Now, as one worked, sweat streaming down his face while he executed punishing squats and lunges on his injured leg, the other sat at a command console, pale eyes tracking screens.
The room where they worked had no windows and a single door. It contained an emergency underground exit, and the capability for self-destruct should their security be compromised.
It was outfitted with enough supplies to last two men a full year. Once, they had planned to use it as both shelter and command post when the primary vision of the organization they both had served had been met, and the city above was in their hands.
Now, it was shelter and command post for a more personal vision.
They had worked together for the larger cause for nearly a decade, and this more personal one for six years. They had seen the larger fractured, scattered. But the smaller, the personal, they would complete. Whatever the cost.
One stopped, sweat still dripping as he reached for a jug containing filtered water and electrolytes.
“How’s the leg?” his brother asked.
“Eighty percent. A hundred by tomorrow. Bastard cop was fast.”
“Now he’s dead. We’ll terminate more, strike the other locations, but that can wait until we’ve hit the primary target.”
On one of the screens, Nixie’s young face smiled out at the spartan room and the two men who wanted her life.
“They might have moved her out of the city.”
His brother shook his head. “Dallas would want her close. All the probabilities indicate she’s still in the city. Cops coming and going out of Dallas’s home location, but the probabilities are low that she’d take the target there. But she’ll be close.”
“We bring Dallas in, ascertain the target’s location.”
“She’ll be ready for it, waiting for it. We can’t rush it. Roarke’s security and intelligence may be as good as ours. It may be better. His pockets are deeper, even with our contingency funds.”
“They have nothing that leads to us. That gives us time. It would be a coup, the kind that would boost morale and bring the primary mission back in place, if Roarke’s home location was breached, if he was terminated in his own bed, and the cop taken. We’d have the message needed to regroup our members, and the information needed to complete our mission here.”
The man at the console turned. “We’ll start on tactics.”
The martial arts studio in Queens was more of a palace, in Eve’s opinion. Or a temple.
The entrance was decorated in a spare yet somehow lustrous style—an Asian flavor with the Japanese sand gardens she’d never understood, gongs, the whiff of incense, a glossy red ceiling against cool, white walls and floor.
Tables were low, and the seats were red cushions decorated in gold thread that formed symbols.
Doorways were the papery screens she’d seen in Asian restaurants.
The woman who sat cross-legged on a cushion by a neat and tiny workstation nodded, placed the palms of her hands together, and bowed.
“How can I serve you?”
She wore a red robe with a black dragon flying across the bottom. Her head was shaved clean, the shape of her skull somehow as tidy and lustrous as the room.
“Roger Kirkendall.” Eve showed her badge.
She smiled, showing white, even teeth. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kirkendall isn’t with us. May I inquire as to the nature of your business?”
“No. Where is he?”
“I believe Mr. Kirkendall is traveling.” Despite the clipped response, the woman’s tone never altered. “Perhaps you’d like to speak with Mr. Lu, his partner. Should I inform Mr. Lu that you’d like to speak with him?”
“Do that.” She turned, rescanned the room. “Pretty kicked for a dojo. Must do a hell of a business. Not bad for former Army.”
“Mr. Lu will come out and escort you. May I serve you some refreshments? Green tea, spring water?”
“No, we’re good. How long have you worked here?”