Hit: A Thriller (The Codename: Chandler) Read online

  Heath smiled.

  He’d always loved Paris. It must be the romantic in him.

  Chandler

  “Fear is debilitating,” The Instructor said. “Never let your enemy know what you fear. If he’s worth his salt, he’ll use it against you.”

  Although I could swim just fine, I hated water. I’d done countless laps in training, learning to use my arms, my legs, my torso, and my breathing to move through the water as quickly and efficiently as possible. I’d trained in survival, spending hours in cold, deep water with only my jelly fish float and thoughts for company. I’d practiced lifesaving techniques, those focused on saving others and myself, until I could perform a cross body carry or tired swimmer’s assist in my sleep.

  But none of it, not all those hours, all that practice, all that training, had rid me of my deep-seated fear of drowning.

  There were several reasons for this; the interrogation resistance I had to endure in training, an unfortunate chapter in my life before that. I tried to push all of it from my mind as I entered the canal.

  It didn’t work. Not entirely.

  Even though I knew that in this shallow canal I was in more danger of breaking my neck on the bottom than of drowning the conventional way, I was still seized by a moment of sheer panic.

  I arched my back, curving upward in the water as soon as I hit with a painful belly flop. Even so, my momentum took me to the bottom. I turned my head to the side, the floor of the concrete canal scraping my cheek and then my chest before I was able to arc back in the direction of the surface. The water was piss warm, dyed blue, and stung my eyes with chlorine.

  Changing the curvature of my body again, I straightened my path, preventing my head from emerging. A few good dolphin kicks, and I was careening downstream, the shadow of a gondola passing overhead.

  When I felt I’d gone far enough to surface without gunfire greeting me, I did, gasping in air.

  The canal was shallow enough for me to stand, and I found a spot under a bridge and tight to a wall where I could rest for a second and assess my surroundings. My priority was finding Heath, but if he’d gotten clear of the hotel, I’d be hard pressed to track him down on the streets of Las Vegas.

  I could only hope he’d run into as many problems as I had. If not, I’d have to guess he’d flag down a cab on the Strip and hightail it to the airport and who-knew-where, so he could sell who-knew-what information was in that ring.

  I had to find him before he reached the airport.

  Clinging to the wall, I listened to the activity around me. People seemed to be running everywhere, barking orders, static bursts from two-way radios, security or police, I wasn’t sure. With law enforcement on the scene, the Venezuelan and his merc would be stupid to stick around. At least my odds of being shot had dropped considerably.

  I pulled myself from the water and climbed over the railing. Keeping my head down, I wound through the canal shops and blended with the frightened crowds, making my way to the escalators, the air conditioning raising goose bumps under my wet clothing.

  Two security officers stood at the door, but they had apparently given up trying to stop the exodus of gamblers and shoppers. I walked in the shadow of an older man, and stumbling, I reached for his hand. Like a gentleman, he grabbed hold of me, and we swept out the door right under the noses of police, side by side.

  I let go of him on the bridge arching over the outdoor canal.

  “Thank you so much. I can take it from here.”

  He looked at me, concern evident on his face. “Are you sure? Someone was shooting in there. Better to—”

  “Yup,” I said, pulling free from his hands. “Gotta find my husband. Big guy. Really jealous.”

  Leaving my protector, I searched the area for any sign of Heath in the crowd. But like I feared, he appeared to be gone.

  Red and blue lights from emergency vehicles lit up the night, competing with the neon. I stopped at the fountain marking the entrance to the Venetian resort. If Heath was trying to get to the airport, he’d go south, so at the light, I crossed to the south-bound lane, stopping next to a clump of palm trees outside the Mirage’s volcano.

  The show was over, the crowd breaking up, and from the look of it, catching a cab wasn’t going to be an easy feat. I eyed the flow of traffic. Coming toward me was a truck pulling a narrow trailer designed to hold a moving billboard. This one advertised “Hot Babes Direct 2 U,” and I figured that was as good an opportunity as I was bound to get.

