R I O d e J A N E I R O -- Drums, music, and cheers from the celebration masked the shot of the assassin’s gun. Dean was glazed by the bullet that had been meant for him. But instead the deadly projectile killed Jet, a shot to the head. Her mask hid the mortal wound. Beneath the shroud, the hollow point bullet penetrated her temple, its trajectory burst a hole through the back of her skull as if it were mere plastic. Her sensuous body went limp. Jet was dead. Her scant bikini was drenched with her blood.
It was midnight the last day of Carnival.
Harris Holland stumbled on the curb, her left heel was jerked from her foot. She stumbled through the crowd as Dean pulled her by the arm leading away from the Sambodromo. In mid stride, Harris kicked off her other heel and ran barefoot through the streets of Rio.
It was no Copacabana Beach. The pavement was rough and she feared she might be cut by broken glass. Her partner, Jet, was dead. The satellite tracker showed Jet was down and that Harris was on the run. They each had an ID chip embedded into the small of their backs. Harris’s incision was masked by a wild rose tattoo. Jet chose a black widow spider. The artwork was part of the package and the chip was part of doing modern day spying. For this pair, the stakes were high.
The assassin surprised Harris. Missing the target was a shock. But the hit was not unexpected. Harris knew Corbin Dean had enemies with good reason to kill him. Nothing would please her more than to be able to finish the job. Vindictive, you bet, she despised the bastard.
But first, she had to survive this run through the gauntlet of Carnival revelry. Christ the Redeemer stood tall on Corcovado Mountain watching over the goings-on. Her belief gave Harris some comfort and she held confidence that she would elude her captor.
At the waterfront, Dean pushed Harris along the wooden pier, a gun dug into her side. He thrust her onto his boat. Her feet were cut and torso bare. Harris wore only a crimson thong. Her feathered mask had fallen somewhere along the streets, and her cape was torn loose when Dean shoved her onto the boat. The twin engines roared into the dark and across Guanabara Bay to Niterói.
Harris was a strong swimmer. As Dean navigated through the flotilla of yachts and other harbor craft, she made her move diving into the bay for a swim against the tide to Sugar Loaf.
Many thoughts raced through her head. Dean had proven to be worse than her client had portrayed. Harris reflected on her partner, Jet. Not only was Jet a great agent, she was a loyal friend and a passionate lover. The midnight sky was lit by a quarter moon. Light enough for Harris to see the silhouette of Sugar Loaf. Dark enough that Dean would never find her.
Once on the beach, Harris spread eagled herself on the white sand. It was nearly 2am. Her heart was pounding and despite her fatigue, she plotted revenge against Corbin Dean. She vowed that she would kill the son of a bitch.
Harris Holland had provided her client a night full of entertainment via the satellite tracker images. Her every move had been watched on the screen. Later that morning, Harris called her client and learned that another agent had been recruited and was making his way to Rio. Harris was to rendezvous with Frank Hamilton the next morning.
Their chase ensues across the western hemisphere with a side trip to Bangalore, India. The elusive Corbin Dean is a master of masquerade.
