Germ

as I could figure. They got him out of my custody faster than—sit down!'

He berated Vero for getting in his way.

Julia bit her lip. Serpico meant he was a deep-undercover agent.

'Don't call in backup,' Goody continued. 'Not till we figure out why a fed's on the hit team. Got it?'

There was silence and the rustling of Goody's shirt over the microphone. He was probably maneuvering through traffic. She could hear Vero rambling in the background.

'As soon as I lose these guys, we'll meet and decide on a plan,' Goody said. 'But for now, it's just us, okay?' More silence, then: 'Gettin' on the highway. Hear me? I-75 north.'

That was only minutes ago, twenty at most. Now, as she barreled down I-75 somewhere behind Goody, only static filled her ear. Goody's frantic movements must have dislodged the transmitter's wires, or he had finally traveled out of range. She plucked out the ear-phone and glanced at the laptop. The glowing red dot indicated that her partner was about two miles ahead. Her foot muscles flexed harder against the accelerator.

Julia realized with sudden terror that the knot of cars in front of her was stopped. She slammed on the brakes. As the smell of burnt rubber washed over her, she saw the glass and bits of plastic that littered the roadway. Paint the color of Goody's car clung in long streaks to the crushed guardrail. On the SATD display, the red dot was moving away fast. She laid on the horn. From the car in front of her, a hand with an upraised finger shot out of the driver's window.

'Suit yourself,' she said and stepped on the gas.

four

The man in the pilot's seat of the Cessna CJ2 was obsessed with serving his clients well. He believed in quick responses and promptness, so much so that he hadn't given a second thought to purchasing the jet, or the one before it or the one before that. He believed in confidentiality, so he piloted the plane himself, and he had no staff, just a series of electronic telephone relays that ultimately dumped inquiries into a voice mailbox in Amsterdam. He didn't buy the currently voguish axiom 'Underpromise/overdeliver.' He listened to his clients' needs; they agreed to an action plan and when that plan would be completed; and he carried it out on time. Enough said.

Take his last job. The client had been a stockbroker, entangled in an SEC investigation. His defense's weak link had been his assistant, whom he'd foolishly allowed to know more than he should have. The pilot had visited the assistant's apartment and shot the man twice in the head. Problem solved. As usual, he had charged a staggering sum for his services, but the fee had barely made a dent in the broker's annual bonus. And now the broker would be cashing next year's bonus check as well, instead of cleaning toilets at Danbury. He had made a wise investment.

One client had said he'd heard the assassin was the best in his field. He didn't know about that. He didn't care. He did his job. Period.

That's not to say he was dispassionate about it. He loved his job, which allowed him to do it without comparing his performance to others'. He loved the economics of death: hastening a person's passage into the afterlife not only provided him with a good living; it gave work to coroners, beat cops, detectives, crime scene technicians, the people who made fingerprint powder and luminol and other sundry chemicals and devices—not to mention firearm, ammunition, coffin, and tissue manufacturers—obituary writers, crime reporters, novelists. He'd spent an evening once enumerating the occupations that owed their existence, either wholly or in part, to murder —seventy-eight—and the economic impact of homicide—more than $23 billion, trumping the recording, motion picture, and video game industries.

He loved that he was able to remedy a critical life problem as quickly and easily as a plumber unclogs a drain or a mechanic tunes an engine. Who else could make that claim? Not attorneys, accountants, or doctors. Not homebuilders, psychiatrists, or priests. He'd considered hanging around after a kill to covertly watch his client happily get on with his life, to derive that extra pleasure of witnessing the benefits of his service to them. But that would be unprofessional and unwise.

He held a glass of club soda and lime in his hand and watched the autopilot gently maneuver the control stick. The sky outside was bright and blue and clear. He closed his eyes.

Another thing he loved: being part of a mysterious and fearful force of nature. The ways people personified death fascinated him— the stereotypic hooded, faceless Reaper, harvesting souls with the snap of a gleaming scythe; Hemingway's stealthy beast that consumed the ill-fated adventurer in the shadow of Kilimanjaro; the beautiful woman, whose kiss bore eternal consequences, in the movie All That Jazz. He felt them all dwelling within.

Even his name, the only name he had ever known, fit the lexicon of death. Atropos. The ancient Greeks depicted Fate as three stern old sisters, goddesses though they were. Clotho, the Spinner, spun the thread of life; Lachesis, the Dispenser of Lots, decided the thread's span and assigned to each person his or her destiny; and Atropos, the Inexorable, carried the dreaded shears that cut the thread of life at the proper time, which was often determined by her whim. This third sister's role was his. He gladly accepted the mantle and the name.

Death was a release from this world's problems. He had seen serenity in his victims' eyes as they focused on something invisible to the living. In his experience, all humans lived in a constant state of terror; but in death, peace engulfed them. No more fear, no more worries. Just peace. That was his gift to them.

Blessed are the peacemakers. He liked the idea of being blessed. A drop of moisture slid down the glass and pooled on his finger. Then another and another. A single bead of cold condensation trickled over his knuckles.

His eyes flicked open.

He'd almost drifted off. He took a sip from the glass and placed it in a cup holder, then he rolled sideways out of the pilot's seat and stood, staying low to slip out of the cockpit. Even in the cabin, he walked stooped over. His six-foot-four frame was ill-suited for the cabin's five-foot height. For the thousandth time, he yearned for a Gulfstream G500. But as pricey as the Cessna was, the Gulfstream cost ten times more. He couldn't justify the expenditure. Not yet.

The Cessna's cabin had been converted to accommodate a galley, a plush chair that folded flat for sleeping, video and stereo equipment, a hanging martial arts heavy bag, and a workout bench with fastened down weights. In the back wall, a door serviced a room with a shower, sink, and commode. For better or worse, this was home, as much as anywhere.

He bent lower to peer into a mirror. His thick black hair was cut short, but not short enough to keep it from standing up on one side and spiking on the other. He ran his fingers back through it, which failed to alter the design. He had green eyes behind thick-framed glasses that made him look like either a geek—despite his muscular build— or a trendy filmmaker. A strong, straight nose, square jaw, and—when he smiled—deep dimples that made charming the ladies relatively easy—a skill he often tapped to keep a store clerk from chasing him off as he staked out a nearby target or to get a waitress to divulge her knowledge of a target. He shaved twice a day, but still his stubble was heavy, accentuating a long hairline furrow on his left cheek where nothing grew.

Acquiring that scar had taught him to appreciate the speed at which a human could produce and use a previously undetected weapon. Prior to that incident, he had killed exclusively by hand. Well, technically, by gauntlet, a weapon he'd had custom-made. It allowed him to be near his targets when he released them from life's burdens, to feel the physicality of the release. But his own release wasn't part of the deal, so he'd also taken to using a pistol when he thought it would be prudent. Life was about adjusting, fine-tuning, and being forced to amend his killing style to include both gauntlet and gun was so perfect, it felt to him like divine guidance.

He picked up the television remote and pushed a button. Two forty-two-inch plasma screens—one at each end of the cabin—sprang to life, showing blue screens and the words locking in satellite reception. Then an image appeared, a woman slapping a man . . . The image changed to a kid eating cereal . . . and changed again to a black-and-white western—Shane, the assassin thought—then it changed again . . . and again . . .

The channel-changing button had been permanently depressed with a toothpick. It was the way the assassin liked it. Frenetic and active, never still. Flip, flip, flip . . .

'. . . never thought I'd see anything like . . .'

'. . . act now and we'll throw in these . . .'

[the low grieving sound of a violin]