Buch lesen: «Perfect Assassin»

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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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 lay on his side, a paper cup of spilt coffee beside him. His left hand still clutched a market bag. The soles of his shoes were visible, as well as his bare ankles—Alton wasn’t wearing socks this morning.

“Yes, everything about you is perfect, Miss Pris,” Otto continued, completely ignoring the sound of a police siren and the growing pandemonium in the square. “Never think I take it, or your father’s faith in my ability to protect such perfection, for granted. It’s an honor. To know one’s purpose in life…it settles the soul, and focuses the mind. You are my purpose, Miss Pris, and I pledge unconditional devotion to you in all things. Whatever you require, you need only to ask. Anything and everything I have is yours.”

Still blind to the mayhem in the market square, Otto steered the sedan past the growing crowd. They would leave Czechoslovakia and head back to Austria. Stay in the flat Otto had secured in Vienna. She would rest and try not to think about her sobering new profession, while Otto began detailing the next hit.

“You were meticulously precise, Miss Pris. Not too anxious. That’s the key. Perfection can’t be rushed. An artist is what you are. The way you—”

“Otto…please.”

“That old Brit’s cerebrum was mush before his knees hit the—”

“Trust me, I know the power behind a SS109.”

“Trust you? Of course, Miss Pris. With my life. And you know you can trust me with yours. I would die for you.” He glanced at her, his eyes full of emotion.

She knew it was true. Otto would die for her because he loved her. Ja, it was in the eyes, and she had always been good at reading the eyes. Yes, love, she saw it there now, and each time she caught him staring. And she saw something else, too—hope that one day she would return that love.

But she wouldn’t ever feel that way about him. Otto was like the brother she’d never had. He was thirty, eleven years older than she was.

She closed her eyes, and rested her head on the seat. Rubbed her forehead.

“If your headache is still bothering you, there’s a bottle of pills in the glove compartment. And water there, between the seats.”

“Thank you. Can we talk about something else?”

“You’re right. Let’s forget about Bromly. He’s history. Number two awaits us in Italy, in three weeks. An American by the name of Walrich. And like Bromly, his self-serving activities have marked him for death. Then we’re off to Poland, followed by Germany and Vancouver after that. Once we’ve finished with the first ten on the list we will take a break to let the trail grow cold. Be thinking where you want to go.” He turned and smiled at her. “I vote for someplace warm. We’ll call it a vacation.”

Prisca didn’t say anything. She wasn’t going to Poland with him after Italy. But she would let him make the flight plans and all the arrangements. Otto wouldn’t understand or appreciate what she’d been contemplating for weeks. After all, he was loyal to her father’s wishes. He bore the title of controller now. A detail man who had one primary goal—to stay on schedule and to make sure she performed perfectly.

Let Otto think she was content with the schedule that had been laid out. But things had changed since the kill-file had been composed. Tragedy had struck her life, and at the moment Otto’s focus was not hers.

Bromly may have deserved to die, but she knew of two men who deserved it more. She wasn’t abandoning her father’s instructions, or his all-important mission, just altering the line-up. Those on the list would still die, she had made a promise, and she, too, was loyal. But what difference could it make if someone lived a few weeks longer and someone else died a few weeks sooner? What would it matter if she hit number twelve and twenty-one ahead of schedule? In the end justice would still be served.

Only Otto wouldn’t understand, or agree to altering the line-up. He would remind her of their promise to each other, and to her father.

True, they were bound together by tragedy and circumstance. Her mother had died on Glass Mountain, and Otto’s father Jakob had sacrificed his life as well.

Prisca hugged herself, feeling the chill of loneliness wrap its cold fingers around her. Her life had been ripped apart—her family destroyed. She had a right to alter the schedule. She had a right to seek justice for what had been taken from her.

The revenge she sought might not be sweet, but it was necessary. Not for peace of mind—there would never again be room for solace in her heart—but she needed the finality in order to move forward.

The only sure thing in her life was the legacy her father had left behind. She was her father’s daughter, the daughter of Holic Reznik, and she would not fail him.

Practice makes perfect, he had always told her. She had taken the words to heart that day at Groffen when she’d raised her rifle and drilled the paper target with supreme accuracy. It had proven to her father that she’d been listening, demonstrated what dedication and patience could accomplish.

And it had confirmed that she was her father’s daughter in every way that was important.

“To you, Mother, I promise eternal love, and to you, Father, undying loyalty.” Prisca felt her heart constrict, felt the pain bone-deep. “And to those who took both of you from me, I promise death.”

