Will sat motionless.
Staring at other people’s happy lives, with no idea how to become like them.
No hope of becoming like them.
He told the driver that he’d decided to walk back to the city center, thrust cash at him, and got out of the car. Tomorrow he’d be in London. He’d report to Alistair that Schreiber’s anonymous female successor had nineteen other sleeper assassins who could be activated if Will or others tried to destroy Schreiber’s empire.
That wouldn’t stop Will Cochrane.
He’d never stop.
Until he was killed.
Snow began to fall.
Spartan buttoned up his overcoat and walked along the empty street.
Alone.