Henry had been awake for a few minutes, lying quietly to get his bearings, when he heard a flock of birds near the open window of his bedroom suddenly take flight. Something had startled them. The sound of startled birds was different from birds just doing their bird-thing and taking off; it was a very subtle difference but Henry had always been able to tell.
He rolled out of bed onto the floor, crept to the window, and peeked over the sill. Three houses away, a man in a black baseball cap moved from a higher roof to a lower one. There was a rifle bag over his shoulder. Henry could tell he was several grades above the guys that had come after him in Georgia. His cap was pulled low so Henry couldn’t see his face but there was something familiar about his movements, like he was someone Henry knew or had at least seen before, although he was pretty sure they had never met personally. No one he came up against in the field lived to regret it.
The answer came to him unbidden: Gemini had sent him. The indoctrination and training gave their operatives a particular look—their moves, their posture, even how they carried their weapons (and used them). Verris was so particular about it, he trained all his guys personally to the point where they might as well have been clones.
Staying low, Henry dressed quickly, grabbed his burn bag, and slipped out of the room. He found Danny in a downstairs bedroom, sleeping as deeply as ever. She must have been right about that clear conscience thing, he thought. Hell, she had even been able to sleep on the goddam Corsair.
Henry crawled over to her bed, found the Glock in her burn bag, then put his hand over her mouth. Her eyes flew open and she looked terrified until she felt him putting the Glock in her hand. He uncovered her mouth.
“Two hundred yards away,” he whispered. “Rooftop.”
Danny nodded silently, all business now. Henry felt a sudden surge of affection for her. Even though she had a lot to learn, she was a quick study and she didn’t whine.
“When he sees me leave, he’ll follow,” he said in a low voice. “Go with Baron, someplace safe. Please,” he added as she opened her mouth to argue. She nodded again, reluctantly.
He found Baron on the couch in the living room. His friend had dozed off watching the flatscreen on the opposite wall. Henry’s eyebrows went up; hadn’t there been an art print hanging there yesterday when they had come in? Right now there was a Colombian game show on with a frantic host and even more frantic contestants, but fortunately the sound was off. The remote sitting in Baron’s lap looked like something NASA would use to control satellites. If they could get the World Series in Cartagena, Henry thought he might have to seriously reconsider Baron’s offer.
But not today.
He put his hand over Baron’s mouth. Baron’s eyes opened, found Henry. “Shooter, your three o’clock. Acknowledge,” Henry told him.
Baron nodded, gestured for him to move back, and lifted the sofa cushion, revealing a respectable cache of weapons. Henry gave him a solemn look of admiration. Then he grabbed a case containing a disassembled sniper rifle, ammunition, and a few grenades for his burn bag, and tucked a Glock with a silencer into his waistband.
“You’re a shitty houseguest, you know that?” Baron said in a half-whisper as he watched Henry tool up. “Most people bring flowers or a bottle of vino. How the hell did they find us?”
“Listen to me,” Henry said. “Danny’s good, she’s really good. But she doesn’t know how much she doesn’t know. Take care of her, all right?”
Baron nodded.
“Thanks, brother,” Henry said.
Henry got up and headed for the front door, keeping himself too low for a clean shot but not so low that he was completely out of sight. Bracing himself, he stepped outside, slinging the burn bag over one shoulder as he closed the door behind him. The bag was a bit heavier now but he didn’t mind the extra weight. For a few seconds, he held very still, scanning his surroundings and listening.
Good morning, Cartagena.
He began walking briskly toward the center of Old Town, doing his best to look like he was off to spend the day sightseeing and shopping, and not at all like he was toting a bag full of weapons because someone was trying to kill him.
This guy was good.
Henry didn’t catch a glimpse of him for at least ten minutes, and even then it was only by accident. Crossing a street, he happened to look down and saw his stalker’s reflection in a puddle of water. Henry turned casually and, hiding the pistol in his hand behind his open shirt, fired at him. It wasn’t his preferred method of taking a hostile down but it was a shot he’d made before.
Not today, however. The guy was gone and Henry knew he hadn’t just rolled off the roof. Talk about reflexes, Henry thought, ignoring the hole he’d put in his shirt. His stalker must have moved as soon as he’d seen him start to turn, without even knowing Henry had a gun.
Better keep my head on a swivel, Henry thought uneasily.
Henry didn’t pick him up again until he reached a parking lot almost ten minutes later. As he walked briskly along a row of cars, some impulse made him stop at a bright yellow VW bug and use its side mirror to check behind him. He caught a glint of metal and ducked a heartbeat before the mirror exploded into fragments of glass, plastic, and rubber.
Dropping to the ground, he crawled around the VW to the Jeep on the other side, dragging the burn bag with him. He waited a few moments and then used the barrel of the Glock to angle the Jeep’s side mirror so he could see the rooftops behind him.
Nothing; his stalker had disappeared again. Being gone was a great idea; Henry decided to try it himself. He crawled under the Jeep to the other side and raised himself carefully, first to his knees and then to a half-crouch. The nearest street was about thirty yards away on his right. Henry hesitated, then made a break for it, forcing himself to stay low until he reached the street, where he straightened up and pushed himself into a sprint. Something whizzed past his head, close enough that he would have sworn he felt the breeze of it cutting through the air before it punched a hole in a brick wall on his right.
Henry veered into a narrow alley, sprinting faster than he had in a long time. The shooter was stalking him openly now, no longer caring that Henry could see him leaping from one rooftop to another. Like he wanted to show he could go just as fast as Henry on the ground, but without as much effort.
Time to turn and fight—gun time, not run time, Henry thought, hoping Danny and Baron were well out of harm’s way. He ducked behind a telephone pole, worked the sniper rifle out of the bag and got it assembled.
Okay, Mr. I-go-so-fast-on-rooftops, let’s see who you are, Henry said silently. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and looked through the scope.
Gone.
Fuck. Henry fumed as he scanned roofs through the scope. It took a few seconds before he finally saw a skewed line and a glint of metal and glass that didn’t belong to the structure.
He adjusted his grip on the rifle. Come on, buddy, he said silently, poke your head up so I can introduce myself properly. I’m Henry Brogan. And you are…?
The guy’s head rose slowly from behind the line of the roof and Henry froze.
The face he saw peering back at him through the scope was impossibly, unbelievably, and unmistakably his own.