“Only you can end it. Another agent will fall soon. Then another and another. Did you count the names on the list? The list I altered so you could check them off as they fall. It’s a very long list, isn’t it? Who do you think will be next? Take a guess. A wild guess is all you have, but maybe you’ll get lucky. The odds are against it. Your list was meant to torment you and your superiors, nothing more. To give you names without dates. Ingenious, don’t you think? Has it been keeping you up nights? You look tired, Merrick. It’s like a puzzle that doesn’t fit, ja? Let me assure you that it will never fit until the last man falls.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, I’m a perfectionist, and without my hands I’ve been forced to find an alternate to remain in the game. After all, my reputation is at stake. How could I surrender without giving back to you as much as you’ve given me? The clock is ticking, and this time, time is on my side.”
Merrick turned off the recorder and looked at Pierce. “After talking to you, I have to agree that Holic doesn’t know how to lose. That he will continue to play his sick game until he’s dead. It’s true our medical staff has the technology to restore mobility to his hands, but—”
“Then Onyxx would be responsible for putting a gun back into the restored hands of the devil.”
“My superiors would never go for that.”
Pierce stood. “Of course you’re right. But then their names aren’t on that list. It’s damn easy to make decisions when your own ass isn’t the one being pinched.”
Merrick caught the censure in his agent’s voice. “The rules here are black and white, but necessary. If we make deals with every criminal we apprehend, where would that leave us? The bottom line is we have the assassin under lock and key. The entire mission wasn’t a failure. Holic is ours.”
“And from his iron cell he’s unleashed a competent replacement. One that appears to value perfection as much as he does.”
Merrick swore. “I’ll admit, at the moment, Holic has us by the balls.”
“Then we can only hope that his successor slips up. And if he doesn’t, you better start looking for another team to replace us, because we’re in for a slaughter.”
Chapter 2
Thomas Walrich’s body was discovered ten hours after he toppled face-first into the Amo River in Florence, Italy. A bullet traveling two hundred and eighty yards struck him in his right temple and he went swimming a second later clutching a briefcase, his mousy-brown toupee clinging to his forehead.
After his final exit, and sudden plunge into the Amo, both the briefcase and the toupee were swept away with the current. The briefcase was recovered two weeks later in Empoli. The toupee, caught in a yacht’s twin caterpillar engine, ended up in the Tyrrhenian Sea, lost forever.
The authorities notified the appropriate agencies after recovery of the body. A positive identification was made, and within twenty-four hours Adolf Merrick received a phone call telling him that another operative had fallen—the stats on his death cloning those of Alton Bromly’s. It seemed that Holic’s replacement was on target again, and Merrick would be forced to make a check mark on his useless copy of the kill-list.
This time, Thomas Walrich, an American agent on secret assignment in Italy.
That made two assassinations within three weeks. Pierce was right: at this rate they were in for a slaughter.
Suddenly Holic’s words came back to haunt Merrick. The clock is ticking, and time is on my side.
Adolf reached for the phone and called Pierce. He relayed the information, sending his agent now on to Italy to follow up and escort Walrich’s body home the minute it was released. Then, in the quiet of his office, he sat back and stroked his short gray beard.
He had to admit that the Chameleon was still controlling his life. Hell, all their lives, if the bastard was still alive. But how could that be?
“You’re dead, and yet you live.” Merrick muttered the words, then closed his eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck, the pain hammering his temples warning him that he hadn’t been sleeping well again, and as a result his tension headaches were back.
“Will you ever be gone from my mind, you evil bastard? You’ve taken everything from me. Everything important, and still you continue to torment me. Will this nightmare never end?”
The phone rang again, and this time Merrick hesitated before answering it. He glanced at the number as it came up and when he recognized it, he frowned in puzzlement. It was Sarah Finny, and for a moment he wondered why she would be calling him. Then he glanced at the calendar and saw that it was Thursday, and below the day’s date he’d written, Dinner with Sarah at 6:00.
He checked his watch. Saw that it was past seven. Wincing, feeling like an ass, he hesitated a few seconds longer before picking up the phone.
“Hello, Sarah.”
“Adolf, is everything all right with you? I thought we were—”
“Yes, everything is fine, Sarah. I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty at this sort of thing. Dinner completely slipped my mind. I rarely have appointments outside the office.”
“This was dinner, Adolf, not an appointment.”
“Of course. That’s what I meant to say. I haven’t been asked to dinner since Johanna and I… Ah, do you still want me to come, or is it too late? If you’d rather cancel, I understand.”
“I’ve spent two hours in the kitchen. The food is—”
“I could be there in twenty minutes. But I understand if… Okay, I’m on my way.”
The night Jacy Moon Madox got the first call it started to snow in the mountains. But snow in late September wasn’t unusual, not in the high country of Montana.
His brother had sounded drunk on the phone, but that wasn’t unusual either—Tate was a beer drinker and not just a two-bottle limit with dinner.
Out of bed and out of sorts, Jacy pulled on his jeans and took Highway 2 to 89. Once he reached Browning he headed south. The Sun Dance Saloon was on the outskirts of Heart Butte on the Blackfoot Indian Reservation. It was a dark, honky-tonk, old-West beer-and-chili joint with saddles for bar stools, booths lining the walls, a circular dance floor and a half dozen pool tables.
He had picked up the phone at ten-thirty, and it was almost midnight when he parked his black pickup in front of the Sun Dance, climbed out.
“Hey, Moon.”
“Tommy.”
Jacy nodded at the barrel-chested Indian as they passed on the front porch. To the locals Jacy was simply addressed as Moon. It didn’t matter that he’d left the rez at the age of fifteen to join the Hell’s Angels with his brother Tate, or that half the blood flowing through his veins was from a German immigrant, the now-deceased forest ranger, Corbel Madox. All who lived in these parts knew Jacy had been born under a full moon to Nola Youngblood. And if that wasn’t significant enough, he was Koko Blackkettle’s grandson, the visionary who could see things before they happened.
Jacy
