The Assassin (22 page)

He had to admit that it wasn’t all bad; according to his solicitor, the property was worth upwards of 1.3 million Euros. If he ever grew tired of the lifestyle, he knew he could sell it all and live out his days in idle luxury. It was a tempting proposition for the twenty-six-yearold Besson, but his name was too attached to the land for him to seriously consider that option. Despite his youth, his roots were grounded in tradition. More than 200 acres of the French countryside had been in his family for nearly seventy-five years, including this narrow lane, where the offending vehicle was parked.

Setting the brake, Besson climbed down from his tractor and walked up to the SUV. The late-model Mercedes was obviously empty, its owner nowhere in sight. The hood wasn’t up; there was nothing to indicate engine trouble. And yet, why would anyone stop here? It was a long walk to the river, so it couldn’t be fishermen. Besides, what kind of fisherman would drive a vehicle such as this? It didn’t make sense at all.

There were tracks, he suddenly noticed. Tracks in the mud, twin trails moving away from the vehicle, leading up to the fence and beyond.

Besson gazed into the woods for a moment, deciding. He didn’t really feel like walking out there, and if it was just locals, it probably wasn’t a problem. He’d made it clear that they were free to hike or even hunt on his land, assuming they had his verbal permission in the latter case. On the other hand, poaching was common in this part of the country, and it was something that Besson had been forced to deal with on several occasions. Like most serious hunters, he despised poachers. It sickened him to see the way they perverted a noble sport, and he certainly didn’t want them anywhere near his land.

Walking back to his tractor, Besson dug behind the seat and retrieved a shotgun, an old double-barreled Winchester, as well as a handful of shells. Sliding two into the breech, he pocketed the rest, retrieved his keys, and walked backed to the fence. Climbing over, he cautiously followed the twin trails into the trees.

Holding the rifle in the crook of his arm, Vanderveen crossed the last 20 yards and examined his target, pleased by what he saw. After shooting half-inch groups from the initial distance, he’d moved it out to 100 yards. The Federal 69-grain rounds he was loading would allow for better penetration when the time came, but they also prevented the suppressor from realizing its full potential, the heavier rounds producing an audible “crack” as they passed through the air. Unfortunately, it was a trade-off he was obliged to make; 5.56mm subsonic ammunition was notoriously unreliable, and he had to make every round count.

He’d noted the position of his elevation and windage turrets, having made only minor changes to achieve his zero. To finish up, he’d fired an eight-shot group at 200 yards. As he looked at the paper, he could see that his efforts had been rewarded with a single ragged hole in the black, in what looked like a 1-inch group.

Satisfied, he pulled down the target and began walking back to his original position. He’d crossed about 100 yards when he saw something that caused him to freeze in his tracks.

A man had emerged from the woods. His face was contorted in confusion, or anger maybe; it was difficult to tell at that distance. Either way, the shotgun he was holding was clearly pointed toward Yasmin Raseen. Vanderveen was tempted to raise the rifle, to get a clear view through the scope, but that would only complicate matters. Instead, he quickly unscrewed the suppressor and slipped it into his pocket, then walked forward at a rapid but casual pace, an easy smile spreading over his face.

“What are you doing here?” Besson demanded. It was something of a rhetorical question; he could see the spent brass to the right of the shooting mat, and he’d already caught sight of the man in the near distance.

“I’m awfully sorry,” the woman babbled in fluent French. She looked frightened, her eyes repeatedly darting down to the shotgun. “We didn’t know this was private land. My boyfriend just came out to test his new hunting rifle, and, well…”

The boyfriend was rapidly crossing the ground between them, but that was no hunting rifle. Besson had been visiting his aunt in Paris in October 2005, when riots broke out. He’d seen groups of black-clad
gendarmes mobiles
patrolling the streets, as well as the regular riot police. Their presence was such that he couldn’t help but notice the weapons they carried, and what this man was holding looked vaguely familiar. He was slightly relieved when the approaching figure slung the weapon over his back, but Besson refused to drop his guard. Instead, he tightened his grip on the Winchester and took a few cautious steps to the rear. It suddenly occurred to him that he had not heard any shots during his hike into the woods.

