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The sound of the camera's shutter closing was inaudible to the mismatched couple as they walked away along the rain-soaked streets of St Tropez. The tall, powerful frame of Neil Shaw easily dwarfed the slight figure of Julia Fang and, to the cameraman, they were an unexpected yet strangely familiar sight.
Words filled his mind. "Well, well. So you're not dead after all."
The Police report had stated that Neil Shaw had been killed while resisting arrest, his body hit by a dozen bullets. The watcher was not surprised that it had all been a ruse. Shaw had been turned into the Fall Guy, the one who had been set up by Eleanor Hooks to take the blame for the assassinations of Ambassador Wu and David Chan. He knew Shaw would never have been allowed to live after all that had happened, so what better than to fake his own death. Such a pity Shaw was innocent of it all - this time around.
Bly pulled the camera away from his face and continued to watch as the two figures turned the far corner of the street. It had been almost four months since the day they faced-off in the United Nations building; four months of hospitalization, of surgery, of debriefing after debriefing as his CIA masters tried to determine if Eleanor Hooks had been acting alone, and whether his role had been one of soldier or co-conspirator. It was unfortunate that Hooks could not answer those questions for herself, but the bullet drilled into her forehead at close range had taken most of her brains out the back of her head with it. A fitting end for the person who had orchestrated the whole Chinese debacle.
Once they had finished interrogating him he had expected to be retired but instead he had been reassigned as far from the Chinese as possible. He had found himself on a two-bit surveillance task watching some media magnate sipping wine while dining on the fore-deck of his multi-million dollar boat. Bly grinned, still amazed by the sight of those luxury boats anchored in the harbor with their occupants dining in full evening dress as if they were at some classy restaurant, completely oblivious to the everyday people walking by and gaping at them.
He knew this assignment was just something to keep him busy, to get him back in the harness. Assassins of his caliber were hard to come by so he was not all that surprised that they had decided to keep him on, although he had to admit that he was significantly more handicapped in his chosen career since that day four months ago. There was little likelihood that he would ever be sent undercover again, but then he had always preferred to be the one seated in the eagle's nest, sniper's rifle in hand, or running surveillance as he was today. It was far preferable to infiltrating at ground level.
As always, thoughts of four months ago brought a twinge of pain. His hand slipped beneath the scarf to touch the still sensitive scar on his throat, then his fingers slid around his neck to the other scar bringing back the memory of those last few minutes of his battle with Shaw. The jagged shard of glass had pierced straight through him as he toppled down onto the remnants of the large oval UN logo.
Bly pursed his lips, suddenly realizing that this memory was the connection to the strangely familiar sight that had caught his attention earlier. It was the one and only other time he had seen Shaw and Julia walking away from him together. At the time he had been gasping, feeling his blood gurgling in his throat as he tried, in vain, to pull the shard out, his fingers scrabbling against the sharp edges leaving bloody fingerprints in their wake. It was fortunate he had failed in this attempt. If he had succeeded in removing the glass then he would have bled to death within minutes but, as it was, the glass had formed its own seal around the wound.
His thoughts jumped back a little to the other failure that had saved his life; his failed attempt at killing Detective Capella.
Bly remembered his surprise when he realized the man trapped between the security doors in the UN lobby was Capella rather than Shaw but, despite the momentary shock and the anger which followed, he had to admire both Capella and Shaw's resourcefulness. There could only have been a few crucial seconds in which they could have made the necessary swap. Anger, and the need to clean up any witnesses, had guided him in his next action but Bly recalled his own hiss of annoyance when he shot at the detective only to see the bullets stopped by the bullet-proof glass. Nonetheless, he was still proud of those shots. He was a sharpshooter, and he was one of the best. As he aimed the gun he knew he had Capella dead to rights, and both had been perfect shots that would have killed the man but for the impenetrable glass lying between them.
Bly grinned as he remembered the look of relief that crossed the detective's chubby face when he realized he was safe from this particular assassin's bullets. What Bly had not realized, at the time, was that Capella's continued existence would have such an impact on his own.
Even though Capella had been trapped within the security doors, the detective had been able to use his cellphone to call for back-up and paramedics. Bly doubted he would have survived if he had been forced to lie there waiting for the security guard to return to his station after the false 30 minute motion detector test was completed. Twenty minutes would have been an eternity under those conditions, during which time, he would have gradually drowned in the blood which was flowing down his throat into his lungs.
It was Capella's call that had alerted the UN security, and they had responded immediately. One guard had released Capella while another had dropped by his side to add pressure to the wound in his neck. Moments later the paramedics arrived and he could still remember the agony as they bound the shard with thick wads of gauze to stop it moving while they transported him to the nearest emergency room.
The shard had been removed under the surgeon's knife and he had spent the next few weeks recovering with a tracheotomy tube helping him to breathe. In some ways it was divine justice, a little retribution for the Chinese translator who's throat he had cut. The last he heard she was still alive - another failure on his part but one he did not regret too harshly. He knew he had to incapacitate her and, to be brutally honest, he had the skills to do so without going as far as killing her, but time had not been a factor in his favor. In the end he had sliced her throat out of expediency rather than malice, but he doubted either she or her friend, Julia, would understand that.
