I didn't catch the rest of the threat. I was busy lining up my shot, waiting for the moment when Rose's car was out of sight. Just another few seconds . . .
The girlfriend walked over to Wilde, trying to calm him--and stepped right into my line of fire. Wilde pushed her aside and headed for the driver's door. She followed, staying between me and him.
I could make the shot, but there was a chance I'd hit her instead. I remained in position, hoping she'd move. But she kept pace until he got to the driver's door. He climbed inside and peeled away, leaving her in the parking lot.
CHAPTER 2
I'd missed my hit. It happened. Not often, thankfully, but no amount of planning can cover every contingency. I'd need to stay in Michigan to finish the job, so as I walked the two miles to my rental car, I called home.
Home for me is a wilderness lodge northeast of Toronto. I'm the owner, operator, backcountry guide, shooting-range instructor, and entertainment director. Hell, some days I'm even the busboy and chambermaid. It's that kind of business.
In October, we rarely have guests off-weekend, which is why I'd picked midweek for the job. Ostensibly, I'm taking a little personal R&R. Do my caretakers, the Waldens, believe that? They've been with me long enough to know I don't do R&R, as much as they would like me to, but they just wish me a good trip and assure me everything will be fine in my absence.
Now I called to say that I'd be gone a little longer. Emma answered the phone. Her husband, Owen, never does--telephones require talking, and the only man I know who talks less is my mentor, Jack.
"I'm thinking of taking a couple of extra days," I said. "How are the bookings?"
"Same as they were when you called last night, Nadia. Three rooms, seven guests. Not one has requested range access or shooting lessons or rock climbing or white-water canoeing, probably because they're all over sixty and have learned common sense. It's past Thanksgiving. Everyone who wanted a fall-colors getaway did it on the long weekend. Also, they're forecasting snow."
"Already?"
"I'm sure it'll just be a sprinkling, but I wouldn't be surprised if we have cancellations. You know what idiots drivers are in a first snow. Go enjoy your vacation."
"I will. And don't spoil Scout too much. Last time I came back, I thought she'd swallowed a beach ball."
"That's Owen," she said. "Damned fool's a sucker for sad puppy-dog eyes."
"Maybe you should try it on him."
She laughed, and we ran over a few business items, then I reached the car and signed off.
One call down. One to go. I took a different phone from the glove box. It was a toy from a hitman friend, Felix--the same guy who gave me the amplifier. The phone is a sweet piece of tech and probably damned expensive. It was untraceable, of course, but also came with built-in voice modulation, GPS blocking, interception alert, and a number randomizer. In short, it was perfect for calling to report a failed hit.
I wasn't phoning the client. I had no contact with him. I work exclusively for Paul Tomassini, nephew to the don of a New York Mafia family. This wasn't their job, but one that came to Paul himself, as a special request from a connected friend whom Rose Wilde's father had contacted. Paul knew it was my kind of work, so he'd put me on it.
"It's Dee," I said when he answered.
That's my professional name. Jack's idea, proving that the guy has not an iota of imagination. His own nom de guerre? Jack.
Paul did know my real name. He'd been a regular at the lodge when he invited me into my side business, knowing I was good with a gun and, at the time, I'd really needed cash.
"It was a bust," I said, phrasing it carefully. "His better half showed up, with the little one."
"Shit." A brief pause. "You trying again?"
"Of course."
"Good. I'll let him know."
"Can you tell him he should check in on her, too? There was a bit of a scene." I explained what had happened.
"What the fuck? Wife needs permission to take the kid to the doctor?"
"She needs permission for everything. She doesn't have her own cell phone, car, credit cards, access to the bank account . . ."
He let out a string of profanity. "And he waved his side dish in her face? Fucking bastard."
"You'll let your friend know? If hubby is pissed off with her . . ."