by Nic Saint
CHAPTER 16
Mike watched the woman slump in her seat, and jumped up in surprised shock. Immediately his instincts kicked in and he controlled himself with an extreme effort. Willing himself to remain calm, he saw the shadowy figure remove himself from the scene. He caught a glimpse of the man’s face and imprinted it on his memory.
The killer was getting away, and he resisted the urge to go after him. Since that would have blown his cover, he watched the man step from the restaurant proper and into the night.
There was a sudden hush and turmoil at the woman’s table.
“What’s going on?” asked Emily, who’d been sitting with her back to the unfortunate victim.
“A woman’s just been killed.”
“Oh, my God!” she cried, and swiveled in her chair. The woman was lying face down in her consommé, her husband raising Cain, trying to revive her. Too late. The bullet had done its lethal work and nothing could be done for her now.
Christ, Mike thought, he hadn’t figured they’d move this quickly. Since the woman looked exactly like Emily it was obvious this wasn’t just a coincidence. He’d figured at least for the time being they would be safe. He wondered how long it would take the killer to figure out he’d killed the wrong woman.
Not too long, he guessed.
“Don’t move,” he hissed when Emily made for the other table. In two steps he’d joined her, taking her arm in an iron grip. “It’s imperative we don’t draw attention to ourselves,” he added under his breath.
“But who—”
“Must be the same people who are targeting you. Guess our cover is blown.”
They both glanced over when screams of terror rent the air. The man had fished his wife’s head from the soup and had discovered her lifeless eyes staring back at him. It was a gruesome sight.
“We need to get out of here,” she said. “The moment they discover their mistake they’ll come after me again. And this time, they won’t miss.”
“You’re right,” he said simply.
The upheaval in the restaurant was now reaching a fever pitch, people shouting and crowding around the table where the body of the woman still lay. What a fucking mess. They picked their way along the tables, and Emily headed straight for the elevators. He stopped her. “Where are you going?”
She eyed him curiously. “Getting our stuff, of course. We can’t leave everything behind.”
“You better stay where the crowds are,” he told her. “It’s not safe for you.”
She pressed her lips together and gave him an irritated frown. “I’m a big girl, Mike. I can take care of myself. You don’t have to patronize me.”
“I’m trying to keep you safe, princess,” he growled.
She came very near to stomping her foot, and he enjoyed the fiery gaze she threw him. In response to the hot retort that was sizzling on her lips, he drew her near for a devastating kiss, effectively shutting her up. The heat of the moment rolled through the both of them, and when he eased away, she gasped. He brushed his thumb along her swollen lip. “Consider that an appetizer.”
With those words and a devilish grin he stepped into the elevator and watched the doors close on her simmering face. He knew he shouldn’t goad her and keep stealing kisses like this, but she looked so damn hot when she was mad. It was but one of the things he loved about her.
CHAPTER 17
This wasn’t working, Emily thought as she paced the lobby. It was clear to her now that he didn’t consider her a partner but merely a victim he'd taken in tow, a helpless woman he figured needed protection from the big bad men out there. As if. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, thank you very much.
She hadn’t survived all these years by playing the helpless damsel in distress.
And then there was his habit of groping her whenever the mood struck him, which seemed to be all the fucking time. Not that she could deny the obvious attraction she felt for him, but there was a time and a place, and what they needed now was to focus on figuring out this assassination plot.
The man was hotter than hell and at any other moment she would have been glad to sleep with him again, but not now! Not when crazed killers were gunning for her in one of the most expensive hotels in Paris!
As she passed the reception desk for the third time, she figured she was being too conspicuous. She should take a seat, but was too wired to sit still for even one second. Whoever had killed that woman was probably still out there. The moment he realized his mistake, he would come for her. And she was standing here in her pretty white dress, with not even a single concealed knife on her person. Dammit!
If Mike hadn’t convinced her they were safe, she would have armed herself to the teeth before stepping from their room. She was starting to think the man was simply a loose cannon, acting on whatever the hell his gut told him. She really couldn’t work like this. She needed a plan, not hunches.
Catching a glance from one of the receptionists, she finally turned to the waiting area and took a seat. She’d talk to Mike. Tell him this wasn’t working for her. He should simply pack up and return to the States and let her handle this thing on her own, like she’d always done. She worked better alone anyway.
She willed herself to remain calm, and to present a dignified facade. Then her attention was attracted by flashing lights outside, and then nurses came barging in, wheeling a gurney, followed by a small regiment of cops. The troop disappeared into the restaurant. Christ, what a fricking clusterfuck.
Moments later the emergency crew came back out, rolling the victim down the lobby, the nurses’ faces grim, the grieving husband in their wake. She felt a pang of pity for the poor guy. Caught in the line of fire. Though she’d killed plenty of people in her checkered career, at least she prided herself on the knowledge her bullets had never killed an innocent or a bystander. Every hit had found its mark and taken out a person who deserved to die.
