"I will do it," Tristan said.
A sense of relief came over the two Agents though none of this showed. Instead, they stood, Keller buttoning his suit jacket.
"We leave in two hours," he said. "We will have a car sent to your house to drive you to the airport. You have exactly one hour to gather what things you may need. Once on the plane, you will be debriefed on the situation."
Owens donned a pair of sunglasses. "It goes without saying that what you are about to do is to be kept secret. No one must know what we have asked of you."
Tristan nodded. The two agents left, slipping into the crowd disappearing as if they had been merely ghosts. But they had been real and now Tristan's life was set on a course that he never could have imagined. Leaving his coffee to cool in the fall breeze, he headed back to the house. Though his mind whirled with the future that now lay before him, Tristan was calm. There was very little in life that could rattle him.
The noise of city quieted to a low hum as he climbed the stairs and stepped into the old brick house. Light from high windows tumbled into the foyer, spotlighting motes of dust that hung frozen in the air.
As Tristan walked to his room he sent off texts, changing dates and sending Ryan to fill in for him. He pocketed his phone and grabbed a suitcase from under his bed. Flipping the top open, he began to fill it with what he imagined he would need for such a task.
He was in the middle of placing a pair of orange pants on top of a gold jacket when two shadows slid across the floor.
"Kill a man?" Elliot asked, Tristan.
"Insult Ms. Newett's new hairdo?" Cece asked.
The two sisters were leaning on opposite sides of the door frame, their arms crossed. Tristan didn't bother looking around.
"No," he said.
The girl exchanged a look, then stared back at him.
"Liar," they said together.
Ignoring them, Tristan continued packing. Knowing they would get nowhere with his back to them, they crossed the room and plopped onto the bed.
"Why won't you tell us where you're going?" Cece asked.
"Are you in trouble?" Elliot asked.
"Did you finally realize that Boston doesn't have any attractive people and you're leaving?"
"Did you forget to pay off that biker gang?"
"Did you sleep with Pacho's daughter and leave her broken-hearted?"
"Did you steal from the mafia?"
"Did you ride an elephant in the Common again?"
"Did you reveal you're actually Edema Ruh?"
Finally, Tristan looked at his sisters and the tirade of questions stopped. Their faces were expectant and Cece leaned forward, propping her chin on her fists. Despite their annoyance, he was sorry to have to be leaving them. They would have come in handy. He was positive an assassin would shoot themselves willingly after spending time with the two of them. Still, they were family.
"I'm going to New York to attend a ballet gala where I will stop an assassination attempt on the President," he admitted.
The girls looked at each other and then slid off the bed.
"Fine, don't tell us," Cece said leaving.
"Hope your flight attendant brings you the wrong drink and a bag of nuts that explodes in your face," Elliot called out as she walked away.
Smirking, Tristan zipped his bag shut and lifted it off the bed. By the time he was back at the front door, the house had gone back to its quiet state of being. For the whirr of creative brains was too subtle for even the most observant of people to hear.
Outside a black town car stood waiting by the curb. A man with a similar structure to a bull waited by the back door. When Tristan stepped forward, the man pulled the door open.
Milo appeared from down the street, his hands tucked away in his pockets. At the sight of the sleek car, he gave a low whistle.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
The beefy man returned to the driver's seat and Tristan faced Milo.
"I'm going to stop an assassination," he said.
Milo gave an accepting nod. "Alright. Have fun."
With that farewell, Tristan climbed into the car and closed the door.
******
Waiting on the tarmac at the airport were Keller and Owens as well as a gleaming private jet. The car rolled to a stop before the two waiting Agents and Tristan exited.
"I'm happy to see you didn't change your mind," Owens said.
"Who would say no to stopping an assassin," Tristan said, easily.
Owens gave a mocking chuckle and nodded to the lowered set of steps.
"This is us," she said.
The group climbed aboard and Tristan found he was satisfied with the lavishness of the aircraft. Two white couches sat opposite each other at the center of the plane. Towards the back were two armchairs pinning in a square table and across the way was an alcove designed for drinks and snacks. Owens gestured to one of the couches.
"Have a seat."
Tristan did as instructed, allowing a smiley flight attendant to stow away his luggage in an overhead compartment. The plane roared to life and pulled away from the hanger. Both the Agents settled in across from him.
Buckled in, Tristan rested one arm across the back of the couch and watched as the plane taxied down the runway, picking up speed as it went. As if urged by a whisper, the jet lifted off the ground and took to the sky. The nose cut through the clouds and leveled out over an ocean of white.
