hold. Until now.
Haddad had taught Cooper how to change his look, manner, and identity; how to move through crowds yet never be seen; how to become the world’s stealthiest assassin. It worked time and time again, right through his most recent passing. That’s when he faked his own death at the hands of the man who most wanted to see him dead—Secret Service agent Scott Roarke.
Now America’s Secret Service, the FBI, and even Haddad thought Cooper was gone. The dental records of the deceased would not prove anything, for a man who survived a bomb blast at ground zero could have a whole new set of teeth.
As he drove out of Chester Township, Ohio, he vowed never to make another mistake. He had more money than he could ever spend, the ability to travel anywhere in the world, and the knowledge of how to kill more successfully and effectively than any assassin since the Jackal.
The image of his mother’s face was nearly gone now. He’d provided for his parents’ welfare. They had their memories. That was better than knowing who he was today and where he was going.
Richard Cooper didn’t exist. But as any number of other people, he had more work to do and all the time in the world.
Interstate 15
A truckstop north of Helena, Montana
Ricardo Perez exited the highway thinking only of getting his cursed passenger out of his life. As he angled toward the far end of the parking lot, he hit his brights twice. A signal. Two hundred feet away a car answered with three flashes. The flashing lights identified the cars to one another. Perez drove to the waiting vehicle, made a wide turn, and backed into the space next to the green Toyota Camry.
“Stay in the car.” These were the first words from the man Perez had driven 1,138 miles.
It was obvious his passenger was not an American.
Another man, about the same age as his forty-something passenger, stepped onto the pavement. Perez’s “package” did the same. They hugged and kissed one another; left cheek, then right. Next they returned to the green car where they talked for ten minutes.
Perez grew impatient. He wanted his money and he wanted to leave. The whole thing was making him nervous. Just as he was about to get out to try and hustle the men along, his passenger returned.
He reached into the backseat and fiddled with something. Perez presumed he was getting the money ready. “Here.” He passed an attaché case forward with pretyped directions. “This is where you’ll go now. Follow the instructions on the paper. Then you will be through.”
Perez checked the case. The money was there in hundreds. He counted it out twice, which took more time. $5,000. Then he looked at the directions. “It’s all there, but I wasn’t told about any other stop,” he complained. “This isn’t part of the deal.”
“You are mistaken. It is right here on the paper. You have one hour.”
“Am I picking up someone else?”
“There will be someone there. Another driver for you to meet. Now go. Do not be late. One hour. Exactly.”
The man left Perez’s Lincoln and rejoined the other in the Toyota. Perez watched. He was pissed off. He punched the steering wheel. “Jesus Christ! This wasn’t the fucking deal!” He needed rest more than anything else. He wanted to drive a few miles and find a safe motel. Instead, he slammed his foot on the gas pedal and tore out of the parking lot. He nearly hit a guard rail as he merged back onto Interstate 15. One hour? He figured he’d get there early. If no one was there, he’d leave. Fuck them! Fuck every one of them.
The directions called for him to take an exit east off I-15 exactly twenty-two miles out, make a right on a two-lane road, and keep going at twenty-five miles an hour for exactly eighteen miles. Simple and stupid.
He followed the instructions with the radio finally blaring loudly. He hated every station he found, but at least there was music. He turned off the Interstate at the precise point and drove down the
Haddad had taught Cooper how to change his look, manner, and identity; how to move through crowds yet never be seen; how to become the world’s stealthiest assassin. It worked time and time again, right through his most recent passing. That’s when he faked his own death at the hands of the man who most wanted to see him dead—Secret Service agent Scott Roarke.
Now America’s Secret Service, the FBI, and even Haddad thought Cooper was gone. The dental records of the deceased would not prove anything, for a man who survived a bomb blast at ground zero could have a whole new set of teeth.
As he drove out of Chester Township, Ohio, he vowed never to make another mistake. He had more money than he could ever spend, the ability to travel anywhere in the world, and the knowledge of how to kill more successfully and effectively than any assassin since the Jackal.
The image of his mother’s face was nearly gone now. He’d provided for his parents’ welfare. They had their memories. That was better than knowing who he was today and where he was going.
Richard Cooper didn’t exist. But as any number of other people, he had more work to do and all the time in the world.
Interstate 15
A truckstop north of Helena, Montana
Ricardo Perez exited the highway thinking only of getting his cursed passenger out of his life. As he angled toward the far end of the parking lot, he hit his brights twice. A signal. Two hundred feet away a car answered with three flashes. The flashing lights identified the cars to one another. Perez drove to the waiting vehicle, made a wide turn, and backed into the space next to the green Toyota Camry.
“Stay in the car.” These were the first words from the man Perez had driven 1,138 miles.
It was obvious his passenger was not an American.
Another man, about the same age as his forty-something passenger, stepped onto the pavement. Perez’s “package” did the same. They hugged and kissed one another; left cheek, then right. Next they returned to the green car where they talked for ten minutes.
Perez grew impatient. He wanted his money and he wanted to leave. The whole thing was making him nervous. Just as he was about to get out to try and hustle the men along, his passenger returned.
He reached into the backseat and fiddled with something. Perez presumed he was getting the money ready. “Here.” He passed an attaché case forward with pretyped directions. “This is where you’ll go now. Follow the instructions on the paper. Then you will be through.”
Perez checked the case. The money was there in hundreds. He counted it out twice, which took more time. $5,000. Then he looked at the directions. “It’s all there, but I wasn’t told about any other stop,” he complained. “This isn’t part of the deal.”
“You are mistaken. It is right here on the paper. You have one hour.”
“Am I picking up someone else?”
“There will be someone there. Another driver for you to meet. Now go. Do not be late. One hour. Exactly.”
The man left Perez’s Lincoln and rejoined the other in the Toyota. Perez watched. He was pissed off. He punched the steering wheel. “Jesus Christ! This wasn’t the fucking deal!” He needed rest more than anything else. He wanted to drive a few miles and find a safe motel. Instead, he slammed his foot on the gas pedal and tore out of the parking lot. He nearly hit a guard rail as he merged back onto Interstate 15. One hour? He figured he’d get there early. If no one was there, he’d leave. Fuck them! Fuck every one of them.
The directions called for him to take an exit east off I-15 exactly twenty-two miles out, make a right on a two-lane road, and keep going at twenty-five miles an hour for exactly eighteen miles. Simple and stupid.
He followed the instructions with the radio finally blaring loudly. He hated every station he found, but at least there was music. He turned off the Interstate at the precise point and drove down the
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