The chair creaks, and a cringe appears on my previously expressionless face. My hand rests on the cool steel of a Derringer sitting atop my plain wooden desk. My finger tenses on the trigger. I'm gonna get that sonofabitch if it's the last thing I do.
With each creak of the chair, another cascade of memories is triggered. I stare at the wall straight ahead. Memories. Like scenes cut from a film and left on the editing room floor. Grainy. Overdeveloped. Lagan. I followed that bastard from New York to London only to lose him in Harrods. Ladies wear - should have known. From London, it was a short hop to Greece only to be given the slip at a sixtieth birthday party held for shipping magnate, Spiridon Stefanos. Then, from Greece to Turkey only to run into a dozen dead ends.
The chair creaks. My trigger finger tenses. Always one step behind. But I'll get that sonofabitch. One way or another, I'll get him. I'll follow him to the ends of the earth if I have to. Finger tensing, mind racing, I pay almost no mind to the light footsteps in the hall. The clicking of heels. Wait for it. The knock. One can spend an entire lifetime waiting – and I know I can wait another few seconds.
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