Page 35 of The Wolves Come at Night
“Retired. Your best assassin retired. Is that supposed to make me feel safer?”
“Oui,” he said with a small French shrug, flexing his hand in memory. She saw the tip of his finger, the one Angelie had removed, had been expertly reattached—in no small part thanks to Taylor’s quick actions when the injury was inflicted. “She is of no consequence to you. Angelie exorcised her demons. While she is one to hold a grudge if the matter is, shall we say, personal, I know for a fact she does not harbor ill will toward you. You were doing your job. She was doing hers.”
“I shot the woman, Thierry. That’s pretty damn personal.”
“Angelie is not an issue,” he said with an air of finality. If he was lying, he was very good at it.
The server took that moment to approach the table, breaking the spell. They ordered and talked of things more general while their meal was served. It was only when the plates were empty and Florian glanced at his watch that Taylor circled back to their earlier conversation.
“You aren’t thinking I’m going to be a hired gun, are you, Thierry? Because I won’t go any further if you think you can put a weapon in my hand and send me out to take a life. That’s not who I am, and we both know it. I have no interest in ridding the world of these losers myself. I’m only in this if you can guarantee you will never ask it of me. I have spent my entire career trying to save lives. It’s not negotiable.” When he didn’t reply, she said, “Tell me this is bigger than that.”
He took one last sip of wine. “It is bigger. The world is at risk. All the time, constantly, threats emerge. Some are state-sponsored. Some are individual. When you see what’s happening out there, Taylor, when you see what we face on a daily basis, the tragedies we manage to avert…” His sigh was deep and melancholic. “I need you. I need you both, yes, but I need you. I want to reshape the narrative, and I want to do it well. Diplomacy doesn’t work. People talk and talk and nothing happens, and meanwhile, dark forces gain strength from all quarters. Losing Angelie has been a blow, it’s true, but you won’t be filling her shoes. Anyone can be trained to kill. And you won’t be asked to take a life unless you are in grave danger and there is no other option.”
“That’s a relief.”
He waved his hand. “And this is exactly why we need you. Not everyone can chart a new path, find solutions to the hard problems. You can. I’ve seen you do it. You aren’t afraid to take risks, you’re smart, and people gravitate to you. You are the finest investigator I’ve ever met.”
“Flattery isn’t necessary, Thierry. If you knew me at all, you’d know I don’t respond to manipulation.”
“All right. Let’s talk reality. What I’m offering you is complete autonomy. Once you’re up to speed, it’s all on you. Your decisions, your team members, your cases. I will, of course, want to work with you from time to time, perhaps give you some guidance, but you will call the shots. I’m offering you a life of proactive law enforcement, Taylor. Stop the crimes before they happen, on an epic scale. You’ll be brilliant at this. I promise.”
She took another mouthful of wine. Before she could chicken out, she swallowed and nodded. “When would you need me?”
“Yesterday.”
“I have to solve a missing person case first.”
“There are many people who can step into your shoes. There will be this case, then another, then another. They will never end. You will never be truly finished. And you are needed, Taylor. We need you now.”
“Carson Conway’s need for me comes first. There’s no way I’m walking out on this case, so don’t ask again. And I still want to run all of this past Baldwin. We’ve talked about this, but not with all the details. I need to be sure he’s totally on board. The moment I’m sure, and my case is closed, I’ll tender my resignation and be on a plane. Deal?”
Florian toasted her, grinning like a pirate. “Deal.”
Seventeen
Thursday: Washington, DC
Angelie Delacroix disembarked from the charted private jet with a single bag in her hand. She went through the motions of handing over her legend’s passport and getting it stamped, then entered the car waiting on the tarmac. As it moved toward downtown DC, she reapplied her lipstick and got her things in order. The city was so busy—always had been, but it seemed even more so now. Externally unchanged by time or enemy, Washington seemed vaguely romantic to her, though she despised each and every one of the leaders the people of this country had recently voted into office.
