Endgame Read online

  “I think the word is ‘assassinated.’” Lucien clucked his tongue. “How much time did it buy John? A few hours, at most. Now here you are, hot on the trail.” His lips curved in the barest trace of a smile. “You’re very angry with him now.”

  “That’s none of your goddamn business.”

  “If you say so.” Lucien fell silent, half smile fixed in place, and steered the skimmer over rock formations and across ravines with practiced ease.

  Still several kilometers from the Karistos outskirts, there was little to see besides bare land. Jani took note of the odd house that broke up the monotony, but these appeared un-inhabited and, judging from their ruined appearance, uninhabitable.

  “This area’s prone to quakes,” Lucien said, as though reading her thoughts. “The land around here has shifted over the years, and some people didn’t choose their building sites very carefully.” He pointed out a one-story white stone box that had collapsed in the center as though a giant had stepped on it. “A two-meter crevasse opens up beneath your sitting room—there goes the couch.”

  Jani heard the skimmer motor hum lower in pitch as the vehicle slowed. “You didn’t bring me out here to show me wrecked houses, did you?”

  “Just one wrecked house in particular.” Lucien slowed to a stop near yet another one-story white box, this one half buried thanks to the collapse of a sheltering overhang. “Although I checked out every abandoned homestead in this general area.”

  Jani popped her gullwing and disembarked the skimmer. Despite having lived the last two years in the thick of Commonwealth society, she still saw things through the eyes of the fugitive she had been. Secluded, but half the view blocked by rocks…couldn’t see someone approaching from the direction of Karistos…the outcropping offers too good a hiding place for an intruder. She would have struck the place from her list, but knew she wasn’t looking at it the right way. Look at the place through the eyes of a killer. The blocked views still bothered her, but the seclusion seemed more desirable now. “Where did they park their skimmer?”

  “Up the road a little. There’s a niche with some overhanging shrubbery. They broke off branches and used them for coverage.” Lucien drew his shooter and activated it. The high-pitched hum sliced the air, highlighting the quiet. “There are a few sets of footprints around the place. Some bits of trash.” He stopped in the doorway, examined the interior, then stepped inside. “Careful what you touch. It’s been wiped with a protein bomb, and there’s still some of the residue about.” He drew a lightstick from inside his weatherall and activated it. Soft illumination rose slowly, casting weird shadows on the walls and ceiling.

  Jani trailed him into the house. The interior proved even less inviting than the outside. Cracked walls. Rubble-strewn floors.

  But at the far end, a window that allowed an expansive view of the bay and the curve of cliffs beyond, trimmed by a wide, rock-strewn sill.

  Jani walked to the spot, on the lookout for disturbances in the dust, anything that could serve to confirm her surmise. “They stood here.” She stepped around to gauge the view through the window. “Not the best angle.”

  “The only alternative is the sill,” Lucien said as he stashed his shooter. “They would have had to clear the rubble, though, and beyond some smearing of dust, it shows no signs of having been disturbed. It seems the better choice—more stability for the weapon. But standing allowed more mobility, not to mention a better view of the doorway.” He reached into his slingbag, removing a fist-sized ball that looked like crumpled metal foil. “Secondary spotter courses overhead, relaying information on the target back to the primary sight in the weapon’s eyepiece.” He tossed the ball out the window. It hovered for a few seconds, then shot upward like a shooting star in reverse, vanishing into the dark.

  “We’ll give it a chance to reach altitude.” Lucien reached into his bag once more, this time removing a flat, hand-sized display. “A few hundred meters is usually high enough.” He flipped open the display lid and motioned for Jani to join him, holding out the device to her so that she could see the screen.

  She found herself looking at an aerial view of the Main House, centered on the balcony outside her and John’s bedroom.

  “I can zoom in and out at will. I can even record sound.” Lucien touched a spot on the display pad and the secondary zoomed in. In a blink, the bedroom window filled the screen, the image sharp enough to discern the outline of Jani’s desk and chair through the gauzy curtains.

