Perfect Assassin

by Wendy Rosnau

  “That depends on you.”

  She had no idea what he meant by that. No doubt he would turn her over to his agency. Or maybe they would just lock her up and throw away the key as they had done to her father.

  There was still a chance that she could escape. A slim chance, but if she saw an opportunity she would take it. All she needed was for Jacy Madox to make a mistake. Just one.

  She glanced down at his handcuffs locked around her wrists. “How long am I going to wear these?”

  “Like I said. That depends on you. Feel like talking yet?”

  She hadn’t felt like talking, and the rest of the trip home was filled with silent tension. When they reached the cabin, he got out and came around to open her door. A blast of cold air entered the cab, reminding Pris that her own means of escape—the Bronco—was still parked at the motel.

  He half lifted her out and propelled her toward the steps, never letting go of her. When he opened the door to the cabin, Matwau greeted them. He wagged his tail and nuzzled her leg, and that only made things more difficult. She had spent weeks getting to know the half-breed wolf, and now she bent down and spoke to him softly, stroked his head with both of her hands, still cuffed together. She heard the door slam shut behind her, then Jacy walked past her. He removed his coat and hat and hooked them on the coat tree.

  Pris watched out of the corner of her eye. She had seen him put his pickup keys in his coat pocket, and made a mental note of it. He walked into the kitchen. The perfect place for him, she thought. If only her hands were free she would get the keys and dart back outside.

  But she wasn’t free. Not yet.

  She looked toward the fire; glowing coals flickered behind the glass. An odd feeling came over her just then, as if she had come home. She pushed the crazy thought aside. Home was Austria. She might never see her homeland again—unless she escaped.

  She thought of the small mountain cabin where she’d lived most of her life—she would always remember the happy times there. Where life was simple and she had laughed with her mother.

  She stood slowly. “Can you remove the handcuffs now?”

  No answer.

  She stepped into the kitchen thinking he hadn’t heard her. Held out her hands. “Get them off, they’re rubbing my wrists raw.”

  He turned from the stove. “Sit down.”

  She thought about refusing, but she didn’t. Maybe he would retrieve the key now.

  She sat, but he never reached into his pocket for the handcuff keys. Instead he began to make lunch. She waited a half hour while he heated soup out of a can and made grilled cheese sandwiches.

  To eat she would need the irons removed. At some point he would remove them, she thought, unless he planned to feed her. Or maybe his plan was to starve her into a confession while he ate.

  He poured coffee for himself and tea for her. Then he brought it to the table with two bowls of soup and the sandwiches. Before he sat, he dug into his front jeans pocket for the key, unlocked the cuffs and laid them on the table with the key. Then he sat and began to eat.

  He was trying to intimidate her. To let her know that she was his prisoner. She understood that, but what he didn’t understand was that she had learned the art of patience. She had learned it on the rifle range in Austria as early as age ten. She knew how to sit tight and wait. Perfect timing was everything. Self-control could make a shot or steal it from you. Self-control was what she needed now. Patience.

  She picked up her sandwich and took a bite. It tasted good, and she was past hungry. She sipped the tea, and used her napkin.

  She caught him looking at her from time to time, his dark eyes studying her. She didn’t smile, didn’t speak, just ate what he had put in front of her.

  Finally when he was finished, he shoved his chair away from the table and leaned back. He crossed his arms over his chest and directed all of his attention on her.

  He said, “Your father is going to rot in prison. Holic will never be free again. He’s locked up and that’s where he’s going to die. Justice for a cold-blooded killer.”

  She didn’t know what she expected him to say, but certainly not that. Rage overtook her and she picked up the cup of tea and threw it at him. He didn’t move until it was almost too late, but when he did it was quick, and, still seated, he swatted the cup away as if he had expected the reaction. The cup flew across the room and shattered on the floor.

  “One thing you need to know about me, honey, is that I never give up. Not if it’s something important.”

  “So important that you killed two innocent people on Glass Mountain? You stole my mother’s life, and mine went with it.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone on Glass Mountain. You’ve been misinformed.”

  “You were the controller. Without you, Bjorn Odell would never have been successful, and my mother wouldn’t have died.”

  “I don’t kill innocent people. That’s Holic’s MO, not mine. And yours if you continue to play your father’s game.”

  “You’re the one who kills. You, and the agency you work for.”

  “I don’t deny there are casualties in this line of work. But I don’t kill for blood money.”

  “So my mother was an unfortunate casualty?”

  “She wasn’t a casualty. You were told what your father wanted you to believe. Your father—”

  “My father is a government assassin. He targets criminals and terrorists. He’s a specialist. The people you work for support anarchy and corruption. My mother’s blood is on your hands as well as Bjorn Odell’s.”

  “Your father is lying. He’s using you. He’s twisted the truth to gain your loyalty.”

  “He didn’t need to twist the truth to gain my loyalty. I love my father.”

  “And I’m sure he was more than happy to use that to convince you to stand beside him. But it’s Holic who promotes anarchy, not the Onyxx Agency. Holic is nothing more than a hired assassin. A paid killer.”

