The Assassin

by Tricia Andersen

  Wiggling her wrist around against the rope, Abbey reached her pocket and dug her hand in as far as she could. She smiled as her fingertips brushed the key to her locker. Slipping it out of her cargo pants, she twisted her hand around until the teeth of the key touched the bindings. Heaving a heavy sigh, Abbey started sawing. It was going to take a long time. Hopefully, Torelli would be busy for the next few hours.

  Abbey didn’t know how long she actually worked on the rope. Her fingers ached and, every so often, she felt it loosen. At least twice, she nearly dropped the key. Just when she was about to give up and figure out something else, she felt a snap, and the ropes pooled from her arms.

  Slowly, she stood until she regained her footing then she crossed the container. Steadying herself, she kicked at the rust. A chunk of decomposed metal fell to the ground, letting in the faint glow of moonlight. Abbey kept kicking until she had a hole big enough to shimmy through. Lying on the ground, she slithered through the break, pushing and pulling until she escaped.

  It was difficult to decipher what was around her in the light of the quarter moon. Once her eyes adjusted, she could tell she was at the far north end of the camp, near the shipping containers left there. Out of sight, out of mind. The remote location must make it very easy for Torelli to smuggle arms out of the country without anyone knowing what was in the massive metal boxes.

  A growl slipped from Abbey’s throat. It had been Torelli all along. The bastard had killed innocent people. She’d get her revenge. Glancing back at the prison she had just escaped from, she sighed. Now wasn’t the time. If she just showed up in the middle of camp, it was hard to tell what Torelli would do. He wouldn’t go into custody quietly. More soldiers would die. She needed to disappear, but it wouldn’t be without a weapon and supplies.

  Carefully, Abbey snuck among the buildings until she reached her barracks. Silently, she tiptoed around the sleeping soldiers’ bunks to her locker and opened it, snatching her rifle. She breathed a sigh of relief. Things around camp were thorough but slow. Her things were still here and not packed away for the states. Grabbing a small satchel, she tossed in some ammunition. She paused for a moment then picked up the box of paintball pellets. With a confident, satisfied grin, she dropped them into the bag too. When she got her revenge on Torelli, she wanted him to know it was her.

  The last thing she reached for was her canteen. As she slipped out of the barracks, she stopped in the restroom long enough to fill it before she left. She searched around for somewhere to hide. There was only one place to go—the hills, among those trying to kill the American soldiers she had been working side by side with. If they figured out who she was, she would be dead.

  She shook her head. She had no other choice. After taking one last look around, she sprinted into the rocky crags and disappeared into the night.

  Once she was a safe distance away, Abbey ducked among the boulders and downed the contents of the canteen. It didn’t come close to quenching her thirst. Her whole body ached. She needed food and more water fast, and the longer she ran around in Army fatigues, the better chance she’d get shot. Taking a breath, she forced herself to think.

  Bartholomew had told her about a little Afghani village not far from the camp. Maybe she could find someone who would have mercy on her and lend her clothes and give her food and water.

  She carefully descended the hills to the road, stumbling several times. She hated how weak she felt. It made it almost impossible to stay alert to her surroundings. I’m going to be dead if I can’t get my wits about me. Just a few more feet, I think…

  Abbey’s mouth gaped open as her gaze fell on the village. One of the trucks from the camp sat in the middle of all the shack houses. Four soldiers were unloading large crates from the truck, popping the lids open and handing the contents out to the villagers. The people near attacked the soldiers to get their hands on the food being passed out. Abbey smiled weakly. Now’s my chance.

  She hustled through the dark to one of the dwellings on the outskirts of the village. Peeking inside, she found it deserted. A robe lay at the foot of the bed, surrounded by all the accessories a man would wear. It was perfect.

  Abbey glanced around before she slipped inside and scooped up the items. She hurried back into the shadows, quickly changing. Mission one complete. On to mission two.

  With a scheming grin, Abbey strode up to the truck. Seeing a blazing fire nearby, she diverted her steps toward it. The flames jumped as they consumed the fatigues she had tossed in. Covering her head, she approached a soldier with her arms outstretched.

