normal. In reality, it was bullet-, fire-, bomb-, and soundproof. As were the walls, ceiling, and floor.
After a retinal scan, the panel opened and then closed, leaving the operative alone to consider his options, which was SOP: Oncean assignment had been given over, the methods of execution were up to the delegatee. The brass cared only about the ends.
Caldwell, New York, was merely an hour away by plane, but better to drive. There was no telling the resources his target had, and aircraft could be tracked easier than unmarkeds.
As he left, the fact that he might well be going to his own death was irrelevant—and that was part of the reason he had been chosen from all the other soldiers and civilians who “applied” to get into XOps. Careful psychological and physical screening was conducted over years, not months or weeks, before you were tapped on the shoulder. Then again, the job required an unusual combination of urgency and disassociation, logic and freethinking, mental and physical discipline.
As well as the simple enjoyment of killing other human beings.
At the end of the day, playing Grim Reaper was fun to him, and this was the only legally sanctioned way to do it. Even the canniest serial killers got caught after a while. Working in this capacity for the U.S. government?
His only rate limiter was his ability to stay alive.
Matthias had had to let Mels go.
There hadn’t been any other choice. Standing in that cemetery with her, staring across Jim Heron’s grave, it had been very clear to him that they were separated by life and death—and she was on the vital side.
He wanted to keep her there.
After they’d argued for a while, she’d left him, walking off with a quick efficiency he approved of. In the wake of her departure, he’d stayed by Heron’s final resting place for as long as he estimated it would take her to return to her friend’s car—and sure enough, when he eventually returned to the cemetery’s front gates, the Toyota trash bin was gone.
Turned out she’d been right about the lack of taxis, but there’d been a bus stop not too far away, and though he’d had to wait a while, he had managed to get himself back downtown.
Better this way. Clean break—at least physically. Mentally, he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be quite so cut and dry.
Although there was still a part of her with him in the concrete sense: the sunglasses. She hadn’t demanded their return, and he’d forgotten they were on his face.
And covering up his bad eye was going to help in situations like this. …
Matthias entered the Starbucks on Fifteenth Street, and cased the place behind the Ray-Bans. The lunch crush had come and gone, and the three o’clock snoozers had yet to crowd in to solve their late-afternoon sags. Only a couple of customers nursing lattes, and a pair of baristas on the far side of the counter.
He picked the one who had the piercings all over her puss, and spiky navy-and-pink hair that looked like it hadn’t gotten over the shock of those needle assaults.
Either that or the shit was pissed off at the not-from-nature dye job.
As he approached, she looked up with a counting-down-the-clock expression, but that changed into something else. Something he was used to.
Speculation of the female variety.
He had chosen wisely.
“Hi,” she said as she searched his face … and then what she could see of his cane and his black windbreaker.
Matthias smiled at her, as if he were momentarily taken with her, too. “Ah, yeah, listen, I was supposed to meet a friend here, and he hasn’t shown. I went to call him on my cell phone and realized I’ve left the damn thing at home. Can I use your landline?”
She glanced over at her comrade-in-lattes. The guy was lounging against the back where the coffee machines were, arms crossed over his thin chest, chin down, as if he were taking a breather standing up.
“Yeah. Okay. Come over here.”
Matthias tracked her on the customer side of
After a retinal scan, the panel opened and then closed, leaving the operative alone to consider his options, which was SOP: Oncean assignment had been given over, the methods of execution were up to the delegatee. The brass cared only about the ends.
Caldwell, New York, was merely an hour away by plane, but better to drive. There was no telling the resources his target had, and aircraft could be tracked easier than unmarkeds.
As he left, the fact that he might well be going to his own death was irrelevant—and that was part of the reason he had been chosen from all the other soldiers and civilians who “applied” to get into XOps. Careful psychological and physical screening was conducted over years, not months or weeks, before you were tapped on the shoulder. Then again, the job required an unusual combination of urgency and disassociation, logic and freethinking, mental and physical discipline.
As well as the simple enjoyment of killing other human beings.
At the end of the day, playing Grim Reaper was fun to him, and this was the only legally sanctioned way to do it. Even the canniest serial killers got caught after a while. Working in this capacity for the U.S. government?
His only rate limiter was his ability to stay alive.
Matthias had had to let Mels go.
There hadn’t been any other choice. Standing in that cemetery with her, staring across Jim Heron’s grave, it had been very clear to him that they were separated by life and death—and she was on the vital side.
He wanted to keep her there.
After they’d argued for a while, she’d left him, walking off with a quick efficiency he approved of. In the wake of her departure, he’d stayed by Heron’s final resting place for as long as he estimated it would take her to return to her friend’s car—and sure enough, when he eventually returned to the cemetery’s front gates, the Toyota trash bin was gone.
Turned out she’d been right about the lack of taxis, but there’d been a bus stop not too far away, and though he’d had to wait a while, he had managed to get himself back downtown.
Better this way. Clean break—at least physically. Mentally, he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be quite so cut and dry.
Although there was still a part of her with him in the concrete sense: the sunglasses. She hadn’t demanded their return, and he’d forgotten they were on his face.
And covering up his bad eye was going to help in situations like this. …
Matthias entered the Starbucks on Fifteenth Street, and cased the place behind the Ray-Bans. The lunch crush had come and gone, and the three o’clock snoozers had yet to crowd in to solve their late-afternoon sags. Only a couple of customers nursing lattes, and a pair of baristas on the far side of the counter.
He picked the one who had the piercings all over her puss, and spiky navy-and-pink hair that looked like it hadn’t gotten over the shock of those needle assaults.
Either that or the shit was pissed off at the not-from-nature dye job.
As he approached, she looked up with a counting-down-the-clock expression, but that changed into something else. Something he was used to.
Speculation of the female variety.
He had chosen wisely.
“Hi,” she said as she searched his face … and then what she could see of his cane and his black windbreaker.
Matthias smiled at her, as if he were momentarily taken with her, too. “Ah, yeah, listen, I was supposed to meet a friend here, and he hasn’t shown. I went to call him on my cell phone and realized I’ve left the damn thing at home. Can I use your landline?”
She glanced over at her comrade-in-lattes. The guy was lounging against the back where the coffee machines were, arms crossed over his thin chest, chin down, as if he were taking a breather standing up.
“Yeah. Okay. Come over here.”
Matthias tracked her on the customer side of
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