Assassin's Vow: The Saint Assassin Series, #2

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The Story

An impossible vow…

Assassin Xavier Saint is doing all he can to discover more about a network of assassins who are killing innocents while trying to stay one step ahead. But that is proving to be very costly. At the same time, to find and protect his daughter, Saint must pay back favors, which were steep and many. Now his friends have come for their pound of flesh…

Forced into a deadly assignment to save his new-found family, Saint vows to end the network and be the father he never knew he was. But how can he?

During all of this, he obtains suspicious intelligence that his ex-girlfriend might still be alive. With the network hellbent on eliminating him, no true friends, and the trap closing all around him, will Saint be able to get some answers and keep his promise before it’s too late?

It’s time to take off the gloves…

​ASSASSIN’S VOW

SAINT ASSASSIN SERIES

BOOK TWO

ETHAN JONES

​To my wife for her wonderful encouragement,

my readers for their fantastic support,

and to the awesome God

who makes all things possible.

Psalm 46:1: God is our refuge and strength, a well proved help in trouble.

​Table of Contents

Front Page

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Epilogue

Bonus - Evanoff's Fate - Short Story

Bonus - Book Three - Assassin's Revenge: Chapter One

Acknowledgements

Copyright

Chapter One

Bahrain Financial Harbour West Tower

Manama, Bahrain

The text message rang the alarm bells as Khalid Shaheen Lootah glanced at his phone. His chief of security wanted to meet him in person urgently. That almost never happened, unless there was a crisis the battle-hardened operative couldn’t handle on his own.

Lootah sighed. He glanced across the large mahogany desk of the conference room at his three associates. They were discussing a potential new investment deal in a resort project in Al Khobar, Saudi Arabia. There had been some problems with financing from a couple of Russian oligarchs. Lootah wanted to iron out those issues before his upcoming business trip to Tanzania next week. But this situation with his chief of security threatened not just his trip or his business, but possibly his entire life.

So Lootah waved a dismissive hand at one of the associates who was talking. Okay, okay, we have to stop now. I need to deal with an urgent matter.

The associate gave Lootah a displeased look. But this is urgent. The Russians are waiting for our reply and—

The Russians will have to wait. Now, leave me, so I can handle my other business. Go have some tea or do something for the next half hour. Then, we’ll return to this deal.

The associate shrugged. He shook his head and gestured at his colleagues. Let’s go. They filed out of the room without another word.

Lootah picked up his phone and texted his chief of security: Come up. I will meet you now.

One minute, came the reply.

Lootah stood up and looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the conference room. The 52-story skyscraper stood on the northern shore of Bahrain’s capital. On a clear day, Lootah could see all the way to Saudi Arabia, across the 15-mile-long King Fahd Causeway connecting the two countries. The office tower they were planning to build on Sunset Beach was going to serve Lootah well to launder his dirty money obtained from a host of illicit activities, including extortion, blackmail, and assassinations.

The Bahraini businessman loosened his black tie, then unfastened the top button of his crisp white shirt. He drew in a deep breath, but it didn’t satisfy his oxygen-starved lungs. He felt like the spacious conference room was closing in around him.

Lootah reached into his jacket for his inhaler and took a quick puff. His air passages began to open but not fast enough. He took a second puff and only then began to feel better. He ran his hands through his curly black hair, and his nostrils flared. He sighed, then returned to his seat. This isn’t going to go well, he thought. His head henchman was bringing bad news.

A moment later, there was a knock on the door, and Abdullah Mubarak Alsuwaidi stepped inside the conference room. He was dressed in his usual gray pinstriped suit and light blue shirt. He stood upright, nearly at attention, but his worried face was screwed into a gruff look. He nodded slowly at Lootah and stepped closer. Good morning, he said in a warm voice.

Lootah shrugged. It’s not a good morning if you need to meet with me, he replied abruptly. What do you have?

Alsuwaidi unbuttoned his suit, sat on a swivel chair next to Lootah, and pulled out his phone. I received the final report from our man in America. He had access to police and FBI files. They’re still investigating Fieser’s death, but they have drawn their preliminary conclusions.

Maddox Fieser, a Canadian citizen, had been one of Lootah’s closest partners in his side business: eliminating the competition by cruel, yet effective, means. Assassinations. Initially, Lootah had agreed to the first kill reluctantly and out of sheer fear of losing all his family’s savings in an investment deal that had gone wrong. He had wanted to avoid the disaster and the shame that was about to befall his family.

Once he had seen the elimination’s effectiveness, especially on potential competitors, Lootah had embraced that dark side wholeheartedly. He and Fieser had expanded their joint venture to include contract killings on behalf of businessmen from Canada to Bahrain and everywhere in between. For the right price, anyone could be eliminated at any time, any place, in any way the client desired, no questions asked.

Lootah leaned forward and closer to Alsuwaidi, giving him his full attention. Who did it?

