me.”
Here was the flaw in Painter’s original plan. They’d underestimated the level of paranoia in their target.
“The surgery took three hours,” she continued with a growing edge to her voice. “I watched it all in a mirror. They found the implant buried in my healed wound—a wound I sustained saving your life, Pierce.”
Anger hardened her face, but he didn’t fail to note a slight wounding in her eyes.
“So you removed our tracker.” Gray pictured the crooked path on the surveillance monitor. “But you still kept it with you.”
“I found it useful. It allowed me to hide in plain sight. I could park the tracker somewhere for a while, then move off on my own.”
“Like you did in Venice.”
She shrugged.
“The city where the curator you murdered lived. Where his family still lives.”
Gray let the accusation hang. Seichan shook her head very slightly and glanced away. He had a difficult time reading the play of emotions that flickered past.
“The girl had a cat,” she said more quietly. “An orange tabby with a studded collar.”
Gray knew the girl must be the curator’s daughter. So Seichan had indeed gone to check on the family, moved in close enough to observe the simple routine of their lives, a family shattered by the death of a husband and a father. She must have planted her tracker on the cat’s collar. It was a smart move. The cat’s wandering through the neighborhood streets and rooftops would make the tracker seem active. It was no wonder the agents on the ground could find no trace of her in the Venetian neighborhood. With the hounds following the false trail, the real cat had escaped.
Gray wanted more answers from this woman. One question was foremost in his mind, a conversation they’d never completed. “What about your claim that you’re a double—”
Seichan glanced sharply back at him. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes turned rock hard, warning him to back off. He had been about to question her assertion that she was a mole planted in the Guild, a double agent put there by Western forces, but plainly this was a conversation she didn’t want in public. Or maybe he misread her expression. Maybe the bitterness in those eyes merely scoffed at his gullibility. He remembered her last words in Bangkok.
Trust me, Gray. If only a little.
Staring at her now, he let the question drop.
For now.
“Then why are you here in Rome? Why meet like this?” Gray gestured toward Rachel.
“Because I need a bargaining chip.”
“Something to leverage against me?” Gray glanced at Rachel.
“No. Something to offer the Guild. After events in Cambodia, suspicions have run high concerning my loyalty. AS well as I can tell, the Guild has been sniffing around the recent bombing at Saint Peter’s. Something has piqued their interest. Then I heard that Monsignor Verona was involved in this incident—”
“Incident?” Rachel burst out. “He’s in a coma.”
Seichan ignored her. “So I came here. I believed I could benefit from this situation. If I could acquire some key piece of information about this bombing, I could buy my way back into the full trust of the Guild echelon.”
Gray studied Seichan. Despite the callous nature of her words, the reasoning matched her claim two years ago. She had supposedly been sent into the Guild to root out its leaders. The only way to keep rising in the shadowy hierarchy—up the bloody food chain—was to produce results.
“I’d hoped to interrogate Rachel,” she explained. “But when I got here, I found someone ransacking her apartment.”
Gray turned to Rachel, who nodded confirmation, but there remained an angry glint in her eyes.
“The Guild determined that the assassins were after something the murdered priest had in his possession, something they wanted desperately. The assassins probably searched the man’s body, but the explosion left them time for little else. Like searching the monsignor.”
“So someone assumed
Here was the flaw in Painter’s original plan. They’d underestimated the level of paranoia in their target.
“The surgery took three hours,” she continued with a growing edge to her voice. “I watched it all in a mirror. They found the implant buried in my healed wound—a wound I sustained saving your life, Pierce.”
Anger hardened her face, but he didn’t fail to note a slight wounding in her eyes.
“So you removed our tracker.” Gray pictured the crooked path on the surveillance monitor. “But you still kept it with you.”
“I found it useful. It allowed me to hide in plain sight. I could park the tracker somewhere for a while, then move off on my own.”
“Like you did in Venice.”
She shrugged.
“The city where the curator you murdered lived. Where his family still lives.”
Gray let the accusation hang. Seichan shook her head very slightly and glanced away. He had a difficult time reading the play of emotions that flickered past.
“The girl had a cat,” she said more quietly. “An orange tabby with a studded collar.”
Gray knew the girl must be the curator’s daughter. So Seichan had indeed gone to check on the family, moved in close enough to observe the simple routine of their lives, a family shattered by the death of a husband and a father. She must have planted her tracker on the cat’s collar. It was a smart move. The cat’s wandering through the neighborhood streets and rooftops would make the tracker seem active. It was no wonder the agents on the ground could find no trace of her in the Venetian neighborhood. With the hounds following the false trail, the real cat had escaped.
Gray wanted more answers from this woman. One question was foremost in his mind, a conversation they’d never completed. “What about your claim that you’re a double—”
Seichan glanced sharply back at him. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes turned rock hard, warning him to back off. He had been about to question her assertion that she was a mole planted in the Guild, a double agent put there by Western forces, but plainly this was a conversation she didn’t want in public. Or maybe he misread her expression. Maybe the bitterness in those eyes merely scoffed at his gullibility. He remembered her last words in Bangkok.
Trust me, Gray. If only a little.
Staring at her now, he let the question drop.
For now.
“Then why are you here in Rome? Why meet like this?” Gray gestured toward Rachel.
“Because I need a bargaining chip.”
“Something to leverage against me?” Gray glanced at Rachel.
“No. Something to offer the Guild. After events in Cambodia, suspicions have run high concerning my loyalty. AS well as I can tell, the Guild has been sniffing around the recent bombing at Saint Peter’s. Something has piqued their interest. Then I heard that Monsignor Verona was involved in this incident—”
“Incident?” Rachel burst out. “He’s in a coma.”
Seichan ignored her. “So I came here. I believed I could benefit from this situation. If I could acquire some key piece of information about this bombing, I could buy my way back into the full trust of the Guild echelon.”
Gray studied Seichan. Despite the callous nature of her words, the reasoning matched her claim two years ago. She had supposedly been sent into the Guild to root out its leaders. The only way to keep rising in the shadowy hierarchy—up the bloody food chain—was to produce results.
“I’d hoped to interrogate Rachel,” she explained. “But when I got here, I found someone ransacking her apartment.”
Gray turned to Rachel, who nodded confirmation, but there remained an angry glint in her eyes.
“The Guild determined that the assassins were after something the murdered priest had in his possession, something they wanted desperately. The assassins probably searched the man’s body, but the explosion left them time for little else. Like searching the monsignor.”
“So someone assumed
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