One week earlier.
The government building doesn't have a name on the door. It's just a gray office on the fifth floor of a building that looks like every other building in lower Manhattan. No signs. No markers. The kind of place that exists because bureaucracy needs somewhere to hide.
I've been here seventeen times. Each time feels like walking into a trap.
Harris sits behind a desk that's almost empty. No photos. No personal items. Just a man who's decided to be nothing except the job. He's fifty-four years old but looks older. The kind of old that comes from knowing too many secrets. From training people to kill. From compartmentalizing the blood that never quite washes off.
He trained me to do exactly that.
"You look tired," Harris says without looking up from his computer. It's not an observation. It's a test. He's checking to see if I'll make excuses. If I'll show weakness.
I don't. "I'm not."
Harris finally looks at me. His eyes are gray like his office. Empty. Like something essential left that space years ago and never came back. "The Morrison job was three months ago. You should be recovered by now."
Morrison. The journalist. Clean execution. One shot through a window. No witnesses. No mess. I walked away like I was walking away from a movie instead of a murder. Harris trained me to be that way. To separate the action from the consequence. To see bodies as paperwork.
The problem is I'm starting to see the paperwork as bodies.
"I'm recovered," I tell him.
Harris stands and walks to the window. The city sprawls below. Millions of people going about their lives. Millions of people who don't know that in buildings like this, decisions are made about who lives and who disappears. "The government wants something eliminated. Not a person. Something. A problem."
This is the preamble. Harris always starts this way. He frames it so it feels less like murder. He makes it sound clinical. Strategic. Necessary.
I wait.
He slides a photograph across the desk without turning around. I pick it up. The man in the photo is around thirty-two. Dark hair. Eyes that seem to look directly at the camera. At me. There's intelligence in his face. There's also something else. Something that looks like damaged goods who's learned to hide the damage behind expensive clothes and dangerous confidence.
"Nathan Cross," Harris says. "Mafia heir. Took control of his family's criminal organization eight years ago when his father died. He's been expanding operations ever since. He's got government officials in his pocket. He's got judges. He's got senators. He's become too powerful to be handled through normal channels."
I study the photograph. Nathan Cross doesn't look like a problem. He looks like a man. A complicated one. The kind that would be interesting if I let myself be interested.
I don't let myself.
"Why me?" I ask. "There are other assets."
It's the question I'm allowed to ask. The one question that shows I'm thinking about the job instead of just accepting it. Harris appreciates this. It makes me look invested instead of compliant.
Harris turns around. His smile is cold. It makes the room feel ten degrees colder. "Because Nathan Cross doesn't trust anyone. He's paranoid. He's intelligent. He sees threats before they materialize. Which means if I send a standard operative, he'll detect the anomaly and eliminate the threat before we can eliminate him."
He walks back to the desk and sits. Across from me. Close enough that I can see the capillaries in his eyes. "But he has a sister. Emma Cross. She's a human rights lawyer. She opposes everything her brother does. Apparently she's been pushing him to get therapy. To deal with what she calls family trauma."
Harris pulls up a file on his computer and turns the screen toward me. It shows my professional website. My credentials. My photo. Everything that makes me a real therapist instead of a killer wearing a therapist costume.
"Emma Cross's friend knows your colleague at Columbia. Said you came highly recommended for cases involving family dysfunction and aggressive personality disorders. Emma pushed the recommendation to her brother. He's skeptical but he agreed to one session."
I understand now. This isn't just an elimination. This is a setup. Harris doesn't just want Nathan Cross dead. He wants him trapped first. He wants him brought down methodically. He wants him to see the knife before it goes in.
"I need the kills to look clean," I say carefully. "No messy emotions. No complications."
Harris nods like I've said something wise. "You'll be his therapist for approximately four weeks. During that time, you'll get to know him. You'll identify his vulnerabilities. His fears. His weaknesses. You'll understand what makes him break. And then, when he's isolated, when he's vulnerable, when he trusts you, you'll eliminate him. Clean. Professional. One shot. He'll disappear and the government will arrange for someone else to take control of his family's business."
