But most of all, Quinn does not want to interview the parents of the dead and watch them cover their mouths and see their eyes well up as the reality of the worst thing that has ever happened to them hits them all over again. She knows what it is like to have every moment of every day tainted by death, and all she wants to do is keep moving into the future. Keep accumulating time into neat, orderly stacks shaped by routine. Keep herself distracted with anything at all that can drown out the excruciating whispers of her past.
But that moment back in Van’s office (which she now suspects her former boss of meticulously orchestrating) was undeniable. Something inside of her suddenly and unexpectedly aligned. Even though all the images of death had started to make her feel sick, once she was able to distance herself and see them as evidence—intricate and complex puzzle pieces rather than people—something clicked. Quinn now believes there is some part of her she does not yet know that has yet to be brought to the surface and exposed.
She places the last of the laser-etched plastic slabs on the top shelf of her new cubicle. Quinn has tried throwing these trinkets away on no fewer than two separate occasions, and both times, she turned back and fished them out of the trash before she even made it to the elevator. She tried storing them in the back of a file drawer, but the next day, she dug them out and placed them back up on her shelf. There is something about them that Quinn hates, but the reality is that they are all she has to show for her career. And, in a way, her entire life. The little money she makes is mostly gone as soon as it comes in, her marriage is over, and her baby is thirty minutes away in Fairfax Memorial Park, buried beneath a praying stone angel—one of three adjacent plots she and James bought, anticipating the day they would be reunited. But while people begin decomposing almost immediately, acrylic takes anywhere between one thousand and five thousand years to decay. Which means, unless Quinn can catch the Elite Assassin and save at least one life, cheap plastic keepsakes may be all she leaves behind.
7
TOOLS OF THE TRADE
RANVEER STANDS BESIDE the orchid blooms in the foyer of his suite, enjoying the lingering floral notes and citric sting of perfume. He was not surprised to find the most beautiful woman currently on staff waiting for him in his room, but he was somewhat surprised by her attire. Her crimson and gold-embroidered traditional Omani robe left everything but her curly black hair, glossy red lips, and matching cherry toenails to the imagination. Which is precisely where she now firmly resides.
But if Ranveer still intends to get in a swim, a sonic vitamin soak, a Thai massage, both a manicure and a pedicure, a light meal, and a twenty-minute power nap before going to work, he had better stop reminiscing about the sexual prowess and inhibitions of Omani women and start thinking about settling in. He has always hated the boorish and juvenile adage that you cannot spell “woman” without spelling “Oman,” yet there it is.
He always does his own unpacking lest the staff stumble upon something they find objectionable, and since all of his clothing is custom-cut, heat-welded, wrinkle-free nanofabric (fully compatible with in-room, waterless, ultraviolet sanitizing machines—in his line of work, one is bound to encounter stains), there is no need to iron. Once every scrap of clothing he owns other than what is currently on his slender, well-defined back is neatly hung, he stows his garment case on the dust-free top shelf of the closet, then turns his attention to the tools of his trade.
He lays a thoroughly scarred titanium alloy case (lined with tightly woven polyethylene fiber so that it may double as an impromptu ballistic shield should the need unexpectedly arise) on the bed and presses his thumbs against twin sensors positioned on either side of the handle. After a pattern of green strobes complete their quick biometric sniff, the latches release, indicating that the high-resolution scans match Ranveer’s epidermal ridges, and that the measured blood flow and temperature are consistent with digits that have not been severed.
In the event that anything was dislodged from its foam cocoon during travel, Ranveer raises the lid with the caution and attention of an explosive ordnance disposal technician. Nothing appears amiss, and entombed inside are the individual components of what Ranveer maintains is the most magnificent and elegant weapon ever conceived.
The gas gun is complex, but complexity enables configurability, configurability yields flexibility, and flexibility is the hallmark of any good assassin. Compare it to a conventional pistol: A nine- or a ten-millimeter round will always be a nine- or a ten-millimeter round. Its bore, grain, propellant, jacket, and primer are all determined at the time of its manufacturing, and that’s all it will ever be. Put a ten-millimeter cartridge into a ten-millimeter pistol, and you are going to do ten millimeters’ worth of damage. No more, no less. How does that saying go? If your only tool is a .50 caliber, Israeli-made Desert Eagle, suddenly everything looks like it needs a very big hole?
Which, of course, everything does not. Sometimes it is desirable to kill a man with a projectile that does not even pierce the skin. An object sufficiently slow and dense can bounce right off that magical spot at the intersection of eyes, nose, and forehead, crushing the sinuses and fracturing the skull, leaving
