Andrew Britton - The Assassin

He hesitated. Movement changed everything, but at that distance, a flat-out run made a first-round hit all but impossible. Vanderveen’s right thumb hovered over the selector switch, but in the end, he left it unchanged on single shot.

A light rain was beginning to fall, the fine drops drifting east on a 2 mph wind. Giving the Frenchman a 5 mil lead to start — five marks on the horizontal wire in his scope — Vanderveen took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, settling into his stance as the air was completely expelled from his lungs. The distant figure had just moved into the trap at 3? mils when he fully depressed the trigger.

Besson’s own lungs were burning, his legs like rubber as he stumbled into a drainage ditch on the far side of the field, feet sliding in the mud as he sought to regain his footing. He looked back, and his heart nearly stopped. The American was there on one knee, the rifle up at his shoulder. Besson knew exactly what was going to happen. Something in the back of his mind told him that he had to move faster, but his body refused to cooperate with his brain’s urgent commands, his energy sapped by a dangerous combination of fear and adrenaline.

He somehow managed to emerge on the other side of the ditch and kept running hard, his arms clawing the air in a desperate attempt to pull his body forward. He was close now, the trees less than 15 yards in front of him.

Relief poured into his veins. The trees were too close, and there was still plenty of foliage; at this distance, there was no way the shooter could He never heard the sound of the shot. Nor did he feel the impact. Instead, his thoughts simply stopped with the flick of a switch, the lights going out once and for all.

“Incredible,” Raseen breathed. Her lips parted slightly in amazement. “You hit him with one shot.”

Vanderveen remained motionless. He’d seen a puff of red, heard the slap as the round drilled into the man’s head. The Frenchman had gone straight down, but even with two indications of a fatal wound, it was too early to tell for sure. He’d seen people defy the odds and not only survive, but walk away from similar injuries, the most memorable of which, at least in his experience, involved a shot taken eight years earlier on a Syrian hilltop. The target in that case had been his commanding officer, Ryan Kealey. It should have been a fatal wound, a clean shot straight to the chest from 437 yards, but Kealey had somehow pulled through. Given the man’s subsequent interference in his own personal agenda, Vanderveen privately ranked that shot as the worst of his life.

He had made up for it, though, at least to some degree. While Kealey’s actions the previous year had cost him dearly, Vanderveen had exacted a fitting revenge. Even now, he could remember that night so clearly. The look of utter despair on Kealey’s face had been priceless, but as satisfying as that was, it had lacked the physical force of the woman’s reaction. That had been the best part, the way she’d trembled in his arms like a frightened rabbit, the way she’d stiffened in shock when the knife went in…

“Why are you smiling?”

Raseen’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. The smile faded, but the memory remained. “No reason.”

“What are we going to do about him?” she asked, nodding toward the still form in the distance.

Vanderveen cleared his mind and considered the question. “We don’t have a lot of options. We can’t risk moving the body. I checked the weather report before we left Paris; it’s supposed to rain fairly hard for most of the night. Hopefully, the tracks will wash away in a few hours. We’ll collect the brass and the targets. By the time the locals start their investigation, we’ll be finished and out of the country.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “We?”

“I could use your help, but it’s up to you. After tomorrow you’ve done your part; you’re under no obligation. If you have to make some calls, or if you’d prefer not to go…”

She considered briefly before nodding her agreement. “My instructions are to assist you in any way possible, so yes, I’ll go if you need me. I have a place in the city where I keep my passports. I’ll have to stop to collect them.” She paused. “You know, it would be better if this looked like a mistake.”

“An accident, you mean?”

“Yes. The authorities will learn the truth, of course, but it might buy us some time if we run into problems.”

He nodded slowly. “I see your point. Here, hand me that shotgun.”

“No, I’ll do it.” She showed him her hands. “You don’t have gloves.”

“You’re sure?”

She took the weapon out of his hands, then walked off without responding. Vanderveen watched as she marched across the field, holding the Winchester low in a two-handed grip. He waited for some sign of regret, for a hitch in her stride, but it never came.

She reached the body and kneeled, presumably checking for signs of life. From 250 yards, it was difficult to see exactly what was happening, but Vanderveen checked off the list in his head, unaware that she was doing the same as she went through the motions: searching the man’s pockets for shells, removing the first empty cartridge, then lifting the body into a sitting position, a considerable chore for a woman of her slight stature. Once she’d elevated the body, just one task remained. She took four paces away from the half-slumped form, then turned and lifted the weapon.

Vanderveen saw what was left of the Frenchman’s head explode through the falling rain. The sound of the shotgun followed instantly, a hollow boom spreading over the field, the noise lifting dozens of birds in a flurry of feathers. Then he watched in fascination as Raseen began to adjust the body’s position. She was clearly taking her time in getting it right, stopping occasionally to view the scene from a number of angles. When she was finally satisfied, she carefully placed the shotgun several feet from the corpse and tramped back over the field.

Vanderveen studied her face as she approached. She’d been too close for the last part; the right side of her white nylon jacket was covered in a fine red mist, which was running down with the rain. If she’d noticed, though, it didn’t register in her even expression. When she reached him, she handed over the empty cartridge. The cold air had lent a pink glow to her cheeks, but her face was otherwise unreadable.

They pulled down the shredded targets and collected the brass from the FAMAS, stuffing it all into the backpack, along with Raseen’s soiled jacket. On the return trip, they stopped in Castillon-la-Bataille, on the stone bridge over the Dordogne. After weighing the pack down with an armful of abandoned bricks, Vanderveen dropped it into the water and watched as it spiraled into the murky depths.

They reached Paris just after midnight.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Kealey’s eyes cracked open against their will, fighting the gray, drizzling dawn that was pushing its way through the half-closed drapes. Over a cluster of rumpled sheets, he could see through the window overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. A constant hiss was coming from somewhere, and it confused him until his brain cut through the haze and connected his eyes and ears; it was just a light rain beating against the glass.

He rolled over and put his face in the pillow, conscious of the empty bottles strewn across the floor. He’d raided the minibar the night before. He didn’t need to see the evidence to know it; he felt his mistake in the pounding headache that was just beginning to ruin his morning as well as the foul taste in his mouth. And then, wondering what had brought this on, he was struck by the memory of what Naomi had said, and all that accompanied those misspoken words.