meal. He grabbed the knife and held it close to his waist.
Beads of sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he inched closer to the living room door. It was shut, just as he’d left it before departing for Austria. He imagined where he would be in the room if he’d come here to kill the apartment’s occupant. Probably waiting flush against the wall, to one side of the door, with a handgun pointing at the height of a man’s upper body. One shot into the side of the rib cage, followed a split second later by another into the temple. Or perhaps he’d be on one knee at the far end of the room, positioned behind a sturdy piece of furniture, his gun pointing at the door, ready to put rapid two-round bursts into whoever came into view.
Or maybe he was dealing with a tough amateur. He hoped not, because their lack of training made them unpredictable.
He placed a hand on the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door open while keeping his body away from the doorframe and his knife low.
The room was silent.
Though that meant nothing.
More sweat ran down his back. He had to go in the room, had to decide where the man was waiting for him. If there was only one of them.
Placing his free hand against the frame, he readied himself, sucked in a lungful of air, held his breath, rocked back on his heels, and lunged through the entrance while simultaneously spinning and thrusting the knife toward the wall opposite his hand. It sliced into wood paneling. No one was there.
Yanking the knife out, he turned to face the rest of the room, expecting a bullet to strike his head as he did so.
But the room was empty.
He spent the next ten minutes making a more thorough search of his home—in wardrobes, under beds, in cupboards, as well as kicking all of the packing cases to see if any of them had increased in weight. Satisfied that there was no intruder in his home, he moved back to the living room and stared at the two windows. Outside, there were at least nine places where a man could comfortably position himself with a rifle and remove a large chunk of Will’s head—many more places farther afield, if the weapon was a military-spec sniper rifle and its owner was highly trained.
Lowering himself to the ground, he leopard-crawled along the floor, pulled both windows’ curtains shut from his prone position, crawled back along the floor, and stood. Grabbing one of the dining chairs, he positioned it in the hallway so that it was facing the front door at the other end, placed one hand on the living room light switch, the other on the room’s door handle, switched the light on, and immediately slammed the door shut.
If a man was observing the living room through binoculars or a telescopic sight, he’d know Will was home.
But Will was now in the windowless corridor, out of anyone’s sight.
He sat on the chair, stabbed the tip of the knife into its wooden arm, and stared at the front door. In the absence of complete privacy and professional assault gear, no one would be able to enter the property through the barred windows. They’d come for him through the main entrance.
He stayed like this for two hours before checking his watch. It was 9:30 P.M. He felt hungry and tired but dared not move.
He tried to keep his mind active by recalling memories—any that came to him, it didn’t matter.
He remembered a teacher announcing Will’s high school grades to the rest of his class and saying that they were good enough to take Will to England and Cambridge University; going home later that day to find four criminals holding his mother and sister hostage while they looked for cash; feeling utter fear and confusion after he’d killed the men with a knife similar to the one by his side; his older sister telling him that he had to run away; and flying to France the next morning to enlist in the Foreign Legion.
He recalled the brutal training, the feeling that his transition from boy to man was not supposed to be like this. But over time
Beads of sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he inched closer to the living room door. It was shut, just as he’d left it before departing for Austria. He imagined where he would be in the room if he’d come here to kill the apartment’s occupant. Probably waiting flush against the wall, to one side of the door, with a handgun pointing at the height of a man’s upper body. One shot into the side of the rib cage, followed a split second later by another into the temple. Or perhaps he’d be on one knee at the far end of the room, positioned behind a sturdy piece of furniture, his gun pointing at the door, ready to put rapid two-round bursts into whoever came into view.
Or maybe he was dealing with a tough amateur. He hoped not, because their lack of training made them unpredictable.
He placed a hand on the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door open while keeping his body away from the doorframe and his knife low.
The room was silent.
Though that meant nothing.
More sweat ran down his back. He had to go in the room, had to decide where the man was waiting for him. If there was only one of them.
Placing his free hand against the frame, he readied himself, sucked in a lungful of air, held his breath, rocked back on his heels, and lunged through the entrance while simultaneously spinning and thrusting the knife toward the wall opposite his hand. It sliced into wood paneling. No one was there.
Yanking the knife out, he turned to face the rest of the room, expecting a bullet to strike his head as he did so.
But the room was empty.
He spent the next ten minutes making a more thorough search of his home—in wardrobes, under beds, in cupboards, as well as kicking all of the packing cases to see if any of them had increased in weight. Satisfied that there was no intruder in his home, he moved back to the living room and stared at the two windows. Outside, there were at least nine places where a man could comfortably position himself with a rifle and remove a large chunk of Will’s head—many more places farther afield, if the weapon was a military-spec sniper rifle and its owner was highly trained.
Lowering himself to the ground, he leopard-crawled along the floor, pulled both windows’ curtains shut from his prone position, crawled back along the floor, and stood. Grabbing one of the dining chairs, he positioned it in the hallway so that it was facing the front door at the other end, placed one hand on the living room light switch, the other on the room’s door handle, switched the light on, and immediately slammed the door shut.
If a man was observing the living room through binoculars or a telescopic sight, he’d know Will was home.
But Will was now in the windowless corridor, out of anyone’s sight.
He sat on the chair, stabbed the tip of the knife into its wooden arm, and stared at the front door. In the absence of complete privacy and professional assault gear, no one would be able to enter the property through the barred windows. They’d come for him through the main entrance.
He stayed like this for two hours before checking his watch. It was 9:30 P.M. He felt hungry and tired but dared not move.
He tried to keep his mind active by recalling memories—any that came to him, it didn’t matter.
He remembered a teacher announcing Will’s high school grades to the rest of his class and saying that they were good enough to take Will to England and Cambridge University; going home later that day to find four criminals holding his mother and sister hostage while they looked for cash; feeling utter fear and confusion after he’d killed the men with a knife similar to the one by his side; his older sister telling him that he had to run away; and flying to France the next morning to enlist in the Foreign Legion.
He recalled the brutal training, the feeling that his transition from boy to man was not supposed to be like this. But over time
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