Hit: A Thriller (The Codename: Chandler)

by J. A. Konrath

  It took me a second to figure out what he was asking, my thoughts sluggish, as if trying to fight through bats of cotton jamming my skull.

  Too long.

  He caught hold of my free hand, and before I could react, that wrist was secured to the other side of the headboard, this time with his tie.

  My head swam, dizzy, and my tongue felt clumsy in my mouth. All along I hadn’t been reacting to the booze or the sex or Heath’s charm.

  The bastard had drugged me.

  I wondered if it would be hypocritical of me to feel outraged.

  “What did you give me?” I asked.

  He straddled me, sitting on my thighs, making it impossible for me to move. “You should know, mamacita. Whatever it was came from the glass you poured for me.”

  Memory flashed like pictures in my mind. Heath painting my nipples with tequila. Heath taking my glass and downing his as he walked back to the dining room for more.

  Only he hadn’t actually drunk it.

  “Fuck.”

  I craned my neck to glimpse the tumbler on the nightstand. There was still a good amount of tequila left. I hadn’t had much. Maybe I could fight the effects, keep from losing consciousness.

  “Who trained you, Simone?”

  I glared at him, naked and astride me, his erection recovering quickly. “Trained? Trained in what? Giving you a hard on?”

  “Answer the question.”

  I shook my head. How had I been bested by a bodyguard? It wasn’t possible. But then… the thought escaped me. Whatever it was, my brain was too sluggish to keep up. Better not to say anything at all than something I would regret.

  “Who trained you, querida? Did you call him The Instructor?”

  Heath

  Heath watched the slight flinch of recognition in her eyes, not that he needed the verification. They were the same, Simone and him, He’d felt it the moment he first saw her and now he knew at least part of the reason why.

  The Instructor had taught them both how to think, how to kill, and most of all, how not to feel.

  That lesson had never sunk in with Heath, but then he’d come to The Instructor with fire for revenge running in his veins. After witnessing Simone’s passion, he guessed that lesson hadn’t fully taken root in her, either.

  But that didn’t mean he could trust her.

  He leaned over Simone, bringing his face close. “Did he send you after me?”

  A small crease dug between her eyebrows. “You?”

  She was feeling the effects of the drug, so he would make it simple. “Are you here to kill me?”

  “Why would I be sent for you?”

  “Don’t pretend with me. By now you know I am no more a bodyguard than you are a hooker. You should really be more careful about pillow talk. It gave you away.”

  “Pillow talk? I… I didn’t say anything.”

  “I wasn’t listening to your words, querida. I was reading your body.”

  Heath traced a finger over the tiny white line, clearly visible against her smooth belly. He didn’t know what the scar was from, but he knew where she got it.

  Because he had one as well.

  It was there at the bottom of his navel, just like hers, a little white smile. But while her skin was smooth, he had the hair of a man, making the scar hard to see unless you knew where to look.

  Her eyes focused on his for a moment. “What are you, some kind of spy?”

  Did she not know?

  He concentrated on the feel of her body beneath him. Her heart was pounding hard. She hadn’t had enough of the tequila to succumb quickly to whatever she had laced it with, but she was having trouble regulating her reactions and thinking things through. He had a sense for this woman, a visceral understanding of her, and right now he judged she was telling the truth. She hadn’t been sent for him.

  And that meant The Instructor must not know he was here.

  Heath needed to keep it that way.

  “I’ll pay you to let me go.” She said, her tongue slightly fumbling over the words.

  Heath smiled. “You can’t afford me.”

  She bucked her hips.

  Still straddling her, he rode the wave of her body. “If you are trying to arouse me even more, it is working.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Simone might be drugged and naked and tied, but she was not beaten.

  She was magnifico.

  “So you have come for Bratton, no? I will not stand in your way. But I’m afraid I must leave you here, bound and beautiful. I can’t have you following me.”

  “Give me the key, and I won’t follow.”