  Again her anger took over and Pris spat at him across the table. “No one insults my father and lives.”

  “Why didn’t you kill me weeks ago if you feel so strongly? If you came here to kill me, why am I still alive? You could have used a kitchen knife on me at any time.”

  “I had no reason to kill a man named Moon. You and your grandmother rescued me from an airplane crash. Until yesterday I had no idea that Moon was Jacy Madox.”

  “And how did you learn that?”

  “Your brother. He was good enough to help me. He came and picked me up when I called him. He insisted on stopping at the post office to pick up the mail. You received two letters. When I saw the name—”

  Pris stopped herself. She wasn’t going to get emotional. She still felt sick. Seeing the name of her enemy on her lover’s mail had devastated her.

  She stood, and when she did, he came to his feet as well.

  “You’re wrong about everything,” he said. “Your father has tricked you into doing his dirty work. You’ve been used, Prisca, and I can prove it.”

  “My father would never do something that cruel. He loves me.”

  “Your father has killed hundreds of people. He’s been on the NSA’s most-wanted list for years. He’s not the man you think he is.”

  “My father is a government agent. He—”

  “Your father works for anyone who will pay his price.”

  “You’re the one who’s lying.”

  “I don’t lie. And I don’t believe you’re a killer. I don’t think Holic’s tainted blood runs through your veins as much as you think it does.”

  “I am my father’s daughter. It’s true, because right now, what I want most is to kill you.”

  Jacy locked Prisca in her room. She was a resourceful little thing and he wasn’t about to lose her again. He considered putting the cuffs back on her, but instead, he had left her in the room with a warning that if she tried to escape he would put them back on her and chain her to the bed.

  In his office he pulled his phone fr
om his pocket and saw that he’d missed a call, it was from Pierce. He dialed his friend, and when Pierce answered, he said, “Prisca Reznik’s mother is alive, right?”

  “What?”

  “Mady Reznik didn’t die after Holic shot her, right? That’s what I’ve got in the file. But I need to make sure she’s still alive.”

  “She’s alive. We didn’t tell Holic, but she survived. She was wearing a safety vest on the mountain. Holic was taken from the cabin before she was. Why?”

  “Because Prisca Reznik thinks her mother’s dead, and that we’re responsible.”

  “You found her?”

  “She’s back with me, and—”

  “I’ve got Otto Breit. I’m just now en route back to D.C.”

  “Has he said much?”

  “No. He’s not talking yet. But when I get him back, I’ll go at him. This is starting to shape up. Merrick will be glad to hear it. How soon can you make arrangements to fly her here?”

  “I’m not flying anywhere yet. She’s been used, Pierce. She thinks Holic works for a legitimate agency, and that the kill-file she’s been working from was government-sanctioned.”

  “And you believe her?”

  “She’s nineteen years old. She thinks her mother’s dead, and that it’s our fault. If you were in her shoes, what would you have done?”

  “I sympathize, but—”

  “But the agency isn’t going to care.”

  “So what do you propose?”

  Jacy swore into the phone. “She’s been living in my house for five weeks. I’ve seen another side of her. She’s not a killer, Pierce. I can’t hand her over to Merrick without some kind of guarantee.”

  “Guarantee?”

  “I’m not going to let the agency crucify her. She’s a victim in this.”

  “Something you should know. The lab reports came back on the Chameleon. Our body at the morgue is Pavvo Creon. Merrick believes the Chameleon is still alive. That means Holic could still be working for him. Merrick isn’t going to give anyone any guarantee at this point. I’ll fly out and pick her up. Take her off your hands, so you—”

  “No. If you do, it’ll be a wasted trip. Without a guarantee I’ll take her and run.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you? If we find out that Otto Breit is her partner, then she took those first two shots. She’s a—”

  “If that’s the case, she killed them under Holic’s orders. She’s not a killer.”

  “And yet two men are dead from bullets she planted in their skulls Holic-style. What guarantee do you have that if she had the chance she wouldn’t do the same to you?”

  “I want to tell her that her mother is alive.”

  “And you think she’ll believe that? That it’ll make a difference?”

  “I need another favor.”

  Pierce groaned over the phone. “This is suicide, Jacy. Merrick already knows that I’ve been holding out on him.”

  “One more favor.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  Jacy relayed what he wanted, and this time it was Pierce’s turn to swear. “Impossible. That’s classified.”

  “Get me what I need and call me back.”

  “Do you know what you’re asking?”

  “Play this my way, Pierce. I know what I’m doing.”

  “This isn’t like you. You’re not thinking straight.”

  “You don’t know her like I do.”

  “That’s more than evident.”

  “It’s my way or no way.”

  “Then I’ll call you back when I get to headquarters. I’m five hours away.”

  Chapter 12

  Merrick entered the interrogation room where Otto Breit had been taken. Pierce had been going at him for an hour, and he’d been watching through a two-way mirror. Breit was unwilling to cooperate. He claimed he didn’t know anything. That he had no idea what they were talking about.

