Chapter 3 #4
The voice came from behind him, low and cold.
Alan froze mid-step.
Tomas Smirnov materialized at his elbow, dressed like any other Key West tourist in khaki shorts and a Tommy Bahama shirt. He wore sunglasses, and one hand rested casually in his pocket—where he probably held a gun.
“They’re right there,” Alan whispered. His voice cracked. “That’s them. That’s my family.”
“I know.” Tomas’s grip tightened on Alan’s arm, steering him back toward the café table. “Sit. Down.”
Alan let himself be guided, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Fia was trying on the bracelet now, holding her wrist up to the light. Timea pulled out cash, paid the vendor. Mother and daughter. Together. Whole.
And Fia had no idea her father was thirty feet away, watching.
“One more gig,” Tomas said, sitting across from Alan. He ordered two more coffees from a passing waitress without breaking eye contact. “And this time, you get it right.”
Alan finally looked at him. “Sydney was your plan. Your operation.”
“Sydney was reconnaissance. A test.” Tomas leaned back, utterly relaxed. “We learned that Jones, Inc., has better intel than we thought. That they’ve prioritized the president as a high-value target. That direct attacks won’t work.”
“So what’s the play?”
“Something simpler.” Tomas pulled out his phone, showed Alan a photo. A young woman. Blonde. Mid-twenties. Professional headshot that screamed political pedigree.
“Britta White. The president’s daughter.
There’s a wedding this weekend. Ford Marshall—that name should be familiar—and his fiancée, Scarlett Hathaway, are getting married at a Sunset Key resort.
The whole Jones, Inc., team is there. Some of the Caleb Group.
And most important, York and RJ are there. ”
Alan stilled. Swallowed. York. Last time he’d seen him—well, he’d been in Lauchtenland after that failed operation. And of course New York City.
He couldn’t shake the guy.
“Britta White is on the guest list.”
“You’re going after the president’s daughter? Again? We did that—and failed.”
“Not this time.”
Alan stared at the photo, then looked back at the street. Timea and Fia were moving away now, disappearing into the crowd of tourists.
“No,” Alan said. “I’m done.”
“You’re not.”
“I’ve given you sixteen years—”
“And you’ll give us one more weekend.” Tomas’s voice didn’t change, but something dangerous flickered behind his eyes. “You see them, Alan? Your wife. Your daughter. They’re here because I allow it. They breathe because I allow it. They shop and laugh and live normal lives because I. Allow. It.”
Alan’s hands curled into fists on the table.
“One more operation. Tonight. This ends tonight.”
“What are you planning?”
“Just a little surprise for the wedding party. They’ve rented a charter boat for tonight. What do you spooks like to call it—a target-rich environment? Be on the wharf at dark. You’ll see.”
Alan didn’t like it. “And then what?”
“You’ll know what to do. And when it’s done—when Britta is safe in our pocket—you get to walk down that street, tap Timea on the shoulder, and tell her you’re alive.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because for the first time in sixteen years, your family is in the same city as you.” Tomas stood, dropped cash on the table for the coffee.
“They’re staying at the Casa Marina. Room 412.
I could have them picked up tonight. Moved out of the country.
Or I could leave them here, where you can see them.
Walk past their hotel. Watch Fia swim in the pool. ”
He leaned close, his breath hot against Alan’s ear. “Get it right this time, Martin. Or I make them disappear in ways you’ll spend the rest of your life imagining.”
Tomas walked away, blending into the tourist crowd within seconds.
Alan sat frozen at the table, staring at the spot where Timea and Fia had been. The bracelet vendor was packing up his cart. A street musician started playing somewhere nearby, something upbeat and cheerful that didn’t match the hollow ache in Alan’s chest.
One more job. Always one more job.
But this time they were here. Close enough to touch. Close enough that he could walk into the Casa Marina, take the elevator to the fourth floor, knock on room 412, and say—what? Hi, honey, sorry I’ve been dead for sixteen years, but surprise, I’m actually a terrorist now?
No, not a terrorist. He couldn’t wrap his mind around that word. He’d been a patriot. Then he’d been disillusioned and lied to.
Now…he was stuck.
So yes, he had to finish it. Had to earn the right to see them. Had to prove he could still be the man Timea had loved, the father Fia deserved.
Just one more job.
Alan pocketed his phone and walked in the opposite direction from where Timea and Fia had gone, his heart a stone in his chest, Tomas’s threat echoing in his head.
It’ll be done. And then I want my family back.
But even as he thought it, Alan knew—with the cold certainty of a man who’d lived on broken promises for sixteen years—that Tomas would never let them go.
This time, one way or another, it had to end.