  “As I mentioned,” Lucien said as he deactivated the display and closed the case, “the secondary relays images to the weapon sight. In addition, the assassin wore an audiovisual array much like the ones reporters use to record events. In either case, it serves as an archive. Snipers call them their ‘books.’ They record what is seen through the weapons sight, and it serves as proof of the kill.” He tucked the display back into his bag, then walked to the window and waited. Within seconds the secondary flitted through the opening and settled into his hands.

  Jani touched the rough globe. “Why didn’t enclave security systems pick up on this?”

  “It scans as an organism. Systems would identify it as a small bird, or a very large bug.” Lucien tossed the device into the air, caught it, then stuck it back in his bag. “Security’s a fiction that dissuades only the laziest killers. If someone really wants to get to you, there’s nothing you can do to stop them.”

  Jani looked out the window, imagining the scene beyond the water and the cliffs. Tsecha emerging from the meeting house and walking across the street. The secondary monitoring him, relaying his image to his killer, who lay watching, waiting for the perfect time to strike. “You know it was a sniper. Do you have a name or two that you can offer?”

  Lucien hung his head and put his hands in his pockets. Time passed. One minute. Two.

  Jani stepped away from the window and walked around the room, pretending interest in examining the rubble. She had known since their days together in Chicago that Lucien’s Service career served as cover for his true profession. He had once arranged it so she found his souvenirs, the items he took from his victims and kept as mementos. A casino chip. A scarf. A whiskey glass. Fifteen items in all, each resting atop a clean, folded cloth inside a dresser drawer. How many had he added to the collection since then?

  Lucien raised his head. Cleared his throat. “You know what I do.”

  Jani leaned against the remains of a smashed couch frame. “I’ve known for a long time.”

  “And you love me anyway.” He glanced at her beneath his lashes, but his heart wasn’t in it—he straightened and started to pace. “What’s said here, stays here.”

  Jani shrugged. “Likewise.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “And I never am.”

  Lucien stopped. Looked about the room, focusing on nothing. “I’ve never talked about this before, with anyone. What I tell you may not seem important, or vital, or secret, but that’s not the point. It’s talking out of school.” He stopped fidgeting and fixed on her. “We don’t do that.”

  Now it was Jani’s turn to remain silent. She listened to the wind whistle through the cracks in the roof, branches scrape against the rough stone exterior. “You know what I am, how I think.”

  Any other time, Lucien might have offered a flirtatious response, or rolled his eyes in irritation. Not this time. This time, he watched her hands, the way she held herself, as though unsure of what she might do. “I’ve known for a long time.”

  “Then you know my answer.” Jani patted her trouser pocket, and wished she had taken the time to dig her shooter out from its place in the bottom drawer of her dresser. In this house that had apparently sheltered one assassin, in which she conversed with another, she would have taken some comfort in its presence. “I don’t care about your assassins’ code of silence, or your fears for your future, or your friends in high places. If you know who killed Tsecha, I expect you to tell me. If you know how to find them, I expect you to help me. I
f you know and you don’t help me, be prepared to deal with the consequences. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “The definitions of ‘rock’ and ‘hard place.’” Lucien walked to the window. “I don’t know who killed Tsecha. I know the type.” He turned and leaned against the wall. The half-light conspired with the layout of the room to shadow his face in a way that obscured his age and left him looking too young. “We all have our specialty. Mine is accidents. Mechanical and systems malfunctions. Vehicle crashes. These are the neatest killings, in my opinion. If executed properly, they don’t attract undue attention. They look like tragic mishaps to most people. The only ones who know otherwise are those who know how to read the signs.” He looked up, eyes fixed on some middle distance, some event in his past. Some target made. “Some of us specialize in explosives. A few prefer poison.” He shook his head. “God knows why.” He folded his arms, flexing his hands every so often, as though they pained him. “Then there are some who will only employ projectile weaponry, blades, strangulation, a method that requires them to remain in contact with or close proximity to their target.” He straightened, then moved to the side, let his bag slide down his arm to the floor, and perched on the edge of the sill. “That’s the sort of killer I believe we’re dealing with here.”

