Game of Shadows (2 page)

"Sir, everything seems to be working again," the lieutenant reported, stating what the captain had already ascertained.

He stepped back through the entryway and onto the bridge. "Where's the U-boat? Did we destroy it?"

The redheaded man stared at a screen with a line going around in a circle. "It's gone, sir. They must have sunk it."

Captain Harris's face steeled at the news. There'd been no sound of an explosion, no concussion, no resulting waves, and the light he'd seen was certainly not like any he'd seen in his years at sea. Something wasn't right. And there wasn't a doubt in his mind that they hadn't sunk the enemy ship.

"The fog is clearing, sir." The man at the helm pointed out through one of the narrow windows.

Harris spun around and stepped over to the windshield. Just as quickly as it had come, the fog disappeared, making way for the perfectly clear sky, the pale glow of the moon, and calm, rolling tides of the ocean. It was a peaceful scene. Except for an entire U-boat that had disappeared without a trace.

Agadir, Morocco

Sean sprinted up the three flights of stairs, taking them two at a time as he ascended. His heart pounded, not just from the exertion, but also from knowing his window would be limited.

He reached the third floor of the hotel, pulled open the stairwell door, and ran straight down the corridor. His room was positioned ten doors down from the end of the hall. Practicality wished it were closer. But he knew it was the only vacancy in the hotel where he could get a clear line of sight.

When Sean arrived at his door, he already had the room key in his fingers and slid the plastic into the slot. The green light blinked twice, and the electronic locking mechanism whined inside the door before it clicked. He turned the latch and rushed into the room.

The interior walls were white, much like the exterior of the hotel. Lavish curtains of purple and gold hung over the windows. The bed featured decorative round pillows sewn from Far Eastern silks of deep red and plush, brown pillows with crisscrossing striped patterns across the surface.

He hurried to the other side of the room and knelt down beside the bed. The blinds covering the balcony doorway were open, letting in the bright early afternoon sunlight. He lifted the comforter and bed skirt, finding the case exactly where he'd left it.

Sean yanked the black golf bag from its hiding spot and flipped off the travel cover to reveal a deadly work of art within. The black Remington M24 sniper rifle was fully assembled and ready to go with a .338 magnum cartridge waiting in the chamber.

He had other rounds, but this shot would only take one.

There were other weapons that could have been used for the job. Popular to many American snipers was the .50-caliber Barrett M82. Truth be told, if he'd been closer to a mile away from his target, Sean might have chosen that gun. Since he was less than three hundred yards, the M24 would do nicely, and was far less cumbersome. Not to mention that he would have had to assemble the Barrett on the spot, and he doubted he would have had that kind of time. Sure, he could have done it beforehand, but if one of the maids decided to ignore the "do not disturb" sign hanging from the latch and happened upon a massive .50-caliber sniper rifle lying on the floor, they would probably have raised a stink, to say the least.

Sean always believed in using the right tool for the right job. On this occasion, the M24 was the right tool.

He checked the chamber to make sure the round he'd left in there was still in position, then relocked the bolt. He deftly moved over to the sliding door and eased it open before getting on his belly and crawling like a snake out onto the stone balcony.

Off to the right, the Atlantic Ocean's waves crashed to the white sand beach that wrapped around the bay. A few tourists, visitors, and locals milled about near the water. Several women were lying out on lounge chairs, soaking up rays from the hot sun. Children's screams of delight and laughter as they played in the ocean foam echoed through the courtyard between Sean's wing of the hotel and his target's. Below, the palm trees lining the paved stone sidewalks and surrounding a green lawn waved in the breeze.

He stopped at the railing, a concrete barricade with dome-shaped miniature arches cut into it in what was a signature design stroke of Arab culture. If he were on vacation, Sean would have taken a moment to appreciate more of these local subtleties. He'd always found Muslim cities to be most agreeable, and was glad he'd been able to visit them for less stressful ventures than the current one. He reached forward with the sound suppressor he'd taken from the case and carefully screwed it onto the end of the rifle's barrel.

He positioned the tip of the barrel between two of the curvy designs in the railing and propped the weapon on its tripod stand. He flipped open the caps on both ends of the scope and adjusted the sight for his target, a penthouse balcony on the sixth floor of the other wing. Sean checked the wind, which was coming in steadily off the ocean at ten degrees. Not too breezy, but he would definitely have to adjust the shot slightly. He reached up, ticked the scope a few clicks, and then rechecked his angle. The balcony came into view again, more specifically, an empty chair with an ivory-colored cushion. His target would never even know what happened.