Chapter 1

A failed mission. There had been so few of those at Onyxx that it was hard to swallow. But what else could you call it when the kill-file that had been recovered was a fraud—a fake that had led to an agent’s death, and started the killing?

What they had tried to prevent had begun. And there would be more to come. There were close to a hundred names marked for death in the infamous kill-file.

Merrick entered his office in a sour mood. He’d just faced his superiors upstairs and conceded that mistakes had been made. He had been forced to explain that somehow Holic Reznik had switched the file, and what they had recovered was a rearranged version of the master copy. A useless list that was meant to mock and torture. To twist the knife a little deeper.

Holic was a master game player. Somehow he’d managed to hand off the original to a class-act assassin who was as loyal as he was talented. Someone Holic trusted—Merrick had seen the twinkle in the devil’s eyes when Holic had spoken of his replacement. He had seen the supreme elation that the killing had begun, and that he had outsmarted them.

They were left with a useless file with dates and names out of sequence, with a nameless assassin on the loose willing to do whatever Holic asked of him.

Holic was under lock and key, but the smell of death was still ripe in the air. He was laughing at them from his cell, and it made Merrick want to strangle the bastard.

“Damn you, Holic,” Merrick muttered as he stood at the window in his Washington office. He was tempted to open his bottom drawer and pour himself a drink. He needed one, but he’d been considering joining AA. The booze had become too important, a daily necessity. Hell, he’d been slamming shots a dozen times a day for fifteen years, and it was finally catching up with him.

The truth was he hadn’t dealt with Johanna’s death. The guilt was still eating him from the inside out, and he preferred living with his pain. He deserved no better. Certainly not solace, or to be freed from his guilt. Johanna was gone, and he was the reason her life had been cut short.

Merrick slipped behind his desk and opened the report he’d received on the dead British Intelligence agent. Alton Bromly had been thirty-six, single and a veteran with a number of successful missions to his credit.

He scanned the data on how and where he’d been killed. It had all the signs of Holic’s signature assassinations—one shot, right temple. Ammunition type, a Nato-standard SS109.

“Amazing,” Merrick muttered. If he didn’t know it was a physical impossibility for Holic to make the hit, he would say that their cell guest at Clume was a magician. But Holic was no magician.

He’d been locked up behind bars for three months.

So who had pulled the trigger on Bromly? Who the hell was Holic’s sharpshooter replacement?

A loud rap sounded at the door, and Merrick closed the file. “Come in.”

Pierce Fourtier entered. Like Sly and Bjorn and the other agents under Merrick’s command, Pierce had earned the Onyxx tag of rat fighter. On Merrick’s quest to find the toughest men alive for his special-ops team, he’d ventured to New Orleans to an underground club where knife-fighting had become a high-stakes game. Where only the best and the toughest survived. It was there that he’d first seen Pierce Fourtier. The man had given new meaning to the saying “splitting hairs.”

“You wanted to see me.”

“Come in and have a seat, Pierce. The killing has started. An agent was hit yesterday.”

“An agent on the list?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In the Czech Republic. The market square at Brno. Alton Bromly, nine years at British Intelligence. Know him?”

“No. How do we know it wasn’t random?”

“It was a signature shot. One shot, right temple. Holic’s caliber. The point of entry wasn’t off even by a millimeter.”

Pierce relaxed in the chair in front of Merrick’s desk. He was dressed in a brown T-shirt, jeans and a pair of alligator-leather Western boots. He had an unmistakable Southern accent, wore his black hair ultra-short, and his bayou-bred heritage on his sleeve.

The Acadian was six-one, went two-twenty, and had lazy brown eyes that rarely expressed a fraction of what he was thinking. Those eyes had given him the nickname the Sleeper due to the unruffled dead calm that surrounded him in the midst of a crisis.

It was rumored that the Sleeper was the son of a voodoo priest in Louisiana. But no one knew for sure. Pierce’s past was as mysterious as the little town of Le Mystère which he called home.

“So what you’re saying is Holic Reznik handed the kill-file to an associate before we captured him in Austria?”

“In Bjorn’s report he says Holic doesn’t believe in the buddy system. No partners. Holic doesn’t trust anyone. But it looks like he’s trusting someone.”

“He’d have to if he wants to get the job done. He’s at Clume, and unless he’s got an inside contact to get him out of there, he’s not going anywhere.”