  Jani watched Lucien continue to flex his hands. He’s never been one to fidget. The last time he showed such restlessness, he had just learned that the Haárin he would meet in the circle the next morning planned to kill him. He was in danger then—is he in danger now? Was what he told her that important, or had the mere fact of telling it put him at risk? Do I care? “Close proximity to the victim. Close-in weapons. You’ve just described a Service infantryman.”

  “Infantry’s a job.” Lucien nudged a small chunk of rubble with the toe of his boot, then kicked it across the floor. “The ones I’m telling you about…they consider assassination a calling, like medicine, or the clergy. Every aspect of preparation is ritualized, from the researching of the target to the choosing of the weapon.” His eyes narrowed. “The kill…needs to be personal.” He let his arms fall to his sides, then hunched his shoulders and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Most of us work for money, for position. Tangible rewards, if not always material. It’s a job, like any other, for which we receive payment for services rendered. But with them…” Again the hesitation, the sense of words being pulled out with pliers. “They see beauty in the act, an affirmation of whatever it is they believe in. I’d be more inclined to believe that one of them killed Tsecha rather than someone with a more commercial bent.”

  “Why?”

  “The risk. Tsecha is the highest visibility target to be hit in decades. The scrutiny will be intense. The investigations. The repercussions.” Lucien again glanced at her beneath his lashes, but judging from the edge in his eyes, flirtation was the furthest thing from his mind. “Say that I had been offered the commission to assassinate Tsecha. I know that given your closeness to him, you would become involved in the investigation. If you discovered that I was responsible, you would kill me.” His head came up slowly, a trace of the old challenge showing itself in the set of his jaw. “Don’t tell me it didn’t cross your mind.” He cocked his head. “Not even once?”

  Not until now. Jani wished again that she’d brought her shooter. “It might have.”

  “That’s my girl. Trust is for other people.”

  “I’m not people.”

  “You never were.” Lucien looked back down at the floor. “Like I said, I know how you’d react, and that would be taken into account as I considered whether or not to accept the commission.”

  Jani felt the silence envelop them, the tension crystallize. Even the wind had paused as if to listen. “Was it offered?”

  Lucien hesitated. One could almost hear the rattle of an ancient scale as he weighed his options. “No. The fact that it wasn’t eliminates a number of possible customers. I’m on their preferred list when it comes to jobs like this.”

  Questions surfaced in the document examiner part of Jani’s mind. Was there a paper list? If so, who kept it and how did they classify it? Who had access? What sorts of accounts did they set up to bury the payments, the expenses? Just give me a chance to hunt. A chance to dig. She focused on the emptiness of a niche cut into the wall opposite, the shadows that defined it. Anything to keep her mind from racing until she could find time alone to ponder. “Wouldn’t they think twice about sending you on this job, knowing your connection to me?”

  Lucien shook his head. “Our past relationship would provide me a legitimate reason to be here. Ex-lover seeking to rekindle an old flame.” The winning smile broke through, only to vanish as quickly as it came. “I had nothing to do with his death.”

  Jani shrugged. “I appreciate the reassurance.”

  “You look impressed.” Lucien bent over and plucked another fragment of rubble from the floor. He straightened, then started rolling the bit of debris between his palms. “He didn’t like me.”

  “He liked you just fine. He just didn’t trust you.” That was one thing he and I had in common. Jani pushed away from the wall and wiped her hands on her trousers to remove the grit. “So, we’re looking for a sniper-type killer who considered murdering Tsecha to be a religious experience. Do you have any names?” She waited for an answer. As time passed and none proved forthcoming, she looked up to find Lucien still seated on the sill, watching her.

  “Let me take care of it. Send a killer to catch a killer.” He continued to roll the rubble fragment between his hands, the movement growing ever slower until it stopped completely. “It might take some time. Years, perhaps. But I would find them and handle them and no one would ever be able to trace it back to you.”

