Saint Julian’s, Republic of Malta.
With no sign of potential witnesses in the hall, the man pulled the apartment door shut with a soft click. He adjusted his hoodie and ran down the steps before stepping onto the damp pavement. The sun had set and on a wet November night in Malta, the streets surrounding Spinola Bay were deserted.
It was time to settle in and wait. The mark—Joseph Da Silva— had only just sat down for dinner at one of the nearby restaurants. It would be at least an hour before he returned to his rental villa facing the water.
With quick and efficient movements, the assassin made his way to the docked speedboat. Villas and hotels pressed together around the inlet, stacked like Legos in the small cove. He ignored the colorful skiffs floating alongside his craft. Traditional Maltese Luzzu fishing boats painted a patchwork of color both on and off the water. Clambering onto a small speedboat, he adjusted the tarp that added concealment before settling in his seat. He glanced at his watch. Nineteen minutes and 28 seconds. The efficient time it took to gain access to the apartment—and to set the pressure switch—pleased him.
Setting up the Semtex charge inside the water tank took skill, but connecting the explosives to a double pressure switch between the toilet bowl and the seat had made him sweat. It was foolproof. Mr. Da Silva would return from his dinner. If he needed to piss, he’d raise the toilet seat which would trigger the switch and blow him to pieces. However, if Da Silva decided to sit on the crapper, the second pressure switch would also activate the water charge.
He reached into a packed cooler and pulled out a Tupperware filled with Bigilla, carrots and crackers. He loved the Maltese version of Hummus. No one made better Bigilla than his mama and he was grateful for the packed dinner.
Toilets were foolproof when it came to eliminating a mark. People may not use a fridge or an oven—mainly if they eat out or don’t know how to cook—but at some point, everybody responded to the call of nature.
He thought about the mark. This would be his fifth kill, not bad considering he’d only been in the killing game for ten months. He did the work that others were afraid to do, and his work was meticulous. Joseph Da Silva shouldn’t have asked questions. The private detective should’ve stayed in Italy. Instead, he began investigating links between the Sicilian Mafia and wealthy Maltese families. Over the past decade, the police had made arrests, linking Maltese individuals to Libyan fuel smuggling and illegal gaming activities. But now that the dust had settled, new investigations would open a can of laundering worms.
The detective was bad for business. He had to die.
As the killer waited, he slipped a hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out his talisman, rolling it between his thumb and fingers. He took great care. One wrong move would mean death. He looked down at the small green object. The smallest grenade in the world. A replica of the V40 Fragmentation Grenade initially manufactured in the Netherlands. He carried the shell on every mission. It kept him alert and careful in the field.
The contained explosive energy lying in the palm of his hand made his heart pump a little faster. Explosive devices fascinated him. That and the fires they caused, after ripping through space with shredded mayhem. He placed the fragmentation device carefully back in his pocket, opened a soda and returned to watching the apartment entrance.
Two hours later, the detective walked up the chilly street and then up the stairs. Rain pattered on the tarp, sounding peaceful as the sea gently rocked the boat. Ten minutes later, an explosion shattered the silence. Fiery missiles blew outwards, then showered onto the harbor below. The killer could feel the concussive blast from across the water and the sight energized him. Although he wanted to hang back and watch the flames flicker in the night’s sky, it was time for him to leave. He turned on the motor and made his way towards the open water, blocking out the screams and never once looking back.
