Page 19 of The Hitman’s Final Job

“Explain.”

“He had dinner with someone,” Zuza says, “They were together for most of the evening in public. Then returned together to the hotel. The person went up with him.”

This isn’t entirely true, but hopefully Draven will buy it. He doesn’t like unnecessary casualties.

Another pause. When Draven speaks again, the edge in his voice has receded slightly. “The location isn’t ideal.”

“Exactly,” I say. “The Bristol is next door to the presidential palace. If we terminate a mark with an uninvolved civilian present and something goes wrong, we’re not just facing exposure, we’re inviting an international incident. You know what that kind of attention costs.”

“You have two days,” he says after a pause so long I swear I age ten years.

“The mark is leaving the country,” I say immediately. “He flies out tomorrow. Two days isn’t workable.”

“Then follow him.”

“Draven,” I keep my voice as even as I can muster. “We received almost nothing on this target. No name, no background, no explanation of why he was flagged. We had a photo and location. That’s it. You don’t usually operate like that. You know you don’t. And if we’re going to complete this job cleanly, in a new location, we need time to do our own research.”

A rustling noise on the other side of the phone suggests Draven put his hand over the receiver, and the muted voices tell us he’s not alone. Zuza narrows her brows as she looks at me.

“Two weeks,” Draven says. “You have two weeks. After that, I reassign.”

“Two weeks,” I confirm.

“And Silas.” His voice sharpens on my name. “When this is done, we talk. As agreed. So make it good and quick.”

“Got it.”

He’s gone.

Zuza makes sure the call is disconnected before turning to me.

“You have two weeks. That should be enough to find something if there’s anything to find.” She goes to the coffee table and grabs the empty wine glass and coffee cup. “I’ll start pulling threads first thing tomorrow. Financial records, research publications, anyone with a personal grievance. If someone built a case against your man, there’ll be evidence. We start there.”

“He’s not my man.”

“You want him to be. Is that why you’re quitting?”

I let out a huff. “What I want is irrelevant. We can’t be together.”

“Why not?”

“We just can’t.” Because Rowan would have my balls in a vice, that’s why. “Let’s just focus on keeping him alive.”

“You know what you have to do,” she says, and it’s one of the few times I see the kind of emotion in her eyes that makes her more than a work partner. She’s a friend too.

“Yeah, I know. I have to follow him home.”

SEVEN

VAUGHN

The coffee is the only thing keeping me upright. Damn jet lag.

I take a sip from my travel cup and walk from the back door of the house to the truck, breathing in the cool morning air and trying to convince my body that it is, in fact, morning. My body disagrees. My body is fairly certain it’s the middle of the night in a time zone eight hours ahead of this one, and it would like to register its objection formally and at length.

From the house I can’t exactly hear all the noises of the farm, but I can see the activity. The main house sits at the top of the property, its back porch looking out over the Pine Ridge valley, and from here I can see most of what I own. The guest house to the left is partially hidden by the trees, which I’m leaving there once I’m finished renovating the smaller structure for Rowan. I love having him in the house with me when he visits, but one day he’ll meet someone and might want some privacy.

The orchard runs alongside the property edge, the apple and pear trees already heavy with the last of the season’s fruit. The vegetable patch is the place where I spend most of my time apart from the lab, and beyond all of it, the land stretches out to the east, where Clayton’s crops grow in long, orderly rows that tell me, even from this distance, it’s been a good season.