unpleasant. It was merely time-consuming. But his employer had specified that none of the employees be left alive, and the Talon was all about carrying out whatever assignment he undertook.
He stuffed the extra mags into the special holders by his hips. After screwing a sound suppressor onto the front barrel of the pistol, he carefully placed it into his crotch holster, after first checking the de-cocking lever once more.
He took out his cell phone and made a quick call, speaking in Italian this time. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, we are ready,” a voice replied.
The Talon told the man to be prepared to proceed on the signal. He placed the cell back in his purse. After taking care to flush the toilet, using the tissue on the lever, he left the restroom and walked back to the security desk.
“I am sorry,” the guard apologized, still holding the phone, obviously confused at not having been told of any such appointment. “But Mr. Chevalier does not have you down for an appointment.”
“Tell him I represent William J. Stevenson,” the Talon said. It was risky using the real name of his employer, but the big man had assured him it would not be a concern since he’d done business with the Chevalier Institute before.
The guard spoke softly into the phone again. After a moment he nodded and hung up. “Someone will come to greet you shortly,” he said.
As the Talon waited, he observed. The building had three levels. Once he’d achieved entry, the rest should be a simple matter. Messy, but simple. He tripped the stopwatch function on his phone. His estimate was five to seven minutes total, at the outside.
Beyond the row of metal detectors, the elevator doors opened, accompanied by a warning ping. A heavyset, middle-aged woman with dark brown hair frosted with gray, stepped out and ambled toward them, identifying herself in French as Sylvie Bois, Monsieur Chevalier’s personal assistant. She stayed on the other side of the row of metal detectors.
“Do you speak English?” the Talon asked in French. “My French isn’t fluent.”
“Yes,” the woman said, “I do. How may I help you?”
“I must see Monsieur Chevalier,” he said, stepping forward, past the security guard. “It is a matter of the greatest urgency.”
The middle-aged woman’s eyebrows rose in surprise and she stepped back.
The Talon kept moving forward, despite the woman’s protestations. The metal detector’s alarm went off as he stepped through the first portal. The guard’s head turned toward them.
The Talon laughed and feigned surprise, apologizing and saying first in English, “I’m sorry. I have an artificial hip,” then adding in French, “J’ai une prothèse de la hanche.”
The wrinkles in the guard’s brow increased.
The Talon laughed again, almost girlishly, and reached down to pull up the front of his skirt. “Here, let me show you.”
He withdrew the H & K VP9, aiming it at the security guard’s shocked face.
“Have a nice day, asshole,” the Talon said.
The weapon recoiled slightly with an accompanying plunking sound. Milliseconds later a small, black, circular hole appeared between the man’s eyes and his mouth sagged open, disgorging a gusset of blood. His head jerked backward then forward. He slumped in the chair momentarily and then rolled forward, his forehead smacking the desktop.
The Talon nodded slightly in appreciation of the shot.
The middle-aged woman recoiled in horror, but the assassin had already grabbed her by the arm and was forcing her toward the elevators. He swept the woman’s feet out from under her and forced her down on the slick, tile floor. She moaned in agony and the Talon raised his finger to his lips, hissing softly.
“Be quiet, if you want to live,” he said, pressing the elevator call button. He then took out his cell. It was time to summon the expendables.
It was answered a moment later.
“Block the road,” the Talon said in Italian. “Have someone shut off the sprinkler valves.”
“Sì,” was the terse response.
The Talon grabbed the woman’s upper arm, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, and lifted her to her feet, his body and especially his face, pressing close to hers. He let the cylindrical end of the sound suppressor caress her cheek then her nose.
“We have a few visits to make,” he said. “If you make any attempt to cry out or warn anyone, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
She nodded, tears running down her cheeks.
The elevator doors opened and two men in lab coats started out and then stopped, expressions of surprise etched on their faces.
The Talon shot each man in the forehead. They dropped instantly. The killer placed his foot against the rubber auto-safety device between the halves of the doors to keep them from closing.
Pulling the woman inside, he said, “What floor is your boss on?”
The woman glanced down at the crumpled bodies.
“What floor is Mr. Chevalier on?” he growled.
“Two,” the woman said, her voice cracking.
“Where is the security office?” he asked.
She raised her arm and pointed down the hall.
It made sense. Security would be on the main floor for quick access to the entrance and exit. He pulled her erect, feeling her body trembling under his grasp.
“Do not worry,” he said in a soft voice, using his foot to shove one of the bodies in place to block the doors. “It will be all right. Everything will be fine.”
He hoped his calm tone would allay her fear enough to get him through the next few minutes. At least until he had what he needed. Exiting the elevator, he led her down the hallway, staying behind her. The woman seemed to be catatonic, forcing each step with considerable effort. He nudged her with the end of the silencer to quicken her pace. She took a few more steps and then stopped, cocking her head at the door.
The Talon pushed her against it and reached down to try the knob. It was unlocked. Score another one for lax security. He twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open, shoving the woman into the room in front of him. She went sprawling onto the floor.
Two men who had been sitting at a card table smoking and playing cards looked up in shock as the intruder shot each man twice, once in the chest and once in the head. They both crumpled onto the tabletop then rolled lifelessly to the carpeted floor.
Two rows of monitors sat in horizontal lines above a long counter. None of the rooms on this level, he noted as he scanned the screens, appeared to be occupied.
As he stooped to retrieve a large ring of keys from the belt loop on one of the dead men, he thought about putting a round into the recorder but decided to wait. Getting the disk was something he could do on the way out. Right now, he had a building to clear. And it was time to have the lackeys move up and start herding however many employees remained.
“Come on,” he said to the woman, lifting her gently to her feet. “Let’s go see your boss.”
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a flash drive and held it in front of her face. “Do you have access to the computer files here?”
She nodded.
“That’s good,” he said. “I have a file I wish you to download for me.”
They exited and he closed the door behind him.
Heading back down the hallway toward the elevator, he checked the stopwatch: 348 seconds.
Just under seven minutes... Right on schedule.
USS Fuller
Signorelli