Free Lethal Affairs by Kim Baldwin, Xenia Alexiou Page A

number personally.”
C
HAPTER EIGHT
Saturday Evening
D
    omino stood before the large picture windows of her condo, all but oblivious to the lights of Washington and the smells of a barbecue wafting in on the breeze through the open balcony door. Her mind was entirely on Hayley. Not Hayley —Strike . The target. Objectify her. You have to.
    But she found it more difficult than she imagined after having spent the evening before thoroughly engaged by Hayley and the last several hours memorizing her file.
    She returned to the couch behind her and sank into the cushions. When she thought of Hayley, she didn’t see the four-by-six photo from the file. She recalled the candlelit Hayley laughing across the table, or the Hayley on the dance floor looking at her with such flirtatious, open interest—not the flat and unsmiling version who had posed for a driver’s license photo two years earlier, her dimples undetectable.
    Domino had needed to get personal with a target before and had done so successfully. But this was different, not only because she’d gone in unprepared, but also because Hayley was somehow different. Perhaps her unpretentious approach to life had appealed to Domino, but her easy, untainted manner had certainly been contagious. Even if only briefly, she had realized what it must be like to be unguarded without facing possible repercussions. Hayley was different because she made Domino feel free.
    She stared out into the night. So damn free.
The familiar whup whup whup of a distant helicopter, probably medevac or military, invaded her consciousness and grew louder as it neared. Then she saw it, its white and red lights passing almost directly overhead, and its sight and sound transported her to another place, three years earlier.
    Domino ran through the rain forest of Gunung Leuser in northern Sumatra, trying to hide under the thick jungle canopy of trees, rifle strapped on her back, pursued from above and behind. Darting behind a massive kauri tree that stretched a hundred feet into the sky, she paused to catch her breath. The heat and humidity made her feel as though she was breathing water instead of air.
    The sound of the pursuing helicopter neared, and the shooting resumed, coming closer. Her lungs protesting the too-short respite, she started running again toward Binjai, the nearest village, hoping for somewhere to hide.
    They’d said the operation would be simple. Get into Indonesia and take down Eric Hudson, a man responsible for exploiting the poor and underprivileged. He promised them a new beginning and a better life in America. But after they boarded his ships, he sold the men to other countries as slaves and the women and children into prostitution. Those who didn’t survive the trip found a more merciful end at the bottom of the Indian Ocean.
    He had to be stopped, they said. It was a noble cause. But they didn’t tell her how many were involved, how toppling Hudson would throw the entire Indonesian underworld into an uproar.
    She had to get close, go in as a buyer, find out how many were involved, and ask for backup if necessary. And she got very close. She saw for herself how the poor people of the region were treated. Saw the buyers take women and children away, witnessed the hell their lives became.
    The experience motivated her. She got close to Hudson and earned his trust. He shared information with her and introduced her to some of the other key players, Americans, Europeans, Asians—all sick, ruthless bastards.
    When she had learned enough, she made the call and requested backup. They told her to start with Hudson, but to make it look accidental.
    Getting to him was easy, for she was now a guest in his home, her balcony near his. One night she used the outside ledge to steal from her balcony onto his and crept into his room while he slept. Just enough insulin to make it look like a heart attack. That was the plan.
    She injected him but had barely finished when his Indonesian sex slave