Four weeks.
I've had clients for longer than four weeks. I've had real therapy relationships where people made progress. Where they got better. Harris doesn't care about any of that. He only cares about access.
"What about afterward?" I ask. "Exit strategy?"
Harris slides a second file across the desk. Inside is a new identity. New bank account. New Social Security number. New everything. "You take the shot. You disappear into the wind. Two million dollars will be waiting in an account in your new name. You disappear. Problem solved."
Two million dollars.
The biggest contract he's ever offered me.
Which means he knows I'm tired. He knows I'm asking myself questions I shouldn't be asking. He knows there's something in me that's developing a conscience and he wants to shut it down before it becomes a problem.
Two million dollars is supposed to be the last contract. The one that lets me walk away.
Except I've believed that before.
"There's something you should know," Harris says. His tone has changed. It's quieter now. More dangerous. "If this job goes sideways, if you develop emotional attachment, if you hesitate, you'll be eliminated as quickly as your target. I can't have assets in the field developing feelings. Assets with feelings become liabilities. And liabilities need to be cleaned up."
He's not threatening me. He's informing me. There's a difference. A threat leaves room for negotiation. An information statement is just a fact being presented.
I meet his eyes. I show no reaction. This is what he's trained me for. The ability to accept consequences without flinching. The ability to understand that I could die on any of these contracts and the only thing that matters is doing the job cleanly.
"I understand," I tell him.
Harris nods. He stands and walks back to the window. "You start next week. First appointment is Tuesday at two PM. Your office. He'll come alone. Security will stay outside. You'll have the penthouse to yourself every Thursday from two to four. Plenty of time to study him."
"And the actual elimination?" I ask.
"We'll brief you when the time comes," Harris says. "For now, just build rapport. Learn his mind. Understand what breaks him. Everything else will follow."
I pick up the file with my new identity. The one that's supposed to be my freedom.
"One more thing," Harris says as I move toward the door. He doesn't turn around. He just keeps staring out the window at the city below. At millions of people going about their lives. "Nathan Cross is different from the others. He's not broken in a stupid way. He's not broken in a predictable way. He's intelligent. He's observant. And there's something else."
He finally turns to look at me.
"He's been searching for something. Or someone. Our intelligence suggests he's been using his resources to find a woman who saved his life five years ago in Shanghai. A woman he's never forgotten. An operative we can't identify. Someone he's willing to spend millions to locate."
Harris walks toward me slowly. Deliberately. Like a predator.
"So be careful, Sarah. Because when Nathan Cross looks at you, he might not just see a therapist. He might see the ghost he's been chasing. And if he figures out you're not her, if he realizes you're here to destroy him, he won't respond like a normal target. He'll respond like a man with nothing to lose."
My heart does something strange. Something I haven't felt in five years.
It speeds up.
But I don't show it. I just nod and turn to leave.
"Sarah," Harris calls as I reach the door.
I pause.
"Two weeks maximum. I want this finished fast. The longer he's alive, the longer something can go wrong. Get in. Build trust. Eliminate. Disappear. Don't make it complicated."
I leave the office without responding.
But as I walk down the hallway toward the elevator, I realize Harris just told me something dangerous.
Nathan Cross has been searching for someone for five years.
Someone he's willing to spend millions to find.
Someone he's never forgotten.
And Harris is betting that I'm no one that person would actually recognize.
He's betting that I'll be just another therapist in Nathan Cross's long list of people who disappoint him.
What Harris doesn't know is that I've spent five years learning to read people.
And something about that photograph tells me that Nathan Cross is different.
That when he looks at me, he won't see a therapist.
He'll see a threat.
And worse.
He might see exactly who Harris thinks I am.
The elevator doors close and I grip the file in my hands so hard my knuckles turn white.
Seven days until the first appointment.
Seven days until I walk into the office with a gun hidden and a mission I'm not sure I can complete.
Seven days until I meet the man whose photograph already looks at me like he knows something.
Something I haven't admitted to myself yet.
Something that terrifies me more than any target ever has.