10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Finn tracked her from an office bristling with surveillance and through the streets of Washington. She drove a bright red Mustang, which was easy to see, but the way she drove—like she was being tailed—made it an interesting challenge.
He was confident she didn’t know she was being followed—she just drove like she always did. It was a paranoia he related to and admired.
In his boring white sedan, Finn blended with the traffic. Once, she almost lost him, but he glimpsed red and made a last-minute corner to catch up, eyes glued on her Mustang, anticipating what she would do next.
She finally parked on a tight sidestreet and joined the detective he’d seen her with at the Palace. They headed down a street brimming with bars, people, and noise, all of which made him uncomfortable. There were too many potential threats. He took up a doorway across the road from the bar she entered, but she chose a seat where she couldn’t be seen from outside.
Kathleen didn’t come out, and the longer she was gone, the more tightness he felt across his shoulders. No dire threats presented themselves, but several people walking past were carrying, and most of the bars—including the one she had chosen—had cameras. For five minutes, he debated with himself. He was normally not this indecisive, and it unsettled him.
I should go.
This is dangerous.
I need to return to the House.
The thoughts rushed over and past him, and he brushed them aside. The desire to get near her and get eyes on her became paramount.
Finn pushed his hair back and pulled on a baseball cap, tugging it low. Months ago, he’d attended precisely one baseball game, just sufficient to allow him to speak the lingo if anyone engaged him, however unlikely. He always liked to be prepared, though.
The dimly lit interior was decorated in dark shades, though that was no problem for his enhanced vision. Padded leather chairs lined the bar, leather booths dotted the edges, and standing tables took up the rest of the space. His eyes skimmed the inside, noting the staff-only exit behind the bar and the emergency exit near the bathrooms. Several patrons carried weapons, including her and the man with her.
Finn saw Kathleen Harper in his peripheral vision and turned his head to make sure she couldn’t get a close look at him. He could tell she was watching people who entered, though it seemed habit rather than any awareness of him.
Taking a seat at the bar, he positioned himself so a glance at the mirror behind it allowed him a sidelong view of her. She was talking and gesturing with great animation. He focused his hearing, filtering out the other conversations.
“…won’t even let me go after Wilson. Like, why the hell not? He’s a politician. And not even a good one at that.” Kathleen sounded angry.
“That sort of heat never ends well for people like us,” the other detective—he refused to think of him as her partner—pointed out. The guy was calm in contrast to her. “Sticking your head up on something like this is going to get it cut off.”
Finn tensed. Who was threatening her? She was his to deal with as he saw fit. He found himself on his feet again before she snorted as if she was not concerned.
Kathleen gulped down several mouthfuls of beer. “Well, sticking my nose into things is what I’m best at.”
Gibson sighed. “I thought you’d say that. Look, maybe we—”
“Food or drink?”
Finn’s gaze snapped forward. The bartender who had spoken took an unconscious step back at whatever he saw in Finn’s face. Finn immediately smiled to offset it, but he could tell the bartender was wary.
Sloppy. He was never so oblivious to his surroundings that someone could sneak up on him. He needed to focus. He needed to get out of here.
Emotions are weakness, the Handler whispered. Emotions are what makes mammals protect their young, giving their own lives for them. But is it not better to sacrifice the weak and seek stronger offspring? Thus it is for people like you and I. We are the strong ones. We do not give in to such weakness.
Finn waved away the bartender and stood. He didn’t look her way, but he could feel her presence. It was more than the discomfort of having people at his back, though that sensation never left him.
He threw some notes onto the bar and walked out.
We do not give in to such weakness.
Finn walked away.
He told himself it was a coincidence that his path took him past her vehicle. The Mustang was a well-cared-for vehicle. He paused in the street as if admiring it, making sure no one was looking his way before he leaned down. He took a second to plant a tracker in the wheel well and then moved away.
He should have kept walking.
Instead, Finn leaned into the shadows of a doorway within sight of her vehicle, waiting.
He was never impatient. An opportunity would arise.
Another thirty minutes passed before anything happened. By now, he recognized her footsteps. He drew back into the shadows, watching as she strode confidently down the street.
Some people, the Handler whispered, read as prey. They can never not be prey. Some, like you and I, are just natural predators. Predators recognize each other. Respect each other. Are wary of each other.
