Breaking point - By Tom Clancy & Steve Perry & Steve Pieczenik Page 0,15

alive in the business he’d been in.

Once upon a time, Luther Ventura had been an assassin. And, once upon a time, he had been the best in the business. He had worked for governments, he had worked for corporations, and he had worked freelance. Twenty-three years he had done it. Seventy-six major assignments, ninety-one people taken down in the doing of them, and he had never failed to complete a job.

Not any longer. He hadn’t assassinated anybody in a while, and if you didn’t sharpen your edge regularly, you got dull. Oh, he could still run with most of the elite; his skills had been considerable and they had not deserted him completely—but his time had passed. Somewhere out there was a man for whom hunting and taking human prey was a total focus. A man who was faster, stronger, younger, whose entire being was wrapped around what he did, and that made him better than Ventura. His ego didn’t want to hear that, but he wasn’t going to lie to himself. Experience could balance many things, but no fighter stayed champion forever. Those who tried to hang on too long always lost. Always.

He could still do twenty chins, he could run five miles in half an hour, and he could hit any target his weapon was capable of hitting, but he was pushing fifty, and his reflexes weren’t what they had once been. He wore glasses to read and, these days, he missed some of the high notes he knew were there when he listened to a Mozart concerto or a Bach fugue.

He could have tried to fool himself into thinking he still had all the moves, but that was the road to hell, sure enough.

Three years ago, he had taken out a Brazilian drug dealer protected by a hundred troops and a dozen skilled bodyguards. The tap had been extremely difficult and it had been perfect in every way.

Perfect.

Even if your talents never wavered, you couldn’t improve on perfection. The best you could ever do was match it, and there was no joy in that. It was not worth the risk. He was on the downhill slope, and the lean and hungry days were long gone. There weren’t any old assassins, not at the level he’d played on. So he’d folded his cards and walked away from the game a winner.

Sure, he had killed people recently, but those didn’t count, those had been defensive, more or less. Once, he had gone forth and stalked. Now he made his money protectiny people from other assassins. It was, in many ways, more difficult. There were still challenges to be met. That was his focus, and while it did not have the same level of excitement, it had some advantages. It was legal. It was less risky. And although he didn’t need the money, it was lucrative.

He put the espresso down, finished. All he needed was the first sip. He didn’t need the caffeine, didn’t want the artificial mind-set that came with it. One sip was enough. It was the essence of the experience, no more was necessary.

Finished with the coffee, he looked at his watch. It was one minute past eight A.M. He had a new client, though he was not to start officially working for the man for several days. But as soon as Ventura took on a job, it occupied his attention, and he did what it took to get into the proper mind-set.

Although he was out of town for a few days, at around seven-thirty A.M. on Saturdays his client usually arrived in Seattle via ferry and came to this coffee shop, where he had a cup of triple espresso. For the next several days, Ventura would walk in his client’s shoes, go where he went and do what he did, as much as possible. He would get to know the man’s routine, just as he had gotten to know the routines of those he had sought out and killed. And when he knew what he needed to know, then he would notice anything that did not belong.

He pulled a small phone from the pocket of his gray silk sport coat. He pressed a button on it, waited for a moment, then said, “All right. Let’s move.”

The rest of his primary team—two men and two women—were in the coffee shop or covering the street outside. He watched the man and woman pretending to be a married couple stand and walk arm in arm toward the door. Both