Hit: A Thriller (The Codename: Chandler) (2 page)

Making a hit appear as if it was part of a robbery was more difficult than it might seem. First it usually meant getting close to a target, a task made complicated by Bratton’s personal security.

As a woman I often had an advantage when it came to this step. It was difficult for men to resist the offer of sex, sometimes more difficult for powerful men, who usually saw bedding women as one of the spoils of success to which they were entitled.

Once proximity was won, the next hurdle was the murder itself. When I’d joined Hydra, a man I knew only as The Instructor had put me through intensive training, breaking down everything that made me human and building me back up as a weapon of the government. As a result, although killing wasn’t enjoyable to me, I could do it without hesitation. Even when it meant watching the life drain from a man’s eyes.

The last challenge was the fact that modern forensic science was frustratingly thorough. Leaving a death scene that looked staged was a path to a full-blown investigation. I couldn’t afford mistakes.

Fresh from the shower, I read through the information on Bratton, did a passable job on my hair and makeup, and shimmied into my new dress and sandals. After loading the drugs and kink paraphernalia into a small silver clutch, I packed my clothing and toiletries into my carryon, wiped down everything I’d touched in case I didn’t return, and left.

I’d been performing tasks like this for Hydra for years, and while I no longer felt nervous at the thought of playing my part and completing the job, I did note the slight increase in my heart rate that accompanied readying myself for the challenge ahead.

Not a bad sign. A little dose of adrenaline would keep me sharp.

Emerging from the hotel, I turned left toward Michigan Avenue, circled the block, and then took a circuitous route back to the restaurant. When I stepped between the copper lions and through the revolving door, I was certain I hadn’t been followed.

The restaurant entrance was warm and inviting, the scent of grilling steak, fresh flowers, and the lingering musk of a guest’s perfume reached me. A hostess graced me with a friendly Midwestern smile. “Good evening. Would you like a table?”

“No, that’s fine. I’ll sit at the bar.”

I ran my gaze over the wall of personal wine cellars marked with guests’ names on plaques. The restaurant was all mahogany and brass, the dining room decorated with gilded portraits of powerful men, hunting scenes, and racehorses. White linen graced the tables, and warmth flickered from shaded candles and glowed through the amber glass of pendant lights hanging from the ceiling. Diners ate and chatted and raised their wine glasses in celebratory toasts. I didn’t catch a glimpse of anyone who resembled my target, but then I’d arrived early by design, so that was no surprise.

I made my way to the rich looking mahogany bar flanked by two eight-point buck heads and featuring a large glass jar filled with fresh pineapple and a clear liquid I assumed was vodka. Choosing one of the red leather covered barstools, I settled into a spot where, between my field of vision and the view reflected in the mirror, I could keep an eye on both the private dining rooms and the entrance.

I ordered a Stoli Doli martini, the pineapple concoction from the glass jar, and sipped it very slowly as not to cloud my senses with alcohol.

It was delicious; lightly fruity without being sweet.

People celebrating an early Friday happy hour flowed in, a few left, nothing out of the ordinary. The bartender chatted with me about the weather, and I told him of my luck on my shopping expedition and perused the menu, ordering an appetizer of Prosciutto Wrapped Mozzarella with Vine Ripe Tomatoes that was to die for. Twenty minutes before reservation time, a man looking nothing like Dominic Bratton stepped through the door.

I wasn’t sure why I noticed him at first. At five foot nine, he had a fit build, but not bulky, dark, wavy hair in need of a trim, and a nice looking face that was a touch too rugged to be called handsome. He wore a black button down shirt and tie, a gray jacket that did a good job of hiding his shoulder holster. He was sexy, his movements effortless in the way that suggested a certain athleticism.

He spoke to the hostess, walked to the mouth of the dining room, and swept his gaze through the restaurant before I realized what it was that had drawn my attention.

Each person who had walked through the door previously had brought with him or her a certain vibe or aura, for lack of a better word. Some men oozed authority, others quiet confidence, and yet others stuck out their chests like the nearby portrait of Napoleon, desperate to prove their importance to everyone around them, most of all themselves.

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 was 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?”