Alsuwaidi shook his head. They don’t have a name, but they have several leads. One of them, which seems the most probable, is that this was the job of an assassin gone rogue. His voice turned somber.

A line appeared between Lootah’s brows. His eyes narrowed as he squinted at Alsuwaidi, and they glinted with suspicion. One of Fieser’s assassins is responsible for all those deaths? he asked in an incredulous tone.

At least ten people had been confirmed dead and six others were wounded in what the media reports described as three linked shootings around McLean, Virginia. Lootah and Fieser had taken great care in hiring only the best assassins to execute these liquidation assignments. However, once in a while, a foul-up happened. Like in this case, when an assassin apparently had turned against his liaison.

He didn’t act alone. Alsuwaidi tapped his phone. I have the reports here. I’ll send you a copy. The police believe he had a team of accomplices.

Lootah’s jaw dropped. He brought his arms closer to his body as if trying to protect himself. So, this was an organized hit?

It appears so, yes. Something must have caused this man, the assassin, to go crazy and hunt down Fieser.

And what was it?

I have my best men looking into it. Soon, we’ll have the man’s name and his reasons, Alsuwaidi said in a firm, confident tone. Considering the man’s determination, it appears to be something personal. We’re following that angle.

Lootah nodded his understanding. It makes sense. Fieser could be very stubborn and unreasonable. If he went after the assassin’s family, that would explain the man’s rage.

Alsuwaidi tapped his phone, entered his passcode, then slid the phone toward his boss. Whoever it is, he is an extremely dangerous man. We’ve got to find him and get rid of him.

Absolutely. Now, who am I looking at? He pointed at the picture shown on Alsuwaidi’s phone.

A man perhaps in his early thirties was smiling at Lootah. The man had blond hair and a large forehead without any wrinkles. He had light blue eyes, which made him look sincere and kind, a long, narrow nose and high cheek bones. The man had a five o’clock shadow that covered his square face with a strong jaw line.

This is our primary suspect, Alsuwaidi replied with a nod. His name is Xavier Saint. This assassin was assigned a contract in Europe. Montenegro. The target was eliminated, but it’s unclear what happened to Saint next. He disappeared somewhere in Europe. At the same time, Fieser increased his security detail. He doubled the number of his bodyguards.

Lootah shook his head. It didn’t do him any good.

You’re right, sir. We’re trying to connect Saint to Fieser through Saint’s travels. He used forged passports, of course, but we’re hopeful he has left behind some kind of paper trail. We should pick it up soon. We’re also looking at two other assassins, who had reasons to go after Fieser. Over the years, Fieser had made a lot of enemies. Even a couple of his clients were rumored to be wanting to get rid of him.

Lootah nodded. Yes, that’s a common danger in our job, he said in a voice full of regret. He felt a shortness of breath and a tightening of his chest. He thought about using his inhaler to fend off the anxiety-triggered asthma but decided against it. He didn’t want to appear weak in front of his chief of security. So, instead of speaking, Lootah drew in shallow breaths and studied Saint’s picture for a long time.

When he felt he was getting enough oxygen to his lungs and could talk without wheezing, Lootah said, You have done a good job. Now, where is Saint?

We don’t know, Alsuwaidi replied with some disappointment in his low voice. He lowered his head, and some of his slicked-back hair fell over his forehead. His lips pressed tight into a grimace. He gave Lootah a frustrated shake of the head before saying, We suspect he has returned to Europe. Not sure where, but we’ll find out.

Find him quickly.

We’re on it. Now, one last detail about our friend Saint. According to the police report, Fieser’s residence had been ransacked. A lot of documents are missing, plus his laptop and phone.

Lootah jerked back from Alsuwaidi. His lips pulled back, and he had trouble breathing for a long moment. His eyes bulged, followed by rapid blinking. He looked away while collecting his thoughts. He gazed at Saint’s face in the picture, then said, Fieser’s phone had a trove of secrets. The stupid mule kept everything there, pictures, records, figures, conversations. If the phone has fallen into Saint’s hands, then he knows, or will soon know, about us and our connection to Fieser, our business with him, our… everything. We’re doomed, he wanted to add, but he didn’t want to spread to Alsuwaidi the feeling of panic that was overwhelming him. We… we need to be on guard.

Yes, we’ve already taken defensive measures. I’ve doubled your guards. We’ll change your routes and plans. I doubt Saint or anyone else would come after you, after us, at least not immediately.

Lootah shook his head, then wagged a finger at Alsuwaidi. Don’t doubt anything. Fieser made that mistake, and see what happened to him? We need to find this Saint right now. He snapped his fingers, then slapped the table hard with his right hand. Wherever he is, we need to find him, and kill him. Let’s do it now, before he comes to kill us all.

