8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Although there were no windows in his underground room in Cloverton House, Finn woke with the dawn thinking of green eyes. The air conditioning was controlled centrally, and he woke sweating. Yet, the dreams, not the heat, troubled him.
He didn’t always remember them, but he knew what they were about. Faces of the people he had killed were what he expected. Those rarely bothered him. It was other faces, ones that seemed familiar, though he could never quite place, that unsettled him the most.
The room was spartan and utilitarian. He saw little value in keeping personal items. Movement at the corner of his vision brought him out of the bed and to his feet with one quick roll. A folded paper appeared under his door and skittered across the floor. A second later, his pistol in his hand, he yanked open the door. Whoever was there had retreated—fast.
Finn shut and locked the door again before he read the message.
Report to your Handler. 0800.
That wasn’t unexpected. A check-in before the next mission. Was it possible the Handler knew about the woman he had left alive?
No point lingering on the thought. If they knew, then maintenance was in his future, and he could do nothing about it. He finished cleaning his weapons. He ensured he was wearing his pistol and knife, though he left the rifle in his room when he went to the mess hall.
This time, he recognized no one, and no one recognized him. He preferred it that way. The angry server from yesterday was gone. Probably for good.
Finn descended into the depths of Cloverton House. Before he even lifted his hand to knock, the Handler called out, “Come.”
It was precisely 0800. Chances were good that the Handler assumed Finn would be on time. Finn wasn't sure if the Handler had access to the cameras in Cloverton House. Even a Handler wasn’t privy to all that went on.
Finn stepped inside, settled into a straight-backed stance, and brought his hands behind his back.
Milford was seated behind his desk. “I have another mission for you. I would usually prefer to give you downtime, but another Agent made a mess, and you need to clean it up, Hound.”
He hated that name.
The Handler placed a photograph on the desk. He appeared to be a blue-collar worker dressed in worn overalls that didn’t hide the slight paunch of his stomach. “This man sold explosives to a terrorist group who tried to blow up a subway station. He was supposed to be caught in the handover, but he slipped the net. His name, place of work, and home address are on the back. If he’s smart, he’s rabbited. If he’s not… this won’t take you long at all.”
Finn moved forward to take the photo, but the Handler rested his fingers on it, stilling the action.
Finn froze.
“Make it messy,” the Handler said. “We wish to send a message.”
Finn nodded, keeping his head tilted forward. He counted three heartbeats before the Handler straightened and released the photo. Finn glanced at the back, memorizing it, then tucked it into a pocket. He waited.
“Dismissed.”
Milford had likely forgotten Finn by the time the office door closed. Finn returned to his room and collected his duffel. Since he was there, he stopped by the armory and acquired new ammo and grenades.
Messy, the Handler had said.
Finn took a quiet pride in his work. Pride in a clean, untraceable kill. Messy kills were unprofessional. He didn’t like the new mission, but it wasn’t his role to question his assignments.
Finn stilled, a rush of adrenaline spiking through him as a new thought occurred.
Was this a message as the Handler said—but to Finn? A promise of what was to come if he didn’t rectify his failing? Perhaps the Handler knew about the woman detective after all and was giving him an opportunity to make it right before anyone else found out. If it was, he couldn’t risk ignoring the message. That was how Agents ended up in maintenance.
Two kills were just as easy as one. Finn made a mental note, already planning his day as he departed Cloverton House.
Finn took his time.
The nature of the jobs he was assigned rarely called for immediate action. Not to say it didn’t happen, just that it didn’t happen often.
Within an hour of leaving Cloverton House, he had located his target—who working on a construction site in Spring Valley. Though the rooftop perch he had chosen was located a hundred and fifty feet from the target’s location, he tracked the target with his sniper rifle.
Finn could effortlessly take him out.
Yet there were stipulations on this particular mission, and as much as he didn’t like them, the mission came above his desires. When it grew closer to lunch, he packed his gear and stowed it in some thick bushes at the front of an apartment block.
He changed out of his uniform, wearing clothing that mimicked that of the various workers on the construction site: dusty jeans, a loose sweatshirt, steel-toed boots, and a high-visibility vest. At noon on the dot, the workers downed their tools and streamed out, heading for a local pub.
Finn timed his entrance precisely, catching the target just as the man was leaving. “John Stapleton?”
The target paused, looking surprised. “Yeah?”
“Ah, good. The boss told me you’d be here. He wants you to stay back and take a look at the drywall.”
The target scowled. “That’s scut work. He knows I don’t do that.”
Finn shrugged. “I’m just the messenger.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” The target sighed. “Timmy, order me a beer, will you?”
Timmy waved a lazy hand in acknowledgment without even pausing. Only then did the target grimace. “Let’s get this over with.”
Finn nodded and led the way into the construction site. Earlier, he had pulled the blueprints for the site. Not everything was completed, but the inner staircase was in place, and he led the other man up two flights. He couldn’t hear a single other person up here.
The target was frowning. “This section isn’t even ready for drywall…”
The words faded to silence as Finn struck. He slid his knife between the target’s ribs and yanked. He was fast enough to side-step the spray of blood as the target glanced down, incredulous.
The target’s eyes ticked upward, now full of fear, as he saw Finn’s knife.
Finn took a step forward.
The target flailed, slipping on the blood and falling onto his ass. He scrambled backward on his hands and feet, crab walking. “What… whatever you want, man. Money, I got money. I swear to God. Please, don’t!”
Finn said nothing. It was pointless. The target could do nothing to spare his life. Finn waited for the man to back into the wall, then stalked forward.
“Look, okay. I took some money and supplied some explosives. I had no idea what they planned to do with it, I swear! Please. I have a wife! A daughter. Kate, she’s seven.”
Finn stopped.
Kate. Kathleen. Just a coincidence.
The target surged up and swung a meaty fist at Finn, trying to take advantage of his momentary distraction. Unfortunately for the other man, Finn’s reflexes were faster than he could have perceived, catching the target’s fist with his left hand.
Finn closed his fingers, and he felt the bones in the man’s hand beginning to snap.
The target screamed.
Though Finn was certain no one was on this floor, the noise could carry. The next thrust of his knife jutted into the target’s neck, just below the man’s jaw, and it turned the scream into a gurgle as he effortlessly threw the man into a wall.
It wouldn’t be long now.
Finn backed away, crouching to watch. He knew the target had no chance of survival, but he felt it was right for the man to have a witness to his last moments in life.
The target slumped sideways on the ground, frantically flailing his arm. If he was trying to tell Finn something, the meaning escaped the assassin.
Less than sixty seconds later, the target was dead. Beneath him, blood began pooling and creeping along the concrete floor. Make it messy. Together with the blood splatter on the wall, it met the mission brief.
Finn cleaned the knife on a soft cloth and sheathed it, folding the bloody cloth into his pocket. Taking his time, he exited the construction zone. Rushing would draw undue attention. Few people remained on the site, and not a single one bothered to look his way as he departed.
With his mission complete, protocol dictated that he return to the House and report the status. There was, however, another complication.
Kathleen Harper.
Just the sound of a name similar to hers had distracted him when he should have been most focused. She was a danger to him. Just not the sort of danger he had imagined.
Time to take care of it.