Most of the bullets hit McCoy. There was just one miss, making for a grand total of two bullets the next occupant of this flat would have to pry out of the walls.
If they were being observed—which was absurd, but still—people would be tempted to think it was all about the gay comment. But as he felt his lifeforce ebbing away, Keene mentally denied it, saying he was just being a professional to the end.
Doing his job.
Like always.
After all:
Molly hurled him against the wall.
She tried doing that paralyze-you-with-your-own-fingers thing again, but her hands were slick with blood. Jamie slipped away and tried to crawl across the floor. He felt her hand on his waistband. Jamie kicked backwards, caught her on the leg. She exhaled, then grabbed his ankle, flipped him, and kicked him in the chest with her heel.
It felt like someone had flipped a valve in his chest. Jamie’s breath was trapped in his lungs. He couldn’t breathe in. He couldn’t breathe out. His fingers clawed at the carpet involuntarily, sending fresh waves of agony across his injured hand.
But he wasn’t really thinking about that, because more important,
Then Molly started dragging him across the floor.
Forty-three hundred miles away from Edinburgh, in a quiet rooming house on the outskirts of Madison, Wisconsin, a woman in a T-shirt and jeans watched the video image of another man shooting his lover to death.
A few minutes later, the shooter—an operative using the name Will Keene—appeared to die, too. It was a sudden and shocking end to months of surveillance. She wasn’t sure what this one was all about; her superiors never told her. Just watch them, they said. So she did. As often as she could. They were an interesting pair to watch. Kind of like an old married couple. She never thought it would have ended like this. They genuinely seemed to care about each other. But boom, there it was—the fight, the knife, the guns, and the short conversation before the final, repeated coups de grace.
The woman picked up the phone and called her director. People would have to be sent.
As she waited on hold, she idly wondered who’d she be watching next, then thought about pizza.
“If you want to come with me,” Molly said, “nod your head once.”
Jamie had no choice. Jamie had no air.
She hadn’t dragged him far. They were in the conference room. He recognized the ceiling. The floor was hot beneath his back. Smoke was curling and rolling outside the large windows.
“You’re going to lose consciousness any second now.”
Jamie nodded.
She jammed a palm into his chest. The mystery valve released. Air tried to gush in and out of his lungs at the same time. Jamie turned to the side, curled up, and then vomited.
“There, there,” Molly was saying. “Just breathe. The feeling will pass.”
The ground was so hot now, Jamie could imagine his own puke sizzling within a matter of moments. Reheating his breakfast. Those Chessmen.
She was rubbing his back now. Jamie opened his eyes and saw two people lying on the floor. It was a woman, topless except for a bra. She was slumped over a guy in a suit. Nichole … and David?
Molly rolled him back over, dabbed at his lips with a napkin she must have picked up from the conference room table.
“No offense, but I don’t think I’m going to kiss you until after you brush your teeth,” she said.
Jamie’s mouth and throat burned, and his lungs still felt like they were on the verge of exploding. The rest of his body seemed to be in retreat mode. Sensation dimmed—the normal sensations you feel every second of the day. His skin chilled. His legs went numb. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Was he going to die anyway, after all of this?
“One last thing, Jamie,” Molly said. “We’re going to need to leave something of you behind. Something the investigators will be able to use to harvest some DNA. Blood won’t be enough. It burns up too quickly. We need a part of you. Something they’ll find, so they won’t come looking for you.”
Screw you. Let them find me. And David. And Nichole. And Stuart. And Amy. And Ethan. Find everyone who was brought up here this morning to die and figure it out. If he was to die, Jamie wanted Andrea and Chase to know what happened. He didn’t want Chase to grow up thinking,
“I’m thinking your hand,” she said.
“What?” Jamie croaked.
“It’s already injured. And yes, you’re a writer. But I’ll be there to help. You can dictate. I can transcribe.” Molly smiled. “After all, I am an experienced executive assistant.”
“No.”
“I can numb your arm. I can’t say it won’t hurt, but it won’t be as bad as you think. You can close your eyes. I’ll take care of everything.”
“We have to act soon,” she said, and stood up. “If you can think of another body part, tell me quick.”
Molly turned to face a corner of the conference room. She pushed her wet hair out of her face, best she could. She straightened her bra and panties, as if adjusting a business suit after a ride on the regional rail lines. Then she did the strangest thing of all: She addressed a ghost in the corner of the room: “Boyfriend, I’m ready.”
She’s insane, Jamie thought.
Truly, truly insane.
“You’ve watched a demonstration of my abilities,” she continued. “You’ve seen my skills, and how I quickly and decisively respond to evolving circumstances. In the end, despite setbacks, my objectives were achieved. I hope you’ll find that I am a creative and determined operative, able to deal with any challenge placed before me.”
Who the hell was she talking to? The imaginary voices inside her head that told her to kill, kill, kill?
“In our discussions, you promised escape and refuge at the completion of my demonstration, if you found my performance satisfactory or greater. I ask you now. Do you find me worthy?”
Jamie rolled over, looking for another pair of legs. Maybe someone else was in the conference room. Maybe there was a helicopter floating outside, waiting for them to grab hold of a rope ladder and be taken away to safety.
But there was nobody else in the room. Just the two of them, and their dead coworkers. Stuart hadn’t moved an inch since dropping dead a few hours ago. David must have finally died from his head shot. Or something else. Maybe Nichole had finished him off. But then who had killed her?
“Do you?” she asked the corner of the conference room.
Molly, of course. Molly had killed them all. One by one. Why was she sparing him?
Because of an attempted kiss one drunken night a few months ago?
Jamie made it to his belly and used his good hand to push himself up to his knees. He could see Nichole and David more clearly now. More important, he could see the gun on the floor, under her face. The grip was showing.
“PLEASE ANSWER ME!”
