Naples in June is almost pleasant. Almost. The weather couldn’t be more lovely. Warm and dry, with a clear blue sky that goes on for miles. Even gloomy Vesuvius in the distance couldn’t ruin the day. Florida has a Naples as well, but it’s never as nice as this. But I wasn't there for the weather. I deplaned at Capodichino Airport, the fourth airport I’d passed through in twelve hours. I traveled a zigzag journey to get here. As a freelance assassin, I had to. I wasn’t aware of European warrants for any of my aliases, or even for my real name, Azarias Woulfe. But it was better to obfuscate my trail, both out of habit and necessity. My last mission in Beirut had gone to hell. A Russian general sought revenge for his brother, a man I’d killed in Prague. The ambush nearly cost me my life, and now a contract might have been on my head. A shallow gash across my chest stung with the sweat of travel, a souvenir from the mercenaries I’d killed to escape. That was one reason I packed light. But the main reason was my own fault. I usually converted my fees to diamonds for easy travel, but I’d left my stash behind in the Metropolitan Hotel when I’d fled the country. Some lucky housekeeper was probably driving a Lamborghini at my foolish expense. Still, I was alive and free, so that was a win. On the flip side, I was broke, more broke than I’d been in a long time. I’d maxed out a stolen credit card to get here for an open contract, meaning it wasn’t mine yet. Other assassins might have been competing for it as well. The terms and conditions for the job were sketchy, as expected from the dark web site. The airport was part mall, and I made my way past cafés serving coffee and pastries, gossiping tourists, and clothing and lingerie stores catering to more adventurous travelers. The espresso smelled fantastic, but I passed it by. I needed all my remaining funds for operational work. The 2016 Napoli Teatro Festival Italia, a month-long festival celebrating the performing arts, was in full swing. Music, dance, and theater dominated Napoli’s tourism. Maybe once I got paid, I’d enjoy the sights. But for now, this was a business trip on a shoestring budget. Tall glass windows at the airport entrance gave me pause. I claimed a spot behind a pillar, carefully scanning the area outside. I’d hidden my travel trail, but there was still a pissed-off Russian eager for my head. A sniper bullet would have no problem sending me to meet his dead brother. After ten minutes of scouting yielded nothing, I exited, hailing the first cab available to get clear of the airport's open sightlines. The letters on street signs danced as the driver took me to the Montesanto neighborhood. Written Italian played havoc with my brain and my dyslexia, all those damned vowels, but the location was a strategic necessity. I chose the neighborhood for its central location and quick escape routes, including the metro or a funicular. I might be sharing the neighborhood with other assassins for the contract though, if they thought like I did. Montesanto wasn’t touristy. It was mostly populated by locals, some friendly, but more not. The Camorra crime organization had a heavy presence in the city. The lady sweeping outside her shop could be an informant. The man reading the newspaper on a bench, a spotter. I looked neither rich nor interesting, so I pretended not to notice the watching eyes. At least the flat was private and cheap, though the unit itself was less than advertised. The door stuck in the frame, the carpet smelled of mold, and the ceiling fan squeaked at any speed. I left it off. I dropped my bags and checked the time. My first priority was the meet in one hour. The web post said a file would be available by Bluetooth for only one minute, and I needed to snag it to find the real meeting location. I understood that caution was necessary, especially during a festival when the police would be watching for anything unusual, but this digital dead drop felt like someone was playing with their new iPhone. I’d also need a weapon. That’s something I’d work on later, once I knew the mission parameters. I headed back out and caught the bus to Rione Sanità. Someone must have posted the destination on Tripadvisor, as the crowd was dense as I stepped onto the street. I needed to hustle to make it to the digital dead drop in time. I bumped into meandering tourists and scowling locals as I jogged by. Street performers entertained the tourist crowds with songs and music. One of the guitarists strumming for tips was good, but I made up for lost time by not getting sucked into the melody. With three minutes to spare, I arrived at Piazza Sanità. It was almost evening, and the local street vendors were frantically trying to unload their trinkets