Page 96 of Cold Target

She paused.

"Kinsman offered me that," she said. "He offered me a seat at the table. A real seat. Not as someone's assistant. Not as someone's secretary. As a partner."

Joe said nothing.

"I didn't know what he was planning," Winthrow said. "Not at first. I thought it was just intelligence work.Counterintelligence. The kind of thing we do every day. By the time I realized what it really was, I was already in too deep."

"You could have stopped," Joe said.

"Could I?" Winthrow asked. "You think I could have just walked away? You think Kinsman would have let me? You think I could have gone to the task force and said, 'By the way, I've been feeding information to a domestic terrorist for six months'?"

She shook her head.

"I was trapped," she said. "And I made a choice. Not a good one, as it’s turning out."

Finally, she looked up.

"What are you going to do about it?" she asked. Her voice was steady, but there was something hollow underneath it.

She looked back at him.

Joe watched her.

"There are several options," he said. "You can turn yourself in. I can turn you in. You can provide justice yourself. Right now. Or I can deliver it on your behalf."

Winthrow stared at the floor.

Her shoulders began to shake.

When she cried, it wasn't loud. It was contained. Embarrassed. The sound of someone who had never planned to lose. The sound of someone who had been hell bent on gaining control and now found herself with none.

After a long moment, she looked up. Her eyes were red, but her voice was steady.

"You know," she said quietly, "I fucked up. But I never did the dirty work myself. I never pulled a trigger. I never planted a bomb. I just made phone calls."

She gave a small, broken smile.

"So… why start now?"

Joe raised the pistol.

He fired once.

The sound was dull and contained, swallowed by the suppressor and the apartment's soft surfaces. A sound like a book dropping on a carpeted floor.

Vanessa Winthrow's head snapped back. A small hole appeared in the center of her forehead, perfectly round, almost surgical. Her body fell sideways onto the sofa, her hand releasing the purse.

The purse hit the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.

The clasp popped open.

A service revolver slid out onto the floor, the blued steel catching the light.

Joe sat there for a moment longer, then lowered the gun.

He stood carefully, favoring his left side, and walked toward the door. He picked up a dish towel from the kitchen counter on his way, wiped down the chair's armrests where his hands had rested, and dropped the towel on the floor.

He opened the door, checked the hallway, and stepped out.