Andrew Britton - The Assassin

“Ryan, what is it?” Her voice was high and panicked, not her own. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer as he got to his feet in one jerky movement, his knee catching the edge of the table. The glasses crashed to the floor, wine and beer spilling everywhere. Naomi was standing a split second later, but rooted in place. She called out after him, but he didn’t respond, and all she could do was watch as he walked away.

Once he disappeared from view, Naomi looked around in helpless confusion, trying to draw some insight from her spare surroundings. The bartender looked annoyed at the mess, but she barely noticed and cared less, shocked to her core by what had just transpired. Still not seeing it, she reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone, then punched in the DDO’s direct line. She knew that Harper wouldn’t want to give her any answers over the phone, but she didn’t intend to give him a choice.

Kealey had only made it as far as the men’s room. The room was otherwise empty as he hunched over the sink, eyes squeezed shut, his hands gripping the sides of the basin. He was trying his best to force down another wave of nausea and failing badly.

He had managed to keep it locked away for so long. Maybe too long. Even after he’d learned that Vanderveen was still alive, he had somehow managed to block out that terrible night, mostly by focusing on the task at hand. None of that mattered, though, because in the end, all it had taken was one innocent question to bring everything crashing back to the surface.

He straightened slightly and shook his head unconsciously, refusing his own conclusions. None of that was true; he was making excuses, and it wasn’t Naomi’s fault. The truth was that he was tired of fighting it. He was tired of trying to hold it all back, and now, for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to think of Katie Donovan.

Her features sprang to mind on a whim, but they were all peripheral: the way her golden brown hair framed her face, her teasing grin, the way her nose scrunched up when she laughed. It was the way he wanted to remember her, the way she deserved to be seen, but it couldn’t last. The image dissolved without warning, replaced by something else entirely: the expression she’d worn in her last fleeting seconds of life. She had not been able to talk in those final moments, but the look in her panicked blue eyes had said everything. She had begged him for help, begged him to somehow undo what had happened, but he had been helpless. By catching him off-guard, by finding his one true weakness, Will Vanderveen had stripped away everything Kealey had ever cared about: the chance to break free of the things he had seen and done — the chance of a new life with the woman he loved.

He took a deep, unsteady breath and looked up, staring into his own haunted eyes. For a split second, he was tempted to put a fist through his own reflection. He might have done just that a year earlier, but the rage had started to slip in recent months, replaced by the guilt and despair that comes with prolonged grief and the passage of time.

He was suddenly aware of a second face in the mirror. Naomi could have been standing there for hours on end; he wouldn’t have known either way. She looked to be on the verge of tears, and for a brief, bitter instant, he wondered if they would be tears of sympathy or embarrassment. Neither would have surprised him.

“Ryan, I’m so sorry.” She was fumbling for words, her voice little more than a whisper. “Harper just told me. I didn’t know, I swear…”

“That’s what you said before, Naomi. You said that he told you everything.”

She hesitated; his voice was too calm. “That’s not what I… I mean-”

“Don’t worry about it.” He turned unexpectedly, and suddenly he was like a different person, his face assuming a tight but neutral expression. “I’m fine, okay? Listen, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She paused again. “Ryan, I’m here. If you want to talk-”

“I don’t.” He met her gaze; the message was clearly conveyed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Finally, she left reluctantly, the door easing shut behind her, and Kealey returned his gaze to the sink.

DORDOGNE, FRANCE

The Loire Valley passed by in a colorful blur, the scenery enhanced by the onset of fall. The sky was cold and contradictory, a flat, gunmetal gray, but the air inside the Mercedes was almost too warm, the heater going full blast.

Vanderveen stifled a yawn and lowered the window a few inches, trying to ignore the ache in his back. Only now was he beginning to feel the effects of the constant travel and stress over the past few weeks. He was grateful that the woman’s SUV had comfortable seats and plenty of leg room. Turning his head, he could see that she was still staring absently out the passenger-side window, just as she’d been doing for the last several hours. They had passed through Rocamadour, the cathedral city of Tours, and Sarlat, a town that had scarcely changed in the eight hundred years since its inception. The views were impressive, but Yasmin Raseen had failed to remark on any of it.

After leaving the bakery in the 8th Arrondissement, they’d paid a short but informative visit to the boulevard Gouvion Saint-Cyr, a narrow, tree-lined road that ran directly past the main entrance of Le Meridien Etoile. Right away, he could see that she’d chosen well; the sight lines were nearly perfect. From there, a quick stop at an Internet cafe did much to ease Vanderveen’s concerns; he learned that, besides the central police station, there were only two UPQs (District Police Units) in the 17th Arrondissement, both of which were located on the northeast side. The closest was more than 7 kilometers away from the hotel, and as they drove to the parking garage, he noticed for the first time how light the police presence actually was in the southern half of the district. They stopped for supplies, after which he navigated his way through a warren of narrow streets, finding the D50 a few minutes later. Soon they were out of the city, streaking south into rural France.

During each stop in the city, the woman had quietly reiterated all the information she had gathered over the past week. The repetition didn’t bother him in the least; in fact, he was reassured by her meticulous nature. There was one thing that kept him on edge. The simple truth was that the men she had hired were complete amateurs. What was required of them wasn’t much, but should they fail, security around the target would become impregnable. Still, he had to admit that Yasmin Raseen had performed exceptionally well. She had acquired everything he needed, from the gunmen to the necessary intelligence to the simple black case that was hidden away in the back of the vehicle.

Soon after they crossed the swollen, frigid waters of the Dordogne River, an eighteen-century stone farmhouse appeared on the left, set several hundred feet back from the pitted road. It was a familiar landmark, and Vanderveen slowed the vehicle, turning onto an asphalt track lined on either side by towering maple and poplar trees. The track had obviously been cleared earlier, and was bordered by piles of icy slush and sodden brown leaves. After another few hundred feet, he pulled over and brought the Mercedes to a stop next to a worn wooden fence.

As they climbed out of the vehicle, Raseen looked around doubtfully. “Are you sure it’s secluded enough?”

Vanderveen had opened the cargo door and was retrieving the case. “It should be,” he replied. “I’ve used this place before, and I didn’t have any trouble.”

Shouldering the second bag, a small backpack, he climbed the fence and trekked into the woods, Raseen trailing awkwardly in the hiking boots she had purchased earlier that day. A hard rain the previous night, combined with the unusually low temperatures, had whipped the ground into a lake of mud. After getting her foot stuck for the third time in a row, she looked up and saw that he was watching her with a small smile of amusement.