The Mark of the Assassin

bag with ice, and took a bottle
    of beer from the refrigerator. The pain reliever was in the bathroom
    medicine cabinet. She limped up the stairs and hobbled down the hall,
    leaning against the banister for support. She entered the bathroom,
    placed the beer on the edge of the sink, and opened the medicine
    cabinet. She found the pain reliever and washed down two tablets with
    the beer. She closed the cabinet door. In the mirror she saw the
    reflection of a man standing behind her.
    Susanna opened her mouth to scream. A gloved hand closed around her
    mouth, smothering her cries. "Shut up, you fucking bitch, or I'll kill
    you," the man said through clenched teeth. Susanna only struggled more.
    She put her weight on her injured ankle, raised her left foot, and
    dragged it down his shin, just the way she had been taught in her urban
    self-defense class. The man groaned in pain and loosened his grip. She
    pivoted to her right and struck backward with her right elbow. The blow
    landed on her attacker's cheekbone. He relaxed his grip, and she broke
    away. She stumbled into the hallway, then into the study. Reaching for
    the telephone, she realized the attacker had tampered with her computer
    and with her notebooks. She picked up the receiver. The man appeared in
    the doorway, pointing a gun at her face. "Put down the fucking
    telephone."
    "Who are you?"
    "Put down the telephone now, and I won't hurt you."
    Carson charged up the stairs, barking wildly. He crouched in the
    hallway, baring his teeth at the intruder. The man calmly raised the gun
    and shot the dog twice. The silenced weapon emitted virtually no sound.
    Carson yelped once, then went quiet. "You bastard! You fucking bastard!
    Who the fuck are you? Did Elliott send you? Tell me, goddammit! Did
    Mitchell Elliott send you?"
    "Put the phone down. Now!"
    She looked down and punched the nine and the one. The first shot struck
    her head before she could enter the last digit. She fell backward, still
    clutching the receiver, still conscious. She looked up. The man stood
    over her and pointed the gun at her head once more. "Not in the face,"
    she pleaded. "Please God, don't shoot me in the face."
    His mask of rage softened for an instant. He lowered the gun a few
    degrees, the barrel pointed at her chest. She closed her eyes. The gun
    emitted two brief bursts of sound. She felt one brief instant of
    excruciating pain, then a flash of brilliant light. Then only darkness.
    CALAHAN REACHED DOWN, removed the receiver from her grasp, and replaced
    it in the cradle. The kill had been quick, but it had not been
    completely silent. He needed to work quickly. The police would tear the
    place apart. If they discovered evidence the woman was under
    surveillance, there was a chance they could connect the slaying to
    Elliott. The cleanup job took less than five minutes. As he walked' out
    the front door Calahan held the notepads, the two room bugs, the bug
    from the telephone, her handbag, and her laptop computer. He headed out
    Pomander Walk, crossed Volta Place, and climbed into the surveillance
    van; he'd return later for his car. As he sped away he punched Mitchell
    Elliott's private number into a cellular phone. "I'm afraid we have a
    bit of a problem, Mr. Elliott. I'll call you on a secure line in five
    minutes."
    Calahan severed the connection and threw the phone against the
    windshield.
    "Goddammit, why did she come back early? Fucking bitch!"
    CHAPTER 17.
    Breles, France.
    DELAROCHE CONCLUDED he needed a woman. He reached that judgment after
    reviewing the disk a second time, this time on his desktop computer at
    the cottage in Breles. Two of the three remaining targets were known
    womanizers. Delaroche knew their routines, knew where they ate and
    drank, knew where they did their hunting. Still, getting close to these
    targets would be difficult. A woman would make it easier. Delaroche
    needed a woman.
    HE HAD ONE DAY to spend in Brals. When he finished with the dossiers he
    went for a bicycle ride. The weather was good: clear, for November,
    light winds from the sea. He knew it would be a long time before he
    would ride again, so he pushed himself hard. He pedaled inland several
    miles, into the soft wooded hills of the Finist&e, then down to the sea
    again. He paused at the ruins on the Pointe de Saint-Mathieu, then
    headed north along the coast back to Breles. The early afternoon he
    devoted to preparation. He cleaned and oiled his two best guns--a
    Beretta 9mm and the