“This confirms that the file we recovered is a rearranged version of the master. The bitch is, we have the names sanctioned for assassination, but we don’t have the correct dates, or the locations we need to stop it.”

“So Bromly was on the rearranged kill-file we have.”

“Yes. But not number one.”

“Holic must have anticipated capture,” Pierce concluded.

“I can’t believe he would allow that. Besides, in the report Bjorn filed, he states Holic had plenty of time to run.”

“That’s true. He did. So the question is, why didn’t he?”

“He had transportation out of the country, and yet he stayed on Glass Mountain until you and Bjorn got there.”

“He believed his wife betrayed him. He hates Bjorn,” Pierce pointed out. “Health-wise, he was a mess, but he’s not used to losing.”

“What are you saying? His pride kept him there? That doesn’t make sense. Why not just disappear to an island and plot revenge and enjoy his fat bank account while he recovered?”

Pierce shrugged. “He’s a complicated bastard. His wife’s betrayal could have colored his judgment. He’s human after all. We did trick him. He never expected two more agents riding to the rescue. Bjorn’s impersonation plan worked. Holic never suspected that it wasn’t Bjorn and Nadja on the helicopter. He was fooled completely, all the way to the end. He might be locked up at Clume, but I don’t doubt he’s been busy inventing a new game.”

“You don’t believe he allowed us to corner him on that mountain?”

“No. I think he was outsmarted. But that doesn’t mean he’s ready to surrender even from behind bars.”

“And the fake kill-file?”

“Holic leaves nothing to chance. His spotless record proves that. Maybe a simple precautionary measure just in case.”

Merrick felt a chill race up his spine. They were dealing with a madman. Holic was secured behind bars, but the kill-file was still out there in the hands of someone just as talented as the master.

He watched as his agent rubbed his shoulder, and it reminded him that Pierce was slow to recover from one of the bullets he’d taken on Glass Mountain three months ago.

“How’s the shoulder doing?”

“It still gives me a little trouble now and then. But I’m good. Have you talked to Bjorn about Holic? Does he know the file he and Nadja recovered was a fake?”

“Not yet. When he hears he’ll be back here on the next flight.”

“And you don’t want that?”

“Nadja’s pregnant. Right now she needs him more than I do.”

“You getting soft, Merrick? A year ago you would have hauled his ass back here no matter what.”

Merrick cleared his throat, not liking the way Pierce was eyeing him. “There’s more. I’ve spoken to Polax from EURO-Quest. He claims the Quest agent that Bjorn killed at Groffen was definitely working for the Chameleon. He believes that the body we’ve got on ice at the lab isn’t the Chameleon. He says the Chameleon didn’t die in Greece. That he’s still alive.”

“Impossible.”

“I agree. The Chameleon is dead. I need to believe that. But our experts haven’t been able to ID the body as the Chameleon. It keeps coming up as Pavvo Creon. But we know that’s not possible. He’s been dead for fifteen years. I have to tell you that I’ve been playing around with the idea that maybe Polax is right. Maybe we’re about to see the Chameleon rise from the dead.”

“If he’s alive he could very well be the force behind Holic’s new game. But I’m still convinced that the Chameleon is dead.”

“Yes, he’s dead. That has to be him lying on that slab. But there could be someone in his organization who is pulling Holic’s strings. We know that the Chameleon’s mobocracy is still running full-throttle across the country. We know that promises were made between him and Holic. Maybe Holic is now loyal to a new man. As you said, he takes his spotless record seriously. It’s true the kill-file originated with the Chameleon, but whoever has picked up the reins could still be influencing Holic’s actions.”

“Enter in Holic’s love for money, and his equal contempt for us, and there you are,” Pierce added. “A binding relationship that even death won’t sever—or a change of rank at the top.”

“The Chameleon’s dead,” Merrick said again.

“I’m with you on that. I was there that day in Greece. I watched that yacht blow sky-high. We have his body at the morgue.”

“A body with someone else’s face and matching blood type,” Merrick reminded.

“We knew the Chameleon had had plastic surgery and taken Pavvo Creon’s face.

“But his blood, too?” Merrick shook his head, then came out with the reason he’d asked Pierce to join him in his office. “Here’s the deal. I thought you might do the leg work on this one for me since Bjorn brought you in at the end, and you’re familiar with the mission’s details and its outcome. It’s not too physical or dangerous, both considerations since you’re still in recovery. Most of this work can be done from here, with minimal travel.”

