Hit: A Thriller (The Codename: Chandler)

by J. A. Konrath

  As attractive as this man was, he gave off no vibe at all. If I hadn’t been watching the room, I might not have noticed him, and I tended to notice attractive men.

  Finishing his surveillance, he walked back to the door and pushed back into the heat. A few minutes later, he returned, this time at the side of Dominic Bratton.

  The CEO was shorter than I’d expected. Broad shoulders, cheeks a bit too red despite being lightly dressed in a polo shirt, and his lips a little too smug. Judging by the way he stuck out his chest and peered down his nose at the restaurant staff, he had an inflated opinion of his own importance. As his gaze fell on me, I held it and gave him a little smile.

  Nothing.

  No reaction. No interest.

  I took a sip of my drink. I couldn’t remember the last time a man ignored me as pointedly as Bratton had. I was a good-looking woman, and I was not only good at catching male interest, I’d received training in the art of flirting and manipulation. This kind of blatant turn-down didn’t happen to me. Bratton was supposed to be a womanizer, so what was it?

  I grabbed my purse, and leaving my coat draped on the chair, I worked my way down to the sunken dining room just as the hostess led Bratton and the bodyguard toward one of the private rooms.

  Enough with being subtle.

  Half stumbling yet still keeping my balance, I fell into Bratton just hard enough to press the length of my body against him.

  “Oh I’m so sorry,” I said. “Thank you for catching me. If there’s any way I can repay you…”

  He brought up his hand, and at first I thought he might feel me up right there in front of Mayor Daley’s portrait.

  Instead he propped me on my feet, stated, “You’re welcome,” and was on his way.

  Damn.

  I circled through the restaurant, made a show of asking a server where the ladies’ room was, and made my escape. Once inside the very nice restroom, I peered at myself in the mirror.

  My hair looked great. Draping to my shoulders, it was swingy and shiny and framed my face perfectly. My body was honed, and the dress showed it.

  So what was it? Why didn’t he like me?

  No time for a bruised ego, I returned to the bar. Two men had joined the party, one muscle bound, dark-haired, and wearing a goatee, the other bald, black, and with a face so battered, it looked like an old football the neighbor kid left out in the rain. Football Face wore a tailored jacket and, like Bratton’s bodyguard, a well-concealed shoulder holster. Judging from their body language, Mr. Muscle was in charge, and he and Bratton drank martinis while the other two settled for coffee.

  Judging from their body language, I could tell they weren’t old buddies, and this wasn’t a friendly meeting. It was business and adversarial business at that.

  Buyers for whatever I needed to steal from Bratton? If so, this was a bad development. I needed to speed up my game.

  After my bout with rejection, I wasn’t sure how I was going to get close enough to Bratton to complete the operation, but I had to figure out something. Slowly sipping my own drink, I groped for ideas.

  Just after a second round of drinks arrived at the table, Bratton’s bodyguard stepped away from the table and left the room. Using my peripheral vision, I watched him circle the dining room in a wide arc. Half way through his trek, I realized he was heading for me.

  There were two possible explanations. Either he’d recognized something about me that made him uneasy—and was therefore extraordinary at his job—or my take on Bratton was off, and he’d sent his bodyguard to invite me to the table.

  I obviously preferred the latter.

  He sidled up to the bar just behind me, and I caught the scent of aftershave and a hint of his shampoo.

  “So you come here often?” he said, a Mexican-flavored accent spicing his voice.

  I shot him a tired glance. “Really? That’s the line you chose to go with?”

  A smile teased the corners of his lips. “You’re right. You deserve better. Let me try again.”

  I answered his smile with one of my own but said nothing.

  He rested an arm on the back of my barstool. “Look at this place. A man cave for the rich and powerful. Lions out front. Wood, brass, portraits of expensive horses and influential masters of business and war. Even the spoils of the hunt.” He gestured to the deer trophies behind the bar. “The décor is designed to make the testosterone flow, no? To give men erections as soon as they step through the door.”

  I smiled, suppressing an honest laugh.

  “Or maybe that’s a result of being near you.”

  I fought the urge to roll my eyes. There was another possibility, one I hadn’t considered. He was trying to pick me up for himself. I glanced Bratton’s way. Sure enough, the CEO was oblivious to our exchange.

  “Your time is too valuable to waste on him.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My employer. A tiresome man.”

  “I think I can decide whom I’m interested in. And I happen to like rich and famous executives.”

  “Perhaps, but he won’t be interested in you.”

  “And this from the man who was just coming on to me?”

  “I’m interested in you. He won’t be. I don’t mean to be insulting, bonita, but it is what it is.”

  “Maybe I should ask him.”

  “You can, if you like. But I can save you the embarrassment.”

  “Let me guess. You’re going to tell me he’s gay.” If Jacob had missed something that essential to this plan, I would never trust him again.

  “Oh no, he’s quite a ladies man.”

  “He only dates blondes?”

  “No. Brunettes are his favorites.”

  “Then it looks as if I should go talk to him immediately.”

  “You’re too old for him, querida.”

  “Ouch.” Since when was twenty-nine too old? I thought I had at least another year before AARP started sending me literature in the mail.

