Free Counterspy by Matthew Dunn

and they needed me for the job. They couldn’t afford to keep me in hiding much longer.
    I stopped my car outside the safe house. It was the time of day when the ordinarily quiet residential street should have been showing some signs of life—people going to work or doing school runs. But it was dead. I decided that the occupants of the street must all be retirees who did nothing more productive all day than watch TV. I wondered if that’s what I’d be doing in thirty plus years’ time. I doubted it.
    I was delighted to see that Chrissie’s car was outside. If she wasn’t already awake, I’d start cooking some breakfast to entice her downstairs—play housewife, as she called it; prove to her that I was a modern man who’s good around the house.
    I unlocked the front door and entered the house. The kitchen radio was playing samba music, so Chrissie must be up, I thought. I imagined her shamelessly wiggling her hips in time to the beat and then stopping and feeling a bit embarrassed when I caught her. “Honey, I’m home,” I called out.
    She didn’t answer. Music’s too loud, I thought.
    I removed my jacket and decided that I needed to take a long soak in the bath. I felt grimy and didn’t want Chrissie to have to hang around a man who’d spent the whole night in clothes sodden with rain and sweat.
    She wasn’t in the kitchen; she was probably taking a shower. Damn. Now I had a mental image of her naked.
    I made myself a black coffee and tried not to burn my mouth as I drank it fast to get a much-needed hit of caffeine. I felt exhausted; no doubt I needed at least a couple of hours’ sleep in the safe house before we went out tonight, or I stood no chance of being good company over dinner. And I’d need to be at my very best, because apparently tomorrow I was on a one-way ticket out of town.
    My back was hurting; I walked toward the living room so I could finish the rest of my coffee resting on the sofa.
    Then my world turned over. “No,” I yelled.
    My hand involuntarily released the coffee mug.
    Wearing a bathrobe, Chrissie was sitting on the sofa.
    Dead.
    I ran to her, threw myself onto my knees, grabbed her limp hands, and repeated, “No, no, no! Chrissie: no!”
    There were two bullet holes in her forehead.
    Tears were running down my face, though I was barely aware of them. I was giddy from shock and felt like I was going to vomit. I sat next to her, cradled her head, and rested it against me while rocking her. Between sobs, I asked, “Who did this to you? Who . . . who could do this to you, my Chrissie? My . . . Chrissie.”
    I was overcome with grief, and I just held her, not knowing what to do. I cursed myself for leaving her here alone, for thinking this house was safe, and now finding her . . . like this.
    She was cold but not in full rigor mortis, meaning she’d been murdered sometime during the night.
    Sometime while I’d been out looking for Trapper.
    I had to force my grief to one side and get my mind to focus. I pulled out my handgun and searched the house. But no one was here. I sat back down next to Chrissie and recalled what Zakaria told me.
    The fact that Trapper wants you dead isn’t your biggest problem. What should concern you the most is that he’s told your colleagues and you that he wants that outcome.
    And I remembered what Trapper told me last night.
    It’s about flushing you out and doing so in a way that gets you on your own. And ultimately, Mr. Cochrane, it’s about punishing you.
    Punishment.
    Zakaria had suspected I was being taunted by Trapper so that I’d go after him. But I now realized he also suspected that Trapper wanted me to go after him because in doing so I’d leave behind people I care about. One of those people was the real target. I went after Sahir. Trapper killed him to keep his mouth permanently shut about their collaboration. And then Trapper went after Chrissie.
    To punish me.
    I felt like a fool.
    And I had no idea how Trapper had gotten my