"Let's get down to business," Keller said.
From the back of the plane emerged a man who was in his mid-twenties but looked as if he were barely older than a teen. He had brown hair, hazel eyes, glasses and a face that looked vaguely familiar. Keller raised a hand towards the newcomer.
"Tristan meet our tech guy, Link Evens."
Tristan shared a handshake with the boy-man and focused back on Keller. Link tapped at the screen in his hand and between the two couches a table rose up. From overhead, a light turned on and a hologram projection filled the space between the two couches.
"Recently," Keller said. "We've received intel that the President is going to be assassinated at the New York City's ballet gala by a single Russian hitman." An image of a scarred faced man appeared in the hologram. "This is Victor Volkov. He was a member of the Russian special forces until he fell off the grid four years ago after his entire unit was attacked and killed."
"We believed Victor had died with the rest of his men," Owens said. "But he resurfaced in Moscow six months later. Death has followed him ever since.
"We have a source in the Russian mafia that tells us Victor has been on their payroll for years," Keller said. "It's the same source that told us that Victor has been sent to take out the President."
As the two agents spoke, images of dead bodies played over the screen intercut with images of Victor. The longer Tristan looked at the scarred face man he could see the hate that lived inside him.
"That is where you come in," Owens said, peering at Tristan through the hologram.
"Right," Tristan said. "I'm to stop the assassination by a trained hitman."
Owens' gaze was scrutinizing him as if wondering if he would back out. Tristan held in his emotions. What was before him was an operation that he had never attempted before. Most of his life he had been the one sitting back, giving the commands or taking the shot. But this, this would put him in the line of fire. It wasn't simply the President's life that could be caught in the crosshairs, but his as well.
"Not to sound ungrateful," Tristan said, leaning over his knees, his hands clasped. "Why send me? Yes, I am well aware of my own abilities as a sniper and know I can handle something like this, but why not send a man better trained than me?"
Keller and Owens shared a look. What took place in the look was a conversation that Tristan knew he would never understand.
"Tristan," Keller said. "We chose you because we are afraid there is a leak in the Agency. An undercover operative was murdered and it was an inside job. With the President's life on the line, we can't take any chances. And as you said you have the abilities to handle this type of situation. Is it safe to say you're still on board with us?"
Tristan leaned back on the couch and stared at the image of the scar that slashed the Russian's face.
"Of course I am."
******
Tristan was slammed into the mat and grunted at the impact. Sweat rolled down his forehead and neck. His muscles were sore in a way he had never experienced before in all his years of dancing. But beneath the ache, he felt a different kind of strength. A strength that came with knowing all his limits but just as well knowing his strengths.
"You're going to have to be faster than that," Owens said.
She stood over him, hands on hips and barely looking winded. Gritting his teeth, Tristan pushed himself up and rolled his shoulders. Owens smiled at his determination.
"I can see you really were the best option for this task, you have a stubbornness that you'll need. Let's go again."
Once they had landed in New York Tristan had been thrown into a rigorous training schedule. Besides learning the layout for the David H. Koch Theater down to every trap door and exit, he was thrown into combat training. Despite her narrow frame, Owens had a strength that surprised Tristan and usually threw him off guard.
But he was learning, each day it took her longer and longer to throw him to the ground. After she taught him combat, Keller gave him a break down on knife fighting and guns. With the gala that evening, Tristan felt more than prepared.
Owens came at him, but Tristan dodged her blow and elbowed her side. Seeming to barely feel it, she twisted and kneed him in the stomach. Tristan took the blow, using her off balanced position to hook his foot around her ankle and send her toppling to the mat. A satisfied grin broke across her face.
"You're not completely hopeless," she said.
Tristan reached out a hand and she accepted it, letting him pull her to her feet.
"Now that I'm certain you won't make a fool of yourself in a fight, let's go get you some gear."
Owens led him out of the training room and down a bare corridor. Their base of operations was nothing to look at. On the outside, it had the appearance of the run-down office building in the middle of construction. The inside was not much better than that. Concrete floors and walls were cold and echoed their footsteps.
Sheets of plastic hung over doorways and cans of paint and tools were shoved into corners gathering rust. When Tristan had made a comment about their choice in decor, they had replied that for all their safeties it was best to keep a low profile.
Owens whipped aside some plastic and gestured for Tristan to enter. The room was like all the rest, barren except for the tables of equipment that they had brought. Behind one of the tables, fiddling with an odd-looking gadget was Link. As they approached, he looked up and nodded to them.