Mike Petrov was the first man she’d been ordered to kill who was still standing, and perhaps he would be the last mark she ever targeted. No, she thought grimly. Whoever was responsible for this campaign would feel her wrath. He’d die by her hand if it was the last victim she claimed.
She watched the cops spread out, asking questions, collecting the guests. She knew what was next. By now they must have figured the woman hadn’t choked on a fish bone. They’d block all exits and interrogate everyone present.
Inconspicuously, she rose and strolled to the exit and then out onto the street. She didn’t feel like waiting around for the cops to ask her all kinds of questions.
The moment the frost hit her, she shivered. Fuck, it was cold. November really wasn’t the best time to visit Paris. She hugged herself, rubbing her arms, and watched more police vehicles race up, the ambulance only now taking off, the emergency lights and high whine quite unnecessary in her opinion.
Spectators had collected outside the hotel, wanting to know what was going on. She caught the gaze of a man of nondescript appearance watching in the crowd. He was staring at her intently, and suddenly she knew. This was the killer. His face was a mask of surprise. He clearly hadn’t expected her to still be walking around.
When she flipped him the bird, his lips tightened and his eyes went hard. Take that, asshole, she thought as she moved forward. She’d never shied away from a fight before, and she wouldn’t do so now. She would take this fucker down, or her name wasn’t Stiletto Tonya.
As luck would have it, she was wearing just the right shoes for the job.
CHAPTER 18
When Mike arrived in the lobby, he wasn’t surprised to find Emily gone. In the last minute, he’d had a hunch he shouldn’t have left her alone, and had returned. Too late, of course.
The place was crawling with cops asking questions and his ‘wife’ wasn’t anywhere in sight. The moment he stepped from the elevator, a cop approached him. He plastered his most charming smile on his face and answered the question if he’d been in the restaurant with a quick, “No, I wa
s upstairs, Monsieur. Only came down for dinner this very minute.”
After a few more questions, he was told the restaurant was closed for business due to an unfortunate incident. When he inquired into the nature of the incident, as would any tourist, he was told an accident had happened, and it would take some time before the restaurant opened again. In other words: none of your business, bubba.
His eyes scanned the room and when he didn’t find Emily amongst those present, his mood darkened. She must have stepped out, not wanting to be questioned by the eager Parisian gendarmes. Exiting the hotel, he scanned the crowd that had gathered, then brought his cell to his ear. Voicemail. He cursed under his breath. Watching the rubberneckers, he got an idea. Walking up to the first guy, a floppy-haired hipster with beard and specs, he asked, “Excusez-moi, Monsieur—”
“Speak English, dude,” the guy told him with a grin.
He gave him a relieved smile. His French was a little rusty. “I’m actually looking for my wife. We were supposed to meet. She’s blond, five foot two, wearing a white dress.”
“Oh, yeah, I saw her. Real pretty, huh?”
“She is.”
“You just missed her. Went that way,” the guy said, pointing across the boulevard.
“Thanks, buddy.”
“De nada.” Mike was about to turn away, when the guy clasped his arm. “Hey, you better hold on to her, man. Looked like she was chasing after some other dude.”
His stomach tightened at this bit of information. Chasing after some dude, huh? She probably had spotted the killer and was going after him herself. Fuck!
He quickly made his way across the boulevard, his eyes darting left and right for a trace of Emily. She couldn’t have much of a head start, but if she was really chasing after the killer, she might be anywhere by now. He started toward the corner at a trot, scanning his surroundings. A guy leaning against the neon sign of a night shop gave him a curious look, and he quickly approached him, producing a couple of crispy euro notes. “By any chance did you happen to see my wife? Ma femme? Blond, white dress…”
The guy frowned, pocketed the Euros, then pointed to a gas station at the end of the street.
“Thanks,” Mike muttered and started sprinting down the street, dodging pedestrians. He found himself at a crossroads, two streets forking off from the main road. On instinct, he picked the left one, and raced down it, running at full clip now. Suddenly, he saw a flicker of white disappearing around the bend.
Turning the corner, his breath coming in gasps, he saw her passed out against a gnarled sycamore tree. His heart stopped.
“Emily!” he roared. The moment he joined her, he saw she wasn’t passed out, but merely royally pissed off, judging by her scowl.
“Twisted my damn ankle,” she grumbled, rubbing her foot. “Should have known better than to try to run the bastard down in these damned heels.”
With a grunt, he bundled her up in his arms, and fiercely grappled her to his chest.
“What’s gotten into you?” she muttered.
“If anything would have happened to you…” Christ, he was falling for this woman, and falling fast.
“Nothing’s gonna happen to me,” she said softly. “I’m Stiletto Tonya, remember? Tough as nails?”
“Yeah, I remember,” he replied, emitting a relieved bark of laughter.
He stared along the street, but the guy was long gone, of course.
“I got a good look at his face. I’ll recognize him the moment I see him,” she told him.
“You won’t see him again. He’s the kind of guy you don’t see coming.”
“He better stay far away from me. Next time he’s dead.”
