With a sigh, he let go of the half of himself that was love and life and let the half that was darkness and death reign supreme. Pulling the handcrafted Perkin 440C stainless-steel hunting knife from the sheath at his back, he took a step toward the Russian. Nine seconds… Closing his eyes, he pictured his daughter. I do this for her. Seven seconds… He squeezed the burl wood handle tightly and started jogging toward his prey. Five seconds… The Russian spotted him and started grunting and struggling against his restraints. Three seconds… Clearing his mind of everything but the task, George skidded to a stop beside the Russian who was now on his side on the floor, floundering like a fish. One second…
George bent down, fancying himself the specter of death poised to strike the fatal blow. And that’s exactly what he did. With one hand on the man’s shoulder for leverage, he shoved his hunting knife into the base of the Russian’s skull, past the rows of fat wrinkles that stretched all the way up into his narrow, bald head.
George’s aim and his blade both proved true, the latter slipping over the uppermost vertebra and severing the Russian’s spine in an instant. The man didn’t even have time to squeal his surprise.
A good kill. A clean kill. George could take comfort in that.
Wiping his blade on the Russian’s coat, he ignored the tangy scent of blood and spinal fluid that drifted up his nose. After sheathing the knife, he straightened, turned, and walked purposefully for the door. One down. Five more to go…
* * *
Oh, sure. You can all run and shoot and simultaneously protect the wee folks of the world. But can you see patterns in online search algorithms? Can you locate terrorist cells based on their digital footprints alone? Can you tie a cherry stem in a knot with only your tongue. Huh? Can you?
To say Chelsea was butthurt and embarrassed by her assigned role was like saying Antarctica was cold. A bona fide case of well, duh. First there was Penni with that whole “trained to handle every kind of firearm from a six-shooter to a sniper rifle”—which, okay, truth be told, just made Chelsea like the woman more; chick is badass, fo sho—and now this. Reduced to playing the part of the valet and the bellboy. It was shameful. Humiliating.
Everything is coming up Chels! Not.
“For crying out loud, I passed all my marksmanship tests,” she harrumphed, looking up and down the street before jimmying the lock on the back door of the old Volkswagen cargo van circa 1990-something.
Z had given her specific directions to the vehicle. “It’s perfect,” he’d said, pointing her down the street. “Old enough to easily hot-wire, big enough to hold all of us should we need it, and while I was trailing Kozlov, I saw its owner hop on the back of some girl’s scooter and take off for what looked like a hot date. You shouldn’t have to worry about getting caught in the middle of snatching it. You can’t miss it. It’s the one with the big yellow sun on the side.”
Right. Perfect. The one with the big yellow sun on the side. Appropriate, considering this whole day has been nothing but blue skies, sunshine, and glittery unicorn farts, she thought sarcastically. “Passed with flying colors I might add,” she went on.
“Stay off the goddamn line unless you have something to report, Chels,” Z commanded. “When things start happening here, they’re going to happen fast. I don’t want to miss something Dan or Penni says because you can’t let it go that you’re underqualified for this job.”
And that was the true crux of her problem, wasn’t it? Not that she’d been relegated to a supporting role—when Penni, who is now officially a civilian, is still invited to the show. Grrr!—so much as that Z thought playing a supporting role was exactly where she belonged.
It stung. More than Z probably realized and far more than Chelsea would ever admit to anyone but herself.
Silently fuming, she sprung the lock on the bus—See? She had crazy awesome skills!—and tossed Dan’s backpack, Penni’s purse, and her satchel inside. Sparing one final glance around, assuring herself she remained unobserved, she jumped in after their gear. Climbing over the two rows of rear bucket seats, she slid behind the wheel. And there she sat for a couple of seconds, wondering exactly where things with her and Z had gone off the rails.
They’d always verbally sparred with each other. In fact, the first conversation they’d had, way back when he was still with the CIA and she was a wet-behind-the-ears analyst, had been an opening salvo. A shot heard around her world.
It had happened during a meeting when she’d been trying to explain a particularly difficult theory about online surveillance to a group of uninterested operators. Z, a hotshot field agent at the time, had leaned over to one of his colleagues and whispered, “The minute she started throwing around words like ‘skeuomorphism’ and ‘site aggregators’ it was my cue to go.”
“You mean it was your cue to go look them up?” she’d asked, trying to portray bluster and bravado even though she was a hot mess of anxiety inside. It had been her first time leading a meeting and she wasn’t doing a bang-up job of it.