"Good," he said. "I have everything ready for you."
Setting down the odd device, he gestured over to another table.
"Even though none of us will be with you," Link said. "That doesn't mean you'll be alone."
He picked up a small flesh colored object that looked a little bit like an oddly shaped nut.
"This is your earpiece," he said. "You'll be able to listen to anything we say to you."
The next object he lifted up was a stick of what looked like tape.
"No, it's not tape," he said. "This is your mic. You take off the adhesive section and attach it to your throat. It will pick up the vibrations and translate them into words. You could talk in a whisper and we would still be able to hear you."
Before Link moved onto the next item, he studied Tristan's face as if debating something.
"I can't decide if you're a glasses man, or not," he mused.
"If I'm going to be surrounded by people who know me then I'm not. I've never worn glasses before."
"Excellent point," Link said. "Button camera it is."
Instead of grabbing something off the table, he crossed the room and pulled forward something draped in a white sheet. When Link yanked off the sheet a mannequin dressed in a tuxedo stood before them.
"This is what you'll be wearing tonight," he said. "It's a Saint Laurent suit that I've made some adjustments to as well as having it tailored to your exact measurements." Link unbuttoned the jacket and pulled one side open. "As you can see it's been customized to hold your knives without showing. You'll wear an ankle holster for your gun. This here," he tapped one of the top buttons of the white shirt. "Holds the camera. We'll be able to see everything you see."
"We'll be on comms that entire time," Owens said. "If you need our help we can be there before you know it. I know you're going in there alone, but you won't be."
Tristan crossed his arms and nodded at all the information.
"How will I get both the knives and the gun through security? I'm guessing it will be even tighter since the President will be attending the gala."
The plastic sheet crackled as Keller stepped through and joined them.
"That won't be a problem," he said. "I've made arrangements that your weapons go undetected with the Secret Service."
Tristan couldn't stop his skepticism.
"I don't imagine the Secret Service took too kindly to being told to allow weapons in the same place where the President is."
Keller gave no indication that this had been a difficult task at all. "I have connections," was all he said.
"Now," he pushed back his cuff and glanced at his watch. "Let's get ready, the gala begins in two hours and I want us all in position before the ballet starts. Every ID is being checked and double checked but I have no doubt that Victor will find a way in." He nodded to the mannequin. "Suit up."
*******
Tugging at the ends of his cuffs, Tristan stepped from the bedroom. Steam curled around his ankles while the smell of his cologne lingered on him. He looked as if he had stepped from an ad or even a Bond movie. His hair was flawless and the suit fit him like it had been designed for him. Owens stood waiting outside, dressed in all black. At the sight of him, she smirked.
"Well, you look the part," she said. "Let's see you play it."
Buttoning the suit jacket, he stepped towards her. "I feel like this part is always better with a woman on my arm," he said.
She merely laughed. "My husband might have a problem with that."
Tristan raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I wasn't aware you were married."
"Not a topic I felt needed to be explored."
"And the lucky man?"
Keller walked into the room them, an iPad in hand and his face serious. Owens smiled again and Tristan then understood the silent conversations they were able to share.
"Lucky indeed," he said.
"Come," Keller said. "We need to get you geared up. Your car will be downstairs in ten."
As Link helped Tristan adjust his earpiece and attach the mic to his throat Keller went over late minute details. They were details Tristan already knew but listened to anyways. This was not a time to slack. The President's life was in danger and he was the only who could stop it. When Keller handed him the gun, handle first, Tristan reached for it. But before he could take it, Keller pulled it back.
"Thank you, what we've asked you to do is not an easy task but you accepted anyways. We owe you more than our gratitude but for now, that will have to be enough."
Nodding, Tristan took the gun and accepted the offered handshake. The weight of the weapon on his ankle was unfamiliar but reassuring. With the two knives snuggly in place, he was ready.
"Good luck, Tristan," Owens said. "We're all counting on you."
Taking the back staircase, Tristan left the building by a rear door. Idling in the alley was a shiny black car. A man opened the back door and Tristan stepped in, unbuttoning his jacket as he did. The driver climbed in too and the car slipped into traffic.
The city was a chaos of life. The night sky was no hindrance to them. It had the opposite effect, the sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians off to seek some form of entrainment. The buildings were glowing with lights, the multiple hues gliding over the sleek black car as it drove past. The city was like a beating heart, the center of everything, alive and not likely to ever die. It was an infinity that everyone wanted to be a part of.
