The Last Second (A Brit in the FBI #6)(61)

And all the satellites in space would be knocked offline, and there would be blessed silence both in space and on Earth. And the Numen would be able to come for her. And when she told them, the Numen rejoiced. But she worried. They were immortal, they’d felt it to her, and she wasn’t. And then Broussard began telling her about the Holy Grail. And time passed, and she began to tell the Numen about her growing belief in the Holy Grail, or the Heaven Stone, as she preferred to call it, since the Numen, were, after all, in the heavens. She told them about her studies and discussions with Broussard, and how she knew to her soul he would find it, in the Strait of Malacca, on a shipwreck known as the Flor de la Mar.

And when she told them the Heaven Stone would make the one who had it immortal, they rejoiced with her. The bomb’s EMP would create enough of a channel for them to collect both Nevaeh and the Heaven Stone. This was what they wanted, wasn’t it? They hummed, they were so happy. Nevaeh, with Kiera by her side, began to implement their plan.





CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR


New York

July 2015

Dr. Claire Fontaine lived on West 69th. Nevaeh was pleased the large glass building backed to a quiet alley, dark even though it was still daylight, where no cameras pointed. She now waited in the alley, wearing black, blending into the shadows, listening to the squeal of tires and the footsteps. The heat was making sweat prickle on the back of her neck.

You’re fine. Breathe. Relax. She will come.

Fontaine kept to a schedule, Kiera assured her.

Monday through Thursday, she came home at 4:30 every day, put on running gear, took a loop around Central Park, then returned home at 6 p.m. and disappeared into her apartment for the rest of the night.

Fridays were different. Fontaine exchanged work clothes for dinner and dancing, went out in heels and a little black dress. Nevaeh had read Kiera’s dossier thoroughly—sometimes it was a date, sometimes it was a charity event, the symphony or a ballet, when the season was appropriate.

For someone so smart, she is seriously stupid to keep to such a rigorous—predictable—schedule. When she had told this to the Numen, she would swear she heard laughter. And will you kill her, Nevaeh, like you’ve told us you would? Like she deserves, the traitorous bitch. Kill her, Nevaeh, you want to, that’s what you’ve told us over and over, just do it. Do it tonight.

And here she came, ponytail bobbing. Neveah didn’t even bother looking at her watch, she knew it was 7 p.m., on the dot.

When Fontaine went inside, Nevaeh followed. Amazing that such a supposedly intelligent, quite well-to-do woman would live alone in New York without a doorman.

She’s reckless and stupid and deserves this, the Numen sang in her ear. Hadn’t she told them the same thing so many times?

Neveah took the stairs, waited until she heard Fontaine’s door lock.

She had a key—of course Kiera had managed it, bless her. When Nevaeh had visited the first time, letting herself in, she’d spent half the afternoon in the apartment, gloves on, touching all of Dr. Fontaine’s lovely things. Books, china figurines, art.

A lonely existence.

You were lonely once. We found you.

Yes, you did, and I found you and now you’re with me all the time.

Neveah could hear the shower running.

She crept on silent feet to the bathroom. She had a knife in her pocket but she didn’t want to have to use it. She’d discussed it with the Numen, worried she might get stuck herself, and they agreed. Fontaine was in shape, strong, could easily disarm Nevaeh if she wasn’t careful. No, she needed a surprise attack, and again, the Numen agreed.

She flexed her fingers in the gloves, felt blood racing through her veins. She was excited, she was ready, more than ready. At last. She picked up the large, heavy ashtray on the console table by the bedroom door, settled it firmly in her hand, got a good grip on it. She’d seen the ashtray on her visit and had told the Numen she had to be careful to hit her on the side of the head, not her face. And they’d agreed.

One deep breath, then she was through the door. The room was steamy. Fontaine was singing quietly to herself, some lame song Nevaeh remembered from the seventies.

She ripped open the curtain, waited for Fontaine to turn to look at her, her face a rictus of terror. Nevaeh smiled and slammed the ashtray into the side of Dr. Claire Fontaine’s head. Water sprayed everywhere, and a stream of red began running down the side of her head, temple to chin, mixing with the water and face soap.

Fontaine fell, her head resting on the edge of the shower. Nevaeh came down on her knees, watched the blood pour from the wound in her head.

She leaned close. “Hello, you treacherous cow.”

Fontaine’s eyes ran red with her blood, but Nevaeh knew she recognized her. She managed to whisper, “You? Why?”

“You aren’t surprised, are you? Really? You knew you’d have to pay for your deceit, for your betrayal. Did you and Holloway have a good laugh together?”

“No—no.” Her eyes rolled back in her head and she was gone.

I did it, I did it.

Yes, you did, she deserved it, but now you’ve won, and she’s dead.

Fontaine rested exactly where she would have had she slipped and fallen in the shower and hit her head. An arm dangled and blood began to pool.

Ten minutes after she’d let herself in, Nevaeh was walking down the stairs, her bag heavier, but her heart light. She’d killed one of her betrayers. The Numen had understood and approved.