I was having this weird dream that an elephant was standing on my chest, crushing my lungs. I woke up gasping to find not a pachyderm but an obese Hitler cat lying on me.
Riley was sitting at the desk, typing on the computer. He was wearing nothing but a pair of navy blue pajama bottoms. His blond hair was damp and wavy. His tanned back was nicely muscled and flexed a little as he worked. The room smelled of clean linen. Must've been his aftershave or something. It was nice.
I remembered the last time he'd kissed me back at my house a few months ago. That had been nice too. I remembered thinking he was interested in me. But then, he'd disappeared for three months and didn't respond to my messages until a dead nerd spy was found on my doorstep.
Damn, he was a good-looking man. From his slightly long, blond waves to his gorgeous tan and brilliant white teeth, that man could have any woman he wanted. It bothered me a little that I'd thought at one time he wanted me.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't hate him. Or even dislike him. The man was here, once again, trying to bail me out of trouble. I'd had it all wrong. He wasn't bossing me around because he'd missed me working for him. He was here looking after me when he didn't have to anymore.
Ugh. My thoughts were so convoluted. It was more important right now to figure out what was going on. Whoever was trying to kill me had involved my best friend, and I didn't like that.
"Hey." Riley was standing next to the bed, holding out a cup of tea. I sat up and took it, taking a sip.
"Oolong! Where'd you get it?" I asked. I hadn't had oolong tea since he and I had been in Malaysia a few years back.
"I picked it up in China last month." He pulled up a chair and sat down.
So that's where he'd been when he was avoiding me. The scent of the tea wrapped itself around my head and relaxed me. No point in getting into a fight now.
"Who did you see last night?" I asked, sitting up straighter on the bed.
Riley frowned. "A guy in a hoodie. I couldn't see him too well at all. Just enough to know where to aim."
"But you hit him?" I asked, untangling myself from the sheets and getting to my feet. I felt a little vulnerable, sitting in bed with him half-naked and sitting so close. I moved to the other chair and sat down, tucking one leg up under myself, my fingers curling around the steaming, hot mug.
He nodded. "I did. But he got away when we ran out." Riley frowned.
"What is it?" I asked.
"I should've stayed and finished him off," he said.
I shook my head. "I'm glad you helped me get Kelly out of there. She should never have been involved."
"Doesn't matter," Riley said. "The bastard got away." He was taking this pretty hard.
"Well, we know what his car looks like, and we know he can't shoot with any accuracy, so I think we're okay for now," I responded. "And he doesn't know where we are."
Riley sighed, running a tanned hand through his gold locks. "I guess that's something. Still, I would've preferred finding a body instead of a puddle of blood."
"Why did he miss?" I asked. "How many assassins do you know of who miss? I mean, maybe once. Possibly twice—but even that's extremely rare."
"It doesn't make a lot of sense," Riley agreed. "Bobb's never missed a hit as far as I know."
Philby hissed loudly from the bed.
"So maybe it isn't him?" I asked.
"Maybe," Riley said. "I thought it was weird he made contact with you instead of killing you outright. That also goes against his M.O."
"How have I never heard of…" I looked at Philby, who was struggling to get his bulk into his litter box. "…this assassin before? I thought I knew all the players?"
Riley spotted the cat and got the point. He grinned. "He's fairly new. He was starting to make a name for himself right about the time you were handed your walking papers by the agency."
"So what is his modus operandi? How does he usually take out targets, and who does he work for?"
Riley got up and pulled an undershirt from the duffle bag, pulling it on over his nice, lean muscles. I was sad to see him clothed.
"He started to show up on our radar with the Freitag hit in Munich a year and a half ago. Our sources indicated a new player on the scene. We didn't know much about him until he took out Wollan in Oslo a month later."
I nodded—I'd heard of both assassinations. Freitag had been a German politician—a Socialist noted for reform. Wollan was a Norwegian arms dealer with ties to Somali warlords.
"But how did you link those two murders?" I asked. "Neither one was tied to the other."
"It was the way he did it. Always with a rifle at close range. And he left a calling card at both scenes. He cut off their right index fingers in both cases. And he stuffed them into the left nostril of the victims."
"Seriously? This is a grown up? Not a cartoon character? Why did he do that?"
Riley shrugged. "He's never explained it. Over the next year, there were five more hits. All men who had no ties to the other victims. Same index finger picking the same nostril."
"That's how you connected him?" I asked. "From a juvenile gesture?"
"No, we started picking up buzz about him. He's a free agent. Works for the highest bidder. Always goes by the name Bobb."
Philby walked over to Riley and hissed furiously at him. It was almost like the cat couldn't help complaining when he heard the name, and he wanted us to stop saying it.
"Always spelled with two Bs," Riley continued as he patted the cat on the head. Philby seemed to grudgingly accept this apology and trotted away.
"Anyway, we've never had an eyewitness until now."
I pointed at my chest. "Me. I'm the only one who's ever seen him. Great."
Riley nodded. "You're the only one who's ever seen him and lived to talk about it."
"That seems like a rather odd loose end. Why would he do that?" I wondered. Assassins almost never broke with their M.O. They were creatures of habit. It made no sense that this one would behave differently. I studied my index finger for a moment. I'd like to keep it.
"Have you talked to Langley about this?" I asked.
"I reported it after you fell asleep last night. The license plate was a dead end, but they believe it's him. They also think you're a target."
I threw up my hands. "Great. So not only do I still have dead spies springing up around me, now I have an international killer on my heels."
Riley's cell chimed. He looked at it. "Well, at least we're about to clear you of being at the prison. The video was just emailed to me."
I felt a small sense of relief as I followed him over to the computer and watched him log in. At least there was some good news. I knew I hadn't been in Colorado a week ago. In fact, I hadn't ever been to Colorado as far as I knew. This would take some heat off of me.
Riley clicked on the attachment video, and a new screen opened up. The footage was grainy—black and white—which I thought was weird. Surely a supermax prison could use better equipment. Why was this stuff always grainy black and white?
We could see the back of someone, talking to Lenny, who looked very much alive.
"How do they think that looks like me?" I asked. "It could be anybody." Seriously. This was beyond lame.
Riley shook his head. I could smell the scent of his hair. It smelled like the ocean. "Obviously they were just looking for someone to blame, and you were it. You're being framed."
"Obviously," I grumbled as I focused on the screen.
The visitor was standing up. Lenny nodded and got up on the other side of the wall, replacing the telephone. The camera zoomed in as the visitor turned around…and my face grinned at the camera before moving out of view.