  The truck stopped at the intersection, and I made my move.

  Springing back out into the street, I wove through parked cars until I reached the billboard. I grabbed the side railing and climbed aboard just as the light changed. The truck continued down the street, hopefully bringing this Hot Babe Direct 2 Heath.

  The warm desert wind dried my clothing and hair. Everywhere on the Strip, people seemed to be partying, taking in the carnival atmosphere, not a care in the world. Neon blazed, turning darkness into twilight. I whizzed past Caesars Palace on one side, Harrah’s and the Flamingo on the other, the big resort casinos interrupted by small shops advertising tours of the Grand Canyon and Hoover Dam.

  At the intersection with Flamingo, near the Bally’s on the opposite side of the street, I noticed a group of four men walking down the sidewalk. Even from this distance, I could see two of them were armed, yet their body language suggested none were cops. In fact, I’d lay down a sizable bet that none of them were American either.

  But they were obviously searching for someone, and I had a pretty good idea who.

  The truck slowed to merge with traffic flowing from Flamingo Road, and I jumped off my billboard trailer and took the pedestrian bridge to the other side of the street. I didn’t know precisely who these guys were, but I was certain I didn’t want to attract their attention.

  I followed them to the Paris resort and stepped over a low rail and into the outdoor seating area of the Mon Ami Gabi bistro. Slipping into a vacant table scattered with empty dessert plates and coffee cups, I hooked my finger into the handle of one, pretending to be indulging in a little after dinner caffeine.

  The men spread out, scrutinizing the diners, the trees, and the casino entrance under one leg of the Eiffel Tower. Two more men joined them, moving down the Strip to the next hotel.

  Six men versus Heath. Not a fair fight, but I wasn’t sure for which side.

  The waiter approached my table, making his rounds. Surprise crossed his face when he saw me pretending to sip on my coffee.

  I raised the cup. “Can I get a little warmer upper, please?”

  He frowned, clearly realizing I wasn’t supposed to be there. But instead of ordering me out, he grabbed the tip tucked under one of the plates, nodded and slipped back inside, probably to call the manager or security.

  Time to bring an end to dessert.

  I stood and passed by a large tray filled with cleared plates. On one side lay a thin, stainless steel stick, twenty centimeters long, pointed on one end and forming a ring on the other. The skewer was designed for grilling shish kabob, satay, or since this was French cuisine, brochettes. It wasn’t going to protect me against the firepower the men following Heath had on them, but since beggars can’t be choosers, I grabbed it off the tray and slipped inside my jeans, its length trailing down my thigh, the ring sticking out of the top of my waistband.

  I jumped back over the railing. The six men had moved off down the sidewalk and had almost reached the end of the block, and I started walking, eager to keep them in my sights.

  I wasn’t ready for the beefy hand to grab my wrist and twist my arm behind my back. He jammed the barrel of a gun into my ribs.

  “Why are you following?” he asked.

  I pegged the accent as Russian, and thought of Jacob’s briefing. Bratton must have been taking competing bids from the Venezuelans and Russians. The only guests Jacob had mentioned who were missing at the party were the Iranians, unless of course, that was who Heath was working for.<
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  “Idiot,” I said in fluent Russian. “Release me or you’ll regret it.”

  “Huh?”

  “You obviously don’t have it yet. I was sent to help. It appears you need all the assistance you can get.”

  He lowered the gun. “I wasn’t aware that—”

  I didn’t wait for him to finish, instead I turned sharply to the left. Bending my knees, I dipped my head forward and spun under his left arm. Then I struck his left elbow in an upward jab with the palm of my right hand grabbed his gun hand and twisted the weapon to the side, and as the coup de grace, I followed up with a knee to the groin.

  He doubled over involuntarily, and I wrenched the gun free. He hit the ground, and I drove my foot into the side of his head three times before he lay still.

  People who had watched the exchange stared wide-eyed, some murmuring to one another, some reaching for their cell phones. I glanced down the sidewalk, but the other six were already passing by the Arc de Triomphe replica on their way to the Aladdin.

