“I’m sorry, Nat. Is Meg okay?” Anderson’s luck was improving by the minute.
She could take care of Elise Courville in DC, drive straight to Baltimore, hit Nat, then fly out of BWI.
“Hoping so. I’m hanging out while she’s in surgery.”
“Oh, Nat. I am so sorry for you and Meg. I know how much she means to you. I’d love to come see you for a bit. Even for a cup of coffee.”
Anderson hoped the emotional tapestry she was weaving was enough to ensnare Nat.
“That would be great. Hate to take you out of your way, but some company would be awesome.”
“Can’t wait, Nat—see you tonight. I’ll take good care of you, I promise.”
* * *
Circumstances now dictated that Rowan Anderson send an SOS to Ming Yu. She parked Elise Courville’s car on a side street in DC and, following the emergency protocol, sent Ming an encrypted message.
The reply was simple: 3D,SHOCK TRAUMA GARAGE,SE CORNER,BLACK CAMRY,PHILLIPS, 2400,E&E.
Those were her orders:Kill Phillips in the garage. At midnight, escape and evade in the black Camry.
CHAPTER 103
Amtrak Maintenance Facility, Washington, DC
The massive Amtrak Maintenance Facility loomed from across Route 50, marked by theWELCOMEsign.
Elise Courville had swallowed Rowan Anderson’s explanation for their trip to the train yard—that the man in Paris “wants us to tell his guy how we’re going to do it. That’s all.”
The train yard, Anderson explained, was the safest place for them to meet because it ran 24/7. Someone was always nearby, she said—leaving out the detail that the Brentwood neighborhood, where gunfire was a part of daily life, was perennially named DC’s most dangerous.
The rail yard provided perfect cover for Anderson’s lethal intent, though navigating their way through the extensive construction on the facility’s north side proved difficult.
They crept along until the Peugeot found the gate in the chain-link fence surrounding the construction site.
Anderson was in hunter mode, her killing senses on highalert. This was a perfect spot to end the life of Elise Courville—ambassador’s daughter, senator’s wife, terrorist co-conspirator.
If Anderson felt any emotion about what she was going to do, she didn’t show it. Somehow she had always managed to talk Courville down from the ledge of her perpetual anxiety. She would lend the frightened woman her welcome strength and support this one final time.
“The message said the gate would be unlocked—just pull on the padlock and it’ll open. We can drive in and he’ll come to us. Would you get the gate, Elise?”
“They always want to meet in the nastiest places,” Courville half joked as she got out of the car.
Anderson kept her eyes on the woman as she screwed the suppressor onto her pistol. When the other woman tugged on the lock with no success, she mouthed,It’s locked. Then, true to form, Elise Courville turned to Rowan Anderson for guidance.
Anderson opened her window and told her to try again.
Courville tugged on the padlock a few more times, then shook her head in frustration.
“Come here and let me see if I can call him,” Anderson said, holding up her cell phone in her left hand.
Courville trudged over to the driver’s side and put her hands on the roof of the Peugeot, leaning toward Anderson’s open window.
Anderson looked up and noticed that her target was scanning the rail yard for potential threats. “You’re learning,” Anderson told her protégée. “But it’s a little too late for that.”
Rowan Anderson squeezed three rounds into Elise Courville’s chest, then put the car in Reverse and backed up a few feet, turning the wheel to the left to avoid running over the dead woman.
She leaned over to the passenger side and lifted Courville’s Birkin bag from the floorboard. Being the kind of person who might fly to Monte Carlo on a whim, Rowan knew, Courville carried her passport everywhere she went.
