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on my way.”

 
    10
    As soon as Tucker Andersen left the movie theater, Sabino Zaragosa—the Padre—ripped off his white clerical collar and black vest. His man, Ricardo Agote, who had been sitting quietly ten rows below, was soon at his side. In seconds, they traded clothes, and Ricardo settled into the Padre’s seat, the black cashmere overcoat folded on his lap, the bag of popcorn in his hands, the black brimmed hat sitting squarely on his head.
    Wearing Ricardo’s thermal jacket, the Padre trotted down the aisle, took Ricardo’s seat, and leaned comfortably back, eyes half closed, observing a thirtyish woman enter the theater. By turning his head slightly, he saw her settle into one of the higher seats from where she could easily keep tabs on the moviegoer she believed to be the Padre. She was one of Tucker Andersen’s surveillance spies.
    Smiling to himself, the assassin peered at the screen again. George Clooney and his men were creeping toward a cabin where the villains were hiding. The villains were in terrible danger. The Padre knew intimately what that was like, the threat of imminent attack, of annihilation. It made his gut sour, and yet he wanted Clooney and his men to win. In a rare moment of insight he realized that was the conflict that had fueled his life.
    The last ten minutes of the movie passed quickly. At the thrilling end, the Padre felt the sweet heat of redemption.
    As the credits ran on the screen, Ricardo marched down the aisle, wearing the Padre’s black hat and long black overcoat. His white clerical collar shone in the reflected light.
    The surveillance spy rose and descended, too, tailing discreetly.
    As the audience vanished, the Padre removed a red plaid cloth cap with ear protectors from his jacket pocket. Pulling it on, he Velcroed the strap tightly, producing a roll of flab beneath his chin. Lowering his head, he shuffled downstairs, out the rear door, and into a long gray corridor toward the main lobby.
    Ahead were glass exit doors into the parking garage, where some patrons were awaiting rides. Just then the door opened and cold air blew in, carrying the stink of vehicle exhaust. And standing next to the door was what looked like another of Tucker Andersen’s spies, wiry build, brown hair, bland features. While apparently texting on his handheld, Tucker’s spy was assessing everyone who left the theater.
    As the Padre observed all of this, a familiar nerviness swept across his shoulders and down his right arm toward the navaja, the knife, in his pocket. He carried it because it was foolish not to carry something, and he had always disliked the bulk of a pistol. He was long past needing to prove his finesse as a knife fighter, and even less interested, so this weapon was a state-of-the-art WASP injector knife—so fast and powerful it could drop the globe’s largest land predators.
    Still, the last thing the Padre wanted today was a confrontation and the inconvenience of a dead body. He needed to get away undetected. So he joined the line, shambling along as if feeble. When the spy noticed him, the Padre snuffled then casually wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.
    For a moment there was no reaction. Then disgust flitted across the spy’s face, and his eyes focused down again on his handheld’s screen. His fingers tapped the keyboard.
    But as the Padre passed, he glanced at the screen, too—and saw his own photo.
    As if the spy had been reading the Padre’s mind, he lifted his gaze.
    In an unexpected moment, each stared directly into the other’s eyes.
    Without changing his expression, the Padre cursed silently and shuffled out through the door. Knowing he would be followed, he continued shuffling. In the parking garage, he headed down the stairwell. His footsteps sounded like sandpaper on the cement. At the bottom level, he pushed through the door and slipped around the corner, where he would be out of sight. Breathing evenly, he slid out his WASP knife and