She would stay until the weekend and then disappear.
She’d been at Moon’s house almost a month and it was past time she moved out. Her ankle had mended, and Moon had removed the stitches last night.
She needed to get back to her own life. But it wouldn’t be easy to leave Moon’s cabin. She had become comfortable living with him. And she was more than attracted to him. She looked forward to seeing him each morning, sharing his day. She was forgetting who she was, and in a frightening way that felt good.
When she left Moon’s home she would miss his jeans hugging his hips, and the way his flannel shirts outlined his strong shoulders and sturdy back. But mostly she would miss his generosity and the way his deep voice always turned soft when he spoke to her. How he dragged out the word honey.
He said it like she was important to him. Like he really cared what happened to her. What would he do if he found out the truth?
Perfect Assassin
Wendy Rosnau
WENDY ROSNAU
was named Writer of the Year by Midwest Fiction Writers in 2004. She also received the Rising Star Award in 2001. Her first book, The Long Hot Summer, was a Romantic Times nominee for Best First Series Romance of 2000. She lives in Minnesota.
To Pati and Dwight for your warm hospitality, your shared knowledge of Montana and especially the Glacier area. To backroads, mountain passes and finding the perfect lake—we did it all.
Also to my parents who took this journey with me. We relived old memories, made new ones and laughed along the way.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Prologue
It was a three-hundred-yard, kiss-your-ass-goodbye shot. The rifle, an Austrian Steyr AUG with a history for accuracy at twice as many yards.
The assassin took aim as the red handkerchief drifted on the cool morning breeze. It floated, lifted then settled on the ground in a graceful, almost poetic swan song. A synchronized second later, a slender finger with a neatly trimmed pink nail squeezed the trigger.
The bullet struck the British Intelligence agent in the right temple, and before Alton Bromly hit the pavement in the middle of Sloup svate Trojice, the assassin disappeared off the rooftop of the Moravske Muzeum in Brno, mentally crossing number one off the list.
Minutes later, the assassin walked through the market square to a parked brown sedan and climbed into the passenger seat. There, Prisca Reznik pulled off her black stocking cap and shook out her raven-black layers.
“This one was easy for you—good way to begin,” the driver said, tucking the red handkerchief into his pocket.
Otto was an analytical man. Maybe not the best shot in his own right, but he’d been in the business long enough to know perfection when he saw it, so he had told Prisca. During her months of practice he had stood behind her, analyzing each shot. Praising her talent, and squeezing her shoulder.
“Ja, perfection is a beautiful thing,” he muttered as he tossed the remains of an orange out the open window, then took the compact leather gun case off her lap and lifted it over the seat and into the back.
He was all about taking care of her. A task that he seemed to enjoy since Prisca’s father had hired him. For three months he had attended to everything, from where they would sleep each night to what they would eat each morning.
A multi-task expert, he had become her mother, father, friend, bodyguard and controller for each assassination.
Prisca tossed the stocking cap into the back seat. It landed on the black leather gun case. Her father’s signature gun disassembled inside—his pride and joy, and now hers.
“The shot,” Otto began, “was—”
“On target. Let’s leave it at that.” Prisca didn’t hide the edge in her voice. She wasn’t experienced in the art of killing, and it would take some time to feel good about her new profession.
She pulled the seat belt around her narrow waist and buckled up. Staring out the window, she heard him expel a heavy sigh.
“It’ll get easier,” he soothed, as if he had read her thoughts. “Bromly was a double agent. He was weak in character and in morals. A man who would sell his mother to a glue factory to increase his bank account.”
The comment was meant to make her feel better, and in an odd way it did. Her own mother was gone and she was sensitive about anything that had to do with family.
She asked, “How do you know that?”
“I’m paid to know these things. But you don’t need to concern yourself with unimportant details. Our mission has been authorized, and we do what we must. Government assassins make sacrifices. Remember the cause when you pull the trigger, then let it go.”
“All right. I’ve done my job, and I’m letting go. It was a good shot. No more need be said.”
“The shot was better than good. What it was, Miss Pris, was absolute perfection. It is a beautiful thing to watch, your father’s gun in your hands. You’re magnificent.”
Prisca ignored the silly nickname he had given her years ago and was glad when Otto put the car into Drive and sped away from the curb.
She had told herself she could do this, not to think about the act or the victim. Still, her sage-brown eyes searched the market square, a mix of emotions altering her breathing.
An elderly woman carrying a brown shopping bag had stopped near the body. At first she simply stood there staring, then suddenly she started to scream and point to Bromly sprawled between two merchant vendors.
He
