Fitzpatrick gripped the steering wheel tightly in his gloved hands, watching the storefront from across the street in downtown Arlington, Virginia. The black SUV was parked at a meter, and though the windows were tinted too dark for anyone to see inside he had still taken the precaution of disguising his appearance. He wore large-framed sunglasses, a brimmed cap, and temporary red dye in his beard.
After a few minutes Agent Zero emerged, carrying two small bouquets. Fitzpatrick seethed at the very sight of him. How sweet, the mercenary thought bitterly. He got flowers for his little girls.
The CIA safe house was four and a half blocks away, disguised as a brownstone in an upscale residential neighborhood. There were biometric locks on the doors, bullet-resistant glass in the windows, and a careful agent watching over Zero’s girls. There was no getting to them in there.
The Division had underestimated them in Switzerland. Kerrigan was supposed to obtain the two teenagers under the guise of CIA Agent Nolan, but he had failed, thoroughly evident by him having been found disarmed and bound to a chair with a broken nose and orbital bone. He claimed that the CIA agent called Watson had detained him, though he was fairly tight-lipped with the details.
As incensed as Fitzpatrick was with Kerrigan’s failure in Engelberg, he was even more so with his own at the compound in Iraq. He had Zero in his sights and had hesitated. Worse, that blonde-haired bitch had video of him stupidly spilling the truth. Fitzpatrick had been watching the media closely for any mention of the Division, but there hadn’t been any. If “Agent Marigold” hadn’t been bluffing, then she was keeping it to herself, perhaps saving it for a rainy day.
His organization had had their fair share of negative press; most recently, just over a year earlier, there had been allegations that the Division had assisted in gunning down an entire Sudanese village to dissuade a rebellion. Of course, they had participated, but the evidence was thin and the case was dropped. Still, they didn’t need more bad publicity—and they very much needed contracts with the US government.
Fitzpatrick watched Agent Zero as he strode down the block to the corner, and then waited at the crosswalk with his two bouquets of flowers. The traffic light turned red and Fitzpatrick eased the SUV out of the parking spot and rolled to a stop behind a line of cars, keeping a keen eye on the agent.
He pressed a button on his phone. The line rang twice before she answered, though she said nothing.
“I’ve got visual on Zero,” he said gruffly. “Just say the word and I’ll splatter him and his khakis all over the—”
“Stand down,” she ordered curtly.
The mercenary scoffed in disbelief. “What’s that now?”
“Stand down, Fitzpatrick,” she said again, more forcefully.
He gritted his teeth angrily. “Why?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” she replied simply.
“Actually, you do. ‘Cause you see, Ms. Riker, I’m about, oh, fifty-odd feet from making Agent Zero little more than a stain and a memory.”
“This isn’t coming from me,” she said by way of explanation. “It’s coming from above. Pierson wants a meeting with him.”
“Pierson?” Fitzpatrick shook his head in disgust. Here he was, accepting meager hit-and-run contracts while Zero was busy scheduling meetings with the President of the United States.
“He believes there can be a more… diplomatic solution,” Riker said cryptically.
“Diplomatic,” he spat. If you’re not a soldier, then you’re a politician. “Why the sudden change of heart? You want this guy dead, then you don’t—”
“Agent Zero just brought down the Brotherhood and prevented the bombing of a US destroyer class battleship. No one is going to believe he was struck down in a crosswalk. We’d not only risk potential exposure but also having more people than just him looking closer. The president is seeking an alternative. So stand down.”
Fitzpatrick’s lip curled instinctively into a snarl. Zero had made a fool of him, sent him and his men running with their tails between their legs. Of course, he hadn’t admitted that to Riker; as far as she knew, Zero got angry with them for gunning down terrorists and his bosom buddy Strickland dismissed them from the op before they had the chance to take him out.
Should have just taken all three of them out.
“And what if I don’t, huh?” he said into the phone. “I was sent here to do a job. I’m here. He’s here. What if poor Agent Zero has an accident and never makes it to his little girls?”
“Then I will remind you,” Riker said evenly, “that such accidents could happen to anyone.”
The mercenary’s face flushed with blood. If there was one thing he couldn’t abide, it was some pompous control freak trying to intimidate him from up on their high horse. “You threatening me, Riker?”
“No, Shannon. I’m telling you that if you harm Agent Zero without my consent, I will have you killed.”
Fitzpatrick winced—not at the warning, but at the use of his legal first name. “Fine,” he grunted. “But when the time comes, I want to be the one that does it.”
“We’ll see.”
“And I’m still getting paid,” he declared.
“Of course. Now come on back,” Riker told him. “I’ve got something else for you—something much more interesting, and far more lucrative.”
Fitzpatrick grinned. Riker might have been cold, calculating, and completely out for herself, but she knew just what to say when it needed saying.
The light turned green and traffic began moving again as he ended the call, but he kept his foot on the brake. He scanned left and right; Agent Zero had vanished from sight. He had been there a moment ago, waiting patiently at the crosswalk for the light to change. Now he was simply gone.
The car behind him honked to goad him into moving. Fitzpatrick grunted in frustration and pulled off to the curb. He reached for the door handle to get a clearer visual when there was a tapping against the passenger-side window.
Fitzpatrick looked up sharply to see Agent Zero, looking none too happy, tapping on the glass with the barrel of a Ruger LC9.
“Son of a bitch,” Fitzpatrick hissed under his breath. Even with his attempts at concealing his identity, Zero had seemingly sniffed him out like a bloodhound and now stood there patiently, one eyebrow arched, peering in at him.
With little other recourse, Fitzpatrick pressed the button and rolled the automatic window down about six inches. He tugged off his sunglasses and forced a broad grin as he said, “Agent Zero. Fancy seein’ you here.”
“Yeah. Imagine that. Especially after you told me I wouldn’t see you coming.” Zero’s gaze bore into his. “Yet you’ve been trailing me for six blocks.”
Fitzpatrick’s grin calcified into a frown. He gestured with his chin towards the small LC9 that was mostly concealed from passers-by in Zero’s palm. “You gonna use that?”
“Not here. Not now. But I’m going to hold onto it until I see your taillights disappear.” Zero leaned closer to the narrow opening of the window. “So why don’t you run back to whoever sent you and tell them something for me. I’ll always see you coming, Fitzpatrick.” He straightened, holding the two bouquets of flowers in such a way that obscured the LC9 but still had the stubby barrel aimed at the window.
Fitzpatrick clenched his jaw. He wanted to say something in return; actually, if he was being honest with himself, he wanted to pull the Sig Sauer he had stowed in the glove box and fire into Agent Zero until the clip ran empty.
But he did neither. He realized that the future of the Division depended on him exercising restraint, so he rolled up the window, pulled back out onto the street and eased around the next corner. He wouldn’t be delivering any messages on Zero’s behalf. Instead, he’d make damn sure that the next time they met it would be he, and not the agent, that had the gun pointed.