without any trails leading to this place,” Kalinikov said, his hand still on the pistol under the table. “It was a carefully constructed plan. I need to know how you found me.”
Tommy shrugged. He looked a little embarrassed, as if he was about to explain a card trick and make it all seem so ridiculously simple. “You see, when we
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