| to it are-” “Are what?” asked Roussard, angry. He didn’t care for the way in which his handler second-guessed everything he did. He was not a child. He knew all too well the risks he was taking. There was a pause and Roussard knew what his handler was thinking. The mistake had not been made in California -it had been made outside Harvath’s home. Tracy Hastings should have been killed. She should be dead right now, not lying in some hospital bed on life support. But she had turned at the very last moment. That accursed dog had yelped, or twitched, or had done something to cause the woman to move her head ever so slightly, so that Roussard’s shot had connected, but not where he had intended. Maybe things were better that way. Maybe the pain would be more intense for Harvath. There were ten plagues in total, and each plague would be visited upon people close to him. He would be made to suffer through their suffering, and then, finally, his life would be taken. It was the ultimate price for what Harvath had done. “Your changes cause me concern,” said the handler. “All of them,” demanded Roussard angrily, “or certain ones in particular?” “Please. This is not-” “Answer my question.” The handler’s voice remained calm. “The shopping mall was particularly dangerous-too many cameras, too many ways you could have been recorded. You should have stayed with the health club.” Roussard didn’t answer. “But what is done is |
the animals yielded an incredible meat. It was finely marbled with fat that was less saturated than the fat in other beef, was significantly lower in cholesterol, and was without rival in flavor and tenderness. As he set the steaks up on the counter, both of the dogs appeared by his side, their nostrils flaring at the scent of the beef. They both asked so little from him and yet gave so much in return. They were his ever-present companions, truer and more loyal than almost any human being he had ever known. The Troll plated a steak for each of the dogs and set them down on the floor. Immediately, they fell upon them and the beef disappeared. When his food was prepared, the Troll set it upon the dining table, uncorked another bottle of Château Quercy, and climbed into his chair to eat. His steak was perfect. Cutting into it was like slicing into a piece of soft, ripened Brie. He savored every bite of his meal, and when his plate was clean and his wine glass empty, he removed his dinnerware to the kitchen. Pouring himself a snifter of Germain-Robin XO, he took a long sip and closed his eyes. For all of his accomplishments, the Troll’s life was a lonely place. The living-room windows were on sliding tracks and had been pulled back to open the room onto the sea. A light breeze carried the smell of the ocean mixed with the tiny island’s exotic flowers |
