Not a train of thought an assassin should engage in.

Exhaustion descended over him, a heavy cloud. That was it, then. He was tired. A good night’s sleep would purge his brain of this existential nonsense.

Heading back to the bathroom, he stepped through the hidden door in the water-beaded shower and into the Vault. A Hardigg Storm Case by the weapon lockers held a neat row of replacement RoamZone phones, each nestled in black foam. He plucked one out, slotting in a new SIM card, then dropped into the chair before the bank of monitors burdening the sheet-metal desk. A few clicks and he’d switched the phone service to a company in Bahrain.

He turned on the RoamZone—no messages from Anna Rezian’s referral—and plugged it into the desktop charger.

An impulse grabbed him. With flying fingers he called up Castle Heights’ internal-security feeds, then zeroed in on the lens positioned by the twelfth-floor elevator. He rewound at 3x, the digital footage herky-jerky.

There.

A few minutes ago, the camera had captured Mia walking backward with a man down the hall, reversing into the elevator, the doors zippering shut behind them. She’d gone to meet him in the lobby. That seemed noteworthy.

Evan clicked PLAY, let the doors part, freeze-framed on the man.

Ted.

The guy looked pleasant enough. Rumpled hair, work-casual clothes, black Chuck Taylors throwing in a dash of cool. A Web designer or an advertising exec, maybe. He’d know how to barbecue. CrossFit gym membership, vacations to Maui. A peaceful, ordinary existence, work and play and time to reflect.

He thought of Mia’s smile and wondered how dinner was going downstairs.

With Ted.

The RoamZone perched in its charger, awaiting the next call from the next client. Evan stared at it with enmity. It wasn’t just a phone. It was a collar and chain. For an instant he let himself imagine what it would be like to be free of it.

*   *   *

Plucked fresh from the living wall, basil, sage, and tomatoes sizzled atop the cooking eggs. With a dip of his wrist, Evan folded the omelet, completing the half circle, and then slid it onto a plate.

He’d woken early, meditated, and stretched. He couldn’t yet hang from the pull-up bar with his full weight, but if he tugged at it with his right hand, he could lengthen out the muscles of the arm. He’d required the jungle penetrator to bear him up the side of the Horizon Express, the cable attached to the grappling hook reeling him in on the deployed seat like a hooked fish.

At the store this morning, he’d stocked up on the basics—eggs, cheese, vodka. Now he sat, ate, and enjoyed the view of Downtown twelve miles to the east. The high-rises thrust up abruptly, a compact little skyline fit for a snow globe.