Page 74 of Reaper's Desire

The lobby is nearly empty when I reach it—a tired clerk at the front desk, a couple stumbling in drunk and laughing. No sign of Isabelle.

I push through the front doors and out into the Prague night. The streets are quiet—it's past two in the morning, and most of the bars have closed. A few stragglers wander past, but none of them are her.

I start walking. My phone buzzes in my hand with an alert from my network. Someone has accessed Isabelle's credit cardinformation. The transaction is still processing, which means it just happened.

A taxi company. She took a cab. I feel the beginnings of a headache pulsing at my temples; it's going to be a hell of an effort to get to her before someone else does.

I could walk away. Give her up as a job gone wrong in more ways than one, and try to save myself.

But I know I can't. I'll spend the rest of my life unable to forgive myself if I do. If I can save her, if there's even a chance, I have to.

I have to make this one thing right.

I pull up the details, my fingers moving fast across the screen. The pickup location is three blocks from here. The destination isn't listed yet, but it will be once the ride is complete.

I start running. I can cover that in under two minutes if I push hard enough. Maybe I can catch her before the cab leaves. Maybe I can?—

I round the corner and see the taillights disappearing down the street. I'm too late.

I stop, my breath coming hard, and watch the cab vanish into the night. My chest feels tight.

She's gone. But not for long.

I pull up the tracking software again and wait for the destination to populate. It takes thirty seconds, while I stand on a dark Prague street corner and feel the weight of everything I've done crushing down on me. The look on her face when she saw the photo—the betrayal and the horror. The realization that I was hired to kill her.

I knew there was a chance this moment would come eventually. But actually experiencing it is worse than I imagined. I didn't just lose her trust, I losther. The way she looked at mebefore—like I was someone worth falling for—is gone, replaced by disgust and rage. She'll never forgive me.

And I don't blame her.

My phone buzzes. The destination has been populated. She's headed to the airport.

I flag down a cab and give the driver the airport address, offering him double the fare if he gets me there in under twenty minutes. He nods and pulls into traffic, and I sit in the back seat with my phone in my hand, tracking every move she makes. The cab ride feels endless. Every red light, every slow-moving car, every second that ticks by is another second she's further away from me.

We reach the airport, and I throw cash at the driver, not waiting for change. I'm through the doors and into the terminal before the cab has even pulled away.

The airport is quiet at this hour. A few late-night flights, a handful of travelers scattered across the terminal. I scan the crowd, looking for her.

There.She's at the ticket counter, her back to me, her shoulders hunched. Even from here, I can see how hollowed out she looks, and my chest wrenches at the sight.I did that to her.

I stay back and watch as she speaks to the ticket agent. Her hands are shaking as she passes over her passport. The agent types something into the computer and asks a question. Isabelle nods. I move closer, just enough to hear her destination, but not close enough for her to notice me. I'm good at blending in, and keeping my head low and staying near others is enough for her not to see me. She's barely paying attention to her surroundings, anyway.

The agent prints the boarding pass and hands it over. Isabelle takes it with trembling fingers, her face pale and drawn. She turns away from the counter, and I see her fully for the first time since she ran.

Her eyes are red and swollen from crying. Her hair is a mess. Her clothes are rumpled and hastily thrown on. She's clutching her bag to her chest like it's the only thing keeping her upright. And the look on her face—the emptiness, the devastation—makes me want to go to her, pull her into my arms, and tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I never meant for any of this to happen.

But I don't. It won't fix anything, and I know it will make everything worse. I let her walk past me, her eyes fixed on the floor, completely unaware that I'm ten feet away.

Then I move to the ticket counter. The agent looks up with a professional smile. "Good evening, sir. How can I help you?"

"I need a ticket on the next flight to Rome."

Her fingers fly across the keyboard. "We have a flight departing in ninety minutes. Would that work?"

"Perfect."

"Name?"

I give her one of my aliases—passport, credit card, ID—she doesn't question it, as I knew she wouldn't. She just types it in and hands me a boarding pass. "Gate B7. Boarding begins in one hour."