Page 99 of The Hitman’s Final Job

“Excellent,” she says. “I’ve grown attached to the income.”

“And Silas,” Draven continues, “as of this call, you are a free agent. The retirement stands as you requested. Your service record is exceptional. What you did in Warsaw and in the weeks following was the right call. I should have made it easier for you to make it.”

“Yes,” I say. “You should have.”

“I hope,” Draven says, “that you won’t be an agent in any capacity going forward. Not even as a traffic warden.”

I look at the bag of pastries on the passenger seat. “That’s not my intention.”

“Good,” Draven says. “Zuza, I’ll be in touch.”

We end the call, and I sit in the car for a moment.

Just long enough for the information to wash over me.

I’m retired.

Actually, officially, finally retired. Not one more job retired. Not we’ll discuss terms retired. Done. Free. The agency has no claim on me, the contract is dissolved, Vaughn is safe, and I have a healthy bank account. I also have a suitcase in the back of this car and absolutely no idea what comes next.

Not knowing feels different from what I expected.

I expected relief, and I have relief. But underneath it, there’s something else. I’ve been driven by a single purpose for ten years, so now the absence of it feels simultaneously like freedom and vertigo.

I pick up Rowan’s bag and get out of the car.

The guard outside Rowan’s room is young and alert and takes his job seriously, which I appreciate for the sake of Rowan’s safety.

“Name?”

“Silas Cross.”

He checks his phone. Then he steps aside.

I push open the door.

Rowan is on his phone, his good hand holding it above his face, his shoulder immobilized. When he hears the door, he looks up, and his expression changes immediately.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say.

I cross the room, lean down, and hug him carefully. He puts his good arm around me and holds on. I close my eyes for a moment. We were so close to never being able to do this again.

“You scared me to death,” I say against his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he says.

I pull back, then sit in the chair beside his bed and put the bag on the side table.

“A gift from Maria.”

“You’re my favorite person,” he says. “Also, one day I’m going to marry the hell out of that woman.”

“You can try.”

He opens the bag, which takes longer than usual and which he refuses help with, and eats two pastries. I try not to think of his surgeon’s reaction to it.

Then he gives me an expression that means the preamble is over.