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LONDON
Their instructions were very clear: she must dead by the morning. He had seen them coming even before he walked into the meeting, the word "remission" both glorious and horrible on his lips. And when the instructions came, he was ready with a response. SD-6 was one of the most productive cells of the Alliance — one they would lose if he was forced to leave. They had planned for his response, countered it with the one thing that had been his mission all along — upward mobility. It was available to him, after so many years of plotting, if he would only do the one thing that was inevitable whether he did it or not. She remained mostly silent during the drive to the bed and breakfast, commented on the beauty and peace of the place as they checked in. And it would have been a nice place for her to recover in, he reflected, if that had been the reason for the trip. It was not, however. He told her this only after they had unpacked, decided to walk down by a nearby stream. He wanted to lay it all out for her then, the real history of his last few decades. But there was no explanation, nothing he could say that would not put her in more danger than she already was. He handed them to her — plane ticket, new papers and cards, new identity — and told her she had to leave now. That she was in danger greater than she could imagine. That he would take care of the rest. And then he told her that he loved her, for the last time. |
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