  “I might be in love with you, mamacita, but that doesn’t mean I trust you.”

  He sprang off her, getting clear of the bed just in time to dodge a kick directed at him.

  “So fiery and passionate. You make me wish I never had to leave.”

  “So don’t.”

  Heath still had some time left, so he sat on the bed and began to stroke her once again.

  She spread her thighs and gave him a smile he could feel in his groin. “Let me go. I want to touch you, too.”

  “Just seeing you, feeling you is more than I can take, querida.”

  She pulled against her bindings, tried to close her legs, but by then he knew her body. Knew how to make it react.

  “Your struggle only makes you more beautiful, Simone. Let me make you come once more. As a way to say goodbye.”

  “You’re a bastard.”

  “Sí, yes.”

  “I hate you.”

  “I know.”

  He continued to touch her, adjusting the rhythm, gauging her expression, reading her level of passion, until she finally gave in and didn’t try to retreat any more. Until she pressed against him. And then he teased, touching her with less pressure, pulling his fingers away as she stretched for him. When she began to groan with frustration, no doubt hating him even more—more than desiring him—Heath pushed two fingers deep inside her and massaged her with his thumb, flicking as fast as he could, making her cry out.

  He watched her face, watched the turmoil there. The anger. The betrayal. The hunger. Watched the orgasm build, watched her shuddering release, and thought there could be no better thing in life than to do this, over and over and over.

  But, sadly, he had to go.

  Reluctantly he withdrew his hand from her body and gave her a kiss on her damp forehead.

  “Don’t leave me,” she said with a touch of that smile.

  Never giving up, not his querida.

  As he pulled on his pants and shirt, he let his gaze wander over her body once more, slowly, savoring the view in case it was the last time.

  “If only we had met under different circumstances, mi amour. Now if you don’t mind, I’m running out of time, and I must avoid keeping an appointment.”

  By the time he grabbed his carry on suitcase and left the room, it was after eleven. The casino was slightly out of his way, but he headed down to the ground level anyway.

  The place was crowded with gamblers, plugging slots and playing games. Bells and whistles, beeps and chimes rose from the banks of machines. The air smelled slightly floral and sweet, like a woman’s perfume, and the fragrance mixed with a whiff of food now and then from the restaurants that were still open.

  He turned down a row of slot machines, adopting the persona of just another gambler hoping to hit it big. The ring felt heavy on his hand, more valuable than any riches he might win here, and also more terrible. To Bratton, it meant money. To Heath, it was far more personal.

  A shout rose over the din.

  Heath did not have to speak Russian to recognize the language. They were gathered around the roulette wheel, just as Bratton had said they would be. Three of them. The man who’d shouted scooped up his winnings. Taller than Heath, twice as wide, muscle not fat. The shirt he wore was the size of a four-person tent and covered with pictures of dolphins leaping from white surf. Heath couldn’t spot a weapon, but he wo
uld bet it was there under the folds of fabric.

  The second and third men gathered around the wheel were smaller, but not by much. The first had hair so short it looked like yellow baby fuzz. Blemishes pocked his face, and along with a neck as thick as Heath’s thigh and arms nearly bursting the seams of his blazer, Heath pegged him as a steroid enthusiast.

  The third man was much more average. Thin compared to his compatriots, he had brown hair and a forgettable face. Perfectly average, until he smiled. Half his teeth seemed to be knocked out, the others chipped and filed to ragged points.

  Heath glanced around the casino, picking out four more men hovering near the chokepoints of the casino floor. The two closest had hands marked with tattoos, one featuring various letters, the other the head of Satan. The two others were too far away to spot details, but their body language told Heath all he had to know.

  At least seven men. Overkill for a friendly business exchange.

  Pinche mierda, Bratton really had no idea what he’d started.

  Heath kept moving, reaching the main entrance, a grand area with the ornate ceilings rising over twenty meters in the air. The exterior façade was a copy of the Doge’s Palace, and the marble floors and grand scope of the entrance was truly beautiful.

