Free Slow Recoil by C.B. Forrest Page B

sent to conduct surveillance prior to operations—a settling in, an assimilation of sorts. He would kill her if it came to that. If she was unwilling to follow through. It was her choice. That was his directive. All of them shared the same directive. The only way this would work is if every link in the chain remained connected, solid—and every link in turn knew it was expendable in the name of the cause. Hesitation or gross misconduct was to be dealt with in the most extreme manner. There was no half measure. They had signed their oath in the blood of their forsaken kin. Those who had fallen in the fields, in the rows. He had not come this far to turn away. Their trust was sacred.
    She put a cup of tea in front of him, and he sat at the two-seat kitchen table. She sat with her cup and blew across the steaming water. Their eyes met and held for a long moment. They saw each other as they had been, younger and wounded, not as they had become. Changed.
    â€œCan you share your work with me?” he said.
    She went to the bedroom and returned with a single file folder. It was letter-sized, blue, and bore no writing or identifying features. She placed it on the table in front of him. He opened and began to read. The first page contained the photos of the two targets, their names typed beneath:
    BOJAN KORDIC
    GORAN MITOVIC
    Then followed several pages of tiny notations—dates and times and tracked movements of the targets. Their home address, their work address, phone numbers, the names of their spouses and children and the schools they attended, their lives reduced to a series of comings and goings. She had done good work. The information was concise, invaluable in ensuring the two main criteria were met: that these were in fact the bona fide targets; and that it would be possible within the scheduling and routine of their lives to make contact and retreat with limited collateral damage or liability to the cause.
    â€œWell done,” he said, and set folder aside.
    â€œI have worked hard,” she said, “getting to know the people at work. The woman who works outside the manager’s office, this Bojan Kordic. His executive assistant. She keeps his schedule. We share a cigarette outside during break.”
    â€œThere will be time to talk of our plans,” he said. “It has been what, three years?”
    â€œAlmost,” she said.
    â€œYou look good. Healthy. This country agrees with you,” he said.
    She caught his eyes, and he held her there, and she knew what he was looking for. Some sign that she had forsaken their plans. The first thing The Colonel had instructed in bringing them together for this: the greatest threat is not death, for we all died a long time ago. No, the greatest threat is that those of you who are sent abroad will succumb to the liberties and luxuries of your new country. Shopping malls and fast food drive-through restaurants, and women and men who lay down with anyone at all after a single dance in a night club. There will be those of you who forget in time why you are there in the first place…
    â€œWhat do you think of this country so far?” she asked.
    â€œIt is new,” he said. “Like it just opened.”
    And they shared their experiences. The first landing. Pearson International Airport. The language. The faces from around the world moving freely on the streets. Everything open and free. And new, so new, as he had said. Some things were better, yes, but many things were not. He thought of telling her about the money he had won, but he kept it to himself.
    He excused himself and went to the bathroom. When he came back, he said, “Will you miss this place?”
    He watched her.
    â€œSome things,” she said. “I suppose, yes.”
    And then it happened, just like that, just as he was sitting there. Like a narcoleptic zoning in mid-sentence, Kad forgot where he was. Blinked. Somewhere else, the damp and moldy basement of a house