It had taken a great deal of patience and resources to track down Gerard Dufort. The Frenchman's disappearing act was hardly a surprise, but how difficult the man had made it to be found was a little unexpected. If Sean Wyatt wanted to find someone, they usually didn't stay hidden for long.

Dufort was slippery, though, using a sequence of back channels and aliases to escape from the mainstream. He'd got away from Sean and his friend Tommy Schultz at Kronborg Castle, also known as Kronborg Slot, in Denmark two months before. Sean was angry with himself for letting the man go. He reminded himself that there was nothing he could have done. The power in the castle went out in a thunderstorm, and in the pitch darkness, Dufort had escaped.

Over the course of the last sixty days, Sean reintroduced himself to the hard training he'd gone through during his first stint with Axis. He'd called Emily Starks, the director of the agency, and told her he would come back to work on a case-by-case basis. Nothing permanent. And totally off the books. Sean had been fighting it for years. He wished he could do something else with his life, but strange circumstances always came knocking on his door, and in the end he found himself doing what he did best: eliminating bad people.

Axis wasn't just a group of assassins, but it was one of the things they could do if the government didn't feel like any of its other arms could take care of it. Axis was small, extremely mobile, and no one outside the unit of twelve agents knew who they were. Each agent was assigned a number, and that number became their name. Since their founding, they'd only carried the numbers one through twelve. Because of his status as an external operative, Sean was given the number zero.

The mission to kill Gerard Dufort was more than off the books. It wasn't even an Axis contract. It was personal; a vendetta against a man who had killed innocent women, sold countless others into a life of rape and slavery, and had never felt the smallest token of remorse for any of it. No, this mission was certainly off the books. And Sean meant to see it through.

Dufort had been clever in his methods. His multiple passports and seemingly endless array of bank accounts registered under fake names and numbers gave him the option to hide nearly anywhere in the world. He'd chosen Agadir, Morocco, a city somewhat off the beaten path by most standards. The choice of country was good enough. It was fairly close to his native land of France, just a short crossing through the Gibraltar Strait. Morocco was a nation of complex culture and vibrant people, making it a much easier place to live than a third world country. And because it was also a tourist spot, but not as popular as the bigger cities of Marrakech, Tangiers, or Casablanca, Agadir made the most sense. It provided all the amenities and luxuries to which Dufort had become accustomed, but less traffic, fewer people, and a location obscure enough to go unnoticed.

Only he
had
been noticed.

The arrogant Frenchman didn't know how to sit quietly and play nice. If he had retired to a life of ease in Agadir, lived peacefully, and never tried anything stupid, he may well have evaded Sean for much longer, perhaps perpetually.

But Dufort couldn't help himself.

After lying low for only forty days, Interpol spotted him coming through a port in Spain. He went through customs with a Spanish passport, probably risking entry into the country so he could get across the border and back into France. For what, Sean wasn't sure. Money stashed somewhere? To reconnect with some of his old cronies? He didn't care why the Frenchman did it. All Sean knew was that it had been the mistake that sealed his fate.

Emily got the call from Interpol, and she relayed the message to him. She'd been willing to let Sean have a go at Dufort since he was still stinging from letting him get away before. It was time to put a salve on that sting.

Sean hopped on a plane from Atlanta as soon as Emily could arrange for one. Working for a beyond top secret team had its perks. Sleek, private jets were one of them. It made things much easier when it came to getting through customs and passing through borders. Ten hours after Dufort was spotted crossing into Spain, Sean was on his tail.

Every day for the last five days, Sean had observed Dufort's every move. He followed Dufort back from Spain, to the Frenchman's condo on the Atlantic. Once Sean knew where the man lived, it was easy enough to procure a room with the perfect angle to observe the target.

One thing Sean noticed was that Dufort enjoyed a cigar and cognac on the balcony of his penthouse every day in the early afternoon at the same exact time. Some Europeans like to have coffee and cake in the afternoon. Others preferred tea. Dufort chose a cigar and cognac.

It didn't matter to Sean what the man was 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. Why was he changing his routine all of a sudden? That combined with the knocking at the door could mean only one thing.

Sean didn't want to admit the possibility, but there was no denying it.

He'd been made.