Читать книгу Killer Focus - Фиона Бранд - Страница 11

Four

Taylor paused by a Chinese food stall called Chen’s, which was set up on a street corner just two blocks from the office. The stall was hemmed in by high-rises and situated in the protective lee of a large department store but, even so, the wind whipped her coat around her legs as she surveyed the stainless-steel bins of dishes.

Gray clouds were a solid mass above. In the few minutes it had taken her to walk from the office, the temperature had plummeted, the weather unseasonably cold for spring. The steady trickle of water from a gracefully weeping fountain set to one side of the department store didn’t make her feel any warmer. “Nice day.”

Chen shrugged. “Last I heard the forecast is for sleet.”

A faint pattering of rain started as she ordered fried rice and spiced chicken. Huddling in closer beneath the small shelter, Taylor flipped up the collar on her coat and waited while he packaged her selection. The coat was pure wool, and lined. It would protect her for a while, but if it poured she was going to get soaked. “Sleet, great. I love cold—”

The raucous honking of a car horn cut her short. A taxi was stuck in traffic only feet away, slewed at an angle as a delivery truck double-parked. Wincing at the sustained assault on her ears, Taylor shifted to the other end of the counter, far enough that the steel wall of the take-out stand cut the direct blast of the horn.

Simultaneously, a tiny projectile sliced past Chen’s head, bounced off the booth, ricocheted off the hot plate and embedded itself in the fountain. He blinked and went back to shoveling rice.

Taylor cocked her head to one side and stared at the punch mark in the back of the booth. It glinted in the dim light as if freshly made. She hadn’t noticed it before and, cumulatively, she had spent a lot of hours staring at the back of Chen’s take-out stand.

She continued to study the punch mark, then shook her head. The job was getting to her. To anyone else it would just be a dent; to her, the dent looked like it had been made by a bullet.

She dragged her gaze from the dented steel and

made herself watch the pedestrians hurrying by. Ordinary, everyday people: a businessman trying to talk into a cell phone; a woman struggling with an umbrella as the rain thickened and the wind turned gusty; a mother with two children in tow, all of them clutching bags filled with shopping.

The children, huddled close to their mother, and the nostalgia of gaily colored bags stuffed with bargains from the spring sales spun her back to her own childhood. Hot blue San Francisco skies, winters without snow, windblown beaches and walks in Golden Gate Park.

Looking back, the years she’d spent in a cramped apartment a stone’s throw from the Pacific Ocean with her parents had seemed bright and happy, although she now knew that normality had been a sham.

Her father, Jack Jones, had always been an arresting, larger-than-life figure. When he’d been home from his “sales” trips, she had spent every spare second trailing after him. She could see why her mother, Dana, had fallen in love with him, and why she’d been so angry when she’d found out he was a cheap, two-bit con artist with a gambling addiction instead of the traveling salesman he had claimed.

The betrayal had cut deep. Dana had worked in international banking and her career had depended on a squeaky-clean reputation. She and Jack had fought for months. Then one day, Jack had slammed out of the apartment and had never come back. Two months later he had been killed in a hit-and-run accident.

The rain turned to sleet, stinging her cheek and sizzling off Chen’s hot plate. Abruptly she grinned. At least she was alive and still kicking. Icy weather or not, she got a warm feeling inside every time she thought about the fact that not only had she escaped Lopez, but so had Rina. Now safely hidden on the Witness Security Program and settled into a relationship, Rina finally had a shot at happiness.

Brushing ice off her cheek, she finished the sentence the car horn had interrupted. “At least sleet makes us appreciate fine weather.”

Chen fastened a lid on the fried rice and handed her the containers. “Hey, I could live with sunshine every day. It’s good for business.”

Still smiling, Taylor searched in her purse and counted change. Something zinged past her cheek. Frowning, she lifted a hand to her face. Her gaze caught on another dent in Chen’s take-out stand. Adrenaline kicked. She was already moving when something punched into her back, shoving her forward. The containers of food spilled from her fingers. Blinking, she gripped the edge of the counter. The reason the dents looked so fresh and shiny was because they had just been made.