for the day. My GPS pointed me into the lion’s den of hawkers. I waded in, adopted a scowl that I hoped would keep them away, but they took it as a challenge. No, I don’t need your overpriced oregano. No, I don’t want to use your phone charger for a fee. If I had a choice, I’d just walk by, but the transfer relied on a Bluetooth Low Energy (BLE) beacon, and it had limited range. I needed to be close. I drew attention by standing around but not buying. Finally, I parked myself in front of a coffee kiosk, the barista telling me about the amazing flavors he sold. While he talked, I opened the custom app on my phone and scanned for new devices. At precisely six, my phone detected the right Bluetooth beacon. I quickly typed in the prearranged password. The app downloaded a file and finished in less than ten seconds. I glanced up and thanked the man for his time, then turned to escape the retail nest, but something caught my eye. Another man stood nearby, studying his phone. He was fit, muscular even, but something else seized my attention. It was the unmistakable print against the fabric of his left sock. The hard, vertical line wasn't a pistol but the distinct outline of a knife's sheath clip. A cheap thug tucks a blade in his waistband or a pocket, but an ankle carry is for a professional. He was another assassin competing for my job. I headed his way and bumped into him, deliberately knocking the phone out of his hand. It clattered against the stone walkway, spiderwebbing the screen. He glared at me. A nasty scar just below his neck told me what I needed to know. He was a dangerous man. I hurried away, but he followed, keeping pace with me. I pretended not to notice but scanned for an easy getaway, a taxi or bus. No luck. I’d have to do this the hard way. I took a right at a dry cleaner’s, heading into an alleyway. I looked for cover, but there wasn’t anything large enough. Just some plastic buckets and a rubber trash bin. I moved through the alley quickly, but still heard the man behind me. He was running. I waited until the man’s steps were close enough, then quickly turned and struck, taking him by surprise. I grabbed him and tossed him to the ground. The knife in his hand clattered against a wall and fell behind one of the buckets. As I expected, he had experience. He rolled with the drop and landed on his feet an instant later. “Give me your phone,” he said, “and this won’t get ugly.” His English was French-accented, Parisian. “You must not use a mirror much, because it’s already ugly.” He lunged low, his hands outstretched for a grip. It was a classic judo technique, close and throw. I was trained in Keysi and Filipino martial arts, so the narrow alley worked to my advantage. I stepped toward him and brought my forearms up in a pensador guard, elbows tucked in and fists close to my head. His shoulder drove in hard, but mine drove harder. Bone against bone. He caught my shirt sleeve and turned, dropping for a throw. I pivoted, slipped his grip, and jammed my hand down like a blade to the side of his neck. His balance broke, his legs went wide, and I shoved clear before he could recover. “There was no file drop,” I said, trying to con him. “Nothing transmitted.” “You lie,” he snarled and charged again, driving low for my waist. I tucked, but he powered through, lifting me. I smashed my forehead to his nose as he slammed me back against the stone wall. Stars exploded behind my eyes for a moment, but only a moment. I worked to draw breath, clearing my head. The other assassin staggered back, blood splashing his shirt. I struggled to my feet and crouched low, coiled and ready. He lunged again, a clumsy repeat, banking on brute force. Predictable. Time to end this. I met his rush, slipping inside his reach. I struck, three rapid-fire hand-edge strikes known as witiks. Temple, throat, ribs. He dropped and didn’t rise. He was out but not dead. I could kill him, but that wasn’t the safe plan. I didn’t know the area, and didn’t have time to check for cameras while he pursued me. Plus I didn’t want to deal with a body so soon on arrival. He was an operative, just like me. When he came to, he wouldn’t go to the police. Hopefully he’d just abandon the contract and vanish. I checked his pockets. He only had a few euros, but I took them. I also retrieved his knife, a decent switchblade. It wasn’t the best weapon, but at least I was armed. I waited until I was at the bus stop before checking my phone. The file was encrypted, as expected, but I knew the key from the dark web site. I plugged it in and read the file. The next destination was the Cloister of Santa Chiara. “It’s time to get me to a nunnery,” I muttered to myself. It was a bad joke, but I was sure Hamlet would have approved.
