The last time she’d been here had been the day her father was buried. She’d been in New York City working for about half a decade at that point. He’d been so proud of his daughter in the big city, doing what she’d gone to school for. Journalism—
“This way,” Matthias said absently.
As he strode off across the patchy spring lawn, she let go of her past and focused on his present, and together, they made good time even though his stride was uneven and he leaned on his cane for support. Every once in a while, he paused, as if recalibrating his direction, and she didn’t interrupt him with questions.
The outbuilding they eventually came up to fit in with all the headstones and tombs, its stone construction echoing the architecture of the entryway gatehouse and the stanchions that regularly marked sections of the wrought fencing.
“I was naked,” he said. “I came here and I broke in, and I got—”
He pulled on the door and it creaked as it opened. Inside, he went to the rear wall and matched the torn fabric to some oilskin overalls in the back.
Naked? she wondered. “Where were your clothes?”
He shrugged. “I only know I was here last night.”
Outside once again, he started off in the direction they’d been going in, and now things went zigzag— whether it was from keeping the trail or trying to find it, she didn’t know and didn’t ask. Going along, they passed endless headstones, as well as groundsmen mowing and weeding, and other visitors to the dead.
Finally, after they were nearly a half mile from where they’d left the car, he stopped. “Here. This is…Yeah, it started here. I’m sure of it.”
The headstone he focused on stood over one of the fresher graves—and on top of the semiloose soil that had been recently put over the coffin, sure enough, there was the imprint of a body, as if someone his size had lain there in the fetal position.
“This is where it started.” He leaned on his cane and got down on his haunches. Fingering the dirt, he whispered, “Here.”
“James Heron,” she said, reading the simple inscription on the grave marker. “Do you know him?”
Matthias looked around the cemetery. “Yeah.”
“In what context.”
“I have to go.” He got to his feet and stepped away from her. “Thanks.”
She frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“You have to leave, now—”
“You’re in no condition to walk back to town. And good luck finding a cab.”
“Please, you need to go.”
“Tell me why and I’ll think about it.”
With a sudden surge, the man stalked up on her, getting close…oh, so close. Catching her breath, Mels had to force her feet to stay put…and it was a shock to realize it was because they wanted her body to finish what he’d started.
All it would take would be one step forward, and they’d be chest to chest, hip to hip.
Not the brightest idea considering that the predator in him seemed to have come out. But she didn’t want to be sensible.
She wanted him.
But that was
Tilting her chin up, she said, “If you think this simmering aggression thing is persuasive, you’re wrong. And I’m waiting for an explanation.”
He leaned in, the shift at his hips making her keenly aware of how much taller than her he was. How much stronger, even with the injuries. How much his eyes burned even through her sunglasses.
In a low, dangerous voice, he said, “Because you’re going to die if you don’t get away from me.”
Chapter Eleven
“This is your target.”
The photo that landed faceup on the glossy table found its way over to the operative by virtue of momentum.
The face was instantantly familiar. But who in XOps didn’t know the man.
The operative looked up at his superior. “What’s the location?”
“Caldwell, New York.”
The address was given over verbally, as would any other instructions. And he would not keep the photograph. And this room, in an absolutely unremarkable building in the nation’s capital, recorded none of this. No trail. Ever.
“Obviously, he is considered armed and extremely dangerous.”
Damn straight the guy was. Always had been—but laurels were nothing that lasted, and there was no “former” in XOps. There was “active duty” and “dead.”
And he was going to be responsible for the “dead,” in this case.
“The usual rules apply,” he was told.
Of course they did: He was going in alone, was solely responsible for the mission, and if he was compromised, he should pray for death—or make it happen himself. All of this was well-known to the small cadre of operatives who had been handpicked by the devil himself….
Matthias. The one who had led them for the last ten years. The cunning chess player, the manipulative mastermind, the violent sociopath who set the tone for them all.
For a moment, it was strange to be taking orders from someone else—but given who the target was….
XOps needed to keep going, however, and his current superior had come up fast through the ranks, clearly positioning himself as the heir to the throne. Which explained what he was doing now. Loose strings were unacceptable.
“Anything else I need to be aware of?”
“Just don’t fuck it up. You have twenty-four hours.”
The operative reached out a gloved hand and brought the photograph closer. Staring at the face, he thought that if someone had told him the changes that were going to happen in the last two years, he’d have been convinced they’d lost their damn mind.
Yet here he was, looking at the supremely powerful man in the photograph who now had a death warrant hanging over his head: If the operative failed to kill him, the organization would send someone else. And another. And another. Until the job was done.
And, knowing the target, it might take a couple of tries.
His superior picked up the photograph and went for a door that only looked normal. In reality, it was bullet-, fire-, bomb-, and soundproof. As were the walls, ceiling, and floor.
After a retinal scan, the panel opened and then closed, leaving the operative alone to consider his options, which was SOP: Once an assignment had been given over, the methods of execution were up to the delegatee. The brass cared only about the ends.
Caldwell, New York, was merely an hour away by plane, but better to drive. There was no telling the resources his target had, and aircraft could be tracked easier than unmarkeds.
As he left, the fact that he might well be going to his own death was irrelevant—and that was part of the reason he had been chosen from all the other soldiers and civilians who “applied” to get into XOps. Careful psychological and physical screening was conducted over years, not months or weeks, before you were tapped on the shoulder. Then again, the job required an unusual combination of urgency and disassociation, logic and freethinking, mental and physical discipline.