As to Ambassador Wu... Bly sat down at the table recently vacated by Julia, uncaring of the slight drizzle that was already starting to ease off. His shot had been perfect center of the man's forehead, killing Wu instantly... another shot to be proud of. Shaw had reacted predictably, chasing the dark clad figure of the assassin through the hotel grounds and out onto the streets where the cops were already lying in wait. There had been one hairy moment when he had found a gate padlocked, one that should have been left open. He had been forced to jump through the skylight to the level below but, fortunately, he had landed smoothly.
Bly shook his head. He shuddered to think what might have happened if he had turned his ankle, or broke his neck, making that jump. He smirked. He had used the same escape route after assassinating Chan but that time, on the way in, he had made certain the gate was open. With Shaw ever more desperate, and time running out, Bly knew there could be no room for any more foul ups.
At that moment that the sun came back out, shining brightly down on the streets of St Tropez and chasing the rain away. Bly ran a hand back through his slightly longer hair, flicking away the droplets of rain. He froze, hand still on head, when a figure slid into the seat opposite, meeting dark eyes full of anger and contempt. Bly gave Shaw a wry grin then motioned the waiter over with two coffees. They sipped at the hot, black liquid slowly, eyes never leaving the other, silently appraising each other. Finally it was Shaw who broke the strained silence.
"Thought you were dead. Should have known better. I should have shot you while I had the chance."
Bly's smile widened into a grin, knowing he would not have made the same mistake had he been in Shaw's shoes. Shaw continued on, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Why? We were good together, Bly. We were a team."
The grin faltered as Bly remembered the many times they had worked together... and played together. They had been a good team both on and off the field, sharing more than just a love of basketball, espionage and killing. It had been fun working with Shaw, watching the larger man in action whether it was smooth-talking or kick-boxing. He remembered the incident at Chan's Hong Kong hotel on New Year's Eve, enjoying Shaw's sense of humor and watching the fluid motion of a master as Shaw fought his way out.
"And I thought you were my friend."
Bly raised one eyebrow mockingly and waited until Shaw shook his own head again.
"Yeah. Right. No such thing as a friend in the Firm. The job always comes first." Shaw spat bitterly then looked at Bly in earnest. "Why did she do it? Why did she set me up?" The dark eyes narrowed when Bly didn't respond. "What? Cat got your tongue or something. You haven't uttered a word."
Bly looked away with a quiet sigh.
"Bly?"
Bly reached up and pulled aside the scarf, revealing the jagged scar across his throat. He watched as Shaw's eyes widened in shock then saw remembrance flit through them. Bly's soft whisper was barely audible, and Shaw strained to hear the words.
"If it's any consolation, she said it could just as easily have been me she set up."
Bly sat back in his seat and they appraised each other afresh. He and Shaw were made of the same material. They were both consummate professionals in their chosen craft and they could both kill with out mercy - and had done so on many occasions. It was the very nature of the job and they had to believe that their orders were sent down to them for the good of the many, for the good of the American people. If a few innocents were hurt along the way then these were considered sad but acceptable losses. Bly knew they both took pride in their abilities and were evenly matched, and he knew they had both enjoyed the challenge of going up against each other, eager to see who really was the best.
Strange that, in the end, they had both failed in the tasks set before them. Bly had failed to kill Shaw and Julia Fang, and Shaw had failed to do any more than take Hooks out of the picture. Bly grinned. He had no doubt that it was Shaw who had informed the Chinese Triads of Hooks involvement in Chan's murder but, although Eleanor Hooks was dead, Bly recalled her mentioning other like-minded individuals who were still at large, making their plans, influencing world events to the possible detriment of the American people they professed to care about. By allowing the Triads to kill her Shaw had, effectively, destroyed any chance of discovering her co-conspirators. His actions had smacked of personal vengeance and Bly could only shake his own head at the uncustomary lack of professionalism on Shaw's part.
It occurred to Bly that Shaw wore his battle scars in his psyche, the bitterness of betrayal a hard pill to swallow but still, Shaw had managed to escape relatively unharmed, if only for a while whereas, in contrast, Bly wore his scars around his throat for all to see; the husky whisper of a ravaged voice an everyday reminder of the price of his own failure.
"Now you found me alive and well, what are you gonna do, Bly?"
Bly grinned and shook his head, laughing softly as the pained expression that crossed Shaw's face. Shaw had managed to start a new life for himself in another country under a new identity but he didn't need to be told that Bly would keep his existence a secret. They both knew the day might come when Bly could use that information to buy him out of a bad situation but, until then he would leave Shaw alone, let him move on in this new life with Julia.
The silence stretched between them. Some of the jagged edges had smoothed and, although they both knew they could never recapture the previous level of comradeship they had held in the past, Shaw reached across the table, his hand open - and Bly found himself reaching back.
"You take care of yourself, Shaw."
Shaw grinned for the first time since their encounter began.
"You too, Bly."
THE END