Page 5 of The Hitman’s Final Job

TWO

VAUGHN

The notes don’t need to be adjusted—I’ve worked on this presentation for weeks. But I adjust them anyway; it gives me something to do while I wait for the room to settle.

Dr. Ghupta walks onto the stage and stands behind the lectern to introduce me as the next speaker.

“Good morning. Yesterday was filled with the best in agronomy science and biotechnology, but there is one presentation I’ve been looking forward to in particular. Of course, I’d say that since I’m the one who’s spent the best part of a year trying to convince him to come here.”

The audience erupts in laughter. My heartbeat kicks up a notch.

“He doesn’t need further introductions because everyone here is familiar with his work. Please welcome Dr. Vaughn Reeves.”

I walk onto the stage and shake Dr. Ghupta’s hand.

He leaves me on the podium, and I clear my throat. “Good morning, everyone,” I say. “Dr. Ghupta is correct. He is the reason I am here today, and not because I had to upgrade the storage space on my answering machine from his endless calls. It was his early work on soil regeneration in India that inspired me to study ways to feed people in places that would otherwise seem impossible.”

The audience is approximately two hundred and twenty researchers, agronomists, and policy people, along with a handful of journalists who understand perhaps sixty percent of what they’ll hear today.

I take a breath. My notes are forgotten as practice, experience, and conviction take me forward.

The first slides cover the problem. Dead soil—compacted, chemically exhausted, or simply overtaxed—representing a third of the arable land globally. The number lands in the room with a quiet collective intake of attention.

Then I move to the mechanism. The specific consortium of microorganisms I’ve been developing, the way they interact with depleted mineral structures, the smart sensor system that adjusts conditions in real time. The graphs are clean, and the before-and-after samples from the pilot plots speak for themselves.

The Q and A runs longer than expected, but the questions are good, and thankfully I have my research to back me up on each of the points challenged.

And then it’s done. People applaud, and I collect my notes and step back from the lectern, knowing that after this high, I’m due for a crash.

I’m a hermit married to my farm and my research facility. My team is small and like a family. I love the research, being outside on the land, and being home. Everything that a conference center building in Warsaw isn’t.

The coffee station is in the wide corridor of the conference center, where the networking happens afterward. I navigate toward it because it’s expected and because a coffee would genuinely not be unwelcome.

People approach. A researcher from Wageningen tells me my sensor calibration approach is very similar to something they’re developing, so we talk about common challenges and how we’re trying to overcome them.

A soil scientist from Kenya is interested in the practical implementation timeline, and I give him more attention than I’ve given most people in the last hour because he’s asking questions that matter outside this room. He’s the literal living reason why I do the work I do.

But then he moves on, and I’m left standing with a paper cup in my hand.

A corporate agriculture representative is already at my elbow with a card and a sentence about partnership opportunities I recognize on the first word and am done with by the fourth.

He’s tall. Expensive suit. The kind of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s something calculated about the way he positions himself, and his grip when he shakes my hand is firm. It feels more like a statement rather than a greeting.

I take the card without looking at it because I have no intension of using it.

But he doesn’t move away like the others do. “Your work is impressive, Dr. Reeves. Really impressive.” He pauses, and I glance around the room for an exit strategy. “The kind of work that some people would very much like to be involved in. Or control.”

That’s … an odd thing to say.

I shift my weight to create a little distance. “I’m still in the research phase. Years away from implementation,” I lie.

“Of course. Whenever you’re ready.” He smiles again, that same smile that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. “Enjoy the rest of the conference,” he says. And then, “I hope you make it home safely.”

He moves away before I can respond, disappearing into the crowd.

The remainder of my coffee has gone cold. I set the cup down on the nearest surface and go find the men’s restroom.

The one farthest away from the conference hall is empty, which is exactly what I need it to be.