6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Finn retreated to his over-watch position. He had a small first-aid kit stashed there—something that had become part of his practice—though an item he had rare cause to use. The antiseptic stung against his thigh and was unnecessary. He didn’t get sick. Yet it was such an ingrained part of his training he did it anyway, sealing the graze closed with an adhesive bandage.
As he worked, he checked the target location through the sniper rifle that was still positioned at the window. It was silent and quiet, though he suspected it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
Most people, Finn had learned, froze in extreme circumstances. It was a behavior to his advantage since it was usually the last thing they did. But there were those who ran—they made missions more challenging. Most rare was the type who fought back, whether through the use of weapons or other methods.
That woman was one of the latter.
He put his fingers into his pocket, pulling out the long strands of her hair, twisting them together before he brought them to his nose. He caught the faint scent of coconut as he breathed deeply. An unanticipated shiver rushed through him. She could have run. She didn’t freeze—she actively sought to protect the target. He wondered why. What was he to her? Or her to him?
Finn had what he suspected was an answer not long after. Sirens filled the air, the wail urging him to run, but he stifled the instinct.
He wanted to stay and see what happened.
It took time, but he saw her exit the Palace. She was with a uniformed police officer, but he wasn’t treating her like a victim in need of comfort; more like a colleague. He escorted her toward one of the ambulances that had pulled up. From Finn’s current angle, he couldn’t quite see her where she was seated in the ambulance, so he repositioned, making sure to pocket the lock of hair.
The paramedic was tending to her shoulder, her white shirt half pushed down her arm and exposing her black bra beneath. He could see her mouth move now and then—answering the paramedic, no doubt. Even his sharp hearing couldn’t discern her words at this distance, but they’d trained him in lip reading.
Detective, the paramedic said. Then, the dark-haired woman gave her name. Kathleen.
That complicated matters, but it also explained a great deal. The woman didn’t have the demeanor of someone traumatized at all; that look Finn knew. He was less certain about what she was experiencing. He wasn’t good at reading people’s emotions.
He watched her leave the ambulance. A man greeted her, then gave her his jacket. They seemed comfortable with each other. Finn was confident he was her partner.
His training suggested this was sufficient reason to remove her. She was a danger to him. She had seen him up close, had witnessed the mission, and had the resources and reach to hunt him.
Finn’s finger brushed the side of the trigger as he tracked her path inside the Palace.
The moment she disappeared, he exhaled. He couldn’t pull the trigger.
Perhaps he was defective.
Moving rapidly now, he began disassembling the sniper rifle, placing it into its case. His MP5 went into a duffel bag along with the first-aid kit.
In three minutes, he was three blocks away and putting more distance between himself and the mission location. Leaping from rooftop to rooftop was effortless for him with his enhanced speed and strength.
Two minutes later, he arrived at the vehicle he had prepared, a nondescript white sedan. He drove at the speed limit, unhurried, headed for Cloverton House.
“Are you defective?” the Handler asked Finn.
It was a standard question. A question the Handler had asked a thousand times before, but this was the first time Finn had ever thought he might need to indicate an affirmative.
“No,” he said, but the pause had been enough for the Handler to notice.
Milford looked at Finn with sharp awareness, his mouth pinching into a line. “Are you defective?”
“No,” Finn answered again, keeping his voice disinterested even though there was a tension in his fingers where they crossed behind his back.
He had a sudden awareness of the room: how many steps to the door, how many to the stapler on the Handler’s desk that could be used as a makeshift weapon, how many to be in reach of the Handler’s throat.
Finn felt the weighty gaze on him, but he kept his eyes unfocused, directed just over the man’s shoulder.
After a long moment, Milford exhaled. “You’ll stay at the House tonight for observation.”
He nodded. The soothing, dull routines of the House were familiar and preferable to being sent to maintenance. Finn didn’t remember everything, but he remembered that much.
“Look at me,” the Handler commanded.
Finn had no choice but to obey. A prickling rushed over his scalp as he kept a rigid-backed posture to distract from the tension growing in his shoulders.
The Handler’s hazel eyes bored into the Agent. “You are a weapon. You were made for Command to point at the enemies of this great nation. You have no wants. You have no name. You are known only as the Hound.”
The words were a mantra Finn had heard a hundred times before, seared into his memory, into his bones. He didn’t verbally acknowledge the directives, but the Handler didn’t expect him to.
“Dismissed,” the Handler said.
Spinning on his heel, Finn stalked out of the room. The hallway was quiet, but he checked the approaches and corners anyway, taking note of the cameras as he headed for the elevator.
When he was in training, the large mess hall of Cloverton House had been a haven, the only place where all Agents agreed neutral ground rules stood. There was no violence allowed here, and no attempts were to resolve conflicts inherent to training. It remained unspoken etiquette to neither speak nor make eye contact with anyone else.
Something he appreciated right now.
A young man with a pinched mouth and tense posture stood behind the counter, filling the plates of those queued up. A quick assessment told Finn the angry young man was weak, likely in the process of being washed out of the program if he wasn’t already. He appeared too invested, too emotional. Emotions had no place in working for Command. Someone like that would be moved into a support role—as one of the field Aides that supported an Agent, or a myriad of other non-essential roles—or, if they were unlucky, removed altogether.
Finn took his plate of food without making eye contact, found the nearest table where he could put his back against the wall, and sat to eat. He leaned forward, letting his hair fall over his face. The action allowed him to observe those nearby.
There was no one in the hall he recognized, but then he wouldn’t. Part of the training Agents underwent pitted them against each other, and he had earned his freedom at the cost of others. He didn’t know how many had survived, and he never asked.
Finn ate methodically, keeping his head down until he finished. As he left, he passed a tall, well-built man with sandy blond hair. The man glanced Finn’s way, and he felt a sizzle of something in his brain. It was uncomfortable, bordering on painful.
Maybe he was defective.
The blond man opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but Finn stalked past, ignoring him and trying to ignore the buzzing pain in his head.