“Hello,” the man said, stepping into the clearing. “I’m an American. Uh,
parlez… parlez-vous Anglais?”

The man’s French was atrocious, but it wasn’t a barrier. Besson had studied with a number of American exchange students in Lille, and they had been just as ignorant. “Yes,” he replied warily. “I speak English. What are you doing here?”

“Just sighting in. Is this your land?”

Besson straightened and looked around, as though deciding. “Yes, it is. And I don’t recall giving you…” He stumbled on the word
permission
. “I don’t remember letting you use it.”

The man cracked an apologetic smile. He didn’t seem to be aware of the shotgun, the muzzle of which was now hovering over his chest. “Sorry about that. I didn’t know where to ask. I’m Scott, by the way, Scott Kessler, from Houston, and this is Marie. We’re traveling with my gun club. We had a meet set up for this afternoon, but the damned range in Vercors was shut down on account of the rain… Listen, what’s your name?”

The American moved closer and held out a hand, the dumb smile plastered over his face. Besson’s good manners took over. Relaxing slightly, he instinctively transferred the shotgun to his weak hand and reached out with his right.

A blur of movement followed, and Besson felt two things happen at once. His left arm was swiftly knocked away from his body as something hard drove into his upper abdomen, crushing his solar plexus with one brutal blow. His forefinger tightened on the trigger reflexively, the Winchester booming once as the air rushed out of his lungs. He collapsed to the ground and curled into a protective ball, gasping for air.

Vanderveen took a step forward and picked up the shotgun, breaking the action. One round remained, the first having sprayed harmlessly into the woods, peppering a number of trees along the way. Satisfied, he closed the action and handed the weapon to Raseen, whose icy composure had settled back into place.

Vanderveen kicked the man in the side. “Get up.”

Besson rose to his feet unsteadily, using his hands to protect his bruised ribs. “What do you want?” he blurted in French. “Please, just leave. I won’t tell anyone what you were doing here—”

“How did you get here?” Vanderveen asked. He adopted the man’s language once more, but now his French was remarkably fluent. “You have a car? Who’s with you?”

“Nobody,” Besson sputtered, overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events. “I… I have a tractor parked on the road. Nobody else is out here. It’s just me. I followed your tracks….”

Vanderveen stared at him for a long beat before nodding thoughtfully. “I believe you.” After another moment of feigned deliberation, he gestured toward the field and said, “Go on, get out of here. Run.”

“You’re letting him go?” Raseen was astonished.

Besson looked at the field in confusion, then back to his assailant. The rifle was still slung over his back.

“Run,” Vanderveen repeated. “Right now.”

Besson took a few uncertain steps, then turned and broke into a brisk trot. After twenty paces, he opened his stride and began to sprint for the opposite tree line, red winter wheat whipping around his flailing legs.

“You have to stop him!” Raseen cried in Arabic, forgetting herself. “He saw the car! He saw
us
!” She began to lift the shotgun, but Vanderveen grabbed the barrel before she could level the weapon.

“Relax. I’m not letting him go. Besides, you’ll never hit him at this range.” Moving calmly but quickly, Vanderveen lifted the rifle over his head and detached the sling from the rear. Fashioning the loose end into a noose, he looped it over his left arm, then tightened the sling around his bicep. When he brought the rifle up to his right shoulder, the loose material pulled taut, producing a stabilizing effect. In its entirety, the process took twelve seconds.

Dropping into a crouch, he propped his supporting elbow forward of his left knee and peered through the scope. Once in position, he began running through a familiar mental checklist. He was virtually level with the field, negating the need for up/down compensation. From there, he moved to the target lead charts he’d memorized twelve years earlier, cutting the values in half because the Frenchman was running east at an oblique angle — he knew that based on the position of the man’s opposite arm. It was hooked up and partially visible, moving back and forth in a natural runner’s stride.

“He’s almost there,” Raseen said urgently. “It’s his land; he knows where he’s going.
Shoot him.
”

Vanderveen did not respond, still working through the formulas. Standing next to him, the Frenchman had been about an inch taller, which put him at exactly 72 inches. Through the scope, the man now measured 8 mils, which placed him at a distance of… 250 yards.

