Toy Soldiers (Helford #1)

(3) Target

We settled back into the seats of a small room, one that looked more like a mundane police interrogation room for all but the absence of the two-way glass mirror to hide an invisible audience—there would be no other witnesses to this confession. Blackwell and I sat on the same side of the metal table in the middle of the room, facing the front and waiting for the presentation to begin, unmoving.

Shawn paced before us, mulling over his own words before he began.

“You know,” he said slowly, “that this mission will be the infiltration of the French government, an intervention of a man who wants to gain power. What you do not know, however, is that this mission will have two parts—but we’ll get to that later.”

Rian Blackwell’s presence in the room felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest.

“First off,” Shawn began, and then snapped a picture with a magnet onto the whiteboard on the wall, the smile hanging crooked, “this is your target—his name is Jonathon DuPont.”

He was young, surprisingly so—he couldn’t have been much older than Blackwell. He looked as though he was posing for a school photo; he was sitting straight with his chin up and wearing a blazer and tie, his smile large and goofy and more than likely forced. And for reasons beyond what I could explain, the image shook me to the core. I looked at Shawn, a deep dread sinking into my bones because I didn’t want to have to be the one to kill the boy with the chocolate brown hair and the charmingly crooked smile.

Shawn looked a little too tired as he said, “This is Jonathon DuPont, and this is the boy that you are going to kill.”

“Why?” I demanded flatly, trying so hard not to be bothered but failing so despicably. I almost hoped that he would notice the hardness in my tone, just enough so that he would be able to tell that every aspect of this mission was something that I did not believe in.

If he noticed, it didn’t show, but I would never expect it to. Shawn turned and posted up another picture on the whiteboard, this one a picture of a middle aged man with graying hair and wrinkles around his eyes. The man and Jonathon DuPont had the same eyes.

“This is Alexander DuPont,” Shawn explained. “Jonathon’s father. He is the one that we are worried about gaining power, the one that has been scamming and scheming and plotting to get higher and higher in the ranks, the one with the extremely questionable intentions.”

When Rian was the one to ask my question, I couldn’t help but to be surprised. “If it is the father we are worried about, sir, then why would we be targeting the son?”

“Several years ago, there was an extreme attack on Alexander’s life. His family got caught in the crossfire. Before the accident, he had a wife and three sons. After, he was left only with the middle boy, Jonathon.”

The room was silent for a long moment.

“Losing his son,” Shawn whispered, defeated, “would kill him more than whatever death could bring him.”

My stomach was sick with horror to the point that I tasted bile in my mouth. I chanced a glance at Blackwell, but his face was as smooth and frozen as stone.

As if the horrible words had never been uttered at all, Shawn continued, “The plan is as such—Blackwell will infiltrate the security team stationed on DuPont’s house and person at all times and will remain there full time while Alastair gains access into the school the target attends and will grow close to him, close enough to be trusted completely. Until that point is reached, life will go on as normal. When we are confident that you both are close enough to their trust, we will give you the green light with the opportune place and time in which it will occur.”