Louis has the fob in his hand now, and motions at the bag.
“Get to it.”
I begin picking out the pieces—the stock, bipod, barrel, suppression, everything—and put the Valkyrie together. The magazine is empty, so I don’t insert it, and instead shoot a questioning glance at Louis.
He says, “Not yet.”
The clock on the nightstand reads 7:32. Another half hour or so until President Cortez is scheduled to arrive at his hotel.
“Then when? Don’t know about you, but I prefer not to have to scramble at the last minute.”
He checks his watch. Does the math in his head, chews it over for a few seconds, then shifts his gaze back to me.
“Ten minutes.”
I hold his stare, speak in a flat tone.
“I’m trembling with anticipation.”
I return to the chair in the corner and stare out the window at the city street below. The sun has been up now for well over an hour, playing shadows off the tall buildings.
My mind, of course, drifts to my family and whether or not Atticus heard enough of my message to try to make sure they’re safe. Then I start to wonder what if Atticus hadn’t heard the message because Atticus has passed away, or something along those lines—something that caused him to get out of the business. Maybe the phone number still exists, but nobody monitors it anymore, not even James. In that case, my family is as good as dead. As am I.
So the real question is, what’s going to happen to President Cortez?
He might die today, but it won’t be because of me. Sure, I plan to go through the motions—hunker down in the chair with the Valkyrie propped up on the windowsill—but as soon as the man steps from his vehicle, I won’t pull the trigger.
Well, that’s not true. I may pull the trigger, but it won’t be at his head. Maybe at the vehicle instead. At the windshield or the grille. If it’s a fancy car, I’ll try to take out the emblem that sits right on the hood.
Or … maybe I won’t do any of that. Maybe I’ll simply refuse to pick up the rifle when the time comes. Let Louis zap me as much as he wants. Let Tweedledee and Tweedledum threaten me with their guns. I’m not going to be walking out of this hotel room alive, so I might as well have some fun.
Then again …
What if Hayward is a man of his word, and he’ll spare my family if I follow through with assassinating President Cortez? There’s always the chance, isn’t there? In that case, I would be crazy not to follow through.
Louis says, “Go ahead and load your weapon.”
He pulls a single 6.5 Creedmoor cartridge from the backpack. The cartridge is wrapped in plastic. Smart. Keeps his fingerprints off the thing that will kill a country’s sitting president and will maybe set off an international crisis.
“Just one round—you’re joking, right?”
His expression remains predictably blank.
“Why? How many rounds does it take to kill a man?”
I don’t answer.
“This isn’t Fallujah. You aren’t raining down cover fire. You’re simply taking out one man with a headshot. You don’t need more than one round.”
He has a point, but I don’t tell him that. Not my style to agree with douchebags.
“Fine.”
I hold out my hand, but he tosses the cartridge on the bed beside the rifle. I lean over the bed to pick it up. Start to unwrap it. Go to load the bullet in the magazine but hold it up instead.
“Anybody want to kiss it for good luck?”
Nobody answers.
“Tough crowd.”
I load the Creedmoor into the magazine, taking my time because I don’t have anything else to do. I insert the magazine into the Valkyrie when Tweedledee’s phone buzzes.
Tweedledee, holding his gun at the ready, glances down at his pocket.
Louis says, “Who knows your number?”
Tweedledee shakes his head.
“Besides the team, nobody.”
Tweedledum keeps his gun aimed at my chest. He doesn’t take his eyes off me when he speaks.
“Ignore it.”
But it’s a buzzing phone, and buzzing phones are hard to ignore. Keeping the Beretta trained on me with his one hand, Tweedledee slips the phone from his pocket with the other. Glances at the display on the front of the flip phone with a frown.
“Number doesn’t look familiar.”
Tweedledum says, “Ignore it.”
Tweedledee looks conflicted. He knows he should listen to his counterpart, but he also wants to know who’s calling.
In the end, curiosity gets the better of him.
He answers the phone.
“Hello?”
He listens for a couple seconds, and his frown deepens. Without a word, he closes the phone and drops it back into his pocket.
Louis says, “Well?”
“Wrong number.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It was some guy from a dry cleaners. Said they’d found all my pieces and they’re now safe and sound.”
Louis doesn’t like this at all.
“Let me see your phone.”
Tweedledee says, “Why?”
“Let me see the fucking phone right now.”
Louis’s focus is on Tweedledee, and Tweedledee’s focus is on Louis, which means the only person’s focus still on me at the moment is Tweedledum.
Which is why I decide to kill him first.
As Tweedledee steps forward to hand his phone to Louis, I pull back the bolt to load the only round into the chamber.
Tweedledum shouts, “What the fuck are you doing?”
I smile at him, all nice and sweet.
“You missed your chance to kiss the bullet for good luck. Now it’s pissed.”
I swing the Valkyrie around, so it’s aimed at his chest.
And pull the trigger.
Forty-Three
Due to the caliber and the close proximity, it’s like Tweedledum’s hit by a rocket—he flies back against the wall, instantly dead, his pistol falling from his hand.
I turn toward Louis and swing the Valkyrie at his face, and the suppressor clips his cheek as he tries to duck, the fob falling from his hand.
I pivot toward Tweedledee, jumping on the bed and springing at him as he raises his Beretta. He manages to fire off a round, which zings above my head, as I tackle him to the floor. The back of
