The Paris Betrayal by Hannibal James R

Author:Hannibal, James R. [Hannibal, James R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense;Christian fiction;Spy stories;FIC042060;FIC030000, thriller, Mystery, Adventure, Suspense, Contemporary
ISBN: 9780800738501
Amazon: 0800738500
Goodreads: 55654748
Publisher: Fleming H. Revell Company
Published: 2021-05-04T07:00:00+00:00

37

Clara waited for Sensen in the chalet’s great room. She had no intention of being murdered in her sleep. Otto slept upstairs. When she’d returned from her eavesdropping, he’d given her worried looks, but Clara had settled him down again. And she’d snuck away as quietly as possible. She didn’t want him to see what came next.

She nodded off once, maybe twice. Hard to say, sitting up in Sensen’s leather chair, waiting for death. She had no illusions of besting a trained assassin, but she had skills—more than Sensen suspected for sure. And perhaps that gave her enough of an edge that she could make him suffer a little before she died at his hand. She only wished she could make his spymaster, Ben’s precious Director, suffer too. Not for herself, but for sacrificing Ben despite all his loyalty.

Sensen walked down the steps as the gray-green of early morning lit the room. First light. If nothing else, the man was precise.

He only looked at her for a moment, turning his attention to the hall closet as he descended the last few steps, yet she could feel him keeping tabs on her. “You’re up early,” he said. “Trouble sleeping?”

“You could say that.” Clara became aware of her posture. She had slumped in the chair more than she realized before he came down. She adjusted, trying not to be obvious, hoping he didn’t notice her hand sliding into the cushion beside her thigh. “Cold night. Maybe breakfast will warm me up.”

“You’re on your own, I’m afraid. I need to go out.”

“For the day?”

“For several.” Sensen drew a carbon-fiber rifle and a briefcase from the closet and laid them both on the credenza between the kitchen and the door. He broke the weapon down into parts that fit into the case’s custom foam.

“Going hunting?”

“Correct.”

The boldness of his answer shocked her—his actions too, checking the weapon’s scope before seating it in the foam. Had he no shame, no need to mask his intentions? She should kill him right now, no matter who he supposedly worked for. Her hand tightened around the revolver’s grip. “You’re hunting Ben.”

Sensen halted his work for a moment, but did not turn. “You should not listen uninvited at your host’s door. It is bad manners.”

Clara swallowed, but she said nothing. Did he know, or was he fishing?

“I don’t blame you. The situation is . . . difficult. And you succumbed to the Gastdruck.”

“I don’t speak German.”

He closed the case. “Yes, I know. Perhaps I should have switched to my native tongue when I heard you tromping like a small elephant in my hall.” Sensen set the case near the door and reentered the closet, appearing a moment later with a black leather jacket and a matching backpack. “Gastdruck is the exhaustive pressure of being a good houseguest. Do you Slovakians have a similar word?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

What was his game? Bore her first, slit her throat later? The backpack looked well stuffed. She guessed the assassin, like Ben, always kept a go-bag on hand.

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