Читать книгу Perfect Assassin - Wendy Rosnau - Страница 7

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.

“This one was easy for you—good way to begin,” 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 he’d 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.

“Ja, perfection is a beautiful thing,” 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 Prisca’s 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 father’s signature gun disassembled inside—his pride and joy, and now hers.

“The shot,” Otto began, “was—”

“On target. Let’s leave it at that.” Prisca didn’t hide the edge in her voice. She wasn’t 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.

“It’ll get easier,” he soothed, as if he had read her thoughts. “Bromly 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.”

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, “How do you know that?”

“I’m paid to know these things. But you don’t 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.”

“All right. I’ve done my job, and I’m letting go. It was a good shot. No more need be said.”

“The shot was better than good. What it was, Miss Pris, was absolute perfection. It is a beautiful thing to watch, your father’s gun in your hands. You’re magnificent.”

Prisca ignored the silly nickname he had given her years ago and was glad when Otto put the car into Drive and sped away from the curb.

She had told herself she could do this, not to think about the act or the victim. Still, her sage-brown eyes searched the market square, a mix of emotions altering her breathing.

An elderly woman carrying a brown shopping bag had stopped near the body. At first she simply stood there staring, then suddenly she started to scream and point to Bromly sprawled between two merchant vendors.

He lay on his side, a paper cup of spilt coffee beside him. His left hand still clutched a market bag. The soles of his shoes were visible, as well as his bare ankles—Alton wasn’t wearing socks this morning.

“Yes, everything about you is perfect, Miss Pris,” Otto continued, completely ignoring the sound of a police siren and the growing pandemonium in the square. “Never think I take it, or your father’s faith in my ability to protect such perfection, for granted. It’s an honor. To know one’s purpose in life…it settles the soul, and focuses the mind. You are my purpose, Miss Pris, and I pledge unconditional devotion to you in all things. Whatever you require, you need only to ask. Anything and everything I have is yours.”

Still blind to the mayhem in the market square, Otto steered the sedan past the growing crowd. They would leave Czechoslovakia and head back to Austria. Stay in the flat Otto had secured in Vienna. She would rest and try not to think about her sobering new profession, while Otto began detailing the next hit.

“You were meticulously precise, Miss Pris. Not too anxious. That’s the key. Perfection can’t be rushed. An artist is what you are. The way you—”

“Otto…please.”

“That old Brit’s cerebrum was mush before his knees hit the—”

“Trust me, I know the power behind a SS109.”

“Trust you? Of course, Miss Pris. With my life. And you know you can trust me with yours. I would die for you.” He glanced at her, his eyes full of emotion.

She knew it was true. Otto would die for her because he loved her. Ja, it was in the eyes, and she had always been good at reading the eyes. Yes, love, she saw it there now, and each time she caught him staring. And she saw something else, too—hope that one day she would return that love.

But she wouldn’t ever feel that way about him. Otto was like the brother she’d never had. He was thirty, eleven years older than she was.

She closed her eyes, and rested her head on the seat. Rubbed her forehead.

“If your headache is still bothering you, there’s a bottle of pills in the glove compartment. And water there, between the seats.”

“Thank you. Can we talk about something else?”

“You’re right. Let’s forget about Bromly. He’s history. Number two awaits us in Italy, in three weeks. An American by the name of Walrich. And like Bromly, his self-serving activities have marked him for death. Then we’re off to Poland, followed by Germany and Vancouver after that. Once we’ve finished with the first ten on the list we will take a break to let the trail grow cold. Be thinking where you want to go.” He turned and smiled at her. “I vote for someplace warm. We’ll call it a vacation.”

Prisca didn’t say anything. She wasn’t going to Poland with him after Italy. But she would let him make the flight plans and all the arrangements. Otto wouldn’t understand or appreciate what she’d been contemplating for weeks. After all, he was loyal to her father’s wishes. He bore the title of controller now. A detail man who had one primary goal—to stay on schedule and to make sure she performed perfectly.

Let Otto think she was content with the schedule that had been laid out. But things had changed since the kill-file had been composed. Tragedy had struck her life, and at the moment Otto’s focus was not hers.

Bromly may have deserved to die, but she knew of two men who deserved it more. She wasn’t abandoning her father’s instructions, or his all-important mission, just altering the line-up. Those on the list would still die, she had made a promise, and she, too, was loyal. But what difference could it make if someone lived a few weeks longer and someone else died a few weeks sooner? What would it matter if she hit number twelve and twenty-one ahead of schedule? In the end justice would still be served.

Only Otto wouldn’t understand, or agree to altering the line-up. He would remind her of their promise to each other, and to her father.

True, they were bound together by tragedy and circumstance. Her mother had died on Glass Mountain, and Otto’s father Jakob had sacrificed his life as well.

Prisca hugged herself, feeling the chill of loneliness wrap its cold fingers around her. Her life had been ripped apart—her family destroyed. She had a right to alter the schedule. She had a right to seek justice for what had been taken from her.

The revenge she sought might not be sweet, but it was necessary. Not for peace of mind—there would never again be room for solace in her heart—but she needed the finality in order to move forward.

The only sure thing in her life was the legacy her father had left behind. She was her father’s daughter, the daughter of Holic Reznik, and she would not fail him.

Practice makes perfect, he had always told her. She had taken the words to heart that day at Groffen when she’d raised her rifle and drilled the paper target with supreme accuracy. It had proven to her father that she’d been listening, demonstrated what dedication and patience could accomplish.

And it had confirmed that she was her father’s daughter in every way that was important.

“To you, Mother, I promise eternal love, and to you, Father, undying loyalty.” Prisca felt her heart constrict, felt the pain bone-deep. “And to those who took both of you from me, I promise death.”