“Why not put Jacy on it? He was the controller for Bjorn. He knows the details, and probably has all the data meticulously filed for instant access. He’s the better man when it comes to details.”

“I asked him, but he turned me down. He says he’s retiring from Onyxx.”

“I don’t believe it. Give him a little more time. It’s not easy to shed a skin that fits, and this business fits him and his talents. As much as we would like to deny it, we all fit the mold. I hear he’s finally out of the wheelchair.”

“It’s true. Vic Kandle tells me he’s got a heavy limp and it’s permanent, but other than that, he’s on a comeback.”

“That means he’ll be getting bored up there on that Montana mountain one of these days.”

“We can only hope.”

“This kill-file…Onyxx is still convinced it’s on a time schedule and targeting active agents?”

“We believe it’s the Chameleon’s hate list. And the targets aren’t all field agents. But all are government intelligence of some kind. Not all the targets are active. There are a few retired names on the list.”

“I take it our names are on the list, too?”

This was the amazing part Merrick didn’t understand. “My entire team is on the list. You and the other rat fighters. Men I’ve worked with in the past, but not me.”

“You’re not on it?”

“Damn strange, don’t you think? I should top the list. We’ve been enemies for fifteen years.”

“That’s more than a little strange.”

“Our problem is, we’re back to square one now that a replacement has started to make Holic’s hits for him. We’re hunting for an unknown face, with no data on where he comes from.”

“And that’s where I come in?”

“Like I said, the paperwork on this can be done from behind your desk. With minimal leg work. I’d like you to schedule an appointment with the authorities in Brno, and check out the market square where the hit took place. Get in touch with British Intelligence and find out everything you can on Alton Bromly and his activities over the past nine years. Your nose is one of the best we have. You’ve always been able to see things no one else sees. Maybe we’re missing something.”

“Is that a nice way of saying I have a criminal mind?”

“No offense, but your past, as you said, fits the mold.”

“I know why I was asked to join Onyxx. And it wasn’t my good looks,” Pierce joked.

Merrick handed Pierce the file on his desk. “It’s all in there. Everything we have on Bromly and his years of service to Interpol. Look it over on the flight. Prep your deviant mind. There’s also a copy of our bogus kill-file in there.”

Pierce took the file. “Has Holic talked?”

“I’ve interrogated him a number of times since we locked him up. He claimed from the moment we captured him that the file wasn’t authentic. I didn’t believe it. I had no reason to until yesterday.”

“Have you talked to him since Bromly was hit?”

“Last night I flew up to Clume to see him. And now, after talking to you, I think you’re right. Holic has a new agenda.” Merrick opened his drawer and pressed Play on the tape recorder. “I took a recorder with me last night and taped my conversation with him.”

Within seconds Holic Reznik’s Austrian accent filled the room.

“You’re back, Merrick. Does that mean the killing has begun? Your silence must mean it has. And now you’re here to ask me who has filled my shoes, ja?”

“Who is your replacement, Holic? Who has the kill-file?”

“If I tell you it would end all the fun. I told you that your kill-file was a fake, but you didn’t believe me. Do you believe me now? The look on your face tells me you do.”

“Who is your replacement, Holic? Give me the name of the man who has taken up your cause.”

“A ten-million-dollar question. Are you willing to match that?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look at my hands. I can barely feed myself thanks to Bjorn Odell and that bitch, Nadja Stefn. I’m too young to live my life sucking my food through a straw. A heavy price to pay for killing a few insignificant people, don’t you think?”

“I’ll ask again. Who has the original kill-file? Who shot Alton Bromly?”

“Perfection has replaced perfection, that’s who. Like fine wine, it’s all in the fruit and how it’s taken care of while it matures on the vine.”

“You talk in riddles.”

“A riddle that, if you figure it out, will answer your question, Merrick. But you won’t be able to. I own the winning hand in this game, and you know I do or you wouldn’t have flown up here to pay me a late-night visit.”

“You’re telling me ten million dollars will call off your dog?”

“The money means nothing without a pair of working hands to spend it.”

“Meaning?”

“You have an expert team of surgeons at your disposal. They operated on my hands not long ago. But I think they can do better. They could give me back full use if they knew what was at stake, don’t you think?”

“What?”

“You heard me. My hands restored to full use by the best surgeon you employ.”

“Impossible.”

“Then I guarantee that the killing will continue, Merrick.”

“This is madness, Holic. End this insanity.”

“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.”