Saving Faith By: David Baldacci

had built his entire career on that one philosophy.

The place was so isolated that Serov had mulled over perhaps removing

the suppressor and relying on his skill as a marksman, his high-tech

scope and his well-conceived exit plan. His confidence was justified,

he believed. Just like the tree falling, when you kill someone in the

middle of nowhere, who can hear him die? And he had known some

suppressors to greatly distort the flight path of a bullet, with the

unacceptable result that no one had died, except for the would-be

assassin once his client had learned of the failure. Still, Serov had

personally supervised this device’s construction and was confident it

would perform as designed.

The Russian shifted quietly, working out a cramp in his shoulder. He

had been here since nightfall but was used to lengthy vigils. He never

tired during these assignments. He took life seriously enough that

preparing to extinguish another’s kept his adrenaline high. With risk

always came invigoration, it seemed. Whether you were mountain

climbing or contemplating murder, it ironically made you feel more

alive to have the possibility of death so close.

His escape route through the woods would take him to a quiet road where

a car would be waiting to whisk him to nearby Dulles Airport. He would

go on to other assignments, other places probably far more exotic than

this. However, for his particular purpose, this setting had its

virtues.

Killing someone in the city was the most difficult. Setting up where

you would shoot, pulling the trigger and then escaping, all were vastly

complicated by the fact that witnesses and the police were only a few

anxious steps away in any direction. Give him the country, the

isolation of the rural life, the cover of trees, the separation of

homes, and like a tiger in a cattle pen he would kill with numbing

efficiency every day of the week.

Serov sat on a stump a few feet from the tree line and only about

thirty yards from the house. Despite the thickness of the woods, this

spot allowed a clear field of fire: A bullet only needed an inch or so

of free space. The man and woman, he had been told, would enter the

house from the rear door. Only they would never make it that far.

Whatever the laser touched, the bullet would destroy. He was confident

he could hit a lightning bug from twice the distance he was confronted

with here.

Things were set up so perfectly that Serov’s instincts told him to be

on high alert. Now he had an excellent reason not to fall into that

trap: the man in the house. He was not the police. Law enforcement

types didn’t slink through the bushes and break into people’s homes.

Since he had not been made aware beforehand of the man’s presence

tonight, he concluded that the man was not on his side. However, Serov

did not like to deviate from an established plan. He decided that if

the man remained in the house after the bodies fell, he would follow

through on his original plan and escape through the woods. If the man

interfered in any way or came outside after the shots were fired-well,

Serov had plenty of ammo, and the result would be three bodies instead

of two.

CHAPTER 3

DANIEL BUCHANAN SAT IN HIS DARKENED OFFICE and sipped black coffee of

such strength that he could almost feel his pulse rise with each

swallow. He ran a hand through hair that was still thick and curly but

had gone from blond to white after thirty years toiling in Washington.

After another long day of trying to convince legislators that his

causes were worthy of their attention, the level of exhaustion was

intense, and enormous amounts of caffeine were increasingly becoming

the only remedy. A full night of sleep was not typically an option. A

catnap here or there, closing his eyes while being driven around to the

next meeting, the next flight, occasionally blanking out during an

interminably long congressional hearing, even an hour or two in his bed

at home-that was his official rest. Otherwise, he was working the Hill

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