  Jani studied his face for some indication of his thoughts. She would have expected him to try to cut her off. Instead, he goes and surprises me by offering to help. Not that it mattered. “No, thank you. I want to find them myself.”

  “Why?” Lucien closed one hand around the stone fragment. “I’m not making this offer because I like working with you. I’m a survivor of too many rides on the Kilian express, and I have the scars to prove it.” He opened his hand and tipped it to one side—the fragment slid off and hit the floor, bouncing once before coming to rest amid the dust. “This situation needs to be approached with caution, and when it comes to killing…” He sighed. “With you, it’s always personal.”

  “We’ve had this discussion before.” Jani felt the stomach-rumbling irritation that always accompanied one of their arguments. “I have only ever killed for reasons of defense, mine or someone else’s.”

  “Only after you went out and looked for it. Met it. Stared it in the face. Challenged it.” Lucien rose abruptly and strode across the room, raising dust with every step. “You think you know killing. You’re a fucking amateur. You always lead with your emotions, and there is no place for emotion in this. No place for vengeance.” He stopped in front of the shadowed wall niche and braced his hands on either side. “I know what you want. You want to watch them die. You want to look into their eyes and watch the light go out—”

  Jani moved for the doorway just as Lucien pushed off the wall. He met her in the middle of the room, grabbing her arm and spinning her around to face him.

  “—feel their blood flow over your hands. Savor the look on their face when they realize it was you who struck the blow—”

  Jani took hold of Lucien’s thumb and bent it back. He released her arm with a muttered curse—as he took a step back, she moved in. Brought her fist around. The raised dome of one of her rings caught Lucien square in the mouth—she felt the shock of a solid punch jar her hand, rattle up her arm. As soon she connected, she backed off, raising both hands and opening them wide. He’d grabbed her first—that entitled her to one shot. Anything beyond that would take them both to a place they’d never been, a place they could never depart once they’d entered.

  Lucien must have understood that as well. He rema
ined in the middle of the room, bent at the waist, hands on knees, his breathing ragged.

  Jani watched as a single red drop fell from his mouth to the dust below. Then another. Another. She looked down at her hand and saw the brilliant crimson of the stone faded by the dull wash of his blood.

  “Well.” Lucien touched his battered lower lip and flinched. “That had something behind it.” He drew back his hand and studied the red that smeared across his fingertips. Then he straightened, one slow move at a time, like a clockwork figure. “I can’t comprehend how you felt about Tsecha. Even if I could remember what that depth of regard felt like, I’ve never known anyone worth the effort.” He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a crumpled dispo, which he pressed to the seeping wound. “But I’ve seen strong emotion take over before, and I know where it leads. You’ll get yourself killed. You’ll get others around you killed. Because you won’t back down. Because you want the blood of Tsecha’s assassin on your hands.”

  “Stop pretending to read my mind!” Jani wedged between a broken chair and a fallen portion of the ceiling. Anything to block her path to Lucien. Anything to keep her from going after him again. “You don’t know me—”

  “I know you better than he—Ow!” Lucien winced and pressed the dispo to his torn lip. “I know you better than he does,” he continued, his voice muffled by the cloth. “He thought he could get away without telling you anything, like he did in Rauta Shèràa.” He pulled the dispo away from the wound and glared at the staining, then crumpled it and shoved it back in his pocket. “I’m trying to get you to do now what I’ve always tried to get you to do in Chicago. Understand the situation for what it is. See reason.” He stood in place for a time, the angle of the lightstick illumination accentuating the rawness around his mouth, the first hints of swelling. Then he turned and walked to the sill, recovering his slingbag from its resting place and hoisting it to his shoulder.

  Jani massaged the back of the broken chair, squeezing harder even as she felt the ground-in grit abrade her skin. “Did you ever manage to do it? Get me to see reason, as you understood it to be?”