The Killer

TWENTY-SIX

Paris, France

Thursday

22:22 CET

Kennard walked through the deserted street with his hands deep inside his coat pockets. Clouds of moisture billowed around his head with each step. He had a lot to do, like checking his operational e-mail, but this was the most important. He reached the public toilet and had a cursory look around. Protocol dictated that he should check the area out first, but it was too fucking cold for that by-the-manual shit.

His shoes echoed on the concrete steps as he descended beneath the ground. The stink of piss was perhaps less overpowering in Paris than it might have been in L.A., but repugnant is repugnant, whatever the strength. He slipped a coin into the slot and pushed his way through the creaking gate.

Only one of the three ceiling lights was working. A single bare bulb providing the grim illumination, casting deep shadows from the fixtures. The air was even colder than it was outside. The American saw his breath misting in the gloom. The walls were stained, the urinals cracked, taps rusted, floor wet.

What a shithole. No wonder the French were such a sour people when they had to put up with public restrooms like this. At first glance the place was empty, and Kennard checked his watch. He was exactly right on the button. He rubbed his palms together, hoping the asset wasn’t going to be much longer.

He became aware there was someone in one of the stalls a second before a toilet flushed. A moment later the door opened and a figure emerged. He moved to the sink, casting Kennard a brief sideways glance.

The man was dressed in a dark suit and overcoat. There was a squeak as the man turned a faucet and began washing his hands. He did so slowly, in a methodical manner, seemingly unbothered by the cold. The reflection of the man’s blue eyes stared at Kennard in the mirror above the sink. This had to be him.

“Blake?” Kennard asked.

“I’m Dawson,” the man who was neither Dawson nor Blake answered.

His British accent confused Kennard, and for a moment he hesitated. But the accent didn’t matter. The code had been completed. Kennard moved to the sinks and reached a hand into his coat. The other man turned violently toward him, so fast that it made Kennard freeze in place.

“It’s not wise to make such moves,” the man stated flatly.

Kennard believed him. Slowly finishing the action, he drew a small but thick manila envelope from his inside pocket.

“For you,” he said.

The man eyed it for a few seconds, turned, and used the back of his wrist to hit the hand dryer. Kennard stood, envelope in hand, feeling like a chump, waiting for the Brit to finish. After the dryer had completed its cycle the man turned back and took the envelope from Kennard’s fingers.

“You’re supposed to open it now,” Kennard explained.

The man looked questioningly at him for a second before he tore open the envelope and reached inside. He drew out a sleek smartphone, turned it once over in his hands, and went to slip it into his inside jacket pocket.

“You need to access the files now,” Kennard said. “I was told you’d have the password.”

The British guy looked at Kennard for a few seconds then turned on the smartphone and opened the files. Kennard watched his eyes absorb the information, the man’s face illuminated by the glow of the screen. The smartphone contained several files that Kennard had received from his employer. He had no idea what the files contained; the phone was password protected. It was no doubt the operation plans so someone could assess who was to blame for the fuck up. The fact that Kennard’s contact was British meant that it had probably been a joint black-bag op with MI6. And one with potentially severe repercussions, hence all this cloak-and-dagger bullshit. But he was only guessing, and in Kennard’s experience it didn’t pay to do too much thinking in his job.

The Brit stared at the smartphone for a long time before finally looking up. He gestured to the American.

“I think you should read this as well.”

Kennard nodded as the phone was handed to him. Text filled the small screen. Kennard tried to absorb what the document said, but the light stung his eyes. It had details: height, weight, hair color, biographical information, what looked like a CIA record. It was someone’s dossier. There was a photo, slowly coming into focus. A face. His face. Two words above it. Two horrible words.

John Kennard.

Kennard was an experienced case officer, highly trained. He didn’t hesitate. He dropped the phone and immediately went for his gun. But the man was already coming forward, too fast to be believed, doing something with his hands, just a blur of movement Kennard didn’t understand. The man grabbed Kennard’s wrist as the gun came out of the holster.

He tried to get the gun up, angling it so he could take a shot. The man was too strong, too close, Kennard couldn’t see where the gun was pointing. He fired anyway.

The bang was excruciating, the flash made him blink. He’d missed. The bullet harmlessly shattered tiles around the sink. Kennard fired again. This time the bullet hit a urinal, smashing it into pieces that fell clattering to the floor.

He grabbed desperately at the man’s arm with his free hand. Kennard was at least three inches taller and far heavier, but he was outmatched by his attacker’s leverage and balance. Then he realized-he didn’t know where the man’s other hand was.

The breath caught in Kennard’s throat as the blade entered his abdomen, knife easily slicing through skin and muscle. Explosions of agony rushed through his body. His gun fell from fingers too weak to hold it. Kennard gasped as the blade was pulled free and driven back in again and again. And again. The knife plunged so deeply the tip scratched the back of his pelvis.

Kennard sank downward, eyes wide, hands still grabbing uselessly at the man who was killing him. The knife was pulled free a final time, and Kennard slumped onto his knees. He clutched at the torn shreds of his stomach, fingers warm with blood and touching slick innards no longer inside him. Kennard didn’t scream. He couldn’t.

He felt fingers on his head, grabbing and pulling upward. Then, on Kennard’s own hair, the man carefully wiped the blood from his knife.

When the weapon was clean, the man released him. The blade didn’t look like metal-matte black. Kennard watched the man fold the blade away and replace the knife in a wrist sheath hidden on his left forearm. The man moved back over to the washbasin and once again began to methodically wash his hands. Kennard watched helplessly, clutching at the slippery, ragged mess of his stinking guts. He felt so tired.

By the time the man had finished drying his hands, Kennard’s head hung limply forward. He heard the click of the man’s shoes on the tiled floor, saw the dull black leather as the man walked past him. Kennard heard the creak as the man pushed through the gate, and the slowly lessening sound of his ascending the stairs.

Kennard reached inside his coat for his cell phone but couldn’t find it. His wallet was gone too. He hadn’t even noticed. He saw it on the floor nearby, empty. To make his death look like a mugging, he realized. The smartphone had gone too.

Kennard didn’t move, didn’t try to crawl away. There was no point.

He knew he didn’t have a chance.