and artfully laid out with large windows winding along each wall. A small pond was in front, a statue of a boy on a dolphin releasing fountain spray into the water. The grounds, lushly verdant with meticulously trimmed bushes and a manicured lawn, gave the place a pseudo-palatial appearance. A winding, pebbled walkway led from the parking lot to the front entry.
He reached the main entrance and stood in front of the solid glass door with its ornate golden handle.
Rather garish, he thought, using a tissue to keep from leaving any fingerprints on the elongated handle.
He stepped into a large foyer. Inside, the walls were a pale cream color and a skylight let the burgeoning morning sunlight filter down onto the highly polished floor. The opaque, plastic half-moon bubble of a pan, tilt and zoom camera was mounted to the ceiling behind the desk near the stairway and elevators. He wondered how many pairs of eyes were watching and made a mental note to not forget to deal with any surveillance disks that might be recording his entry.
Just inside the entrance a man in a blue suit sat behind an artfully shaped desk. The Talon knew immediately that he was security. His dark hair was slicked back and his cheeks had a sagging, pouty look. Obviously not the athletic type.
The curved, metallic desk obviously afforded the man access to phones and alarms, and perhaps even a modicum of ballistic cover. But since this was Belgium, he doubted the guard would be armed, even in view of the upgraded concerns over possible terrorist attacks. Still, the Talon decided, caution should outweigh any assumptions. This front-desk lackey might not be the only security person working. He knew he could not discount the possibility that one of the others, if they did exist, might have access to a weapon.
Behind the security guard, a series of seven-foot rectangular portals lined the entranceway to the rest of the building. Metal detectors, no doubt. The company had taken some precautions. But no matter. Each obstacle, now that it was known, would be dealt with in kind.
The Talon smiled in his most fetching manner, held out the little finger on his left hand—the one with the exaggeratedly long, false, bright red fingernail—and spoke in a husky yet feminine-sounding voice. “Pardon me, but do you speak English?”
The man in the suit smiled and shook his head.
“Parlez-vous français?” the Talon asked, relishing that the French sounded so much more sexy in his altered, husky-tenor voice.
“Oui.” The man smiled this time, his eyes roving over “her” exquisitely padded bosom, and asked how he could be of assistance.
The Talon decided to play it with coyness, smiling and saying in French, “This is the Chevalier Institute, isn’t it?”
The man nodded, his eyes still fixed on her breasts.
“I’m Ms. Juliette Fornay,” he continued in French. “Is Mr. Chevalier here? I have an appointment.”
The guard smiled and picked up the phone, obviously checking on the appointment.
“Thank you. Where is the ladies’ room?” The Talon punctuated the question with a smile and salacious wink.
The guard pointed to a door marked Dames.
The Talon went inside, once again using the tissue to grip and twist the door handle. He made certain he was alone, then braced himself against the door and quickly removed the 9 mm Heckler & Koch VP9 pistol and the two extra magazines from the zippered section in his purse.
In total, he had sixty-five rounds...well, sixty-six with the one in the chamber. He deemed that more than sufficient for the task at hand: going through the building, killing all of the employees, which the estimates had placed between twenty-three and twenty-seven, depending on vacations and sick days. It wasn’t a pleasant task, nor was it particularly unpleasant. It was merely time-consuming. But his employer had specified that none of the employees be left alive, and the Talon was all about carrying out whatever assignment he undertook.
He stuffed the extra mags into the special holders by his hips. After screwing a sound suppressor onto the front barrel of the pistol, he carefully placed it into his crotch holster, after first checking the de-cocking lever once more.
He took out his cell phone and made a quick call, speaking in Italian this time. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, we are ready,” a voice replied.
The Talon told the man to be prepared to proceed on the signal. He placed the cell back in his purse. After taking care to flush the toilet, using the tissue on the lever, he left the restroom and walked back to the security desk.
“I am sorry,” the guard apologized, still holding the phone, obviously confused at not having been told of any such appointment. “But Mr. Chevalier does not have you down for an appointment.”
“Tell him I represent William J. Stevenson,” the Talon said. It was risky using the real name of his employer, but the big man had assured him it would not be a concern since he’d done business with the Chevalier Institute before.
The guard spoke softly into the phone again. After a moment he nodded and hung up. “Someone will come to greet you shortly,” he said.
As the Talon waited, he observed. The building had three levels. Once he’d achieved entry, the rest should be a simple matter. Messy, but simple. He tripped the stopwatch function on his phone. His estimate was five to seven minutes total, at the outside.
Beyond the row of metal detectors, the elevator doors opened, accompanied by a warning ping. A heavyset, middle-aged woman with dark brown hair frosted with gray, stepped out and ambled toward them, identifying herself in French as Sylvie Bois, Monsieur Chevalier’s personal assistant. She stayed on the other side of the row of metal detectors.
“Do you speak English?” the Talon asked in French. “My French isn’t fluent.”
“Yes,” the woman said, “I do. How may I help you?”
“I must see Monsieur Chevalier,” he said, stepping forward, past the security guard. “It is a matter of the greatest urgency.”
The middle-aged woman’s eyebrows rose in surprise and she stepped back.
The Talon kept moving forward, despite the woman’s protestations. The metal detector’s alarm went off as he stepped through the first portal. The guard’s head turned toward them.
The Talon laughed and feigned surprise, apologizing and saying first in English, “I’m sorry. I have an artificial hip,” then adding in French, “J’ai une prothèse de la hanche.”
The wrinkles in the guard’s brow increased.
The Talon laughed again, almost girlishly, and reached down to pull up the front of his skirt. “Here, let me show you.”
He withdrew the H & K VP9, aiming it at the security guard’s shocked face.
“Have a nice day, asshole,” the Talon said.
The weapon recoiled slightly with an accompanying plunking sound. Milliseconds later a small, black, circular hole appeared between the man’s eyes and his mouth sagged open, disgorging a gusset of blood. His head jerked backward then forward. He slumped in the chair momentarily and then rolled forward, his forehead smacking the desktop.
