It didn't matter to Sean what the man was consuming. All he cared about was that the man had a routine, something that could be tracked and counted on at the same time every single day. Little habits like that were things assassins always loved to exploit. Sean hadn't thought that way for a few years, but falling back into his old routine didn't take much effort.
The time he'd spent working security transport for the International Archaeological Agency had kept him on his toes, and several instances over the years saw to it that he never lost his edge; though there were a few moments when it certainly felt like a little rust had settled in. The fact that Dufort was able to get away from him in Denmark certainly shook his nerves, but Sean’s high-level training had made his thoughts, actions, and reactions instinctual.
Not now. He was back in the swing, but with a clearer sense of purpose.
Right on time, Sean watched the French double doors swing open to the penthouse balcony, and his target emerged, accompanied by a young girl, probably a prostitute, a muscular man Sean assumed to be a bodyguard, and a butler in a white blazer. While the young woman was a new addition to the routine, Sean was happy to see that his mark had strayed little from his usual course in spite of the new guest.
He set down his binoculars and slid back into position, using the rifle's scope to see the chair Dufort sat in every day so far. With his unassisted eye, Sean watched the group migrate across the balcony to the bar where they helped themselves to a few drinks. The butler poured and then showed Dufort and the girl back over to the right side, closer to the ocean and right where Sean's barrel was aimed.
Sean closed his naked eye and watched his target carefully. He was standing in an awkward position, partially blocked by a concrete piling. The broad railing kept him from getting a clear shot, and at worst, he would only injure Dufort. If Sean fired and missed, or barely clipped the Frenchman, he would surely disappear again, and this time finding him would be a much more difficult affair than the last.
Dufort smiled as he started to move toward the center of the crosshairs in Sean's scope. The target checked his seat to make sure everything was in order and was about to sit down when a knock came at Sean's door.
He froze in place.
Had someone seen him? No one other than Emily even knew he was here. Adriana was off somewhere in Europe, hunting down another priceless work of art. Tommy was busy doing who knew what. Sean wouldn't have told either of them what he was up to, even if they hadn't been in another country. That was just how he operated. The fewer loose ends, the better.
The rapping came from the door again; this time accompanied by a voice. "Room service," the Arabic accent was unmistakable.
Sean’s eyes blinked for a second, then peered back through his scope. He'd not ordered room service. Either the bellhop had the wrong room, or Dufort knew Sean was here and had thrown in a wildcard. He hoped it was the prior. Deep down inside, he already knew it was the latter. Knowing the danger lurking out in the hallway, he risked a quick glance over at the bed where his pistol rested in a black case.
He returned his stare to Dufort, who for some reason seemed to be hesitating about sitting down. Sean noticed him motion for the girl to take the seat where he usually sat. She accepted, taking the position squarely in the dead center of Sean's crosshairs.
"Oh, come on," he whispered to himself.
The knocking came a third time, harder than the previous two. "Room service," the voice announced again.
"I didn't order any room service," Sean said loudly, trying to project his voice through the empty room. "Check another room."
There was a silent pause before the bellhop spoke again. "Room service for Mr. Wyatt?"
Sean swallowed hard and kept his eyes on the target. Dufort was moving around, keeping behind the concrete pillars, which made getting a clean shot nearly impossible. Why was he changing his routine all of a sudden? That combined with the knocking at the door could mean only one thing.
Sean didn't want to admit the possibility, but there was no denying it.
He'd been made.
2
Sean spun around onto his backside just as the door to his room burst open. Whipping the long rifle around took a second longer than he would have liked, but it was still fast enough to squeeze off a round before the intruder in the blue T-shirt could train his weapon.
Sean squeezed off a shot from the hip, with the butt of the rifle wedged between his bicep and his ribcage. The extended barrel puffed loudly. The powerful round struck its mark in the man's chest and went out through his back. Red spots instantly splattered on the hallway wall behind him as he took two staggering steps back and fell prostrate on the floor.
Another man peeked around the corner with a handgun, a silencer on the end of it. He popped off five extremely quick shots, two narrowly missing Sean's feet. Sean wiggled back a few inches and propped himself against the railing. The gunman's hand was holding his weapon just at the edge of the doorframe, which meant his body was probably only eight to ten inches to the left behind two layers of drywall and some insulation.
Sean raised the rifle to eye level and pulled the trigger. The bullet zipped through the thin walls and was immediately followed by a grunt and a thud on the other side. He waited for a few seconds, keeping the barrel of the rifle pointed at the open doorway in case there were more of them. When no one appeared, Sean took a quick look back across the massive courtyard to Dufort's penthouse.
It was empty.
"Crap," he said to himself. He shifted onto his feet but remained in a crouch. It was entirely possible that Dufort had a sniper of his own on the other rooftop or on a balcony in the other wing.
He crept hurriedly over to the bed and dropped the big gun onto the cushion inside the still open carrying case. Next to it was another, smaller case. He flipped open the latches and withdrew his black Springfield XD .40-caliber and slid a fully loaded magazine of hollow points into the handle.
When it clicked, he pulled back the slide to chamber a round.
Sean rushed over to the door, past the hit man's body, and peeked around the corner and down the hallway in both directions. The corridor was empty, save for the other dead man on the floor.
Definitely not a good day to be one of the maids on duty.
He took off down the hall toward the stairwell. An elevator would be too slow. As he reached the door, the latch turned and started to open. He jumped back and aimed his weapon as the gap between the door and its sill widened.
A terrified old man in a red jogging suit with a bottle of water appeared in the doorway. His eyes were wide with surprise and fear. Sean let out a sigh and lowered his weapon, motioning the man through.
"Sorry," he said shortly. "Hotel security. Someone stole some towels."
The old man raised his eyebrows and scurried away, going through the first door on the left. At least he probably didn't pay any attention to the body farther down the hall, Sean thought. Sean shook his head and stepped into the stairwell, but was halted by a man in a white T-shirt and khakis. He looked to be of Arab descent, with dark eyes and bronze skin overlapping bulging muscles.
The sinister expression on the man's face told Sean everything he needed to know. Reinforcements had arrived.
He tried to raise the Springfield, but the man countered, chopping down on Sean's wrist then grabbing it with a vice-like grip. He pulled Sean close and swung his elbow at his face.
The pain screeched through Sean's jaw as the elbow struck squarely. The man still didn't let go of his wrist, and punched hard with his fist. The attack hit Sean in the abdomen, instinctively causing him to double over. A knee shot up quickly, aimed at Sean's chin, but he was able to regain his wits fast enough to tilt his head to the side. He reached out with his free hand, grabbed the man's knee pit, and leveraged his weight along with the attacker's to throw him off balance.