CHAPTER 96
Rowan Anderson’s apartment
Washington, DC
Rowan Anderson was drinking vodka and reviewing her kill list.
Elise Courville would be the easiest.
Anderson didn’t know who this Natasha person was, but tough luck for her. It wasn’t Anderson’s problem that her boss believed Natasha was working for the KGB.
Killing the man in Paris would be a little more challenging, but she looked forward to making him die a painful death. After all the shit she had endured because of this asshole, payback would be a bitch.
The idea of killing Nathan Phillips was a different story. A mental tiger trap. She poured herself another vodka and looked out at the Georgetown night. If I don’t kill Nat Phillips, Ming Yu will snipe me at 1,000 yards or put a .22 bullet in my head or kill me some other shitty way.
If she was to have any chance of surviving, she would have to kill Nat, then make her way to Dulles Airport and out of the country.
Killing Elise Courville would start the clock ticking fast.
Anderson intended to use Courville’s Peugeot as the murder weapon.
Maybe she could turn the French sports car into an Al-Qaeda–style VBIED.
Every news agency would blame the militant organization first. Or she could plant an explosive, return the car to the French embassy, then detonate it remotely when Courville was behind the wheel.
That plan needed some work. The French press had made Anderson a hero for “rescuing” the ambassador’s daughter, but the old man and every frog in Europe would ask why the Chief Security Liaison Officer for the Secret Service had failed to protect Elise Courville from a terrorist hit.
This Natasha would have to be a one-two punch, so to speak.
Same day, within hours or even minutes. Anderson would make it quick—a bullet to the head or back or whatever target the Russian woman presented.
Rowan knew the safe house where Natasha was hidden, and she knew its access codes.
Hell, she could go over there and kill her right now.
That would leave a very small window in which to kill Nat Phillips. Not knowing his current location was especially problematic. He might still be in Florida. With any luck, she could make it look like she had tried but failed as the clock ran down.
Sirens of some distant DC police chase sounded an exclamation point.
Rowan Anderson drained the vodka, pleased with herself. She had her plan.