of the parking lot was a two-story plain brick building. Its main floor was boarded up. She looked away. Whoever had fired at them had done so from the right. That meant that they were close to the low-rise building. It was an office building, closed on the weekends. Nothing had changed from the last time she’d looked. She glanced back at Stanley. She breathed a sigh of relief to see that he had retreated inside. Her attention went back to the street. Her Colt was in both hands. There was no sound from the other apartments. Her mind went over the last few minutes.
Two shots.
Three if you counted the one with the silencer. That shot had been muted and mostly unheard by those inside, living in the vicinity, but it appeared, so had the others. Gunshots were out of the norm. They were sounds that many people might consider part of their imagination. Television programs, online games, the clamor of day-to-day living masked all sorts of noise, including that which was unanticipated and unfamiliar, gunfire. It would be easily discounted as part of the noise of a television program. Now there was nothing but a strange silence. Was the gunman still out there? And if he wasn’t, where was he?
She slid down with her back to the concrete balcony railing. She debated whether now was the time to report in that her assignment had taken a critical turn.
One more check.
She pushed up over the balcony, looking left and right down the street. A movement to her left; she watched with bated breath. It was nothing but a jackrabbit that had made its way into the city. The hare took its time. It seemed to lope, hopping this way and that, stopping to sniff the air. Finally, it disappeared between two buildings. The street was again empty.
She sank below the railing as she put the Colt down and pulled her phone out of her pocket.
“Zafir,” he answered with a concerned tone, for this number was never used except in case of emergency.
“Code red,” she said simply. “I’m pinned down at the client’s apartment. Shots from across the street at the client’s balcony. The client’s secure.”
“Last count?”
“Unknown shooter. Three shots fired. Four, if you count mine. He has a silencer.” She looked where the planter used to stand. “It’s been quiet for over five minutes.”
“Did you see...”
“Nothing,” she interrupted. “No visual. Like I said, I got one shot in, that was it. I never had a clear shot and on a public street, well, that just made it difficult.”
“I can imagine,” he said. “Keep it contained if you can. I’ll be there in five.”
The call disconnected as abruptly as it had begun.
Keep it contained if you can.
With gritted teeth, she shoved the phone into her pocket. For a second she really wished that she could shove it somewhere else.
* * *
THE SNOW WOULDN’T stop falling. The man wiped perspiration and melted snow off his upper lip and swore as a car came down the street. Until now, it had been deserted.
He should have taken him out. Except he’d never had a clear shot. The woman had placed herself between him and his target. The plan was to take him out in a maximum of two shots and then get out before the authorities showed up. He’d already shot three. He couldn’t fire any more. Even with his silencer, it was too dangerous. The woman was shooting back. Her gun didn’t have a silencer. The cops could be alerted at any moment. His opportunity had slipped through his fingers, and Stanley had moved off the balcony. There was nothing to be done.
He looked at the handgun with disdain. It had failed him. The silencer didn’t work as easily as he’d been told. He’d fumbled with it. As a result, he hadn’t used it on the first two shots. The owner of the gun store had assured him that it was a “never fail.” He’d said that it was easy to use. He had lied. If he were home, he’d go back and let him know what he thought of his lie. He couldn’t. He was in a foreign country and he had to abide by its rules. If he stepped afoul of the law in any way other than planned, he had a greater chance of getting caught. That would destroy his chances at what was most important. But it was clear that taking someone out wasn’t his forte. He needed help. He would find someone else, someone who could do the job for him.
He’d been stupid to think that he could remain anonymous and complete the job. He needed the money. He hadn’t come all the way here to fail.
He considered the fact that he required assistance. He wasn’t sure why his cousin had hired him. Except that wasn’t true. He knew why. Besides his lies and exaggerations and the fact that he really had killed before, he was disposable. He always had been. He grimaced.
Maybe a hit man was what he needed, someone more skilled at killing than him. He’d killed only two people in his life—one who had invaded his home and another who’d invaded his life. That hardly made him an expert, not like a hit man. He’d read of them and seen shows, American productions. Those shows had been fiction. Still, he knew that such people existed. They just did not advertise their wares in a storefront that was easily found.
He looked at the watch on his right wrist. He fiddled with the silver bracelet. It wasn’t quite noon. He pulled out his phone and thumbed over the screen. There was one man who would know where to look. One man he could rely on to dig deep into the dregs of society and find someone who could do the job. The unfortunate thing of it was that it would not come cheap, and he needed every penny that had been offered him to get this job done.
Panic ran through him. He didn’t have time to waste. He wasn’t willing to give up on the money yet. He shoved the phone into his back pocket. He’d have to do it himself until, or unless, he found someone who was better. In the meantime, he was on his own, and he had less time than he’d anticipated.
His left leg ached from the cold and from having to scrunch into a cramped position for too long. The leg had plagued him since he was a child. It had been the result of what everyone had called an accident. He’d always known that it was no accident. Nothing that happened to him was accidental. The world was against him and always had been.
He rubbed his free hand along his calf as if that slight movement would dispel the bone-deep ache. His cousin needed to die, and he needed to do it soon. And if that meant he took out others with him, it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting this job done and getting back to Morocco as soon as possible.
Zafir grabbed his keys, his go-bag and an extra magazine for his Glock and headed out the door. He hadn’t expected to back anyone up. But every agent in the Wyoming office was busy and already assigned to a case. So there was no choice. He’d be stepping into the role of backup to Jade’s lead. It was an exceptional situation, but it was also policy. He and Emir had hammered out the guidelines for Nassar Security a little less than a decade ago. Those guidelines had always included the brothers’ full involvement. Action was what they loved. They’d vowed never to have that love drowned because of leadership duties and responsibility. They’d promised they’d be in the field whenever possible. Unfortunately, “whenever possible” had too often given way to days of tiring office duties. He was more than ready to move into action.
His hand brushed the gun. The solid feel of it seemed to connect with his hand in a way that was more an extension of him