  The pistol was an OTs-23 Drotik with a fourteen round magazine. Relieved to come up with a little weapon conjuring magic of my own, I stuck the machine pistol into the back waistband of my jeans and pulled the tail of my blouse over it.

  I don’t know what made me look up. It wasn’t a sound, between the traffic noises, the crowds of people, and the music and roar of water across the street as the dancing fountain show started at the Bellagio, I couldn’t hear a thing. Maybe Heath had been right. Maybe we were connected on a deeper level, a psychic level, because I looked up at the replica of the Eiffel Tower, and the first thing I saw was Heath standing on one of the girders above me.

  I reached for my newly procured gun, and then he was plummeting toward me.

  He hit me with a wallop, knocking the weapon from my hand and flattening me to the ground.

  “Oh querida, I should have known you’d be the one to find me.”

  I rose to my knees, coming up at him with a good old fashioned uppercut. My fist glanced off his chin and sent him jerking backward.

  Capoeira could be fought at normal standing height or low to the ground with moves reminiscent of break dancing. So I wasn’t surprised when Heath threw a rabo de arraia at me, a low version of what seemed to be his favorite kick, the meia lua de compasso.

  I hugged the concrete in an evasion move called a negative de solo. Low fighting required a lot of arm strength, and although I could take out any woman in that kind of a matchup, I wasn’t confident in my ability to best Heath.

  I leaped to my feet, but as fast as I was, he was my equal. I came at him with a couple of kicks. He ducked them with easy, then countered with another Meia Lua de Compasso. This time I failed to evade, and his foot hit me in the shoulder with such a wallop that it sent me spinning into a planter, then bouncing into the street, my head cracking against the pavement.

  Horns honked and tires squealed, a classic red Corvette missing me by inches. I turned back to the sidewalk, expecting to see Heath running away. Instead he raced right past me and into the street. It only took a second for me to figure out why.

  The six Russians were half a block away, but having spotted their prey, they were closing fast.

  I struggled to my feet, my shoulder and head aching, and set out after Heath. Dodging traffic slowed him down, and I caught up as he reached the opposite curb. I leaped on his back, snaking my arm around his neck, the joint of my elbow pinching his throat. Gripping my left arm, I tightened the pressure on his carotid artery, trying to stop the blood flow to his brain.

  He spun around, raking at my face and hair with his hands, trying to shake me from his back.

  People crowding in to watch the fountain show pushed back, attempting to get out of our way.

  I saw what he was about to do a split second before he did it, and my words to him in the airplane echoed through my jangled mind.

  “Why is it I have trouble believing fear would stop you from anything?”

  “I’m afraid of plenty of things.”

  “Name one.”

  “Drowning.”

  Heath dove over the rail, taking me with him.

  The water hit me with a cold slap.

  The panic hit me harder.

  And among the roar and flashing colored lights of the fountains and Frank Sinatra’s voice belting out “Luck Be a Lady”, I realized I was going to die.

  Heath

  Sometimes Heath got tired of being right all the time.

  Just as he’d foreseen, Simone had been the one to find him. And just as he’d known, she’d been an admirable foe. The fact that he had to kill her now, in a way she had confessed she feared most horribly, bothered him.

  But not as much as her killing him.

  He only wished he knew her real name. Simone was a nice one, but it didn’t fit her. She would be called something sexy but stronger. Fierce. Brave. As was her nature.

  He would have to be satisfied remembering her as bonita.

  He dove deep into the fountain pool, Simone’s arm still wrapped around his neck, dragging her with him. Although under the water, he could no longer hear the music, the fountains persisted, loud as explosions.

  BOOM!

  BOOM!

  BOOM!

  He felt lightheaded, his limbs growing sluggish, Simone doing a good job of restricting the blood to his brain. He grabbed her arm, trying to pull it away from his throat, but she was strong.

  A worthy adversary. His perfect match.

