Sunfail by Steven Savile Read Free Book Online Page A

inner door required a different key. That extra layer of French paranoia was one of the things that had attracted her to the old building. It would buy her a few extra seconds if someone came in after her.
    She closed the door securely behind her.
    Every second counted. Simple as that.
    A rickety old wire-cage elevator in the center of the marble foyer serviced the building. She never used it.
    There was a wide staircase that wrapped around the elevator shaft. She took the steps three at a time, running all the way up to the fourth floor.
    Her apartment door was closed. Sunlight crept beneath its bottom edge.
    Sophie waited outside the door, watching the line of light. It remained unbroken. If anyone was in there, they knew better than to pace impatiently in front of the door. Hopefully, though, she’d beaten them here. She wasn’t about to assume anything. Assumptions didn’t make an ass out of you, they got you killed.
    She drew her knife from the sheath at her calf, reversing the hilt so it pointed down.
    Given a choice she’d rather have a gun, but France didn’t allow civilians automatic firearms. A concealed carry just wasn’t worth the risk.
    She held the blade flat against her forearm as she eased her key into the lock, then turned it. The lock was oiled. It was an old habit. She wanted it to turn silently.
    The tumblers glided into place with a soft click . Again, she waited a second. Nothing changed behind the door: no footfalls, no shadows, no sounds.
    She threw the heavy door open and surged through, rolling to come up several feet beyond the threshold, back to the wall, knife in hand ready to cut out the heart of any lurking threat.
    Nothing.
    Heart hammering, she scanned the lounge/bedroom and the adjoining kitchen for intruders, quickly marking off the areas before finally checking that the tiny bathroom was clear.
    The only advantage of living in a five-hundred-square-foot apartment was that it was easy to search. It only took her a few seconds to be sure the place was empty.
    Sophie kicked the door shut again. Locking it wouldn’t slow anyone down, it wasn’t a heavy-duty security door like some of her neighbors had. Leaving it open might, conversely, buy her an extra second or two if they assumed it was locked.
    She headed into the bathroom. The toilet was an antique gravity-flush model with a porcelain tank overhead. She stood on the toilet seat and reached up, pushing back the tank’s lid. A strap had been taped to its underside. Yanking on the strap, she pulled a watertight bag out of the tank. She eased the lid back into place.
    She stepped back onto the tiled floor, and checked the bag’s contents.
    It was her escape kit: passport, cards, money, and most importantly, weapon. Keeping a “go bag” ready was a throwback to her military days. Back then, it would have included staples like power bars and water, a change of clothes, anything she might need for deployment. This was different. She’d been burned. When she left this apartment the woman who had been Sophie Keane would be dead.
    Assuming she survived long enough, she’d be born again as Monica Guerra. That was the name on the passport and cards.
    It was going to be hard to say goodbye to Sophie. She liked who she was. But it was better to be born again than simply die.
    Slinging the bag over her shoulder, Sophie headed for the door.
    She stopped on the threshold.
    She didn’t know how close behind her they were, but she had to assume Cabrakan was near. She needed to change the most obvious things about her appearance to throw him off. No point in making it easy for the assassin. She kicked off her trainers, and shoved her feet into her hiking boots, lacing them tight. Better. Her leather jacket hung in the closet beside the bathroom. She shrugged into it.
    Next she went for her computer. This was the part she didn’t have time for, but it needed to be done. She grabbed the thumb drive sticking out of the computer’s USB port and