None of the new ones had been as good for business as the ones a decade earlier. With the threats moving online and pushback from the ever-more-politically correct electorates, her job had gotten harder, not easier. Moving around was more difficult than ever; electronic surveillance had multiplied exponentially over the past few years, which meant she had to disguise herself well to travel unseen through the cities and countries she visited. Even then, beating the AI was becoming harder. People in her line of work didn’t usually last long enough to be affected by these sorts of changes. They certainly rarely, if ever, secured a genuine retirement. Angelie thought of herself as a very hardy cat, though she suspected her multiple lives were running out.
The old Angelie enjoyed this dressing up, camouflaging herself. Enjoyed the challenge of evading capture, of inhabiting the skin of another for a time. She didn’t want to admit to herself the small thrill she’d had when choosing her identity for this emergency trip to the States. This persona was always fun.
Today, she was dressed in rich fabrics with a tailored jacket, tall boots, and pearls, capped off with a wildly curly auburn wig. A bright red lip, large black sunglasses. She stood out, but for all the right reasons. It was sometimes easier to disappear behind a more flamboyant persona—and the uber-rich, uber-beautiful Sònia Masot-Mallofré was one of her favorite masks. She hadn’t become Sònia for many years—fitting, as Angelie herself had aged as well. Sònia had taken a small mental health vacation in the South Aegean four years earlier and hadn’t returned to the scene. After a small emotional breakdown exacerbated by a raging addiction to Adderall and clear tequilas, she’d chosen to stay on the island to continue her recovery in sun-soaked solitude. Sònia was brash, and not a little unbalanced, a perfect combination. People remembered Sònia. Angelie could disappear into the fabric of the city while this alter ego held court in the hotel.
Forty minutes later, the Town Car crossed the Key Bridge into Georgetown, snaking down M Street through Foggy Bottom and into the city proper. White marble buildings whispered secrets as she passed by. The core of DC had not changed since she last saw it, outside of the fences everywhere holding back knots of tourists and malcontents both. There was a small group of protestors gathered in front of the White House, colorful signs and raised fists bobbing in time. She had no idea what they were demonstrating about—it seemed all of the world was engaged in some form of protest, from her own France to America to Australia to Hong Kong, an entire generation unsettled by cultural change, sweeping technological advances, terrifying biological attacks, and their own self-worship. Perpetual misery, must take it out on all around. Sometimes she was glad of retirement.
Stepping from the car without a word, she barely glanced at the full set of Louis Vuitton hardback suitcases being unloaded from the trunk. She shifted her bag onto her shoulder, and, as befitted the woman she’d become, swept into the hotel like a tidal wave, gathered her key, dropped a few hundreds into the hands of the desk clerk and concierge who’d arrayed themselves to meet her, ordered bottles of Perrier-Jouët to be brought up to the room, and disappeared into the elevator, almost without breaking stride. The Willard knew what to expect when Sònia Masot-Mallofré arrived and made things as seamless as possible. Her entrance was that of undercover royalty, a rock star, a movie mogul. Everyone now knew she was here.
The game had begun.
Full of a single glass of the delicious rosé Champagne, half a sleeve of water crackers, and a bag of almonds, Angelie showered, changed—this time into slim jeans and a sweater, her hair in a chic black bob—and pulled the key to the room below out of her handbag. It had been inside the smallest of the Vuitton cases, nestled against a suppressor and a Ruger Mark IV .22. Having divested herself of Sònia, she tested the weapon, screwing on the suppressor, making sure the sights were in order, slapping in a magazine and doing a press check, then removed the suppressor, tucked it into the zippered makeup panel of the purse she was carrying, and slipped the pistol into a sleek, worn, molded-to-her-ribs harness. She tucked a knife into her boot in the slot built for it, looked in the mirror to make sure nothing was amiss. She was a ghost again. Perfect.
She set all of her traps to ensure no one entered the suite while she was taking care of business, and left through the back entrance. She was down the flight of stairs and into the spare room moments later.
Santiago was waiting. They didn’t touch, though she was surprised to feel the urge for contact. It had been a long time, and Santi had been a good friend. Once.
“I thought I told you to take her in my back door?”
