Chapter 39
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
The driver’s side window rolls down, and a man I vaguely recognize mounts the silencer on the door, aimed at me. A show of force while remaining concealed in the car.
Judging by his age, he’s Delta. One of the older kids from the academy that I only ever saw in passing after he graduated.
And he doesn’t look too pleased to be staring down the ISA’s latest traitor.
Raffaele steps aside and motions at his open door. “Please, Sloane—we have much to speak about.”
“I think I’ll take my chances with him,” I reply.
Self-defense 101. Never get in the car.
Raffele appears perturbed. He murmurs something to the driver that I can’t catch over the rain and the passersby, slams his door shut, and begins striding toward me. The driver averts his gaze and rolls the window back up.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested,” I say, spinning on my heel and marching away.
Raffaele’s hot on my trail, hands in his suit pockets like this is all a minor inconvenience to him.
I twist and turn, slipping through cracks in the crowd and making sharp rights and illogical lefts down new streets whenever I’m able.
I “accidentally” knock an umbrella or two out of some pedestrians’ hands, causing a momentary block in the path as people maneuver the obstacle.
The phone Carmine gave me starts to burn a hole in my back pocket.
I absolutely refuse to call for help again.
At the moment, it’s only Raffaele, and I’d be laying dead in that alley if he came for my head. No—he wants something else, something that I couldn’t care less about.
But I’m not paying enough attention to where I’m going, and I haven’t spent enough time in London to know the through streets as well as I should.
I find myself on a walkway by the River Thames, a rain-soaked footpath guarded by a crumbling retaining wall and towering buildings—which leaves only two directions, one of which is blocked by red-and-white police tape.
How massively inconvenient.
There’s always a nice, brisk swim, but I think I’d rather confront Raffaele than risk whatever’s in that murky water.
So, I whirl around to face him, back to the wall so I have an exit if I absolutely need it. I bite down on the panic and use it to refocus. I’m on the defense, and Raffaele is older, more experienced, and knows my training like the back of his hand. Now is not the time to concede anymore territory.
“I’d rather not chat right outside the U.S. Embassy,” I explain hotly.
Better to make him think this stroll was the plan all along.
“Smart,” Raffaele replies with an approving smile. His gaze darts up and down the walkway, void of any pedestrians thanks to the persistent rain. “You always were intelligent.”
I used to crave his approval. Now it makes me want to vomit all over his designer loafers.
“What do you want, Raffaele? Come to finish the job yourself?”
His gaze narrows a fraction at the slight—we both know he’s not one to do the heavy lifting. “Quite the contrary.” He approaches, coming to a halt beside me and looking out at the water. “You’ve left a mess, la mia passerotta, and I’m hoping you can help me clean it up.”
My little sparrow.
What once felt like a rare endearment, now feels like a bad omen. He’d say that the cage door is open for me whenever I chose to fly. But my wings have been clipped for years.
“My apologies, I’m sure it was bothersome to have Kat refuse to murder me,” I spit.
Raffaele doesn’t falter. “That was my mistake—I should have employed another team. The affections of comrades can be so… tedious.” He adjusts his cuff links and checks his watch.
“Although I suppose I can’t entirely fault you for having unnecessary attachments.
That reminds me—poor Petyr. It was quite tragic for him to meet such a bitter end despite the intimacy of your youth. ”
“You forced my hand,” I defend.
“I was nowhere in sight,” he says. “You’ve built me up to be the villain, and yet these are the decisions you make of your own free will.” When I don’t reply, he adds, “Pesky, isn’t it? Mirrors have a tendency to be maddeningly truthful.”
The anger is boiling again, shadowy handprints dragging up my spine and knocking against my chest. I bend down like I’m reaching for my laces, instead slipping my trusty push knife—undetectable on the Embassy’s scanners—out of my boot.
Raffaele can hardly blink before I’m pressing it to his carotid, angling my body to block us from the police’s view.
“There she is,” he whispers, unfazed. “The young Sloane I met so many years ago, full of so much potential and so much delightful, useful rage. Not the broken creature the ISA has lugged around for a year like an albatross around our necks.”
When I shift my knife deeper, he flinches. It’s nearly imperceptible, but it’s there, as sure as all the ways I could end his life if I chose. I smile and drag the tip just parallel to his carotid. A bead of crimson blossoms on the blade and I’m transfixed as it trails toward my thumb.
My stare slides to the river. “Kat mentioned once that you have a fear of drowning. Is that still true?”
“Do you see?” Raffaele replies, throat bobbing. “You can blame me all you desire, but this is who you are without me. This is your nature—feral, frothing at the mouth, a loose cannon with no one to guide it.”
I inch close enough that I can whisper in his ear. “If the next thing out of your mouth is anything but an explanation, I’m breaking both your legs and throwing you in the River Thames.”
“Release me and I’ll tell you.”
With no small amount of reluctance, I push away from him, tucking my knife into my sleeve. He rubs his neck and scowls when his fingers come away slick with blood.
“I’ve traveled here to make a deal—a simple quid pro quo,” Raffaele begins.
He whips out a handkerchief from inside his jacket and wipes his fingers with bright red smears.
“You’re smart enough to understand that the full weight of the ISA, and all of the resources at my disposal, will bear down on you for the rest of your life.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no one to love.
An empty existence riddled with terror is, after all, the natural consequence for your betrayal. ”
My stomach knots at the word consequence. I was so naive to ever think that Raffaele’s actions for the last year were anything but punishments.
“Unless…”
“Unless what?” I snap.
His gaze takes on a raptorial glint. “Unless you kill Mr. Baudelaire.”
I feel the world tilting for the second time today. Straining to behave as neutrally as possible, my shoes fill with lead and the sun peeking through the clouds grows a hundred times too bright.
“You can’t be serious,” I say.
Raffaele flicks a dismissive hand. “I’m aware of your recent…
fondness of him. Petyr relayed his observations before you put a knife between his eyes.
” He sighs, as if the conversation itself is a massive nuisance.
“But I’m confident that your nature will win out in the end, Sloane.
Survival—you’ve always been uncommonly good at that. ”
As if on cue, the clouds overhead shift and begin to spew thicker droplets of rain.
“If he’s still breathing by the end of your little excursion with the FBI, then you’ll both be dead.”
My tongue trips over my next words, “You’ll have to give me a good reason.”
“Because he is a rotten, contemptible thief at his core, and he took something that isn’t his,” Raffaele snaps, eyes black. “If you are half the agent I made you, that should be as good a reason as any.”
In an instant, any trace of emotion is wiped clean, leaving me to wonder if I ever saw it at all. He glances at the dark spots on his suit like they’re a stain, fruitlessly swiping rain drops off as he begins to walk back to where we came.
“Why now?” I shout after him.
He glances over his shoulder, barely pausing his stride. “Because his death has become far more valuable than yours.”