Kill Shot by Vince Flynn Page B

couldn’t resist touching the paint when the sign clearly said, “Wet paint. Do not touch.” In the ordered, uptight halls of Langley, he was a disaster waiting to happen.
    Stansfield looked at his Timex watch and decided he would give Hurley five minutes before he sent someone looking for him. Turning his thoughts to the matter of most concern, he asked, “Our young friend . . . has he checked in?”
    Kennedy knew Stansfield’s office was swept for listening devices on a daily basis, but these conversations always made her nervous. “No.”
    “Any idea why?”
    “I would prefer not to jump to any conclusions until we know more.”
    Stansfield looked at her with his gray eyes, waiting patiently for her to say more. The look on his face was one that was familiar to all who worked for him. He paid his people for their intellect and their opinions, not to play it safe until the answer was obvious. “I know he’s still relatively new . . . but I assume you properly impressed on him the need to check in.”
    “I did, and although he may be new compared to some of the other people around here, in one year’s time he’s racked up more real field experience than any other ten operatives combined.”
    Reading between the lines, Stansfield understood that by practical field experience, she meant kills. “Has he ever failed to check in before?”
    Kennedy considered the question for a moment, but then the door opened and Stan Hurley walked in. He was wearing a boxy-fitting blue suit, white shirt, and no tie. His mustache was trimmed short but he’d skipped the razor this morning, so he had scruffy stubble that looked like it could be used to sand wood. Stansfield, knowing Hurley’s uncouth side better than most, was impressed that he’d actually bothered with the suit at all.
    “Sorry I’m late,” Hurley announced with a basso voice that he’d developed from years of smoking, drinking, and yelling.
    “What have you been up to?” Stansfield asked with sincere curiosity.
    “Just checking in on a few old friends.”
    “Do I want to know who?”
    Hurley flashed him a lopsided grin and said, “Boss, you’ve got more important things to worry about.”
    Stansfield would find out later. For now they had to figure out what had happened in Paris, and to what extent they might be exposed. Keeping his eyes on Hurley, he asked, “Any word on what happened last night?”
    “Nine bodies. Libyan oil minister and a prostitute were gunned down along with his four-person security detail.”
    The deputy director of Operations gave a slight nod. He’d already confirmed as much.
    “There were also three innocent civilians.” Hurley leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He stroked his mustache with both hands and folded them under his chin. The man seemed to be in perpetual motion. Even at fifty-three, he had a youthful energy about him.
    “Three innocents?” Stansfield asked, betraying his surprise with only an arched brow. He turned to Kennedy. “Did you know about this?”
    “No,” Kennedy answered honestly.
    “Two hotel guests,” Hurley added, “just down the hall from Tarek’s room, and then a kitchen boy in the back alley.”
    “Nine bodies,” Stansfield repeated, still surprised by the number.
    “That’s right,” Hurley said as if it was no big deal.
    “Any chance one of these bodies is the man we’re looking for?” Stansfield asked.
    “It doesn’t sound like it.”
    Kennedy turned in her chair to face Hurley. “Where’d you get this information?”
    “Listen here, Missy,” Hurley snarled, “I wasn’t the one who planned this half-assed op.”
    “Let’s hear it,” Kennedy said with a confrontational edge in her voice.
    “Hear what?”
    “How the great Stan Hurley would have done it differently.”
    “For starters I would have never sent him in alone.”
    “That’s pretty much all we’ve done for the last nine months and he’s been pretty successful . . . a hell of a lot