Page 8 of Dark Angel
“Should we follow?” asked the driver.
“Take us to Milano Prime,” Gabriel said. “The private jet terminal.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gabriel and Angelo slipped into the sedan. Twenty minutes later they were boarding the Santini jet. As the airplane taxied down the runway, Gabriel stared out the window.
He’d fucked up. That never happened. Ever.
As Gabriel replayed the event, he acknowledged the outcome would have been the same if he and Angelo had met the scientist at Milan Cathedral. The shooter would have gunned Misha Laskin down and he would have died alone.
Gabriel’s hands curled into fists. Fists he wanted to put through a damn wall. Even with the last-minute shift, he couldn’t protect the scientist.
Laskin was destined to die.
Gabriel shoved out of his seat, raked his hands through his hair. He could obsess over this for days, even months, but he couldn’t change the outcome. He had energy to burn, but he was a caged animal—again. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his cashmere coat, his fingers landing on Laskin’s pocket watch.
He lifted it out as Angelo—seated across the aisle—glanced over. “When’d you get that?”
“Laskin gave it to me.”
“Does it work?”
Gabriel opened it. On the left, a small black and white photo. A man and a woman stood behind two young boys. They wore no smiles and dressed in simple clothing from another era.
Laskin as a child?
Gabriel’s blackened heart dropped.
I fucked up.
He could have brought in his Cosa Nostra to ensure his safety. Truth was, it was very easy to take someone out. Even if he’d gone to extreme lengths to protect Dr. Laskin, those bullets would have found their mark.
A killer on a mission does not quit.
Gabriel knew that better than anyone.
Laskin had already changed the time to local time in the DMV—DC, Maryland, Virginia.
A jolt of pain sliced through his chest.
Gabriel snapped the watch shut, shoved it into his pants pocket. “Did you see anyone?”
“The airport was total chaos,” Angelo said. “People were running in every direction. The hitman coulda been any one of ‘em. He coulda been watching out a damn window. I looked more suspect than he did, running around like a crazy man with a gun in my hand.”
Gabriel chuffed out a laugh.
“How is that funny, G?”
“It just is.” Gabriel glanced toward the front. “You want a drink?”
“No.”
“Time for a shot of something.”
Gabriel opened the cabinet, poured himself a finger’s worth of Santini Whisky, and tossed it back. The liquor burned its way to his stomach. His empty stomach. But he couldn’t eat. He’d been sent to bring someone important back to the States. He’d been trusted to get it done, but he’d failed.
“Failure will get you killed,” his father had told him, again and again. “In our world, when you fail, you’re dead, son.”
