drawn Peter in like a magnet to steel. While Cormac persuaded people to their cause with his smooth rhetoric and winning smile, Peter carried out guerilla war tactics to spotlight their continuing war.
But then Cormac betrayed him, just like his mother. Just like Brigit.
Love, like peace, was an illusion. An imaginary friend.
Adjusting the range of the scope, Peter again referred to the three-dimensional map in his mind. From memory, he pulled up Cormac’s handsome face, its long nose, dark hair and fair skin, and set the scope’s hairs on the spot between his bushy eyebrows. Peter pressed the trigger on the rifle and mentally heard the report, absorbed the kick of the gun, and watched in slow motion as Cormac slumped out of the scope’s range, crumpling to the ground of the stage.
Today, Cormac would be reminded, if only for the briefest of seconds, that his life, his promise of peace, was a joke.
A voice from behind him startled Peter from his daydream. The accent was thick with Palestinian genes. “You would like to do this job yourself?”
Peter removed his eye from the scope but didn’t turn to face her. Of course he wanted to pull the trigger himself, but he wasn’t stupid or careless. He was not the professional assassin like the woman standing behind him, and today, a professional was needed. That’s why he’d paid her ransom to the Israelis and sent Tory to pick her up.
He glanced at his watch. “In two hours fifty-three minutes, the dedication will take place. The FBI and local law enforcement are already strained to the breaking point by the kidnapping and the presence of a dozen rich and famous attending the event. Your escape after Cormac’s murder should be the smoothest you’ve ever encountered.”
“Ah, yes, the kidnapping. How is the girl doing?”
Peter turned to Moira Raphael. Her dark auburn hair was pulled tight in a high ponytail. Her brown eyes were rimmed with black and her lips shone with thick, red gloss. A bruise on her left cheek, provided by her captors, was still visible under the layers of her makeup. “The Pennington child is a sniveling runt but still an effective tool to help us.”
The right side of Moira’s mouth tilted up in a smirk. “There is no us, Peter, you know that.” She waited for him to contradict her. He didn’t and she shrugged. “I’ve recently been in the same predicament as the child. Cold, hungry, abused and alone in the dark. It’s quite terrifying, even for someone like me.”
“She hasn’t been abused.”
“But knowing you, she has been neglected. Perhaps if you fed her, she would stop crying.”
Peter tightened his hands into fists. The child was the least of their concerns. “I don’t tell you how to kill people.”
The left side of her mouth joined the right. She walked to the rifle, shouldered him out of the way so she could double check his work with her own gloved hands. “After this, my debt to you is paid.”
Removing a brown envelope from the inside pocket of his overalls, Peter watched her adjust the scope. “When the job is done, head to Canada. I’ll meet up with you as soon as I’m done here.”
She raised her gaze from the scope and studied his face. “There’s more at stake here than my usual jobs. No matter what measures you have taken, leaving the country will be difficult. This job is an even trade for the ransom.”
Peter handed her the envelope. “You won’t encounter trouble leaving the country unless you fail to follow my orders.”
Moira considered his words in silence. He could see caution warring with her independent nature in her eyes. “Canada it is then.”
Leaving her with the gun and envelope, Peter descended the stairs and returned to the van. He knew Moira would run when the job was done, just like she had before. If he hadn’t been in love with her, been in love with what she did so flawlessly, he’d have let her go years ago. But he was in love with her, as in love as he could ever
But then Cormac betrayed him, just like his mother. Just like Brigit.
Love, like peace, was an illusion. An imaginary friend.
Adjusting the range of the scope, Peter again referred to the three-dimensional map in his mind. From memory, he pulled up Cormac’s handsome face, its long nose, dark hair and fair skin, and set the scope’s hairs on the spot between his bushy eyebrows. Peter pressed the trigger on the rifle and mentally heard the report, absorbed the kick of the gun, and watched in slow motion as Cormac slumped out of the scope’s range, crumpling to the ground of the stage.
Today, Cormac would be reminded, if only for the briefest of seconds, that his life, his promise of peace, was a joke.
A voice from behind him startled Peter from his daydream. The accent was thick with Palestinian genes. “You would like to do this job yourself?”
Peter removed his eye from the scope but didn’t turn to face her. Of course he wanted to pull the trigger himself, but he wasn’t stupid or careless. He was not the professional assassin like the woman standing behind him, and today, a professional was needed. That’s why he’d paid her ransom to the Israelis and sent Tory to pick her up.
He glanced at his watch. “In two hours fifty-three minutes, the dedication will take place. The FBI and local law enforcement are already strained to the breaking point by the kidnapping and the presence of a dozen rich and famous attending the event. Your escape after Cormac’s murder should be the smoothest you’ve ever encountered.”
“Ah, yes, the kidnapping. How is the girl doing?”
Peter turned to Moira Raphael. Her dark auburn hair was pulled tight in a high ponytail. Her brown eyes were rimmed with black and her lips shone with thick, red gloss. A bruise on her left cheek, provided by her captors, was still visible under the layers of her makeup. “The Pennington child is a sniveling runt but still an effective tool to help us.”
The right side of Moira’s mouth tilted up in a smirk. “There is no us, Peter, you know that.” She waited for him to contradict her. He didn’t and she shrugged. “I’ve recently been in the same predicament as the child. Cold, hungry, abused and alone in the dark. It’s quite terrifying, even for someone like me.”
“She hasn’t been abused.”
“But knowing you, she has been neglected. Perhaps if you fed her, she would stop crying.”
Peter tightened his hands into fists. The child was the least of their concerns. “I don’t tell you how to kill people.”
The left side of her mouth joined the right. She walked to the rifle, shouldered him out of the way so she could double check his work with her own gloved hands. “After this, my debt to you is paid.”
Removing a brown envelope from the inside pocket of his overalls, Peter watched her adjust the scope. “When the job is done, head to Canada. I’ll meet up with you as soon as I’m done here.”
She raised her gaze from the scope and studied his face. “There’s more at stake here than my usual jobs. No matter what measures you have taken, leaving the country will be difficult. This job is an even trade for the ransom.”
Peter handed her the envelope. “You won’t encounter trouble leaving the country unless you fail to follow my orders.”
Moira considered his words in silence. He could see caution warring with her independent nature in her eyes. “Canada it is then.”
Leaving her with the gun and envelope, Peter descended the stairs and returned to the van. He knew Moira would run when the job was done, just like she had before. If he hadn’t been in love with her, been in love with what she did so flawlessly, he’d have let her go years ago. But he was in love with her, as in love as he could ever
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