He hesitated. Movement changed everything, but at that distance, a flat-out run made a first-round hit all but impossible. Vanderveen’s right thumb hovered over the selector switch, but in the end, he left it unchanged on single shot.

A light rain was beginning to fall, the fine drops drifting east on a 2 mph wind. Giving the Frenchman a 5 mil lead to start — five marks on the horizontal wire in his scope — Vanderveen took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, settling into his stance as the air was completely expelled from his lungs. The distant figure had just moved into the trap at 3½ mils when he fully depressed the trigger.

Besson’s own lungs were burning, his legs like rubber as he stumbled into a drainage ditch on the far side of the field, feet sliding in the mud as he sought to regain his footing. He looked back, and his heart nearly stopped. The American was there on one knee, the rifle up at his shoulder. Besson knew exactly what was going to happen. Something in the back of his mind told him that he had to move faster, but his body refused to cooperate with his brain’s urgent commands, his energy sapped by a dangerous combination of fear and adrenaline.

He somehow managed to emerge on the other side of the ditch and kept running hard, his arms clawing the air in a desperate attempt to pull his body forward. He was close now, the trees less than 15 yards in front of him.

Relief poured into his veins. The trees were too close, and there was still plenty of foliage; at this distance, there was no way the shooter could—

He never heard the sound of the shot. Nor did he feel the impact. Instead, his thoughts simply stopped with the flick of a switch, the lights going out once and for all.

“Incredible,” Raseen breathed. Her lips parted slightly in amazement. “You hit him with one shot.”

Vanderveen remained motionless. He’d seen a puff of red, heard the slap as the round drilled into the man’s head. The Frenchman had gone straight down, but even with two indications of a fatal wound, it was too early to tell for sure. He’d seen people defy the odds and not only survive, but walk away from similar injuries, the most memorable of which, at least in his experience, involved a shot taken eight years earlier on a Syrian hilltop. The target in that case had been his commanding officer, Ryan Kealey. It should have been a fatal wound, a clean shot straight to the chest from 437 yards, but Kealey had somehow pulled through. Given the man’s subsequent interference in his own personal agenda, Vanderveen privately ranked that shot as the worst of his life.

He had made up for it, though, at least to some degree. While Kealey’s actions the previous year had cost him dearly, Vanderveen had exacted a fitting revenge. Even now, he could remember that night so clearly. The look of utter despair on Kealey’s face had been priceless, but as satisfying as that was, it had lacked the physical force of the woman’s reaction. That had been the best part, the way she’d trembled in his arms like a frightened rabbit, the way she’d stiffened in shock when the knife went in….

“Why are you smiling?”

Raseen’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. The smile faded, but the memory remained. “No reason.”

“What are we going to do about him?” she asked, nodding toward the still form in the distance.

Vanderveen cleared his mind and considered the question. “We don’t have a lot of options. We can’t risk moving the body. I checked the weather report before we left Paris; it’s supposed to rain fairly hard for most of the night. Hopefully, the tracks will wash away in a few hours. We’ll collect the brass and the targets. By the time the locals start their investigation, we’ll be finished and out of the country.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “We?”

“I could use your help, but it’s up to you. After tomorrow you’ve done your part; you’re under no obligation. If you have to make some calls, or if you’d prefer not to go…”

She considered briefly before nodding her agreement. “My instructions are to assist you in any way possible, so yes, I’ll go if you need me. I have a place in the city where I keep my passports. I’ll have to stop to collect them.” She paused. “You know, it would be better if this looked like a mistake.”

“An accident, you mean?”

“Yes. The authorities will learn the truth, of course, but it might buy us some time if we run into problems.”

He nodded slowly. “I see your point. Here, hand me that shotgun.”

“No, I’ll do it.” She showed him her hands. “You don’t have gloves.”

“You’re sure?”

She took the weapon out of his hands, then walked off without responding. Vanderveen watched as she marched across the field, holding the Winchester low in a two-handed grip. He waited for some sign of regret, for a hitch in her stride, but it never came.