Page 36 of Kill Sleep Repeat

But it is not enough. I feel him gaining ground. I can tell by the way the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Suddenly, I feel everything—from the moonless sky to the thickness of my breath in the air, I feel it all. The darkness that surrounds us is chilling, and I feel that too, and then he is on me, taking me to the ground. I don’t fight him on the way down. I don’t resist. Instead, I work within his swift movements.

Using my fingers to make out the contours of the hardened muscles of his upper thigh, I once again steady the knife in my grip and take a breath in. On the exhale, I plunge the blade into what I hope to be his femoral artery. It’s dark, so I pull the knife back, feeling it graze bone. Deftly, I plunge it in once more. He staggers forward and then onto his knees, before toppling heavily to the ground. When the movement ceases, I know I have made the right cut, and finally, I no longer hear his labored breath.

It’s then that something else catches my attention— the shuffling of gravel, the unmistakable sound of footsteps, coming up the path.

I make a start toward the nearest set of bushes, ducking behind them. Doubling over, I rest my palms on my thighs and try to be silent. My fingers and toes buzz, and my chest is throbbing, silently pleading for a giant racking sob of inhalation.

“Henry?” she says, quietly. “Henry! Oh my God.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Charlotte

Looking at my reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror on the plane, I am unrecognizable. This time it isn’t the hair or the makeup or the uniform. It’s in the eyes, although it has nothing to do with the colored contacts I’m wearing.

Wiping tears away, I carefully dab at my eyelids, worried that I will undo all of the effort I just p

ut in. My mascara is sure to run.

Dabbing a little concealer under my lids, I check my appearance once more.

In this line of work, it is always important to remind yourself who the enemy is. To keep it in the forefront of your mind and to drill it way down deep, so that when the time comes there is little doubt, there is no backing out.

But this time…well… this time the enemy is myself.

Henry is dead. I very well should be. Whoever killed him was also targeting me, but I was late, and for whatever reason, inevitably spared. I could feel eyes on me; it was clear I was being watched. Henry had set the rendezvous to make the drop, details and instructions for the hit on Dunsmore, which I was able to retrieve from him, after he’d bled out in the dirt. Often, he kept a tiny slip of paper taped to the bottom of his watch. This time, it was in the inside of his shoe. When I’d asked him to email the info he’d refused, saying there was something he wanted to discuss with me, and I got the impression that it was important, the kind of information he wouldn’t want the agency or anyone else to get their hands on.

For obvious reasons, I was concerned it was a trap— that Henry had lured me to that park, that I had become his mark—so I hung back and waited him out, which is why I was late.

Whoever was there intended to kill us both. It hit me, in that park—I could not go home. Not then, not ever again. To do so would be certain death for my family. They will be watching the house. Hence the tears. The best thing I can do now would be to get as far away as possible and wait for word from the agency. Their next move could come in the form of a bullet or in the form of information.

Until then, I have to carry out my current assignment as scheduled, and carry on as normal. Or at least pretend. Fifteen good years I have given the agency. Numerous kills. An ungodly number of kills. Now, it’s me they want. First, they got Henry.

Henry was the closest thing to a real friend that I’ve ever had. It’s my fault he is dead. He came to warn me, to help me, and I let him die.

It is just a matter of time before they will find me, and they will kill me. My death will be explained away easily, a tragic accident that took place during a work trip. If my family is spared, the insurance money should serve them well.

My chin quivers as more tears threaten to spill over. I am thankful that I never confided in Michael. It was the best decision I ever made. Each and every lie. All these years, so many times I could have easily slipped. I never did. And for that I am proud.

Speaking of pride, I check my reflection once more, and I think about what I want to leave behind, about the things I need to make amends for, and about finishing what I started.

Men like Geoffrey Dunsmore aren’t easy to get alone. Not that I have to have him alone. At this point, I suppose it doesn’t matter. But it does make it easier.

Flying to Paris without Henry, although wonderfully quiet and almost peaceful, feels sad and wrong. The interior of the jet is pleasantly empty, and I sink into my seat, exhausted. Takeoff is delayed, and dusk has fallen by the time the aircraft finally lifts its wheels, banks over the glittering city, and sets its course for Paris.

France always conjures memories of Dan the pilot. It’s where we first met, it’s where we first fucked, and if my calculations are correct, it’s where Sophie was conceived.

It also happens to be where I killed him.

I hadn’t meant for it to happen. Not really. Poor Dan. He had somewhat of a choking fetish. He liked it if I pressed and held his carotid artery just enough to bring him to the brink, right to the edge of consciousness. He liked leather; he liked to be tied up. He enjoyed putting himself in dangerous situations, and I was always more than eager to help.

There was no variance with Dan. He was well known among our colleagues for his dalliances, his incessant one-night stands. Sometimes, as it happened with me, Dan picked a regular and hung onto them, until the shine wore off, or in my case, until I became a liability.

There were no shortage of warnings that came my way. Sometimes they came in the form of stories, other times in glances of pity. I was determined to prove everyone wrong.

That trip, the one right before our final flight, after we engaged in his rather ritualistic manner of sex, we laid side by side in Dan’s hotel room. Talking about the future—or rather Dan talked, and I listened. He hadn’t meant to let it slip, but he had. He wasn’t flying back to the States with me and the crew. He wouldn’t be in the U.S. when the abortion was scheduled, or even reachable by phone, but he said I could email, if I wanted. He explained that he was off to Italy, on an anniversary trip with his wife. His kids were scheduled to meet them partway through, as an extended vacation was planned to celebrate his daughter’s graduation. As he discussed the logistics, there was something in the way he said it that made me realize I wasn’t in his future. I was just a diversion along the way to it.

At the airport, I weave in and out of weary passengers, taking care to watch for surveillance. The best way to notice if you’re being followed is to keep moving. Following a person is really more of an art rather than a science, and surveillance tradecraft is no exception. Like playing the violin or running a marathon, it takes time and practice to become a skilled surveillance practitioner. Lucky for me, most people involved in tradecraft simply do not devote the time necessary to master this skill. Because of this, they have terrible technique, use sloppy procedures, and lack finesse when they are tailing people.