Hit: A Thriller (The Codename: Chandler) (13 page)

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.

“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 m
eia 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.

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.

Heath spotted me and abandoned the cab search, instead running down the sidewalk.

We were in a footrace now and I sprinted flat out, fast as I could. As long as I could see him, I was okay. He wouldn’t be able to get away or hide and get the drop on me.

Heath dashed into the street, angling his way through traffic. I lost sight of him for a second as he crossed the median, his silhouette obscured by palm trees and other foliage, then he appeared in the oncoming lane, a dark form against the glare of headlights and glowing neon. He crossed into an area of strip malls advertising dream car rentals, discount show tickets, and helicopter tours.

I pushed my tired muscles to move faster, my breath roaring in my ears. There were few places to disappear in the area flanked by the big resorts, but in this hodgepodge of smaller buildings he could easily slip through an alley, and I’d have a hard time tracking him down.

I heard the faint sound of an engine while I was still several buildings away. A light flicked on in front of a tattoo parlor and oxygen bar, under a sign boasting the “Best Ever Tours.” Then in a streak, Heath buzzed out onto the sidewalk, riding a scooter.

So much for our footrace, the cheater.

I made a beeline for the row of red rental scooters. The business was closed, all the little bikes chained together plus individually fastened to the steel rack. Heath had already unlocked the larger chain’s padlock, and the smaller bike locks were no contest for me.

I reached into my pocket, pulling the little wires I’d gotten from my panties from my pocket. Taking a knee beside the closest bike, I had her free in under a minute. A little jimmying with the ignition, and I was on Heath’s tail.

Horns blared as I cut across traffic, jumped the median, and folded into the south moving lane. Heath was a good distance ahead now, and I pushed the bike to its limit, weaving between cars in an effort to catch up. I swept by the Monte Carlo hotel on the right, the light changing to red at the intersection with Rue de Monte Carlo.

Sitting back on the scooter, I rushed the curb, yanking back on the handlebars just in time to thunk up onto the sidewalk.

People scattered, and I narrowly missed a fire hydrant. Dropping my foot to the concrete, I pivoted the bike and accelerated, taking the crosswalk.

Ahead, in front of the fake Manhattan skyline of New York, New York, I spotted Heath stuck in traffic. A glance back at me, and he swung off the road, too, dodging pedestrians and racing onto the replica of the Brooklyn Bridge.

I followed. His failure to act sooner had cost him his lead, and as we raced past little Italy, a Broadway box office, and an upper east side brownstone, I pulled even with his back tire.

He shot out a foot, bracing on the front of my scooter and giving me a shove.

I swerved, nearly crashing into the pilings of a faux wharf before regaining control.

He darted under a pedestrian bridge that spanned the boulevard.

I followed, racing as fast as I could. Rounding the corner, I spotted him driving into an elevator that reached up to the crosswalk above. I gunned my scooter, flying over the first few steps of a staircase and jolting down rest. I made another corner and reached the elevator.