  Escalators reached to the second floor shopping area, and Heath jumped aboard. He seemed to have gotten past the Russians without being recognized, but they were early and looking for Bratton, not a random Latino playing the slots.

  Of course, soon they would get restless. Heath had to make sure he was long gone by then.

  He had one more task.

  Reaching the top, he stepped off the escalator. Located on the second floor, above the casino, were the Grand Canal Shoppes, an indoor shopping mall like no other. The mall floors were cobblestone streets, the ceiling was a painted sky glowing as if it was early evening, and the store facades were buildings in the Venice streets. But the most unique feature of all was the canal running through the mall’s center. At 400 meters long, the waterway was spanned by arched bridges connecting the shops on either side. And down the center floated gondolas giving rides to tourists, the gondoliers piloting the boats singing songs of love and loss, just as they had been outside near the entrance driveway.

  Heath picked up his pace, moving along the faux streets and weaving between shoppers. Beyond the replica of St. Mark’s Square, an area in the middle of the mall boasting more shopping, restaurants, and entertainment, he would find the ballrooms of Congress Center and the hotel’s business area. At this time of night the business center was closed, but that was no challenge. He carried a set of picks and a torsion wrench. He had planned every step, and nothing would stop him now.

  He dipped a hand in his pocket for Bratton’s wallet. Gone.

  Nothing would stop him… except Simone.

  He shook his head and might have laughed if not for the frustration of it. She was a true challenge. A woman after his own soul.

  Turning in his tracks, he headed back down the escalators and through the grand colonnade. At least she was no longer a concern. Because as much as he admired her, if she got in his way again, he would take her life.

  And that would be such a waste.

  The lobby had cleared of tourists in the late hour, but guest registration was still open. Heath stashed his carryon on a luggage cart then approached a thin, pale man whose submissive body language suggested he’d been put on the earth to serve others. According to his little gold badge, his name was Gene.

  “Hello, sir. Welcome to the Venetian. How may I help you?”

  “Thank you, Gene. I checked in to this fine hotel a short time ago, and I have made a very grave mistake.”

  The man’s eyebrows shot toward his hair line. “A grave mistake?”

  “I came down to the casino to try my luck, and I’m afraid I left my key card in the suite.”

  “Oh, that kind of grave mistake.”

  He let out a little laugh, and Heath joined him, making it into a bonding experience. One or two more shared chuckles, and they would be like brothers. “Not as grave as choosing the wrong lady to blow on my dice, no?”

  The man laughed again at the innuendo, and they were on their way.

  “What is your room number?”

  Heath gave him Bratton’s room.

  “Ah yes, Mr. Bratton. I hope your suite is to your liking.”

  “Please Gene, call me Dominic. And the entire hotel is beautiful, as always.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Now let’s get you back inside it, shall we?” He laughed, and Heath chimed in. “All I need is some identification.”

  Heath gave his new brother a grin. “My key is in my wallet… which is in my room.”

  “Of course it is,” said the desk clerk. “But I’m afraid I can’t just give you a key without knowing who you are.”

  “But you do know who I am. You have my name right there on your computer.”

  He shook his head, no laughter now. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you a key without identification.”

  “And I can’t get my identification without a key.”

  “That might be true, but the rules are the rules.”

  “But sometimes it is necessary to break rules, no? Especially to help a friend?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t. Following the rules is very important.”

  So much for being the amigo of this cabron. Gene might have been put on the earth to serve others, but it turned out those others were the rule makers.

  “I see you checked in with two others. Would they be able to vouch for you?”

  Heath thought of the current states of Bratton and Simone. “My companions are… indisposed at the moment.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yes. I could hear them moaning all the way down the hall. I think someone else might have been in the room with them, too. Some people are so loud.”

  Gene gave him a deadpan look, sticking to his rules about rules.

