The assassin said, “Farewell, my friend.”
Staring down the silenced Beretta’s dark eye shoved the last hour into rewind. The key had slid into the side door of a gray, grime-streaked building and turned. Jack eased the heavy door shut, steel cold beneath his glove, and slipped into the narrow hall. Silence pressed in, chemical-tinged and sterile. From somewhere in the lobby, a bit of tin-can elevator music wobbled through the air. Wrong place for cheer.
He moved down the hallway, the polished tile gleaming under the fluorescent lights, checking doors as he went. He paused at the intersection, listening. Nothing.
Jack’s stomach lurched. These weren’t sleeping bodies—they were dead, blood pooling beneath them. No casualties, they’d sworn. He stepped over the corpses, their coppery stench sharp in the air. The alarm hadn’t gone off. Good. At least they had that. Jack moved two doors down and paused again. A noise? Upstairs? He went forward and found the stairwell door. He looked both ways and ducked in.
He let the door close softly behind him, the faint thump swallowed by the building’s quiet. A radio played on a classical station in the lobby. He checked for movement on the other floors. Nothing. He descended the stairs, hesitating at each landing, the concrete walls growing colder with each level. There was the door with three on it; that was the one. He entered and halted on the other side, watching and listening. So far, so good, he thought. Well, except for the casualties upstairs.
Jack walked down the hallway and stopped before each door. It was quiet down here. Too quiet. Jack paused at an office door. A corpse slumped over a desk, monitor glow casting shadows across its bloodied shirt. They were supposed to be out cold, not dead. What was Clint doing? Had he lost his mind? So many corpses left too many clues for the police. They’d get caught. He had to finish and get out fast.
Jack’s pulse raced, the corpses flashing in his mind. The gas should’ve knocked everyone out—vaccines kept him and Clint clear. Had Clint lost his mind, or was this deliberate? He looked both ways and continued. A sign pointed to the lab. This had to be it. He tried a key. No luck. The silence pressed heavier here. He strained for any sound. Another key. Nothing. They’d changed the lock. Had Clint tipped them off? He had to move fast.
Jack jimmied the door to the storeroom while he watched both directions and hoped he was quiet enough. He entered and closed the door, and it creaked as it latched. The shelves were full of boxes of different shapes and sizes, the air here feeling stagnant, carrying the faint aroma of decaying paper and old plastic. He knew the one he wanted and scanned the shelves. He found it and removed it from the shelf. Sweat trickled down his temple. He shone his small flashlight into the empty space where the box had been. Nothing. What was he to do now? His objective was not there.
He replaced it and pulled random boxes out, checking behind them. It had to be here. He stopped cold. What was that? A door shutting? He waited. The eerie quiet covered him like a shroud of snow on a winter day. He investigated further. There it was. The safe was in the supply room. He listened again.
The safe was still shut. He dug into his vest for the crumpled paper. Glove tips slipped. He tore them off, bare skin prickling in the chill. The paper was brittle, greasy, alive in his hand. Something creaked down the hall—maybe real, maybe nerves. His breath rasped loud as a saw. His heart, a drum beneath his ribs. He dialed the first number. He dialed the second number and froze again. That faint noise. Was it his imagination? He trembled slightly and dialed the last number. He heard a click and smiled. He turned the handle, and the door swung free. He reached in and withdrew the small metallic container, its surface smooth and unnervingly cold against his palm. This was the one. The markings proved it. This was the coveted box. He could retire after this.
The door slammed open. Clint filled the frame, grinning, Beretta steady in his hand. The air carried the tang of fresh gunpowder—he’d fired recently. Maybe seconds ago.
Clint smiled. “Farewell, my friend.”
The words stung more than the gun.
