CHAPTER 2

Henry had been around the world more times than he could count, first as a Marine and later for his current employer, but unlike many other well-travelled people, he did not subscribe to the belief that one place was pretty much like another. Anyone who did, in his opinion, wasn’t paying attention. Every place he’d ever visited had characteristics and features found nowhere else, with one exception: abandoned buildings.

If someone had blindfolded him and taken him to an abandoned building anywhere in the world, then put a gun to his head and told him to guess where he was without looking out a (broken) window, he’d have been dead. There always seemed to be the same detritus on the floor, the same wood fragments from stairs or railings, the same scattering of shattered glass, and the same trash indicating it had been the site of more than one underage drinking party as well as shelter for someone in transit from nowhere to nowhere else. The abandoned building where he was now was no exception.

Abruptly he realized he had been standing over the crate marked fish oil like a man in a trance, holding the components of the Remington as if he didn’t know what to do with them. Maybe he should take a few of those tins home with him, boost his brainpower with omega-3, instead of just using them to camouflage a weapon. Probably wouldn’t help his aim, though, he thought ruefully as he stuffed the Remington’s parts into the packing material.

“Shipping to the same place?” Monroe asked cheerfully from behind him.

“Yup.” In spite of everything, Henry couldn’t help grinning. Monroe had that effect on him. The guy was like a beagle—always glad to see him, full of good spirits. He was young, of course, but not that young. Most DIA agents his age had already begun to have their shiny-happy worn off but not Monroe, not yet. Henry wanted to believe that Monroe might be tougher in that respect than the average twenty-something. In which case, the agency would only work that much harder to wear down his spirit. You just couldn’t win.

“Gotta say, that was your best ever.” Monroe had a look of ineffable happiness on his young face as he joined Henry next to the open crate. Yeah, a human beagle. “Windage, minute-of-angle, redirection from the window. I was—”

Henry hated to burst his bubble but he had to. “Where’d I hit him?”

“Neck. On a moving train.” Monroe showed him his iPhone.

Henry drew back, horrified. “You took a picture?”

“Me and everybody else,” Monroe assured him.

An image popped into Henry’s head of a crowd of people who were so busy jockeying for position around the dead man that none of them, including the conductor, called for help, and felt even more revolted. What the hell was wrong with people? Bunch of ghouls.

“Delete it,” he ordered Monroe. “Jesus.”

“Henry, four shooters whiffed on this guy before you got the call and they were all studs. Then you ring him up on the first try.” He put a hand over his heart, pretending to sniff back a tear. “It got me kind of emotional.”

Delete it,” Henry said again, growling.

“Okay, okay, I’ll delete it.” Monroe showed him the iPhone screen. Now there was a photo of a cat with a word balloon over its head asking ungrammatically for a misspelled cheeseburger. “There, it’s all gone. Happy now?”

Happy wasn’t the word Henry would have chosen—not even close—but knowing that Monroe wouldn’t be walking around with death porn on his cell phone didn’t make him unhappy. It was just too bad that he was about to bum the kid out completely. He didn’t want to but it couldn’t be helped. When you knew the truth, you knew it, and it was no good trying to deny it.

Henry stuck out his hand. Looking surprised, Monroe hesitated, then shook it. “Just want to say it was great working with you and good luck.” He turned to the backpack sitting beside the crate and zipped it closed as the beagle went from oh-boy-oh-boy-I’m-so-happy to confused apprehension.

“Wait a second,” Monroe said. “‘Good luck’? As in ‘bye’?”

Henry shouldered the backpack. “Yeah. I’m going out of business.”

For a second or two, Monroe was actually speechless. “But why?”

The mental image of Dormov slumped in his seat with a hole in his neck flashed through Henry’s mind. “’Cuz I was aiming for his head.”

Henry could practically feel Monroe’s dumbfounded stare on his back as he walked away. He had really hated doing that to the beagle but he’d had no choice. As soon as he’d pulled the trigger, he’d felt it in his bones that it had gone wrong and the revolting photo Monroe had showed him proved the feeling hadn’t been some kind of neurotic, I’m-getting-old brain fart. Way back in the beginning, he’d promised himself that the day he missed would be the day he quit and he could not, would not, break that promise. The next miss might not be close enough for government work.

But damn, he was going to miss that beagle something fierce.

Загрузка...