  “I don’t mean to offend, but my employer prefers teenagers. He doesn’t understand the finer things in life.”

  “Such as?”

  “Women with brains. Women with fire.” He appraised me again, a full body leer, starting at my legs, lingering on my breasts, before meeting my eyes once more. “Women who know what they are doing.”

  I didn’t mind the brazen, cocky approach, and after Bratton’s rejection I might admit to even enjoying it a little. But that wasn’t why I was here, unless I could somehow get to Bratton through this man.

  “And I suppose you do understand women?”

  “There are men who want pleasure handed to them. And there are others who know the very best things require effort. Do you know how cattle are killed in the slaughterhouse?”

  “So now your pick-up line is talking about how cows die? You know this is a steakhouse, right?”

  “Do you know?” He waited, eyes twinkling.

  “A bolt is shot into their brains,” I said.

  “Yes. They are herded into narrow chutes, prodded along until the moment when the steel ends them. Then they are carved into steaks and served on tables covered in white linen.” He gestured to the dining room. “From the time those calves are born, they have no chance.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I have filet mignon.”

  “Have you ever attended a bullfight?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know what happens in the arena?”

  “I know it has something to do with cruelty to animals.”

  He shook his head. “Raising a steer in a box and shooting a bolt into his brain is cruelty to animals. The bullfight is about honor. The matador can be maimed or killed as easily as the bull.”

  I didn’t think that was precisely true, but in the interest of appeasing the man standing between me and my target, I held my tongue. “So you like bullfighting?”

  His eyes locked on mine. “I like a challenge.”

  And I was beginning to like this guy. He wa
s full of himself, but if I were on my own time, I would enjoy spending it sparring with him, in the bar and the bedroom.

  “You are a professional, no?”

  I didn’t react, my core turning cold and hard as ice. Casually I picked up my glass and took a sip, giving myself a moment to consider my next move.

  How could he possibly know I was an operative?

  And how the hell was I going to deal with it now that he’d made me?

  I had a special knife strapped to my inner thigh, but I’d have to hike up my dress to get to it, and it required some assembly—that would cost me crucial seconds. I felt the weight of the glass in my hand and mentally cataloged the other items around me that I might use for weapons.

  One of the booze bottles on the rail.

  The knife the bartender was using to cut lemons for garnish.

  The gun in the bodyguard’s holster.

  I was accomplished in many forms of martial arts, but if it came down to defending myself, I’d rather not have to resort to bare hands.

  “I didn’t mean to offend, but don’t bother denying it.”

  I met his gaze but still didn’t say a word.

  “The world is unfair. I understand that more than most. Men like my boss have wealth. I use my skills to serve him, and he pays me. Why shouldn’t it be the same for you?”

  It took a second for his meaning to sink in. He hadn’t identified me as the professional hit woman I was after all.

  He thought I was a prostitute.

  I smiled. “I believe in being discreet. That’s important to my clients.”

  “Apologies, bonita. Maybe I can make it up to you.”

  “How?”

  “Part of the services I offer my employer involve procuring his entertainment. He has to deal with much tense business this evening. Perhaps you would like to be tonight’s feature?”

  “You were just telling me I’m too old for him.”

  “And I can tell you how to fix that problem.”

  “You’re not trying to sell me some expensive skin cream or shoot my forehead full of botulism, are you?”

  He laughed, a sound I liked more than I should have. “You are perfection just the way you are. Only a pendejo like my employer would fail to recognize that.”

  “You sweet talker,” I said. “You seem to be going out of your way to find a date for this pendejo.”

  “And you wonder why?”

  I gave an apologetic tilt of the head. A real hooker probably wouldn’t spend a lot of time questioning either the compliments or the promise of a lucrative job. “Does it seem like I’m looking a gift horse in the mouth?”

  “I never understood that cliché.”

  “You can tell a horse’s age by looking at its teeth.”

  He stared at me, as if waiting for more.

  “Never mind.”

  “I told you. It is my job to find his entertainment. But I confess I have more reason than that. I’m hoping something unfortunate happens to him, and then you will be all mine.”

  I smiled. “So tell me the secrets of Dominic Bratton.”

  He leaned close and whispered all I needed to know, his warm breath tickling my neck. “You can do that, no?”

  “Of course”

  “And I will go back to the table and feed him so many drinks he underperforms and overpays, and then you and I will have the rest of the evening.”

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  He smiled and held out a hand. “Heath Rodriguez.”

  We shook. “Simone.”

  “Encantado, Simone.” With his accent, the name sounded pornographic. “You will be back before we are finished with our steak?”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t be late. This meeting will not last long after the food and drink is gone.” He brushed his lips to my cheek then turned to leave.

  And as I watched him walk back to his employer’s table, I almost felt bad using him as a means to his boss’s end, especially since he would lose his job out of the deal.

  And if he got in my way, his life.

  Heath

  Heath felt the lovely Simone’s eyes follow him all the way back to Bratton’s private dining room, but he resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder. The art of flirting was as much about leaving a woman wanting more as it was about showing interest, and Heath was a master at both.

