She would stay until the weekend and then disappear.
Sheâd been at Moonâs house almost a month and it was past time she moved out. Her ankle had mended, and Moon had removed the stitches last night.
She needed to get back to her own life. But it wouldnât be easy to leave Moonâs cabin. She had become comfortable living with him. And she was more than attracted to him. She looked forward to seeing him each morning, sharing his day. She was forgetting who she was, and in a frightening way that felt good.
When she left Moonâs home she would miss his jeans hugging his hips, and the way his flannel shirts outlined his strong shoulders and sturdy back. But mostly she would miss his generosity and the way his deep voice always turned soft when he spoke to her. How he dragged out the word honey.
He said it like she was important to him. Like he really cared what happened to her. What would he do if he found out the truth?
It was a three-hundred-yard, kiss-your-ass-goodbye shot. The rifle, an Austrian Steyr AUG with a history for accuracy at twice as many yards.
The assassin took aim as the red handkerchief drifted on the cool morning breeze. It floated, lifted then settled on the ground in a graceful, almost poetic swan song. A synchronized second later, a slender finger with a neatly trimmed pink nail squeezed the trigger.
The bullet struck the British Intelligence agent in the right temple, and before Alton Bromly hit the pavement in the middle of Sloup svate Trojice, the assassin disappeared off the rooftop of the Moravske Muzeum in Brno, mentally crossing number one off the list.
Minutes later, the assassin walked through the market square to a parked brown sedan and climbed into the passenger seat. There, Prisca Reznik pulled off her black stocking cap and shook out her raven-black layers.
âThis one was easy for youâgood way to begin,â the driver said, tucking the red handkerchief into his pocket.
Otto was an analytical man. Maybe not the best shot in his own right, but heâd been in the business long enough to know perfection when he saw it, so he had told Prisca. During her months of practice he had stood behind her, analyzing each shot. Praising her talent, and squeezing her shoulder.
âJa, perfection is a beautiful thing,â he muttered as he tossed the remains of an orange out the open window, then took the compact leather gun case off her lap and lifted it over the seat and into the back.
He was all about taking care of her. A task that he seemed to enjoy since Priscaâs father had hired him. For three months he had attended to everything, from where they would sleep each night to what they would eat each morning.
A multi-task expert, he had become her mother, father, friend, bodyguard and controller for each assassination.
Prisca tossed the stocking cap into the back seat. It landed on the black leather gun case. Her fatherâs signature gun disassembled insideâhis pride and joy, and now hers.
âThe shot,â Otto began, âwasââ
âOn target. Letâs leave it at that.â Prisca didnât hide the edge in her voice. She wasnât experienced in the art of killing, and it would take some time to feel good about her new profession.
She pulled the seat belt around her narrow waist and buckled up. Staring out the window, she heard him expel a heavy sigh.
âItâll get easier,â he soothed, as if he had read her thoughts. âBromly was a double agent. He was weak in character and in morals. A man who would sell his mother to a glue factory to increase his bank account.â
The comment was meant to make her feel better, and in an odd way it did. Her own mother was gone and she was sensitive about anything that had to do with family.
She asked, âHow do you know that?â
âIâm paid to know these things. But you donât need to concern yourself with unimportant details. Our mission has been authorized, and we do what we must. Government assassins make sacrifices. Remember the cause when you pull the trigger, then let it go.â
âAll right. Iâve done my job, and Iâm letting go. It was a good shot. No more need be said.â
âThe shot was better than good. What it was, Miss Pris, was absolute perfection. It is a beautiful thing to watch, your fatherâs gun in your hands. Youâre magnificent.â