The Hit (Will Robie 2)

Robie shrugged. “I’m not the person to ask.”

“You’re the perfect person to ask. But let me ask you something.”

Robie waited, his eyes narrowed, wondering where this conversation was going.

“You didn’t pull a trigger when you were supposed to. How did that feel to you?”

“The target died anyway.”

“That’s not what I asked. How did you feel?”

Robie didn’t answer right away. The truth was he had tried not to think about that very thing.

How did I feel?

Reel answered for him. “Liberated?”

Robie looked down. That had been the exact word forming in his mind.

Reel seemed to sense this but did not push the point. “Another drink?” she asked, noting his empty glass. When he hesitated, she said, “Remember the domesticity, Robie? I sense I’ll become bored with it before we land. So strike while the iron is hot.”

She took the drink out of his hand but set it down on the tray. She looked at her watch. “We have exactly three hours and forty-one minutes to landing.”

“Okay?” asked Robie, looking confused and dropping his gaze to the empty glass.

Then it occurred to him t

hat she was not talking about a second drink. His eyes widened slightly.

“You think the timing sucks?” she asked in response to his look.

“Don’t you?” he said.

“This is not the first time I’ve thought about it with you. Those youthful hormones, in close proximity in life-and-death situations with lots of guns. Recipe for something to happen. How about you?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be part of it. Never, in fact.”

“Supposed to be doesn’t equal what could be.”

“About the timing?”

“It’s perfect, actually.”

“Why?”

“Because both you and I know we’re not going to live past Ireland. They know you’ve sided with me. They’re not going to let you survive this. There are a lot more of them than there are of us. Doesn’t take a roomful of analysts to decipher that one. Now, I’ll die with many regrets. But I don’t want that to be one of them. What about you?”

She rose and held out a hand. “What about you?” she said again. “The bed in back is very comfortable.”

Robie stared at her hand for another moment and then looked away.

He didn’t get out of his seat.

Reel slowly drew her hand back. “See you in Dublin.” She started to walk down the aisle to the private quarters in the plane’s aft section.

“It has nothing to do with you, Jessica.”

She stiffened and stopped walking, but didn’t look back.

“There’s someone else?” she said. “Vance?”

“No.”

“I’m surprised you found the time for someone.”

“She’s no longer alive.”

Now Reel did turn.

“It was recent,” said Robie.

Reel came back and sat down next to him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Why? I’m a machine, right? That’s what you said.”

She put her palm against his chest. “Machines don’t have heartbeats. You’re not a machine. I shouldn’t have said that. I’d like to hear about it. If you want to talk.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve got nowhere else to go for the next three hours and”—she glanced at her watch—“thirty-eight minutes.”

The plane flew on.

And Robie talked about a young woman who had stolen his heart and then nearly his life, because she turned out to be the enemy.

And in response he had done the only thing he was really good at.

He had killed her.

It was something that only a person like Jessica Reel could understand.

CHAPTER

71

SAM KENT WAS ON the move.

He had taken two weeks off from his duties as a judge. The FISC didn’t have a backlog. They were swift in their judgments. They could spare him.

He packed a bag and kissed his wife and children goodbye.

This was not unusual. He often went away without a lot of explanation. His wife understood it to be part of his past life that he did not talk about.

Well, this wasn’t really about his past life. It was about his future. Precisely speaking, whether he was going to have one or not.

Jacobs, Gelder, and now Decker were dead.

Kent knew that he would have to dance nimbly not to end up like the other three men. He had foes on both flanks now.

Reel and Robie were formidable. He was less concerned about them, though, than with the opponent on his other flank. But the clear way out was to make sure that the plan succeeded. At least his part of it. After that, it was out of his hands. But he also couldn’t be blamed for that part failing.

It was also an opportunity for him to get back out in the field after years of sitting behind a desk. That inactivity had been a slow death for him, he could see that now. It had been a luxury killing that idiot Anthony Zim. He had missed that.

He drove to the airport and checked his car into long-term parking. The night was a fine one. Clear skies, many stars, light winds. It would be a good flight. He would have to hit the ground running. There was a fair amount of prep work that needed to be done.

Success or failure was always defined largely during the preparation. With good planning all one had to do was execute. Even last-second changes could be made with greater ease if the planning in the first place had been precise.

Kent carried no weapons in his bag. That was not his job this time around. He was a thinker, a processor, not a doer.

Part of that pained him, but at his age, he also knew it was the most realistic option for him. Once this was over, the future was both uncertain and crystal clear. Clear for those who knew what was about to happen. A little murkier for everyone else. Flowing up his spine was an electrified charge of excitement mixed with dread. It would certainly be a different world after this. But a better one, he truly believed.

He took a bus to the terminal, showed his passport, checked his bag, passed through security, and walked to the lounge to await his international flight.

The wild card or cards were obvious.

Robie and Reel.

The attack at the mall was conclusive proof in Kent’s mind. Four pros wiped out by two pros who were far more professional.

The battle lost, but not the war, of course.