consuming. All he cared about was that the man had a routine, something that could be tracked and counted on at the same time every single day. Little habits like that were things assassins always loved to exploit. Sean hadn't thought that way for a few years, but falling back into his old routine didn't take much effort.
The time he'd spent working security transport for the International Archaeological Agency had kept him on his toes, and several instances over the years saw to it that he never lost his edge; though there were a few moments when it certainly felt like a little rust had settled in. The fact that Dufort was able to get away from him in Denmark certainly shook his nerves, but Sean’s high-level training had made his thoughts, actions, and reactions instinctual.
Not now. He was back in the swing, but with a clearer sense of purpose.
Right on time, Sean watched the French double doors swing open to the penthouse balcony, and his target emerged, accompanied by a young girl, probably a prostitute, a muscular man Sean assumed to be a bodyguard, and a butler in a white blazer. While the young woman was a new addition to the routine, Sean was happy to see that his mark had strayed little from his usual course in spite of the new guest.
He set down his binoculars and slid back into position, using the rifle's scope to see the chair Dufort sat in every day so far. With his unassisted eye, Sean watched the group migrate across the balcony to the bar where they helped themselves to a few drinks. The butler poured and then showed Dufort and the girl back over to the right side, closer to the ocean and right where Sean's barrel was aimed.
Sean closed his naked eye and watched his target carefully. He was standing in an awkward position, partially blocked by a concrete piling. The broad railing kept him from getting a clear shot, and at worst, he would only injure Dufort. If Sean fired and missed, or barely clipped the Frenchman, he would surely disappear again, and this time finding him would be a much more difficult affair than the last.
Dufort smiled as he started to move toward the center of the crosshairs in Sean's scope. The target checked his seat to make sure everything was in order and was about to sit down when a knock came at Sean's door.
He froze in place.
Had someone seen him? No one other than Emily even knew he was here. Adriana was off somewhere in Europe, hunting down another priceless work of art. Tommy was busy doing who knew what. Sean wouldn't have told either of them what he was up to, even if they hadn't been in another country. That was just how he operated. The fewer loose ends, the better.
The rapping came from the door again; this time accompanied by a voice. "Room service," the Arabic accent was unmistakable.
Sean’s eyes blinked for a second, then peered back through his scope. He'd not ordered room service. Either the bellhop had the wrong room, or Dufort knew Sean was here and had thrown in a wildcard. He hoped it was the prior. Deep down inside, he already knew it was the latter. Knowing the danger lurking out in the hallway, he risked a quick glance over at the bed where his pistol rested in a black case.
He returned his stare to Dufort, who for some reason seemed to be hesitating about sitting down. Sean noticed him motion for the girl to take the seat where he usually sat. She accepted, taking the position squarely in the dead center of Sean's crosshairs.
"Oh, come on," he whispered to himself.
The knocking came a third time, harder than the previous two. "Room service," the voice announced again.
"I didn't order any room service," Sean said loudly, trying to project his voice through the empty room. "Check another room."
There was a silent pause before the bellhop spoke again. "Room service for Mr. Wyatt?"
Sean swallowed hard and kept his eyes on the target. Dufort was moving around, keeping behind the concrete pillars, which made getting a clean shot nearly impossible.
JJ Carlson, George Bunescu, Sylvia Carlson