He could very well believe it. He helped her to her feet. “Next time leave the stilettos,” he suggested.
“All right, but only if you give me a weapon of some kind. A girl can’t go traipsing around Paris unarmed.”
“Won’t do us much good. They’ll just confiscate it when we fly out of here.”
“Guess you’re right,” she grumbled, then tested her ankle. It held.
Noticing she was freezing, he shrugged out of his coat, and draped it around her shoulders. She grinned.
“Never pegged you for a gentleman, Petrov.”
“Just one of my many qualities, Fox.”
“Where did you learn to treat women like this?”
“Mom,” he replied curtly. He shrugged. “She told us if we didn’t treat women like princesses, she’d kick our butts.”
“A woman after my own heart.”
“And then there’s my dad. He still holds the door for her, even after forty years of marriage.”
“Learn by example, huh?”
“Something like that.”
She suddenly turned serious. “We need to get out of Paris, Mike. That guy won’t stop, and even though we’re ready, we better not take any chances.”
“You’re right. We’ll leave tonight.”
She gave a pout. “So no Eiffel Tower?”
He grimaced. “No Eiffel Tower.”
“Good,” she grunted. “The day I turn into a fucking tourist, you better shoot me.”
CHAPTER 19
The flight was a little over an hour, and Emily was surprised by how relaxed Mike was. Not only did she hate flying, she hated the thought of being cooped up with a killer in this narrow metal tube. She hadn’t seen the man, but from the moment they’d boarded the plane, the hairs on the back of her neck had been pricking up. He was watching them, she just knew it.
Though each time she searched around, all her eyes met were other passengers, none of them looking anything like the killer from last night. But that didn’t mean a thing. He could be wearing a disguise. He could be right behind her, waiting to strike out.
“You can hardly expect him to smuggle a gun on the plane.”
She stopped glaring at a redhead, and turned back to Mike.
“There are other ways to kill a person,” she told him sternly.
But then the plane started roaring down the runway, and her stomach did a backflip. She didn’t protest when Mike put his large hand over hers. She’d been trying to dig her nails into the armrests, and the warmth of his hand did much to quell her anxiety.
“He’s out there somewhere, I just know it,” she said through gritted teeth, her eyes squeezed shut. The moment they had liftoff she gingerly opened one eye, then impatiently flicked off her seatbelt. She wanted to take a closer look at some of the passengers. Most of them were tourists vacationing at the Côte d’Azur. Even in November Nice boasted a nice sixty degrees and clear blue skies.
She started to rise when Mike yanked her back down.
“Better let me have a look,” he growled. “After all, it’s you he’s after.”
Biting back an oath, she watched him stroll along the aisle, taking his time to check out each passenger. Five minutes later, he plopped down next to her. “Not a sign of the guy. Either he’s an ace at disguises, or he’s not on this flight.”
“He’s on this flight,” she told him. She just knew he was.
“The guy is good,” he admitted. “Knows how to stay out of sight.”
“Not last night. We both saw him, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, I don’t think he expected that. I don’t think he expected to kill the wrong person either. Must hurt his professional pride if he’s anything like us.”
She turned to him. “If you were to kill me, how would you do it?”
He eyed her strangely. “Simple. Put a bullet in your head.”
She shook her head as shivers ran up her spine. Though Mike had changed his mind, she still might have died that night. “I don’t think this guy works like you, Petrov. He has more finesse.”
He arched his eyebrows. “Oh, and I don’t have finesse, is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. This guy is like a ghost. You’re a blunt weapon, Mike, admit it.”
“I get the job done. That’s
what counts.”
“Then why retire?” She suddenly shot him a question that had been on her mind from the first time she walked into his house. “If you’re so good at what you do, why quit now?”
He looked away, and she could tell he didn’t like to talk about this. “I’ve been doing this shit for twenty years. And I’m just finding out now that taking lives comes with an expiration date. Even though I keep telling myself I’m doing the right thing—imagine I’m the equalizer or the punisher or some such bullshit, it takes a toll. I’ve seen more blood and mayhem in my life than you can imagine.”
“Hey, this is Stiletto Tonya you’re talking to,” she said softly. “I can imagine.”
He gave her a half-smile. “Yeah, I guess you can.”
“How did you get the funds for that nice place of yours upstate?”
He eyed her for a long time, clearly not willing to divulge that information.
“We gotta learn to trust each other, Mike. If we’re going to defeat this killer, you have to trust me.”
He nodded slowly. “Can you keep a secret?”
“You know I can.”
“I bought that house with money I stole from your boss.”
“My boss? You stole from the Demiakovs? But that’s impossible.”
He shrugged. “If you say so.”
“No, tell me,” she shot back, eyes bright with excitement.
He rubbed his eyes. “It’s a long story…”
“We’ve got plenty of time, and it’s not like we’re going anywhere.”
He nodded, then leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. “Once upon a time, there was a big, bad, mean mobster, richer than Croesus, nastier than Caligula.”