  He circled the table and took his chair, sneaking a glance just in time to see Simone rub her fingers up and down the stem of her glass as if she was stroking a man. Then she stood, swooping up her coat and bag, and headed out of the restaurant, the fingerprints on her glass now safely smudged beyond recover.

  She was a professional, all right—Heath had identified her the moment he stepped through the door—but she was no sex professional.

  Heath recognized an assassin when he saw one.

  The signs were obvious if you knew what to look for. Tucked into the corner of the bar, she’d chosen the one seat in the restaurant where no one could approach her unseen, and yet she had a view of the entrance and most of the tables of the main dining room and private rooms. She’d noted his every move without seeming to, expertly positioned herself to run into Bratton, and after having tasted the Capital Grille’s pineapple martini drink on his last trip to Chicago, Heath doubted any normal person could manage to sip one so slowly.

  And now the attention to fingerprints.

  Heath also sensed something about her, a controlled and focused intensity that made the back of his neck prickle and his blood feel alive. He’d known many hot women in his life, but none had affected him this way. This wasn’t mere sexual attraction.

  She was dangerous.

  And Heath could sense it, because he and the chica bonita had much in common.

  “So did you let the waiter know we need another round?” Bratton asked, the martinis he’d consumed already smoothing the edges off his sandpaper voice.

  Heath smiled at his boss like a perfect minion. He’d been working for Bratton for nearly two months now, and had witnessed firsthand what an entitled baboso the man was all the way to his core. It had been tough to follow his commands when Heath really wanted to break his neck, but he had managed to be a model employee.

  Now that the auction had almost come to a close, he wouldn’t have to keep up the charade much longer.

  “If you want to enjoy our steak before we must leave for your appointment, I thought it best the waiter bring the wine,” Heath said.

  Bratton nodded. “See? That’s why I pay him. He keeps me on schedule and makes sure I enjoy the finer things.”

  “It is my pleasure. And I also saw to arrange for your pleasure later.”

  “You found what I like?”

  “Sí. Muy guapa, muy joven y muy obediente.”

  The Venezuelan, who Heath knew as Pino, and the merc working for him, a former Airborne Ranger named Smith, gave knowing nods.

  “Damn wetback,” muttered Bratton. “Speak English, will you?”

  “Very pretty, very young, very obedient,” filled in the American mercenary.

  “She’d better be pretty and young. And if she isn’t obedient, I will enjoy teaching her.”

  The men laughed as Bratton downed the last of his martini.

  Heath chuckled along, the thought of unleashing Simone on Bratton making the moment all the sweeter.

  A chirp cut through the laughter, and the CEO reached for his phone. He glanced at the display, at Heath, and then at the other two in the private room. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  He stood and left. Only when he was safely away from the glass door did he bring the phone to his ear and speak.

  Pino pulled his napkin from his lap as if to rise.

  “You’ll need to stay here for a moment.” Heath’s words were quiet, but even a radical as far left of Chavez as Pino was took notice of the firmness behind them.

  “I was going to visit the restroom.”

  “Mr. Bratton would prefer you stay
here while he is taking his call. Por favor, acepta mis disculpas.”

  A brittle smile spread over Pino’s lips. Then he clapped Heath on the back and took his seat.

  A moment later, the bossman returned. The waiter followed behind him with a 1999 Mouton-Rothschild Bordeaux Blend the Capital Grille kept as part of Bratton’s private collection. And as the wine flowed and the steak was served, Heath watched the row of clocks on the wall, each showing a different time zone, and counted down the minutes until they had to leave for Bratton’s appointment…until he would again see the lovely Simone.

  Until he held in his hands the one thing he could deny El Diablo.

  Chandler

  “Those who are used to getting what they want only want what they can’t have,” The Instructor said. “If you want to become indispensable to your target, be what eludes him.”

  I made it back to the restaurant just as the dinner party was shuffling out between the copper lions and toward the waiting limo. Heath spotted me first, his eyes crinkling at the corners and lips curving into an appreciative smile. He laid a hand on Bratton’s shoulder, directing his attention my way.

  Bratton’s eyes flared wide. “You outdid yourself this time, Rodriguez.”

  I smiled and cast my eyes to the sidewalk, as if too bashful to hold his gaze.

  A quick trip to Forever 21 on Michigan Avenue scored me a cotton eyelet mini skirt and bejeweled blouse, which I wore without a bra. I’d hated to leave my new dress in the store’s restroom, but I kept the shoes, the rest of the outfit change making them look like the Manolo knockoffs that seemed to be everywhere this season, thanks to Sex and the City. As a finishing touch, I’d gone for shimmery pink lip gloss and gathered my hair in to pigtails which now tickled the back of my neck.

  A pervert’s fantasy. All I needed was a lollipop.

  “Hey,” I said, looking up at him through my lashes.

  Bratton turned to his dinner companions. “I will get back to you with the place and time.”

  Exchanging knowing looks, the two crossed the street, heading for Michigan Avenue. Heath opened the limo door, ushered Bratton then me inside and climbed in himself. He sat facing us as the limo joined the flow of traffic.