Harvath sat in a corner of the Café Hawelka. A suppressed Beretta rested beneath a newspaper in his lap. Art posters covered the faded walls. The place smelled like chocolate and stale cigarettes. Taking a final sip of his coffee, he stood and set the newspaper on the table. His target was sitting with another man, near the window. Both were in their early thirties. Neither looked up. Approaching the table, Harvath said only, "Paris." Then, placing the suppressor under the man's jaw, pulled the trigger. Even though the Beretta was suppressed, the shot was still audible, and the man's brains splattered across the café window were extremely visible.
( Brad Thor )
[ Foreign Agent ]
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