It had been a day that Rosa knew she would remember and cherish for the rest of her life. There hadn’t been a dull moment. From seeing the palatial home of the Queen of England to spotting detective Laura Jefferson leaving New Scotland Yard. From strolling along the famous Oxford Street to watching Roy Slack tell the story of his abduction live on television.

And, of course, there’d been execution number five. What a result that had been. The cop in the patrol car had been there for the taking. She’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And she had paid the price.

Rosa had gathered so many memories and it wasn’t over yet. They decided to walk back to Alice’s apartment rather than take a cab. And on the way they were going to stop for more drinks and peruse the lighted shop windows that were packed with Christmas goods.

For Rosa it almost seemed as though she had already adopted her new persona. Maria Rodriquez was no longer merely one of the many fake names she’d been using. Maria Rodriquez was the woman she was about to become.

Alice Green had triggered what Rosa now viewed as an irreversible transformation. Sure, she was still a work in progress, like an unfinished portrait. But soon all the component parts would be in place, and the lies she would have to tell forever would be embedded on her psyche.

Plus, the paid assassin known as The Slayer would be consigned to history.

66

Laura

My throat was almost too tight to swallow as I stared at Danny Carver’s computer screen.

He had visited no less than seven online sites in his search for information on the notorious female assassin they called The Slayer.

She apparently worked for the infamous Sinaloa drugs cartel in Mexico and was credited with killing more than fifty people, including police officers, politicians and journalists, as well as rival cartel members.

But in every other sense she was a mystery. The police and the media did not know her true identity or what she looked like. However, rumour had it that she was young and attractive and rode around on a motorbike.

She was by no means the only woman who was making a living as a contract killer in Mexico, which I knew to be one of the most violent countries on earth. There were several others, and their monikers were just as striking – ‘The Angel of Death,’ ‘The Shadow,’ ‘The Devil’s Daughter.’

But it was The Slayer who Carver had been interested in. And I could think of only one reason why that would be.