onto the floor. He had stood there, fascinated, watching the red carpet change colour as the crystal drops shattered again and again on its soft pile.
Unexpected and unwanted, a thought had occurred to him then – or rather, a question. It had slipped into his head and tiptoed around the edges of his consciousness, taunting him.
‘Is it time?’
Afterwards, he had dismissed it. Not given it much thought. Not wanted to, perhaps. But in the two months since the funeral, the question had returned again and again, each time with more urgency. It had haunted him, undermining his every action, investing his every word with doubt and uncertainty. Demanding to be answered.
And now he knew. It was so clear to him. Like winter turning to spring, it was inevitable. It was time. After this, he was going to walk away.
He slid his mask back on, packed the Egg up, shut the safe door and closed the wooden panel. Stealthily retreating across the room, he made his way back out through the window onto the balcony.
The sirens far below him seemed louder now, and he found that his heart was beating in time with the thumping blades of the police helicopter that was almost overhead, its spotlight raking over the trees and street below, clearly looking for someone or something. Crouching, he attached the rope to his harness and timed his jump for when the helicopter had made its next pass. In an instant he was gone.
Only an eyelash remained where it had fluttered down from his briefly unmasked face to the floor. It glinted black in the moonlight.
FBI Headquarters, Washington DC18th July – 7:00am
She knew what would happen as the door opened and the dark shape came through it. She fought to stop herself, but it was no use. It never was. She raised the gun in front of her in a classic Weaver stance. Her stronger left arm was slightly flexed, pushing the gun away from her. Her supporting arm was bent and pulling the weapon in to create a properly braced grip, her feet apart with her weak-sided right foot slightly forward.
She fired three shots right in the kill zone – a perfect equilateral triangle. He was dead before he hit the floor, his white shirt billowing red like a bottle of ink spilt onto blotting paper. It was then, as the light hit his face – only then, that she saw what she had done.
Jennifer Browne woke with a jump, peeled her cheek, sticky with sweat, off the desk’s laminate surface and fumbled for the clock. Blinking hard, her eyes adjusting to the glare of the overhead neon, she checked the time. Seven am. Shit. Another all-nighter.
She stretched and flexed her neck, her back clicking into place. Yawning, she reached down and pulled out the bottom desk drawer, felt inside and took out a cellophane-wrapped white blouse identical to the one she was wearing. It was resting on two others. Placing it on her desk, she began to unbutton the one she had on, her fingers stiff as she worked the buttons. Eventually, when it was undone, she stood up and slipped it off, dropping it into the open drawer which she then nudged shut with her foot.
She was strikingly beautiful in that effortless, double-take way that some women are. Five feet nine, smooth brown skin, slender yet curving where it counted, rounded cheeks and curly black hair that just kissed her bare shoulders. She wore no jewellery – never had – apart from the Tiffany’s twisted heart necklace that her sister had given her on her 18th birthday that nestled in the smooth curve of her breasts.
As she buttoned the blouse and tucked it into the waistband of her black trouser suit, she looked around at the windowless painted breeze block walls that encircled her and smiled, the dimples creasing into her soft brown cheeks. Even though it was small, she had still not quite got used to having her own office. Her own space. Her own air. After only three months back in DC, the novelty had certainly not worn off yet. Not by a long way. Not after three years down in the Atlanta field office, afraid to breathe out too far in case the cubicle walls collapsed. She was glad to be back; this time she was planning on staying.
There was a knock at the open door and Jennifer’s thoughts were interrupted. She looked up reproachfully but relaxed her frown when she saw that it was Phil Tucker, her Section Chief, right on time. He’d told her yesterday that he wanted her in early, that he needed to talk to her. Wouldn’t say why though.
‘Hey there,’ she called.
‘You okay?’ He walked up to the desk and squinted down at her through frameless glasses in concern, his double chin flattening over the top of his tie. ‘Another late night?’
‘Is it that obvious?’ Jennifer self-consciously smoothed down her hair and rubbed the sleep out of the corners of her eyes.
‘Nope.’ He smiled. ‘Security told me you hadn’t gone home… Just so you know, I appreciate it.’
That was Tucker all over. He wasn’t one of these bosses who just expected people to stay late and then never noticed when they did. He kept track of his team and made sure they knew it. She liked that. It made her feel like she was part of something again, not just an embarrassment that had to be explained away.
‘No problem.’
He scratched his copper-coloured beard, then the top of his head, his scalp pink and raw where the hair was thinning.
‘By the way, I spoke to Flynt, and the Treasury boys are going to handle everything from here on in on the Hammon case. They were very grateful for your help. He says he owes you one. Good job.’
‘Thanks.’ She gave an awkward shrug, never having been good at accepting compliments and changed the subject. ‘So what’s all this about? Why the early start? Some Congressman lose his dog?’
Tucker levered himself into a chair, his hips grazing its moulded plastic arms.
‘Something came up yesterday. I volunteered you.’ He grinned. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’
She laughed.
‘Would it make a difference if I did?’
‘Nope! Anyway, you won’t want to. It’s a good opportunity. Chance to get back on the inside track.’ He paused and looked suddenly serious. ‘A second chance, maybe.’ His eyes dipped to the floor.
‘You still trying to earn me my redemption?’ With her dream still fresh in her thoughts, something bitter rose to the back of her mouth and made her swallow hard.
‘No. You’re doing that all on your own. But you and I both know that it’s hard to change people’s minds.’
‘I’m not looking for any hand-outs, Phil. I can make my own way back.’ Her eyes shone with a fierce pride. Tucker nodded slowly.
‘I know. But everyone needs a break once in a while, even you. And I wouldn’t have suggested you if I didn’t think you’d earned it. Anyway, I told him to swing by here about now, so it’s too late to back out.’
He checked his watch, shook his wrist, held it to his ear and then checked it again.
‘Is that the right time?’ he asked, pointing at Jennifer’s desk clock. She ignored the question.
‘Told
