The Target by Saul Herzog

Author:Saul Herzog [Herzog, Saul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781777189761
Publisher: AuthorContact
Published: 2021-01-29T16:00:00+00:00

40

Christoph Prochnow sat on a park bench and chain-smoked Gauloises cigarettes. It was a cold night, but he was dressed for it, in a black cashmere turtleneck and camel duffel coat.

Inside his coat was a loaded Heckler & Koch VP9 pistol. The VP stood for Volkspistole, like Volkswagen, a pistol for the people. It was originally designed at the request of the Bavarian State Police and was now one of the most commonly found guns in the country. It was chambered for the 9x19 Parabellum, and Prochnow’s particular gun was a sound-suppressed variant.

Not that he was planning on being subtle.

He’d been waiting for Tatyana to arrive, and when she did, he felt an innate revulsion for everything she stood for.

How could a real Russian, an actual daughter of the Motherland, betray her country the way this woman had?

A faithless, disloyal bitch.

That was what she was in his eyes.

What could the Americans ever do for her that would make up for that?

This would be an easy kill.

He had no qualms about it.

As far as he was concerned, the bitch deserved to die.

He’d been warned about her training. This woman had been a high-level operator, one of the most highly-prized and effective honey-traps in Igor Aralov’s Widow Program.

She knew how to kill, and she knew how to spot a threat.

But she wouldn’t see him coming. How could she?

She had her back to the door.

She was expecting a friend.

The bar was packed full of young men. Prochnow himself was dressed exactly like the patrons. He’d fit right in.

He was surprised she’d allowed herself to be so vulnerable. Maybe she wasn’t as good as everyone gave her credit for.

Her true talents, he suspected, were probably more apparent when she was on her back.

And all he had to do was walk up behind her, pull out the gun, and put a bullet in the back of her skull.

There was no training in the world that allowed someone to dodge a bullet at point-blank range.

He watched her sitting at the bar for a few minutes. She ordered a drink, a glass of wine, but didn’t take a sip.

She didn’t look at her watch. She didn’t act impatiently. She didn’t look nervous or in a hurry.

She looked perfectly relaxed, fitting right in with the evening crowd. Prochnow had no doubt if he waited much longer, someone would start hitting on her.

He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out under his boot.

He crossed the street and pulled open the door of the bar.

A group of women stood by the entrance, and he had to excuse himself as he walked through them.

“Hey, stranger,” one of them said.

There was a man in an expensive suit, very drunk, stumbling toward the washroom, and Prochnow let him pass.

A cocktail waitress carrying a tray of empty glasses rushed by in the other direction.

He weaved through the crowd, his hand inside his coat, gripping his gun.

When he was a foot from Tatyana, he pulled the gun, pressed it against the back of her skull, and bang.

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