  “Here you go, sir. Enjoy!” The private dropped a loaf of bread, a block of cheese, and a large bottle of water into her arms. Abbey nodded her thanks as she backed away from the crowd. The bottle of water was almost gone before Abbey reached the hills again, disappearing into the night.

  Chapter Eight

  The morgue was frigid. The sterile conditions and the stainless steel instruments, cabinets, and rows of locked doors didn’t help Sloan feel any more comfortable. Neither did the body concealed by a sheet on the steel table. He never felt more unsettled in his life. In a few moments, we’ll know the truth. He shot an uneasy look at Bartholomew standing beside him. He grinned slightly back to Sloan, seeming just as uncomfortable as Sloan.

  They both startled at the slamming of the swinging door. A man in a medical coat with dark, cropped hair and wire-rimmed glasses strode in while studying a file. Beneath the coat, he wore the tan and khaki ensemble they saw all over the base. On his heels was Agent Dunham, dressed in his customary suit and tie. The doctor looked up and offered his hand to Bartholomew. “I’m Doctor West, the medical examiner. And you are Sergeant Evans?”

  “Yes.” Bartholomew shook his hand. “I need to thank the Army again for the promotion I really didn’t want. This is my brother-in-law, Sloan O’Riley.”

  “Mr. O’Riley, it’s nice to meet you.” Doctor West shook his hand, as well. “I got the opportunity to visit your complex in Miami a couple of months ago. All my vacation needs were fulfilled in the couple of days I was there. I’m looking forward to returning.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Sloan mumbled. “But can we get to my wife?”

  “I am, sir. Abigail O’Riley is your wife, correct? And the Chief Operating Officer of Sloan Enterprises?”

  “Yes.”

  “And with all the complexes you own all over the world, yours and her net worth would have to be in the billions, correct?”

  “What does this have to do with identifying my wife’s body?”

  “Well, sir, I would assume if you’re worth billions, you make sure to schedule regular dentist visits, right?” Doctor West set the folder on the slab then tugged the sheet down. Beneath it a small, charred skeleton lay on the cold metal. The doctor gripped the skull and maneuvered it slightly. “This poor thing has twelve teeth total, and two of those are nearly rotted out. Does Mrs. O’Riley have all of hers?

  “All but her wisdom teeth,” Sloan stammered. “This isn’t my Abigail.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “This woman is two or three inches smaller than my wife. How could whoever was identifying her mistake her for Abbey?”

  “The manifest had her name on it, and the body had her dog tag,” Bartholomew confirmed. “At that point, there was no need for a tape measure. But who took off the dog tag? Whoever did it had to have knocked her out so that they could.”

  A growl erupted from Sloan’s throat. “I can think of only one man. And when I get my hands on him…”

  “We need to go back to Afghanistan, and hope she’s still alive.”

  Sloan spun at Dunham. “Get us on a plane back to the Middle East. And get my father-in-law and Robert here to go with us. Two Irishmen tearing Afghanistan to pieces should find Abigail in no time.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Sloan,” Dunham stumbled. “It takes time to get clearance…”

  “It’s your and the CIA’s bloody mission that put m
y wife in danger! You have until tomorrow to put ours, Robert and Gordon’s feet in Afghanistan. Do you understand me?”

  “Let me see what I can do.” Dunham nodded his goodbyes before he scuttled out of the morgue and down the corridor.

  The two men turned back to the doctor, who was staring at them with a stunned expression. “Sorry. There isn’t a whole lot of yelling in here,” he stammered.

  Sloan chuckled. “Thank you, doctor, for clearing this up. Do you have any idea who this poor lass is?”

  “Must be an Afghani. She didn’t die in the crash. Someone shot her beforehand and dressed her in Army fatigues.”

  Sloan and Bartholomew shared a knowing look then offered their hands to Doctor West, taking turns shaking his again.

  “Thank you for everything.”

  The two men made their way through the base’s hospital out into the warm southern California sunshine. Sloan's mind and heart raced. Abbey is alive? Where is she? Is she still in Afghanistan or has she been sent somewhere else? Is she still alive or did she die at the hands of her captors?

  Bartholomew’s voice broke his rambling thoughts. “Are you up for a beer?”