​Chapter Two

Teichalmsee Lake

Austria

Saint kept staring incredulously at the phone. Is this a cruel joke? Did someone use AI to replicate her voice? Saint had heard about how artificial intelligence could simulate anyone’s voice. Is someone trying to trick me? She’s dead, but she sounded so real! Could she… Could she still be alive?

He didn’t know what to think. The call had come from an unknown number. He quickly redialed it. The phone rang and rang, but no one picked up. Saint shook his head. He wanted to try again, but he had to deal with the situation at hand. Could her call be tied to these goons? He shrugged and slid his phone into his jacket pocket. His right hand hovered over his inside waistband holster. His Sig Sauer P229 9mm pistol was there, loaded and ready. If the two uninvited guests weren’t friendly, all Saint needed to do was pull out the pistol, aim, and fire. He was trained to do all that in one-tenth of a second.

He had seen them as soon as their black Audi SUV pulled into the parking lot. Two young men in black suits had climbed out of the vehicle. They had glanced around and had spotted him. One of the young men, the driver, had tapped his ear and had spoken not very discreetly into a mic clipped on to the collar of his jacket. There had to be others in the SUV, or perhaps there was a second team in another vehicle or elsewhere in the park.

The area was a favorite destination for locals to spend the afternoon or even the entire day by the lake, especially in these hot summer days. A heatwave had engulfed most of west and central Europe. Saint, too, had come to enjoy a few hours in the company of his family.

It wasn’t meant to be.

He kept marching with purpose toward the two men. The driver had realized the resolve in the eyes of Saint, who was approaching them rapidly. The driver gestured at his partner, and they both turned to face Saint. The man’s eyes were fiery, giving them a fierce look. His brow was furrowing, and his facial muscles were tight.

When Saint was about ten feet from the men, he called out at them, Who are you? What are you doing here? His voice was strong and demanding.

The driver took one step forward. He raised his arms in a we-don’t-want-any-trouble gesture and gave Saint a small smile. Relax, Mr. Saint. We come in peace.

Their exchange had caught the attention of a couple of men sitting at a wooden picnic table nearby. Saint kept them, as well as the nearest group of four men and women standing near the edge of the parking lot and smoking, in his peripheral vision.

Saint moved his hand just half an inch so the two men could see the grip of his pistol. His eyes never left their clean-shaven faces. You didn’t answer my question, he said as he planted both feet hard onto the grassy patch of land near the edge of the parking lot. I’m not going to ask again.

We work for Mr. Gladkov, said the driver’s partner. He’d like to meet with you.

Saint’s eyes turned into small slits. Anatoly Gladkov was a director working for Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, or the SVR, which was Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service. Gladkov and Saint had some unfinished business. Depending on the nature of Gladkov’s meeting, this could be bad news or worse news. In Saint’s experience, there was never any good news when dealing with the fearsome SVR.

He has my number, Saint asked in a gruff tone, doubtful of the truthfulness of their words.

This is extremely sensitive. It has to be done in person, the driver replied with equal gruffness.

How about a heads-up?

Urgent matters can’t wait. Now, follow us, the driver’s partner ordered Saint in a strong voice and cocked his head toward the Audi.

Saint took a couple of steps toward them. He kept his hand on his pistol, and his eyes were glued to their faces. Let’s see some IDs first, he demanded. Slowly.

The driver shook his head and sighed.

His partner shrugged. Waste of time, Mr. Saint.

Just do it, okay?

Fine, fine.

Both men reached at almost the same time inside their jacket pockets. They produced small laminated ID cards, but Saint was too far away to certify their authenticity. Plus, he didn’t know exactly what a current SVR card looked like. Now, why would they claim to be SVR if they aren’t? Unless they work for Fieser or one of his six associates?

The driver was obviously getting to the end of his patience. Are we good now?

No, not yet.

Saint thought about his next steps for a brief moment, then asked, Who else is here with you?

The two of us and our associate in the car. The driver cocked his head to his left.

One more thing, Saint said. The last time I talked to Gladkov, I gave him something. Tell me what it was.

The driver’s face formed an exaggerated grin. Gladkov told us you’re a tough man to reason with. He expected you’d ask something like that. The answer is a gift. You gave Gladkov a gift.

Saint nodded slowly. It was the correct answer, but that didn’t make him feel any better. He didn’t want to go with the SVR operatives. He wanted to enjoy the picnic with his daughter, her grandmother and their friends. But he couldn’t say no to the powerful director. Not if he wanted to meet Saint in person and had come such a long way. I need five minutes to say ‘goodbye’ to my friends, okay?

The driver’s face twisted into a grimace, but he said nothing.

I’ll follow the Audi, he told them. Where are we going?

Just follow us, the driver’s partner said in a dry voice.

Saint wanted to ask about the call he had just received but didn’t want to tip his hand. He didn’t believe in coincidences, so he couldn’t help but suspect the SVR was behind the call. Did they take her? If they did, that would be a deadly mistake for whoever gave the order.

He gritted his teeth but