Chen’s voice penetrated. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Taylor felt like she had once when she’d come around from being knocked out, disoriented and a little shocky, only this time she hadn’t been hit on the head. Her chest felt numb. “Call an ambulance. I’ve just been shot.”

She was still standing, but her knees had turned to jelly and she was having trouble breathing. Disbelief gripped her.

The card. The jaguar’s head.

Lopez, his voice flat. “I will kill you…it’s only a matter of when.”

Not when. Now.

“Get down…just in case—”

Chen was screaming. Around her, people were dropping to the pavement. The day was fading. Weirdly, she couldn’t hear the traffic anymore. Funny, but she’d never thought it would feel like this, heat where she’d been hit, a cold numbness all around—a weird pastiche of sensations as muscles went into spasm and her legs folded.

The next bullet sliced a gash in Chen’s arm and ended up in the bottom of the pool surrounding the fountain.

The sleet thickened, coating the sidewalk and turning the city gray. Chen pushed to his knees and peered over the top of his counter. People were still lying on the sidewalk. He could see the long dark hair and outflung arm of the woman he’d just served. After she’d fallen over the counter, she’d slid down onto the sidewalk and didn’t appear to be moving.

In the distance sirens wailed. Someone must have called the police and, hopefully, an ambulance. He clutched his bleeding arm, wincing at the pain, his attention drawn to the sleet-covered outline of the woman’s arm. She hadn’t moved in a while. No matter how fast the ambulance came, he didn’t think they were going to be in time.

Rico stepped out into the street, bracing himself against the icy wind. The guitar case bumped against his left thigh as he strode toward his car. A short, thickset man stepped out of a doorway, pausing to turn up the collar of his coat. The eye contact was brief and electric. Aldo Fabroni.

He ducked his head and walked on. As he strode down the street he could feel the older man’s stare boring into his back. He swore beneath his breath and controlled the panicked impulse to break into a run. He couldn’t get into his car, because that would give Aldo an opportunity to approach him and another point of reference to identify him, which meant he had to take the subway. He couldn’t afford to stop a cab, not while he was carrying the gun and with a homicide one street over.

Rico couldn’t believe it. He usually worked out of L.A., which was why he’d been chosen for this particular job. The client had wanted to make sure the hit was untraceable. In this business, secretive as it was, it was sometimes possible to trace the triggerman by asking around to find out who was available in the area to do the work. He had been the perfect choice for an East Coast job. Until Aldo.

He rounded a corner and stepped directly into the wind. Sleet pounded his face and froze his fingers. Shielding his eyes, he broke into a run, the ice-laden air shoving into his lungs hard enough to hurt. The sirens were closer.

As he dodged around pedestrians, he studied the street to orient himself. This wasn’t his city, but he had done his homework. There was a subway entrance a block away.

Seconds later the subway sign came into view. When he reached the entrance, he slowed to a jog, grabbed the railing and slipped, almost losing his footing and the guitar case.

Breathing hard, he steadied himself and took the stairs as quickly as he could with the awkward weight of the case. A train pulled out, gathering speed, as he reached the platform.

He checked the displayed timetable. He was going to have to wait.

Clenching his jaw, he strode into the men’s washroom, grabbed a wad of paper towels, dried his face and hair and wiped down his suit jacket. With any luck Aldo hadn’t recognized him. If he ever asked him about it, Rico would simply say he had made a mistake; he hadn’t been to D.C. in years.

When Rico exited the men’s room, a familiar figure was staring at the timetable.

His stomach sank. He put on a smile. Finally, his acting classes were good for something. “Hey, Aldo. What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” His attention dropped to the case. “No, don’t tell me. You’re in town for a concert.”

Rico assessed the hard greed in Aldo’s expression. He was a two-bit drug dealer and a fence, small potatoes all around, but he wasn’t stupid. “How much?”

Aldo named a figure. Rico’s stomach bottomed out.

Aldo grinned. “Don’t worry. For that price your secret’s safe with me.”