"Good. Means you're thinking. Preparation is everything." He coughed—deep, rattling. "Your handler will arrive in one hour. Follow his instructions exactly. Understood?"
"Yeah."
"And Drogo?" A pause. "She's still safe. For now."
The line went dead.
My hands shook.
Not from fear.
From picturing her waiting for a call that wouldn't come.
The burner buzzed again immediately. Text message. A photo.
Alena.
In her London flat—kitchen window, wine glass in hand, moonlight catching her dark hair. She looked small. Alone. Waiting.
The angle was close. Too close. Whoever took this had been standing right there. Within reach.
I deleted the photo.
As if that would erase the fact that someone had stood close enough to breathe her air.
It didn't matter. It was burned into my brain now—proof that they could reach her anytime they wanted.
• • •
The handler arrived exactly one hour later.
Tall. Mid-forties. Shaved head. A face that didn't belong to someone who apologized. Eyes that had stopped feeling things a long time ago. He didn't introduce himself. Just handed me a manila folder and said, "Read."
I opened it.
Photos of the target. Different angles, different days. Leaving his brownstone in the Upper East Side. Getting into a black Mercedes. Walking his dog—some small yapping thing on a designer leash.
Behind the photos: his routine. Morning runs. Office hours. Mistress twice weekly. Thursday nights—private poker game, illegal, rotating locations.
Everything I'd need to kill him.
"Today we watch," the handler said in accented English. "Tomorrow we plan. Friday night, you execute."
You execute Friday.
The words landed like stones in my gut.
"What if I say no?"
He pulled out his phone. Showed me another photo.
Alena again. Different angle. Closer. This one taken through her window in London—zoomed in on her face, the thin blue of early morning soft on her cheek.
"You won't," he said simply.
• • •
We left an hour later. Different car—nondescript sedan, New York plates. He drove. I sat passenger side, the folder heavy in my lap.