  Heath paused for a moment. There had to be another way, and as he glanced around the lobby, he found it. “But if you ask the pretty blonde at the end, an angel by the name of Karen who checked me into the hotel, she could vouch for me, no?”

  Chandler

  “If you’re poisoned,” The Instructor said, “you have a choice. Find the antidote, or puke.”

  Fog filled my head, my thoughts slow and sluggish. My mouth felt dry, my head starting to throb behind my eyes, my stomach queasy.

  I imagined the most disgusting thing I could. A toasted maggot sandwich, slathered in curdled mayonnaise, with cigar butts in it and a side of raw, rotten beef liver being fed to—

  The tequila came up, along with the roofies. I hacked, spit a few times, and then got angry.

  How had I let him fool me?

  Not only had I ignored signs that he was an operative, I’d let him use my own drug against me. I was lucky I wasn’t dead. I was also lucky I hadn’t had more of the tainted tequila than I did.

  I worked my wrist back and forth against the neck tie, the silk loosening until I could slip free. Unfortunately escaping the handcuff wasn’t going to be so easy.

  I shifted my legs to the side, angling my body until my feet were off the bed. Using my toes, I groped the carpet, my arms stretching to their limit, the cuff cutting into my wrist. My heel hit something near the bed’s edge. There it was. I gripped the fabric with my toes, then using my stomach muscles, I scissored my body and brought the panties to my free hand.

  Sitting up on the bed, I brought the garment to my bound hand and skimmed my fingers along the elastic band until I felt a hard piece of wire sewn into the fabric.

  When I’d bought the jeans and blouse from the boutique in the Canal Shoppes, I’d thought about buying sexy underwear to go with it. Fortunately for me, I hadn’t. As the only garment that wasn’t new, the panties were properly prepared, two lengths of wire sewn into the seam between elastic and lace, along with a rolled up hundred dollar bi
ll.

  I worked the wire free. Seconds later, I had the cuffs unlocked.

  Heath’s wallet remained wedged between the chair cushions, and before I took time to pull on a stitch of clothing, I checked inside.

  Not Heath’s wallet at all. The driver’s license of Dominic Bratton stared up at me. And inserted next to a collection of credit cards and wad of hundreds was a key card for the Venetian.

  This wasn’t over yet.

  My heart rate accelerating, I opened my purse and pulled out the bikini I had also purchased on my newest shopping expedition. Far from a fun vacation buy, the swimsuit was my insurance. If I found myself in a tough spot, I could always take off my street clothes, slip into one of the many pool areas along the Strip, and fit right in. I put the suit on instead of underwear, and then dressed in the jeans and blouse. Slipping the rolled hundred from the seam in my panties, I stuck the cash, the wires, and the lingerie in my pockets, stuffing my phone and Bratton’s wallet in my purse. Later I’d ditch the underwear in a public trash can.

  My head throbbed, but the fog seemed to be lifting in my mind, adrenaline sharpening my senses despite what was left of the drug in my system. I didn’t have much hope in catching Heath. He was probably long gone. But I still had the rest of my job to do.

  I poured the rest of the three hundred dollar bottle of Platinum on the sheets, destroying whatever DNA evidence I’d left. Wiping the room of my fingerprints, I collected the handcuffs and tie and left the room. The hall outside was vacant, most guests probably at a casino, a show, or a nightclub. I paused outside of Bratton’s suite and listened for a few seconds. Hearing only the faint drone of television news, I used the key card to let myself in.

  Bratton’s suite was as large as Heath’s and mine combined. Keeping on the balls of my feet, I moved silently over the entry’s marble floor. Light from the television pulsed straight ahead, the glow of neon filtering in from the bank of windows beyond. I ducked into a powder room on my left, waiting for the sound of voices or footsteps or any kind of movement at all.

  Nothing.

  If Bratton was awake, he’d be surprised to see me. I would have to act fast, before he suspected the reason I was there, before he could gather his thoughts enough to react.