Page 10 of The Hitman’s Final Job

I scan left to right while Zuza does the opposite. Man alone at the bar, late fifties, Eastern European, talking too loudly into a phone. A group of four near the window, Western European business types. Two women at a corner table with tablets in front of them, working, not talking. An older couple who might have been in love long enough they don’t need to demonstrate it.

I drift slightly closer to Zuza. “Is the guy here?” I say quietly, near her ear.

“Not yet. Let’s get a drink.”

She takes my hand, and I follow her to the bar, where she picks the two seats with the best view of the entrance to the restaurant.

I call the bartender and order two drinks we have no intention of consuming.

Zuza turns in her seat to face me. She has the best view, which makes sense because she’s the only one who can identify the mark, but my view through the bar mirror is good enough.

My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket.

I already know who it is. The vibration pattern is Rowan’s. My contact list is short, and everyone has a distinct pattern, because I learned years ago that the half-second between looking at a screen and registering a name can matter. I hold Zuza’s gaze for a moment while I take the phone out of my pocket.

“We don’t stop for personal calls during⁠—”

“I don’t rush jobs,” I say, low and even. “You know that.”

She knows that. She turns back to the room.

I answer. “Hey.”

“Finally.” Rowan’s voice is warm. “Are you alive or did you get eaten by your schedule again?”

“Still alive.”

“Allegedly.” There’s something comforting about his voice, the ease of it, the way he talks to me like I’m a slightly wayward but fundamentally beloved problem he’s claimed as his own. I’ve never told him how much that costs me, that ease. How much I’d rather deserve it than just receive it. “Where are you? Be a good best friend and please don’t say somewhere interesting. I’m in a conference room at Quantico, and I need you to be somewhere boring so I feel better about my life choices.”

I watch Zuza as I listen. Only she could make it seem like her attention is on me when in fact she could probably describe every single person in the room right now.

She places her hand on my knee and turns her head slightly and points.

One finger. Toward the entrance to the restaurant.

A man is walking through it.

I know him from forty feet away before I’ve consciously processed a single feature. Six-foot-two, silver-gray hair, confident gait. Gray suit pants and white shirt, but no jacket. The jawline I’ve memorized in worse light than this. The slight furrow between brows I’ve cataloged in a hundred different contexts.

The world doesn’t slow down, like in books and films. It doesn’t slow. It simply stops, a single frame frozen in time. My best friend’s father, Vaughn Reeves, crossing a marble floor in Warsaw, and Zuza’s finger pointing at him like an accusation she can’t take back.

“Silas?” Rowan says in my ear.

“Warsaw,” I say, the word coming out before I can stop it because I’m not thinking. I’m panicking.

A pause. “Wait, really?” Rowan laughs. “You’re in Warsaw?”

“Yeah.” I haven’t stirred. I’m watching Vaughn move to a table near the window, the one with the view of the garden because of course he’d choose that one. A waiter appears at his elbow almost immediately.

“That’s wild. My dad’s in Warsaw,” Rowan says, delight in his voice. “He’s there for some soil science conference, some international thing. You should meet up. You haven’t seen him in ages.”

Vaughn takes a seat. Thankfully, he doesn’t notice my presence in the bar.

“It’s a big city.”

“It’s, like, not that big. And that’s what phones are for.” I can hear Rowan settling back in his chair, warming to the idea. “He’d love that. He never sees anyone when he travels—you know how he is. Just work, work, work. Call him. I’ll text you his number if you don’t have it.”

I have his number. I’ve had his number in my head since I saw it on Rowan’s phone years ago, and even though I’ve never used it, it’s still there. Saved for the day I’m smart enough or reckless enough to use it.