  Sloan smiled at him then took a deep breath and blew it out. Inside he was still shaking. He knew the toll that losing Abigail had put on his friend. He nodded. “Sure. I could use a drink right now.”

  Choosing to leave the base, they found a small bar just outside the perimeter. It was nearly empty when they stepped in. Sloan checked his phone as they sat and ordered. Both Gordon and Robert were on their way to California. He laughed as he showed Bartholomew. “Seems I got my point across to Dunham.”

  “Even though it was rather loudly,” Bartholomew joked.

  Both men kept chuckling as they took sips of their beer. For the first time in nearly two weeks, Sloan felt hope. Abbey is alive. I pray she still is when I find her. Afghanistan and the bastard who took her from me and put me and my family through this—I’m coming for you. And I can guarantee you’re going to regret it.

  »»•««

  Sloan took a cold, hard look at his surroundings. He was back. Afghanistan. Although Gordon and Robert had been flown to San Diego right after the visit to the morgue, it had taken three weeks to convince Agent Dunham and the CIA to let him, Robert, Bartholomew, and Gordon to come back to look for Abbey.

  Dunham knew the woman on the slab wasn’t Abbey. His superiors were convinced as well. However the layers of official red tape trapped them for three weeks in San Diego. Waiting and worrying about his wife hadn’t helped Sloan’s temper one bit. He’d lost it twice. Very violently.

  As the ocean sparkled below the plane, Sloan struggled between hope and despair. What if Abbey really was dead? Deep in his heart, he realized that Abbey could be gone. Well, maybe he was holding on to a little bit of hope, but he was aware of the possibility of the cold, hard fact. But if he could find her? He shuddered. He wanted that more than anything. He had to have that. She had to come back to him.

  The journey from the plane once it landed to the camp seemed to take an eternity. The four men had barely stepped from the truck that had brought them back to the camp when they were met by Lathrop and Torelli. There was no doubt in Sloan’s mind that Torelli was furious he had returned. Lathrop didn’t seem very excited either. The creases in his tanned brow and the fire in his eyes told Sloan everything. Six soldiers flanked the two of them, ready to do their bidding, like tossing Sloan and his friends back into the vehicle and getting them out of there. Sloan tugged his hat over his head to block the sun as he growled. Like that’s going to happen.

  “What are you doing here, O’Riley?” Lathrop demanded patiently.

  “Looking for my wife,” Sloan barked.

  Torelli laughed. The soldiers with him joined in. Lathrop shook his head. “She’s dead. Don’t you remember?”

  Sloan stepped up to him until they were nearly touching noses. “The body on the plane wasn’t hers. Which means she’s still alive. You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you? You put my wife’s name on that manifest.” Sloan turned his head to glare at Torelli. “Or maybe you know what I’m talking about.”

  Torelli snorted in disgust as he spun on his toe and strode away from Sloan. The Irishman took a step to follow him, to get answers on Abbey’s disappearance. He froze in his tracks as he heard two soft pops echo from the hills. Torelli’s body jerked wildly before he fell to the ground. Sloan dropped to the dirt to avoid being shot then scrambled to Torelli to see if he was still alive as those around them fled for cover. He caught a glimpse of the soldiers hurrying Lathrop out of sight. Torelli moaned as he covered his shoulder with one hand and his thigh with another.

  Sloan ripped open Torelli’s shirt and examined the quickly blossoming wound. His stomach tightened in a knot and his eyes grew wide as blood seeped from the bullet hole. Soft, slight streaks of pink paint mixed with crimson. Only one person regularly used the pink paintball pellets in this camp. She kept them as a souvenir. He jumped to his feet as a doctor arrived to treat Torelli’s wounds.

  Sloan's gaze scanned the hills for where the shot had come from. His heart thundered in his chest. Pink paintball paint? Could it be?

  He caught sight of a hooded figure in cream-colored robes struggling up the crags in retreat, a sniper rifle firmly in their grip. Without thinking, he started in a sprint after the figure, leaping onto the rocky terrain without slowing down. The faint voices of Bartholomew and Robert echoed behind him as he ran. It was evident the shooter was extremely familiar with the topography, but that fact didn’t stop Sloan from gaining ground. He was stronger, his stride was longer, and he was on a mission. He had to know where the pink paint had come from.

