“The usual rules apply,” he was told.
Of course they did: He was going in alone, was solely responsible for the mission, and if he was compromised, he should pray for death—or make it happen himself. All of this was well-known to the small cadre of operatives who had been handpicked by the devil himself….
Matthias. The one who had led them for the last ten years. The cunning chess player, the manipulative mastermind, the violent sociopath who set the tone for them all.
For a moment, it was strange to be taking orders from someone else—but given who the target was….
XOps needed to keep going, however, and his current superior had come up fast through the ranks, clearly positioning himself as the heir to the throne. Which explained what he was doing now. Loose strings were unacceptable.
“Anything else I need to be aware of?”
“Just don’t fuck it up. You have twenty-four hours.”
The operative reached out a gloved hand and brought the photograph closer. Staring at the face, he thought that if someone had told him the changes that were going to happen in the last two years, he’d have been convinced they’d lost their damn mind.
Yet here he was, looking at the supremely powerful man in the photograph who now had a death warrant hanging over his head: If the operative failed to kill him, the organization would send someone else. And another. And another. Until the job was done.
And, knowing the target, it might take a couple of tries.
His superior picked up the photograph and went for a door that only looked normal. In reality, it was bullet-, fire-, bomb-, and soundproof. As were the walls, ceiling, and floor.
After a retinal scan, the panel opened and then closed, leaving the operative alone to consider his options, which was SOP: Once an assignment had been given over, the methods of execution were up to the delegatee. The brass cared only about the ends.
Caldwell, New York, was merely an hour away by plane, but better to drive. There was no telling the resources his target had, and aircraft could be tracked easier than unmarkeds.
As he left, the fact that he might well be going to his own death was irrelevant—and that was part of the reason he had been chosen from all the other soldiers and civilians who “applied” to get into XOps. Careful psychological and physical screening was conducted over years, not months or weeks, before you were tapped on the shoulder. Then again, the job required an unusual combination of urgency and disassociation, logic and freethinking, mental and physical discipline.
As well as the simple enjoyment of killing other human beings.
At the end of the day, playing Grim Reaper was fun to him, and this was the only legally sanctioned way to do it. Even the canniest serial killers got caught after a while. Working in this capacity for the U.S. government?
His only rate limiter was his ability to stay alive.
Chapter Twelve
Matthias had had to let Mels go.
There hadn’t been any other choice. Standing in that cemetery with her, staring across Jim Heron’s grave, it had been very clear to him that they were separated by life and death—and she was on the vital side.
He wanted to keep her there.
After they’d argued for a while, she’d left him, walking off with a quick efficiency he approved of. In the wake of her departure, he’d stayed by Heron’s final resting place for as long as he estimated it would take her to return to her friend’s car—and sure enough, when he eventually returned to the cemetery’s front gates, the Toyota trash bin was gone.
Turned out she’d been right about the lack of taxis, but there’d been a bus stop not too far away, and though he’d had to wait a while, he had managed to get himself back downtown.
Better this way. Clean break—at least physically. Mentally, he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be quite so cut and dry.
Although there was still a part of her with him in the concrete sense: the sunglasses. She hadn’t demanded their return, and he’d forgotten they were on his face.
And covering up his bad eye was going to help in situations like this….
Matthias entered the Starbucks on Fifteenth Street, and cased the place behind the Ray-Bans. The lunch crush had come and gone, and the three o’clock snoozers had yet to crowd in to solve their late-afternoon sags. Only a couple of customers nursing lattes, and a pair of baristas on the far side of the counter.
He picked the one who had the piercings all over her puss, and spiky navy-and-pink hair that looked like it hadn’t gotten over the shock of those needle assaults.
Either that or the shit was pissed off at the not-from-nature dye job.
As he approached, she looked up with a counting-down-the-clock expression, but that changed into something else. Something he was used to.
Speculation of the female variety.
He had chosen wisely.
“Hi,” she said as she searched his face…and then what she could see of his cane and his black windbreaker.
Matthias smiled at her, as if he were momentarily taken with her, too. “Ah, yeah, listen, I was supposed to meet a friend here, and he hasn’t shown. I went to call him on my cell phone and realized I’ve left the damn thing at home. Can I use your landline?”
She glanced over at her comrade-in-lattes. The guy was lounging against the back where the coffee machines were, arms crossed over his thin chest, chin down, as if he were taking a breather standing up.
“Yeah. Okay. Come over here.”
Matthias tracked her on the customer side of the counter, exaggerating his limp. “I’ll have to call information first, because he was in my contacts. But don’t worry, it’s just local. I can’t believe I forgot my phone.”
“Happens to everyone.” She was all flustered, those eyes of hers flipping up to him and shifting away like he was too bright to look at for long. “I’ve got to dial for you, though. You can’t come back here.”
“No problem.” When she passed the receiver over the partition, he gripped it and smiled slowly. “Thanks.”
Even more fluster. To the point where she had to take two tries to get through to information.
Matthias casually turned away and made like he was checking the entrance for his “friend” as a recorded voice hit him with, “City and state, please.”
“In Caldwell, New York.” Pause. Wait for the human to come on. “Yeah, the number of James Heron.”
As he held on for the number, the girl picked up a dishcloth and ran it over the counter, all casual. She was listening, though, those brows with the hoops down low.
“H-E-R-O-N,” Matthias spelled out. “Like the bird. First name James.”
For fuck’s sake, how many ways could you spell the damn—
411 came back on the line: “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anyone by that last name in Caldwell. Is there another name you’d like to search?”
Well, shit. But somehow it didn’t surprise him. Too easy. Not safe enough.
“No, thanks.” Matthias pivoted back to the waitress, returning the receiver. “Out of luck. Unlisted.”
“Did you say ‘Heron’?” the girl asked as she went to hang up. “You mean that guy who died?”
Matthias narrowed his eyes—not that she could tell, thanks to the Ray-Bans. “Kinda. My friend’s his brother, actually. They lived together. Phone was under Jim’s name. Like I said, my buddy and I were going to meet up here and, you know, talk about it all. It’s so hard losing someone like that, and I’ve been worried about what it’s doing to his head.”
“Oh, my God, it was too sad.” The girl shifted the dishrag back and forth in her hands. “My uncle worked with him—happened to be there when he was electrocuted at the site. And then to think he got shot, like, days later. I mean, how does that happen? I’m so sorry.”
“Your uncle knew Jim?”
“He’s the head of human resources for the construction company he worked for.”