Page 7 of The Hitman’s Final Job

Then there’s a small pause. He clears his throat and licks his lips.

I shouldn’t notice, but I do.

His eyes are on my chest as he seems to think about what to say next, but then they move up to meet mine. “I’d love to discuss your work further over dinner tonight,” he says. “If you’re free?”

“Dinner,” I repeat, and there’s a fraction of a pause in the middle of the word I didn’t intend.

“If you’re not busy. I mean, everyone has to eat, right?” he says, and he has enough grace to say it lightly, without pressure, which makes it somehow more difficult to deflect than if he’d pushed. “But … I think we have a lot in common, and I’d hate to go back home without shooting my shot, if you know what I mean.”

I open my mouth to say something, but I don’t know what, because it’s clear to me my research isn’t everything he’s interested in.

He takes another step forward, coming close enough I can smell his cologne. “Dr. Reeves,” he says, his voice dripping with intention.

I’m forty-eight years old, and the last time someone looked at me with this kind of attention, I was standing in a different country and in a different decade of my life.

Plants are growing in twelve trays of dead soil in Colorado, which means at least one impossible thing is true today, so before my responsible brain tries to stop my mouth, I say, “I’d love to have dinner with you.”

He smiles, an uncomplicated expression, no architecture to it, just the smile of someone who, as he put it, shot his shot and hit the target.

We agree to meet at eight in the restaurant of my hotel after he tells me a lot of the conference attendees are staying in and around his hotel.

I don’t give a fuck about anyone seeing us together, but after a long flight, three days of a busy conference and my own talk, I’m more than ready to give Dr. Reeves the night off and just be Vaughn.

THREE

SILAS

The coffee shop has too many windows. Three walls of glass face the street and an abundance of spotlights illuminate every corner. I walk in anyway because Zuza picked this spot. Her instincts are either brilliant or suicidal. Even after all these years working with her, I still can’t decide which, but I’ll take a chance.

I pause just inside the entrance, two seconds, maybe three. Long enough to read the room. A barista behind the counter who’s more interested in her phone than in her customers. An older man in the corner with a newspaper and an empty espresso cup. Two women near the back sharing a pastry, laughing about something. None of them notice when I enter. Good.

Still, I don’t like the windows.

Zuza is at the table facing the street, exactly where I’d expect her to be, and already turning my way, because she never misses a beat, let alone my arrival.

She’s wearing a practically backless deep emerald gown that pools slightly at her feet, her blond hair swept up in a complex bun. She brings her drink, probably a caramel macchiato, to her red-painted lips. It’s a mystery how she manages to keep them clean with the skyscraper of foam on her drink.

When I reach her, she pushes a cup of black coffee toward me.

“I don’t like this location,” I say, pulling out the chair and sitting down.

“Nice to see you, Zuza. I missed you. Don’t you look beautiful, Zuza⁠—”

I silence her with a kiss to the cheek. “You are the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.”

She glances at the street outside and then at her phone, which seems to be streaming security camera footage. Wherever our target is, it’ll be nearby.

Finally she turns to me, a smile at the corner of her mouth I’ve learned means she finds my caution endearing in the way people find rain endearing—fine in theory, irritating in practice. “And you look nice, by the way.”

“Why are we dressed for a black-tie event? You know I hate running in a tuxedo, and I swear, if we have to jump through anything, you’re footing the cleaning bill.”

She gestures to the window with a slight tilt of her head. The Bristol Hotel is opposite the coffee shop. “Where we’re going, this is how you fit in. Besides, there’s a Chopin concert at the Philharmonic tonight, so we don’t even stand out.” As if to confirm this, the door opens behind me and a couple in formal dress enters—a man in a dark suit, a woman in red silk—and moves directly toward the counter without sparing us a glance.

I pick up the coffee, which is exactly how I drink it. No sugar, no milk. Nothing added to soften it. She always remembers, which is why she’s my other best friend. Not that I’d tell her that. Even because that would make her also the only friend I have apart from Rowan.

“What has Draven given us this time? Brief me,” I say, trying to contain the edge to my voice. Zuza doesn’t know about my phone call with Draven after the Budapest job, and I have a feeling I’ve been kept out of the loop on this job as punishment.

Zuza sets down her macchiato. “We don’t have much.”