Page 44 of Agency

“That’s fair. But, you should have notified us that you changed hotels if you felt unsafe.”

“I said I was just being cautious.”

“You were being impulsive.”

“How’d you even find me?”

“You don’t think we have our ways?”

What could those be? Tracking license plates? The signal on my burners?

“Well, even if I changed rooms, you could have still just picked up the phone and saved us some hassle.”

“Not for this, I couldn’t.”

“‘This?’” I asked, fighting the urge to turn and look back at her. “What’s ‘this?’”

Another page turn. “Check beside your seat.” A long pause. “I’m sorry.”

Frowning, I glanced down. Sure enough, next to my chair’s leg was a leather briefcase bag that had been almost invisible from a standing vantage point. I pulled the satchel into my lap and opened it. Inside was a manila folder, a bundle of new identification documents, a silenced .22 Ruger, and two boxes of subsonic hollow points.

Another client. She wanted me to visit another fucking client. And my client visit would be a wetworks operation, no less, in a town I’d already seen a client in.

“You’re fucking sorry?” I hissed as I closed the briefcase. “Are you trying to get me caught, or something? Or just killed?”

First rule of clearing a contract on someone? Leave town. You don’t necessarily need to do leave immediately, but you do need to get out soon. That’s why my flight was scheduled to leave in an hour.

“No, I’m not trying to do either of those things. You know that. But this one is time sensitive, Ambyr, and you’re the closest operative. So it’s on you.”

At the use of my given name, I sat stunned for a moment, my anger seeming to hang in limbo. When was the last time someone had actually used my Christian name? Carmen, Candice, Yvette… When was the last time someone had spoken the name “Ambyr” when referring to me?

“But I already did a job in town,” I said after I’d recovered. “I’m out of here and headed home.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not the case at the moment.”

“You know that’s against basic protocol.” I paused. “Common sense, too.”

“I know.” Her words were clipped and cold, even more so than usual, and I was beginning to get the sense that this wasn’t her decision in the slightest. “But, Management needs this done. The closest operatives we have are M-2406 in Chicago, and they’re unable to make it into town till Monday because of their own contractual obligations. And that’s too late. Besides, this city seems nice, and I don’t think you want M-2406 coming in.”

Operator, operative, violent nomads. The terms were all the same. Euphemisms for trained killers that could move across borders, and through the world, without a trace.

But that’s what I was, wasn’t I? I’d been one for how long, now?

Hell, I had a place I leased, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept there for any longer than a week. If that wasn’t nomadic, I didn’t know what was.

And M-2406. God, she was right. St. Louis was far too nice of a city to let those animals down here. Joergensen, their squad leader, was a real psycho. I mean, what the fuck kind of assassin always insists on having an Audi as his rental?

Was he who I’d end up like if I stayed in this long enough? Was Joergensen the kind of future I had to look forward to? Because I couldn’t handle that… No way.

“I want out,” I blurted.

She didn’t respond. Not at first. Maybe I’d shocked her as much as I’d just shocked myself with that outburst, because the only sounds coming from her now were the soft whispers of theWSJ’sflipping pages.

But getting out was what I wanted. And hadn’t that been one of the first things Valerie had taught me all those years ago? To speak my mind, and take care of my needs?

“If this is about money, I can trying speaking to Management. Increase your fee on this one. Double it, even.”

“No,” I said. “I need out. Not just want, Valerie. Need, with a capital ‘n.’ I can’t do this anymore.”