The car pulled to a stop before the Lincoln Center. The place looked like it had stolen the sun. Golden light poured out of the three-story glass windows, splashing around the columns and onto the fountain and courtyard below.
"This is you, Tristan," Owens said in his ear. "Good luck."
The driver held the door open and Tristan stepped out buttoning his suit jacket. Immediately cameras were sparking off as they found their new source of interest. A red carpet had been placed over the steps and New York's elite made a slow procession towards the David H. Koch theater, savoring the attention. Tristan had no need to pause, their interest in him was nothing he cared to have. Instead, he steadily made his way to the front doors, questions getting thrown at him as he went.
"Tristan is it true Justin Peck tried to do a collaboration with you?"
"Did you really date a Smuin ballerina?"
"What do you say to the rumors you are the Balanchine of our generation?"
Cameras flashed on both sides, snatching the same calm, disinterested expression from different angles. Just before the theater, he went through security, a beefy man in a black suit eyeing his ID with a deep-seated scowl. When certain this was the man Keller had spoken of, he waved Tristan through.
The noise from the reporters died down as Tristan stepped into the theater. The foyer was packed with men in tuxes and women in stunning dresses adorned in glittering jewels. Three levels of balconies encircled the entire place, giving guests room to peer down on the carousel of color below.
Servers in white shirts and black slacks navigated their way through the thick throng, the contents of their trays diminishing as they went. Classical music floated over it all, mixing with the chatter of voices, laughter and the tinkling of glasses.
Despite the mass of people, Tristan easily cut through the place, people stepping out of his way as excited whispers trailed behind him. One eager faced older woman stopped him.
"I must say," she said in a gushing voice. "I'm so pleased to meet you in person. I have been a fan of your work since the beginning. It's breathtaking and never ceases to charm me."
Tristan dipped his head in gratitude. "I'm happy to hear that."
Before the woman could continue to babble on about the beauty of his creations, Tristan slipped away.
"Get to the second balcony," Keller instructed in his ear. "You'll have a better vantage point from there and you're less likely to hit hordes of your fans."
"Understood," Tristan said.
Locating a stairwell, he climbed to the second floor. There the crowds were still lively but less thick. Slipping around the majority of the guests, he took up a position at the far end, leaning against the wall and staring down on the rotating scene of people.
"Hold your position," Owens said. "Your button camera is picking up faces for us to run through facial recognition. It's unlikely Victor is stupid enough to let himself be seen but maybe we'll get lucky."
Tristan remained there, watching the organism of the foyer. It was like a living creature, constantly moving and morphing. For the most part, he drew little attention, the secluded spot leaving him hidden. Only one person disturbed his peace, but it was not someone he minded and knew there was no way he would have ever been able to hide from.
"I thought I heard people whispering your name," Marilyn said, settling beside him.
"Hello, mother," he said. "I didn't know you would be here."
"It was a last minute decision. I was in the city for a meeting of this and that," she waved her hand as if it was no matter, "and decided to stay for the gala. I wasn't aware you were going to attend."
"Last minute decision as well."
"I see." She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "Enjoy yourself."
Marilyn glided off in a way that seemed as if she owned the theater. Time moved on and eventually the ballet was set to begin. Still, there had been no sign of Victor, but that only meant finding him would be slightly more complicated. The foyer emptied as guests found their seats. All that was left behind were the servers who made quick work of the messes.
"Tristan," Keller said. "Head towards backstage. It's the weakest point of defense and if Victor was likely to sneak in, it would be there."
Tristan left his spot and headed backstage. With a face as well known as his, he hit no opposition at the stage door, many believed he had secretly choreographed one of the pieces for the show but hadn't wanted to make it known. He had but he felt no need to confirm it since it served his purpose of giving him the access he needed.
Compared to the now thinning hallways outside, the backstage was crowded with crewmen getting last minute pieces in order and dancers taking their positions. So focused on their tasks, no one stopped him or questioned his presence.
Tristan flowed through the chaos, eyes peeled for one man. He was about to head for the door that led to the other side of the stage and up to the scaffolding when a black figure darted through it. There was something familiar about the man's build that set Tristan on edge. Nerves spiking, he hurried forward just as Owens spoke.
"Tristan we think Victor has been spotted in the lobby, he could be trying to get a shot from the control booth."
Tristan hesitated, the door swinging shut before him. Though he knew he should follow Owens, he had a hunch Victor wasn't going to be there. The seconds ticked by and he needed to decide.
Go to the lobby or go through the doorway?
**********************************************************************
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