The Mark of the Assassin

BOLT UPRIGHT as adrenaline shot through his body. Suddenly
    his arms and legs didn't ache any longer, and his breath came in short,
    quick bursts. He stared at the man approaching on the bicycle. A helmet
    covered the head, sunglasses the eyes. Michael stared at the exposed
    portion of his face. He had seen it before--in Colin Yardley's bedroom,
    on the Cairo airport video, on the Chelsea Embankment. It was October.
    The assassin was reaching inside a nylon bag mounted on the handlebars
    of the bike. Michael knew he was reaching for his gun. If he turned and
    tried to run away, October would easily overtake and kill him. If he
    stood his ground, the result would be the same. He sprinted directly
    toward the oncoming bicycle. The move took the gunman by surprise. He
    was twenty yards away; the two men were approaching each other rapidly
    on a collision course. October frantically dug through the nylon bag,
    grabbing for the butt of the gun, trying to get his finger inside the
    trigger guard. He took hold of the gun, ripped it from the bag, and
    tried to level it at Michael. Michael arrived as the silenced Beretta
    emitted a dull thud. He lowered his shoulder and drove it into October's
    chest. The blow knocked October from the bike, and he landed on the
    wooden footbridge with a heavy thump. Michael managed to stay on his
    feet. He turned around and saw October, lying on his back, still holding
    the gun. Michael had two options--rush October, try to disarm and
    capture him, or run away and get help. October was a ruthless assassin,
    trained in the martial arts. Michael had gone through rudimentary
    training at the Farm, but he realized he would be no match for someone
    like October. Besides, he was holding one gun and probably had a second
    hidden somewhere on his body. Michael turned, ran a few yards along the
    footbridge, then leaped over the side into the mud and reed grass at the
    river's edge. He scrambled across a hillside slick with wet autumn
    leaves and disappeared into a stand of trees.
    DELAROCHE SAT UP and collected his bearings. The blow had knocked the
    breath from him, but he had escaped serious injury. He stuck the Beretta
    inside the waistband of his riding britches and pulled his jersey over
    the butt. Two men with army sweatsuits rounded the corner as Delaroche
    was bending to pick up his bike. For an instant he considered shooting
    them both; then he realized the Pentagon was nearby, and the soldiers
    were simply out for a harmless midday run. "You all right?" one of them
    asked. "Just a ruffian who tried to rob me," Delaroche said, allowing
    his French accent to come through. "When I explained to the man that I
    had nothing of value he knocked me from my bicycle."
    "Maybe you should see a doctor," the other said. "No, a bruise, perhaps,
    but nothing serious. I'll find a police officer and file a report."
    "Okay, be careful."
    "Thank you for stopping, gentlemen."
    Delaroche waited for the soldiers to vanish from sight. He took hold of
    the bike by the handlebars and brought it upright. He was angry and
    excited. He had never blown an assassination, and he was angry with
    himself for not reacting better.
    Osbourne had proven himself a worthier opponent than De-laroche
    expected. His dash toward Delaroche demonstrated both bravery and
    cunning. His second decision, to escape rather than fight, also
    demonstrated intelligence, for Delaroche surely would have killed him.
    That was why Delaroche was excited. Most of his victims never knew what
    hit them. He appeared unexpectedly and killed without warning. Most of
    the time his work was less than challenging. Obviously, that would not
    be the case with Os-bourne. Delaroche had lost the element of surprise.
    Osbourne was aware of his presence, and he would never allow Delaroche
    to get near him again. Delaroche would have to bring Osbourne to him.
    Delaroche remembered the night on the Chelsea Embankment. He remembered
    shooting the woman named Sarah Randolph three times in the face and
    hearing the anguished screams of Michael Osbourne as he slipped away. A
    man who lost a woman in that manner would do almost anything to prevent
    it from happening again. He mounted the bicycle and pedaled north toward
    Key Bridge. He dialed Astrid's number. She answered on the first ring.
    Delaroche calmly told her what to do as he cycled over the bridge toward
    Georgetown.
    MICHAEL REACHED the shoulder of the George Washington Parkway. At midday
    there was little