Rapture

Chapter Eleven

Undisclosed location,

Washington, D.C.

“This is your target.”

The photo that landed faceup on the glossy table found its way over to the operative by virtue of momentum.

The face was instantantly familiar. But who in XOps didn’t know the man.

The operative looked up at his superior. “What’s the location?”

“Caldwell, New York.”

The address was given over verbally, as would any other instructions. And he would not keep the photograph. And this room, in an absolutely unremarkable building in the nation’s capital, recorded none of this. No trail. Ever.

“Obviously, he is considered armed and extremely dangerous.”

Damn straight the guy was. Always had been—but laurels were nothing that lasted, and there was no “former” in XOps. There was “active duty” and “dead.”

And he was going to be responsible for the “dead,” in this case.

“The usual rules apply,” he was told.

Of course they did: He was going in alone, was solely responsible for the mission, and if he was compromised, he should pray for death—or make it happen himself. All of this was well-known to the small cadre of operatives who had been handpicked by the devil himself….

Matthias. The one who had led them for the last ten years. The cunning chess player, the manipulative mastermind, the violent sociopath who set the tone for them all.

For a moment, it was strange to be taking orders from someone else—but given who the target was….

XOps needed to keep going, however, and his current superior had come up fast through the ranks, clearly positioning himself as the heir to the throne. Which explained what he was doing now. Loose strings were unacceptable.

“Anything else I need to be aware of?”

“Just don’t fuck it up. You have twenty-four hours.”

The operative reached out a gloved hand and brought the photograph closer. Staring at the face, he thought that if someone had told him the changes that were going to happen in the last two years, he’d have been convinced they’d lost their damn mind.

Yet here he was, looking at the supremely powerful man in the photograph who now had a death warrant hanging over his head: If the operative failed to kill him, the organization would send someone else. And another. And another. Until the job was done.

And, knowing the target, it might take a couple of tries.

His superior picked up the photograph and went for a door that only looked normal. In reality, it was bullet-, fire-, bomb-, and soundproof. As were the walls, ceiling, and floor.

After a retinal scan, the panel opened and then closed, leaving the operative alone to consider his options, which was SOP: Once an assignment had been given over, the methods of execution were up to the delegatee. The brass cared only about the ends.

Caldwell, New York, was merely an hour away by plane, but better to drive. There was no telling the resources his target had, and aircraft could be tracked easier than unmarkeds.

As he left, the fact that he might well be going to his own death was irrelevant—and that was part of the reason he had been chosen from all the other soldiers and civilians who “applied” to get into XOps. Careful psychological and physical screening was conducted over years, not months or weeks, before you were tapped on the shoulder. Then again, the job required an unusual combination of urgency and disassociation, logic and freethinking, mental and physical discipline.

As well as the simple enjoyment of killing other human beings.

At the end of the day, playing Grim Reaper was fun to him, and this was the only legally sanctioned way to do it. Even the canniest serial killers got caught after a while. Working in this capacity for the U.S. government?

His only rate limiter was his ability to stay alive.