RT news network, one of the largest in Russia, was showing scenes that were akin to a war zone in Washington, D.C. American civilians were being interviewed while shaking with tears and pointing back to a barricaded street.
He didn’t care about that.
The camera cut to a police officer saying that three men had been killed in a gun battle outside the Friendship Heights metro station, and that a fourth, believed to be their colleague, had been found dead in the trunk of a car in a parking lot close by.
That would be Antaeus’s assassins. The spymaster turned the volume up.
The camera cut to a woman with matted hair and wide eyes. The banner beneath her read in Cyrillic, AGENT MARSHA GAGE: HEAD OF THE FBI MANHUNT FOR WILL COCHRANE.
The interviewer asked, “Agent Gage. What happened here today?”
Gage looked straight at the camera. The expression on her exhausted face suggested she didn’t care she looked a mess while appearing on global TV. “What happened is we killed Will Cochrane. We got him. It’s over.”
Antaeus tried to smile as he turned off the TV, but something felt wrong. For three years he’d wanted to avenge the death of his wife and daughter by killing Will Cochrane. He’d dreamt about it, visualized it, and planned it; but now that Cochrane was dead, he felt no satisfaction. Instead, he felt like a brute.
He forced his mind to snap out of these ruminations, lit a cheroot, and inhaled deeply on the aromatic tobacco. No need to get Parker to go into hiding now that Cochrane’s dead, he thought. And yes, Agent Gage; it’s over. But at noon tomorrow there’ll be a new beginning. You won’t like it, though.
In the United States Air Force’s Shindand base in Afghanistan, a USAF ground crew was making final checks of the large predator drone. A CIA officer was standing nearby, drinking beer from a bottle as he looked at the five-hundred-pound bunker-destroying bomb on the drone’s undercarriage. He had no role or expertise in preparing the lethal craft, but he did need to be here to make sure the drone was fully functional and ready for takeoff at exactly the right time tomorrow. And though he wasn’t like the new breed of Agency officers, who thought that spying was all about neutralizing enemies rather than obtaining secrets from them, he had to admit that the sight of the bomb made him feel good. It would kill Cobalt. A man whose secrets were no doubt hugely valuable. But more important than that, a man whose death was priceless.
He sipped his beer.
Noon tomorrow, the drone would be high above the target.
Its bomb hurtling downward.
Catherine Parker saw the last bit of the sun disappear over the horizon and beamed. “It’s official. Cocktail hour!”
Ed tossed his newspaper onto the kitchen table, having been unable to read anything in it because his mind was so distracted. “Not for me, thanks. Got to stay sharp tonight. I’ve got a very important day tomorrow.”
Catherine rubbed her husband’s knotted shoulders. “Maybe we should have an early night.” She nibbled his earlobe. “Or does the Agency operate the same rules as football teams — no sex before a big match?”
“To be honest, babes, I’m not sure I’d be much use to you there, either.” He tried to smile. “Anyway, I’ve still got to fix that darn bed frame. Can’t have Crystal hearing all that squeaking.”
Catherine poured herself a glass of wine. “Crystal’s on a sleepover at her friend Cherry’s house tonight, so we can squeak as much as we like.” She smiled, and said with sympathy, “It’s okay, my dear. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate. Just trying to lighten the mood.”
Ed rubbed his temples. “My brain feels like it’s going to explode.”
Catherine smoothed a hand against his cheek. “Try to relax. After tomorrow, you’re going to be man of the moment. Man of a very long and exciting moment.”
“I’m just a cog in the machine. Bigger men than me will get the real glory.”
“You’re not…” Catherine felt anger as she tapped her hand on his shoulder. “You’re not insignificant. I love you. We love you. Tomorrow the Agency will love you.”
Ed looked embittered. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Will stood in total darkness at the end of the driveway, watching the house and in particular the illuminated room containing the two men. He hadn’t anticipated they’d both be here, but it made no difference. He had a job to do, and there was no chance he could come back later. He felt calm, and that was normal for him. Anger would come; right now was not a time for blind, unproductive fury.
He walked to the large home’s front door and tried the handle. Locked. He put on his most charming smile and rang the bell.
A woman opened the door.
Will’s smiled broadened. “Good evening.”
He pushed past her, walked along the corridor, and entered the living room.
Colby Jellicoe and Charles Sheridan were seated in leather armchairs next to a roaring fire. Jellicoe stood quickly, horror on his flabby face as he exclaimed, “You’re supposed to be dead!”
“I got better.” Will punched him with sufficient force to render him unconscious, then grabbed Sheridan by the jaw and hurled him full force across the room.
The CIA officer smacked against a wall and slumped down onto his ass. He looked terrified.
Will crouched nonchalantly and placed the muzzle of his handgun against Sheridan’s belly. “Who killed her?”
Sheridan’s face was screwed up; his whole body was in agony. “Fuck you!”
Will repeated the question. “Ellie Hallowes. I know you ordered her death. Got people to torture her to set up today’s meeting. Thing is, though, she was a very brave and clever woman. She let me know she was calling me under duress.”
Will prodded his gun into Sheridan’s gut. “Try to imagine that kind of bravery. Who killed her?”
Sheridan gritted his teeth and looked venomous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
With deliberation, Will said, “You. Don’t. Know.”
Sheridan nodded, his eyes wide, sweat pouring down his face.
“That means you’re of no use to me.” Will stood and pointed his gun at Sheridan’s head. “Best we get this over with.”
“Stop! Stop!” Sheridan was shaking his head wildly. “You won’t kill me if I tell you?”
Will answered, “All I care about is knowing the identity and location of her murderer.”
Sheridan lowered his head and whimpered, “The twins did it. They weren’t supposed to kill her.”
“Where are they?”
Sheridan told him.
“Look at me.”
Sheridan glanced up, his eyes now pleading and expectant. “That’s all you wanted?”
“Yes. Thing is, though, I don’t believe you.”
“The farm! Approximately one hundred miles west of Langley. They’re in the forest. It’s the truth!”
Will nodded. “I don’t doubt that. You’re lying about not wanting her dead.”
“Jellicoe made me do it!”
“That means you’re both in the shit.”
“Please. I was following orders.”
“I’ve heard that before from other psychopaths.”
“I’m begging you.”
Will smiled, though his eyes remained cold. “Please don’t beg. It’s very undignified and shows weakness of character.”
Sheridan’s expression became defiant. “You’re not going to kill me.” His voice grew louder as he said, “I’m a senior CIA officer. You wouldn’t dare hurt me on U.S. soil.”
“You’re not a senior CIA officer.”
“I am!”
“No you’re not. At least, not anymore.” Will pulled the trigger, saw bits of Sheridan’s brain splatter into the fire, then walked over to Jellicoe’s prone body and shot him twice in the head.