  If she kept her grip, he would be unconscious soon, and once that happened, she could release his throat and let him drown. If she gave in to her fear, he could twist away, embrace her under the surface, wait until her panic made her gasp and take water into her lungs.

  Sad their love story had to come to this.

  Tragic as Romeo and Juliet.

  Chandler

  “Show no mercy,” The Instructor said. “Because in the spy game, no mercy will be shown to you.”

  My heart pounded in my ears, louder than the shooting fountains of the Bellagio. Water closed around me, pressed in on me, clamored for me to take a breath.

  Just one breath.

  No.

  I didn’t want to kill Heath. He’d had ample opportunity to kill me and had stopped short, and I felt I owed him the same professional courtesy. I just wanted his damn ring. But even more than that, I wanted to breathe. I wanted to live.

  I let go of his neck.

  He let go of my arm.

  As soon as my head broke the surface, I felt as if I’d entered a war zone. The relentless explosions continued, even louder now. Sheets of water rained down on my head. I opened my mouth, trying to breathe, and got as much water as air. Coughing and sputtering, I focused on the neon glowing around the pool’s edge and started swimming.

  As I neared dry land, a spotlight shifted over me, the glare bouncing off waves and hurting my eyes.

  An amplified voice boomed over the music and fountains. “Please get out of the water. Get out of the water, immediately.”

  Heath reached the edge before me, and two police officers fished him out, pulling him over the rail and onto the sidewalk. Then it was my turn, hands gripping my arms in the darkness, towing me out.

  “Down on the ground, both of you. Face down.”

  I couldn’t see who was giving the order, but I complied. Shivering, I lowered myself onto my belly, water pooling on the concrete around me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Heath doing the same.

  “Put your hands on the back of your head.”

  I did, my hair wet and matted beneath my fingers, my scalp battered and aching.

  “Cross your legs at the ankle.”

  I did that, too. The position was awkward and uncomfortable, but as far as the cops were concerned, that was part of the point. If Heath or I wanted to move, we would first have to uncross our ankles and lower our hands, giving the forces around us plenty of time to see our movement and stop us before we could rise.
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br />   I knew what would come next. They would cuff us and book us into jail. Jacob would get his ring. As soon as it had been logged as one of Heath’s possessions, it would disappear, if not before.

  But I wouldn’t be as lucky.

  Working for an agency that only a few people knew existed had its downside, one of them being that officially I didn’t exist either. Once I was taken into custody, Jacob wouldn’t help me. The government would turn its back. And if I told anyone who I was and what I did for a living, I would get my throat cut in my cell for a reward.

  I could see and hear four officers total. Not an army. Not nearly enough to contain both Heath and me, if we had the element of surprise on our side. But I didn’t like the idea of hurting cops. I was supposed to be one of the good guys, on the same team as the boys and girls in blue.

  “Put the cuffs on.”

  If I was going to make my move, I had to make it soon, before I was wearing bracelets. An officer moved over me.

  And that’s when the first burst of gunfire raked the trees around us.

  The Russians.

  The police had already cleared the area of civilians, but a collective panicked scream bounced off concrete and water and hotel anyway. The cop about to cuff me collapsed onto my back, and I could feel the warmth of his blood seeping through my wet blouse. Around me, the other three officers dropped into a defensive stance, taking cover behind a parked car, a tree, anything they could find, forming a perimeter and returning fire.

  I turned my head, glancing in Heath’s direction, only to find a wet shadow on the concrete where he used to be and a trail of drips leading toward the street.

  Rolling the wounded cop off my back, I made for the street myself, slinking behind a parked car, and leaving Las Vegas’s finest to deal with the Russians on their own.

  I moved low and fast, using the cars to shield me from view. Flashing lights filled the night. Sirens rose over the gunfire. I made it all the way to the end of the block before I caught my first glimpse of Heath. He stood in the street, trying to flag down a cab, a shopping center featuring Louis Vuitton, Prada, and Tiffany’s looming behind him.

  Fortunately for me, the cabbie was in no mood to pick up a desperate-looking Latino who happened to be soaked to the skin.