  When he reached the first ridge, he was only yards from the shooter. He pushed himself harder to catch up. Once he was a little over an arm’s length away, he grabbed the attacker’s robe and flung them to the ground. The rifle scuttled away.

  The hooded figure slowly raised their hands in surrender as it flinched from the blazing sun. In the brilliant sunlight, something glinted on a thin, delicate finger. Abbey’s wedding ring. The voice that came from beneath the cloak made Sloan’s heart slam in his chest. It was soft, barely audible, and oh so feminine.

  “I know you’re going to arrest me for what I’ve done. Go ahead. I don’t regret it, and I’m not ashamed. But please grant me one act of mercy. I know you know who my husband is. If you don’t, he is Sloan O’Riley. He was in the camp not long ago working for the CIA. He lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He owns Sloan Enterprises. Please, just tell him that I love him. I love him more than my life. And tell him I am so sorry for hurting him. I was so stupid. Please tell him I am so—” Abbey’s words were cut off by a sob.

  Sloan started to shake as tears welled in his eyes. Kneeling before him was his precious wife. He had thought she was dead. He had mourned her. Now, she was on her knees, preparing to be taken into custody at the hands of a US soldier following orders, and her last thought?

  Me.

  Sloan couldn’t wait any longer. He gripped Abbey’s hood and tore it back. She blinked against the blinding sunlight. Her face was gaunt and darkened from days of living in the sun. “S-s-sloan?”

  “Sloan!”

  He turned to find Bartholomew and Robert peaking the ridge breathlessly.

  “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you realize some terrorist could just shoot you dead up here?” Robert scolded between pants.

  “It’s Abbey!” Sloan shouted. “I found her. She was the one…” He turned back to Abbey so he could pull her up and into his arms. Instead, he found her lying on the ground unconscious.

  Sloan dropped to his knees and gathered her limp body into his embrace. He shook her. “Abigail! Wake up!” Burying his face in the curve of her neck, he pleaded softly for her to revive. “Please, wake up. Please, baby, please. Open your eyes. I can’t lose you now.”

  Robert offered a hand to help Sloan back to his feet. “We need
to get her down to the infirmary now. Up here, we could get attacked. She’s in bad shape. Let’s go.”

  Sloan nodded. Cradling Abbey closer to him, he stood carefully and followed Bartholomew and Robert as they worked their way out of the hills.

  They hurried past the shocked looks of those in camp that recognized Abbey in Sloan’s arms. The air was suddenly filled with whispers. The only voice Sloan wanted near quickly joined him by his side. Sloan cast a sideways glance at Gordon, seeing the anxiousness in the older man’s eyes. Gordon may have only been Abbey’s stepfather, but Sloan knew that as far as Gordon was concerned, Abbey was his little girl.

  Abbey was scooped from Sloan’s embrace and rushed to be examined the moment he stepped into the infirmary. He stood and stared helplessly in the direction she had disappeared. She was alive. Barely. But how much longer would she last?

  Sensing someone approaching him, Sloan turned. Just feet from him was a young man in a wheelchair. He had to be in his early twenties, with short cut, blond hair. He was dressed in hospital scrubs. His left pant leg lay limp and flat against the footrest of the chair. The young man spoke timidly to Sloan. “Sir, was that the sniper who shot Mister Torelli?”

  Sloan huffed a breath. He hadn’t thought of all the trouble Abbey would be in if she did make it. She had just shot a civilian working for the United States Army. A possible traitor, but still employed by the military. “Yes. It is.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “She’s my wife.”

  “Sir, your wife is a hero.”

  Sloan frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “My men and I were out on patrol when out of nowhere we hit a roadside bomb. Fortunately, it was weak, and no one was killed. The worst thing that happened was that I lost my leg. But insurgents were suddenly on top of us. We couldn’t escape. As the insurgents approached, there were shots out of the hills. We thought it was more attacks. We weren’t going to make it out alive. But the enemy started dropping, not us. The rest of them ran. When we checked out the insurgents who were shot to see if they were dead, we found streaks of pink paint in their wounds. Just like Mister Torelli. Had your wife not been there, my men and I would be dead. I owe her my life. I would like to say thank you.”