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“About what. We had the woman checked out, correct?”
“Absolutely, you saw the reports yourself.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“I see how you look at her.”
Waller slowed to a fast walk on the treadmill. “You see how I look at her?” he said questioningly.
“Please don’t be upset, Evan. It’s just that in the past you—”
The next instant Rice lay on the floor, blood flowing from his mouth. Waller stood over him, his hand cut from where it had struck the other man’s tooth.
Waller bent down and pulled Rice to his feet. “Put some ice on that before it starts to swell,” he said calmly.
“I was only trying to protect you,” Rice stammered, clutching his jaw.
“If I were in need of protection that would be admirable. However, I am not.” Waller stared fiercely at the other man. “You are my associate, Alan. You are my underling. Never forget your place. You are not and never will be my equal. Do you understand precisely what I am telling you?”
“I understand.”
Waller put an arm around his shoulders. “Good, then we will speak of this no more.”
Rice left to put ice on his injured jaw, leaving Waller alone to stare moodily out the window. He would never allow anyone to question his judgment or authority. Rice had come very close to doing both. Had there been anyone else in the room to hear this, Waller probably would have ordered his “right-hand man” put to death. However, he had displayed an alarming degree of independence just now, truly alarming.
And yet was there truth in his words? Did he need protection, essentially from himself? Yes, he was infatuated with Jane Collins; many men would be. Her close proximity aided in that infatuation. Yet it was much more than that. The woman was resisting him—now, that was the challenge. She was independent, outspoken, stubborn, unwilling to be led or manipulated. Waller found that he wanted desperately to possess her.
And he would. Of that he was convinced.
CHAPTER
55
REGGIE ROSE early and swam in the pool before first light had broken. It was usually this way with her on the final day of a mission. She always did something pleasurable, as it might be the last day of her life. The water felt cool against her skin as she sliced through it, counting her strokes, taking her practiced breaths. She didn’t bother to see if anyone was spying on her from the villa next door. It didn’t matter anymore.
She finished, went inside, up the corkscrew stairs to her bathroom, and stripped off her bikini. The next instant she whirled to stare at the far corner of the space.
She was sure she’d heard something, seen a shadow lingering… But there was nothing.
She locked the door and took a shower, letting the hot water slide over her, seeing if it could overwhelm the chills. She was nervous before the end of every mission, when the person she planned to kill would discover who she really was.
She thought now of Bill Young. She knew she shouldn’t have gone to see him. Yet something inside her, perhaps deeper than she had cared to delve for a long time, had forced her to do so. It wouldn’t matter now. After today, none of it would matter. What she felt. Or what he felt. They would never see each other again. She caught her gaze in the mirror as she recalled the spark between them when their hands touched. How he looked at her. How she had to work so hard to control herself around him.
Stop it, Reggie. Just stop it now.
She dried her hair and dressed in slacks, sneakers, and a loose-fitting shirt over a tank top with a bandanna in her hair. The shoes were a practical choice in case she had to run. The bandanna conceivably could be used as a garrote. Yet if it came to that desperate recourse, her chances of survival were very low. The mental images of Fedir Kuchin’s victims, housed in her brain for weeks now, paraded past her.
Today is for all of you, she thought.
She looked out her window onto the cobbled path below. People on foot were already starting up the hill to the market. They looked happy, eager, excited. She was all those things too; well, perhaps not happy, not yet. Small cars and vans moved slowly past, their wares crammed into the tiny spaces. As she stood there, first Whit and then Dom trudged past carrying large duffels. Neither man looked up at her. In a few moments they were gone from her sight. The new wrinkle Whit had added was a brilliant one, she thought. Now all she had to do was execute it properly.
She closed the window, went downstairs, and made her coffee. She lingered over the cup and the toast and fried eggs she’d made. She kept taking steady breaths, willing away any nerves, going over the plan again and again both for reassurance and also as a way to minimize any potential mistakes. She had met one final time with Whit and Dom and they had taken her through the revised plan. The equipment Dom had purchased in Avignon would work perfectly. Everything was loaded and ready to go. Each man complimented her on the idea.
“Makes for a right fitting show for old Kuchin,” Whit had said.
“A right fitting show,” repeated Reggie now as she washed her cup and dishes and set them back in the cabinet.
She walked to the terrace and watched as the sun marched upward, firing the sky. The ridge of mountains and the plain of the valley came alive as though administered a transfusion of fresh blood. Reggie’s nerves faded, her breathing returned to normal, and her features became determined and finally set in stone. It was time.
