The man called David Gilmour listened to the target’s footsteps recede in the stairwell. He leaned against the open doorframe and clutched his shoulder where the target had stabbed him. The wound hurt. It was deep. The pain wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
The target was escaping. The asset knew this. He was already gone. The asset looked at the pistol in his hand. Its grip was smeared with blood. His blood. The bastard had stabbed him.
The target had escaped. He’d taken the girl with him. The asset stood in the doorway a moment. Then he straightened.
Extricate yourself without being detected.
He retreated into the target’s apartment. Found a clean T-shirt in the bedroom and wrapped his wound as best he could. Then he walked back into the hallway. There was someone waiting.
A man. A young man in black-framed glasses. He peered out at the asset from his own doorway. Saw the blood. Saw the gun. His eyes widened. “Holy shit, man. What are you—”
The asset shot him. Once, in the chest. The man staggered backward into his apartment. The asset waited until his door had swung closed. Then he walked to the elevator and pressed the call button down.