Kathleen Harper was a predator. She moved with assurance, her hand never that far from the gun he discerned under the line of her leather jacket. She wasn’t expecting trouble so much as she was ready for it.
At that moment, Finn realized he had underestimated her.
She stopped dead. Her head tilted—as if listening.
Finn made no noise to draw her attention, yet she turned slowly, her gaze finding him in shadows that should have been too deep for her to discern anything.
“Hello,” she called. Her hand was close to her weapon but not quite resting on it, as though she was riding the line between coaxing and threatening. “I know you’re there.”
How?
Finn reached back into his memory, but the Handler had no advice for this situation. He waited three more heartbeats before he took a single step forward, the spill of the distant street lamp faintly illuminating him.
The snap of her gaze toward Finn said she hadn’t seen him. She had sensed him some other way. Perhaps years of doing her job had trained her to awareness just as well as his had.
There was no surprise in her gaze. It was almost like she had expected him. Another strangeness he could not explain.
For a long measure of time, she was silent, staring his way. Finn dropped his gaze to avoid the intensity of her green eyes, but his glimpse through his fallen hair told him this didn’t discourage her.
Eventually, she stirred and said, “Do you remember me?”
Finn hesitated. The Handler was silent. Three more heartbeats, and he nodded.
She took a step toward him. Instinct made him shift, a sideway movement that presented less of a target and allowed him an opportunity to strike.
Kathleen stopped, frowning—not at him—like she was debating with herself. “I think you had a specific job,” she said. “I think you wanted to kill specific people. That you were ordered to.”
Finn said nothing, but his heart beat faster. How could she read him so well? How could she see right through him? Danger, the Handler whispered, but softer this time.
“Did Wilson hire you?”
He didn’t recognize the name—other than it was the same one she had spoken to Gibson. He shook his head.
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him shrewdly. He wondered what she saw, what made her posture ease. “What’s your name?” she asked.
Finn Kingsley, he thought, but he couldn’t say it. They weren’t allowed to have names. It made him wonder if this was a test. He had heard Command sometimes did this to Agents they suspected of malfunctioning.
“I’m Kathleen,” she said.
Finn couldn’t trust her. This was a test. He couldn’t fail it, or he would be sent for maintenance.
Kathleen huffed out a breath, her expression inscrutable. It wasn’t impatience—Command trained Agents to be patient—but he didn’t recognize it.
“This will be a very short conversation if you don’t speak,” she said with a little smile.
Finn felt a fluttering in his gut when she smiled. He wanted to tell her to keep doing that, but he couldn’t risk it. Before he could decide how to respond, he felt a vibration from his pocket. He reached down, keeping her in his periphery as he glanced at the screen of his cell phone.
The message was from the Handler. He was, to his knowledge, the only one with this number. Mission complete, Hound. You have not returned to base. Are you defective?
He wasn’t sure of the answer to that. He didn’t feel defective. But he did feel different around this woman. Maybe it wasn’t him that was defective. Maybe she was doing something to him. That seemed logical, and his tension ebbed away.
Finn lifted his head a little more, taking her in. Despite her earlier drinking, her posture, hands, and gaze displayed a steadiness that indicated inebriation did not hinder her. The way she held herself told him her gun was holstered under her right arm. He would reach her before she even lifted her hand, let alone drew it. He could kill her before she spoke another word. The threat assessment came without issue. It was only as the silence extended he became aware he had no will to act.
Another text: I am fifty feet north of your position. Return to Command.
He could no more resist than he could cease permanently breathing by choice. He moved to obey, turning his back on her.
“Wait,” she called, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t, though he very much wanted to.
Finn broke into an easy, loping run. Not so fast that it would draw the alarm of passers-by, but the kind of run like he was late to meet someone.
He heard her footsteps echoing his, but further back.
If the Handler saw her, he would order Finn to terminate her. The idea of that stirred uncomfortable reluctance. He ducked into an alley, leaping up to catch the fire escape on the second floor, and climbed rapidly.
Finn looked down as he reached the rooftop and saw her staring up at him. He wanted to stay, but the Handler had given him an order.
It required little effort for him to leap across the gap between buildings. After the third one, he dropped onto the ground and headed straight for the dark SUV idling at the curb.
“Hello, Hound,” the Handler greeted Finn. “Let’s get you back to the House.”