  It would be damn hard to hold him without more evidence, and the man knew it. Pierce had found nothing to incriminate Breit in the man’s apartment in Vienna. But that would have been careless of him, and the man looked neither stupid nor careless. If he was working as an assassin, he wouldn’t keep his equipment in his living quarters.

  The thought of turning Breit loose made Merrick sick. If he was part of Holic’s operation, he wanted him behind bars—after he told them where they could find Holic’s daughter.

  Merrick stepped into the interrogation room and closed the door. He wished he had something else to force Breit’s hand. Anything.

  “Mr. Breit, I’m Adolf Merrick. We need your cooperation. If you give it, I can assure you we’ll go easier on you.”

  In a thick European accent, Breit said, “I told your dog, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Merrick motioned to Pierce, then whispered. “Step out and call Jacy. Tell him you’ve picked up Otto. Relay the situation. Tell him we need something to crack him or we won’t be able to hold him long.”

  Pierce nodded and walked out.

  While he was gone, Merrick said, “We’ve got you, Mr. Breit, and unless you tell us what you know, you’ll be prosecuted for six assassinations.”

  The man just sat there.

  Merrick tried again. “Tell me where the kill-file is.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Holic gave you up,” Merrick said as Pierce came back into the room. “He’s made a deal with us.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You saying you don’t know who Holic Reznik is? Your father worked for him,” Merrick offered.

  Breit never answered.

  Pierce said, “We also have your partner. Prisca Reznik is in custody, and she’s talking. Are you sure you don’t want to tell your side of the story now?”

  Merrick turned to look at his agent. If Pierce was bluffing it was a good bluff, but if he wasn’t, he’d been kept in the dark. He didn’t like being the last to know critical information.

  Otto Breit didn’t take the bait, and after another thirty minutes of getting nowhere, Pierce and Merrick left Breit in the interrogation room with a guard standing outside, and headed for Merrick’s office.

  Inside, Merrick asked, “Do we have Prisca Reznik?”

  Pierce hesitated, then said, “No. But I know where she is.”

  “And where is that?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You better sit down.”

  Merrick raised a silver eyebrow, then sat behind his desk. He watched his agent walk to the window. He knew what that meant. When he had thinking to do, he always found himself at the window.

  Pierce began, “This is complicated. You need to hear me out before you blow. Try to understand where Jacy is coming from.”

  “Jacy?”

  Pierce turned around. “Prisca Reznik has been living in his house for five weeks.”

  “What?” Merrick couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Like I said, it’s a long story. Pretty bizarre, actually.”

  “I’ve heard every kind of bizarre there is over the past twenty years. Get to it.”

  Pierce relayed the story, and then left soon after. It was for the best. Merrick needed to cool off—he had started to boil two minutes into the tale.

  He took the elevator up to the Green Room where all the top-secret files were kept. He still needed to do what he’d promised Jacy he would do. It wasn’t hard to get in. He was a familiar face, and he was an old card player. A master in the art of double talk, with a pair of slippery hands that had served him well in his younger days.

  Twenty minutes later he left the Green Room, then made a call to Jacy. He gave up the info, then an update on Otto Breit. There wasn’t much to tell.

  Breit was a cold sonofabitch. A real tough character. The kind of man who wouldn’t crack even if they used an ice pick.

  Pris woke with a start. Locked in her room wit
h nothing to do, she had paced for what seemed like hours, then curled up on the bed.

  It was dark outside; she glanced out the window and then turned on the light next to the bed. The day was gone, and she wondered if it had started to snow again. How cold was it? Bad weather would be a factor if she had to escape on foot.

  She opened the drawer on the nightstand and took out a jagged piece of mirror she’d broken away from the one that hung on the wall. Jacy would come soon and when he did, she was going to escape—one way or another.

  There was a noise in the hall and she came off the bed quickly. She laid the broken mirror down, then shoved the two pillows under the bedding to form a body. Grabbing up the piece of mirror, she turned off the light and hid behind the door. When it opened light shone inside from the hall and onto the bed. Pris waited. There was no movement. Long seconds ticked by and then Jacy called her name.

  Pris held her breath. The door opened wider and he stepped inside. It was at that moment that she made her move. She leapt out from behind the door with the jagged piece of mirror in her hand. He turned at the movement and she raised her hand and made a fast swipe at him, ripping his shirt and slashing his chest.

  He swore crudely and staggered back. Seeing another chance to do damage, she kicked him hard in the crotch, then again—this time in his bad knee.

  The minute he lost his balance and went to the floor, she darted past him. She’d almost reached the hall, but he rolled to his side and grabbed her leg.

  “No!” Pris tried to shake him off, but he wouldn’t let go, his grip like an iron trap. She fought him and lost her balance. The air whooshed out of her as she hit the hard wood. She dropped the jagged piece of mirror after it dug into her hand, cutting it open. She cried out in pain, but she didn’t give up the fight. Again she kicked him, at the same time she clawed the floor with her hands to get away.

  In a battle for survival, she turned into a wild cat. A chair was close by, and she grabbed a leg and pulled it over on him. He swore again and let go of her leg to bat the chair away.

  This was her second chance, maybe her last. She scurried into the hall on all fours like an animal fleeing a trap.