Page 26 of Every Last Breath

He tore out of her condo, slamming the door.

Panic snapped along her nerves.

Years ago, an explosive argument would have led to even more explosive, sheet-clawing sex. But neither had ever walked away when they fought, much less stormed out.

She roped her arm around herself against the vicious ache. “I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself,” she whispered the D. H. Lawrence poem. “A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.”

Raising her chin, she summoned self-possession, getting her shit together, and went to call Gideon and Reece.

Chapter 08

Maryland

11:56 p.m. EDT

Gunpowder-gray clouds roiled across the black tarp of sky, occluding the spotlight of the moon and legion of stars as Aleksander paddled the stolen canoe into Whitehall Bay.

The water was calm, no waves buffeting the small boat. Darkness of the lazy night enveloped him like an old friend in welcome. The luxury homes sprawled along the shore had expansive parcels of forested land in between. One man’s myopic desire for absolute privacy had paved a path slick as black ice for Aleksander to put him in the grave.

He moored the canoe in the shadow of an overhanging oak. Spanish moss draped the low boughs with dense webs, and a damp resinous scent perfumed the thick night air. Wrapping the rope from the boat around the tree trunk, he tied a clove hitch knot. He pulled the hood of his camouflage suit over his head. The lightweight, polyester mesh ghillie was covered in over a thousand synthetic leaves patterned after deep, shady woodlands.

Silent as fog rolling in, Aleksander waded through high grass, weaving past trees. The army had taught him how to blend in and disappear. He had thirty years practice in vanishing.

His footsteps were light, his movements ghostly. A massive oak tree on the wood line, with wide outstretched branches like the gnarled fingers of a giant, gave him a clean sight line to the back of the gated mansion where the bedrooms faced the bay and pool. He took out a night vision monocular with laser range finder and confirmed the distance. Fifty meters.

Longest shot he’d ever made was at two thousand, and he made every shot he took.

A deadeye.

He slung the rifle strap over his shoulder, climbed the tree, and situated himself on a sturdy limb in a prone position. Pulling the charging handle, he chambered a round. He used his pack to support the barrel and rested the butt on a beanbag, eliminating any concerns of muscle fatigue.

The leaves shivered around him, the breeze whispering across the grass. More interminable waiting. He emptied his mind and visualized the Osumi Canyon, the river running through his mountainous hometown of Berat. Mild white-water rapids, pockmarked slopes of the canyon, small caves, verdant vegetation so picturesque, heaven had reached down to kiss the limestone cliffs of the gorge. The Grand Canyon of Albania. His wife’s special place.

He flinched as the images invaded. His wife, Sonia, and little Mila, his beloved darlings. He always pictured them as he’d last seen them. Broken. Bruised. Bloodied. In pieces.

Not only were they murdered, but his memories of them had also been butchered.

The demon in his head seethed. Eyes dark like two pits of charred earth, it foamed at the mouth. Rabid to rip out jugulars. It begged. Oh, how it begged to be unchained, to make the world its playground and bathe in blood.

No, no. Aleksander couldn’t free it. That wouldn’t be payback. It’d be madness. He hadn’t fallen so far down the slippery slope not to discern the difference.

Shhh, Levik. Some men named their cocks. He had named his demon.

Aleksander inserted earbuds and played a little Handel to center them. Sarabande.

He’d feed Levik soon, when the target strolled the property for his morning wind bath before a swim. Aleksander would be one step closer, but neither one of them would be fully appeased until D-day.

Chapter 09

Maryland

Thursday, 5:25 a.m. EDT

Sunlight fractured the concrete sky. Cool air rushed over Cole.

After riding all night on the I-495 loop, the Capital Beltway—a sixty-four-mile stretch of freeway encircling Washington, DC, winding through Virginia and Maryland—the roar of his bike had anesthetized his bitter rage. A long, hard ride was the best form of self-medicating, more addictive than booze. But his thoughts still whirred as if his mind were caught in a blender.

His attempt at shut-eye in a dingy dive motel in Silver Spring had been torture. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Maddox. She’d baited him. Lured him to her apartment under questionable and possibly reprehensible circumstances. Where he could stay and be safe.