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Chapters (61)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Imagine a girl
  4. Prologue
  5. The Foreigner
  6. One
  7. Two
  8. Three
  9. Four
  10. Five
  11. The Skeptic
  12. Six
  13. Seven
  14. Eight
  15. Nine
  16. Ten
  17. Eleven
  18. Twelve
  19. Thirteen
  20. Fourteen
  21. Fifteen
  22. Sixteen
  23. Seventeen
  24. Eighteen
  25. Nineteen
  26. Twenty
  27. Twenty-One
  28. Twenty-Two
  29. Twenty-Three
  30. The Spectator
  31. Twenty-Four
  32. Twenty-Five
  33. Twenty-Six
  34. Twenty-Seven
  35. Twenty-Eight
  36. Twenty-Nine
  37. The Assassin
  38. Thirty
  39. Thirty-One
  40. Thirty-Two
  41. Thirty-Three
  42. Thirty-Four
  43. Thirty-Five
  44. Thirty-Six
  45. Thirty-Seven
  46. Thirty-Eight
  47. Thirty-Nine
  48. Forty
  49. Forty-One
  50. The Hunter
  51. Forty-Two
  52. Forty-Three
  53. Forty-Four
  54. Forty-Five
  55. Forty-Six
  56. Forty-Seven
  57. Imagine a girl
  58. Acknowledgments
  59. About the Author
  60. Also by Ben McPherson
  61. About the Publisher

She began to plan. The boat was held at the dock by two ropes. The engine was in position. They would come on board at the stern; she would be at the console in seconds, the key would turn, the boat would slip its mooring, reverse quietly out into the fjord.

It helped to know what she would do, what she would say. It held at bay the terror that threatened to engulf her.

The men would not hear the engine before she gunned it toward the mainland.

Everyone down.

Stay out of sight.

They were going to make it.

Through her backpack she felt her phone ringing. Still there in its ziplock bag.

Can’t speak now, Dad.

Funny.

Almost.

The boat was in sight now. Ahead of her were the girls. Behind her was Arno. She waited until he caught up.

“I’m going to go on board first,” she said. Her voice sounded foreign to her, unreal. Out of breath, though she was barely swimming.

The boy nodded. She could see that he was near the end of his strength.

“Need to let the others know. You be okay, Arno?”

“Yeah.”

She pressed on toward the girls, swimming swiftly, ignoring the ache in her shoulder. Two minutes. Maybe less. Keep them out of the way.

Everybody stay low.

The water in front of her flicked as if slapped. Twice. She heard the gunshots as they echoed from the far banks of the fjord. She turned to face their attacker, though she knew that she should not; she stopped swimming, though she knew that she must not.

There he was, the short man. He was standing on a rock near the water’s edge. His black shirt was open at the neck. There were sweat patches under his arms. His pistol was raised, held in both hands, braced. He was looking at her, she realized. Sighting up. It was casual, matter-of-fact, without malice.

Behind her was Arno. Brave little Arno.

For a moment Arno flailed. Tiny waves radiated out from his body, lapping toward her across the mirror-black surface.

She looked up at the man. Please, she thought. Not Arno.

How calm the man was. His gaze did not waver. He closed his left eye.

She felt the bullet strike. It crushed her clavicle, tore into the wall of muscle behind, obliterated the lung tissue that lay in its path, lodged itself deep within her.

She gasped. The man paused. The sound echoed back at her.

She saw the man check her position; she saw him check his own position; again she saw him close his left eye.

All was lost now, she thought.

This is the end of me.

The Foreigner

One