Suicide Mission (12 page)

 

Megan Sinclair leaned closer to the young man and whispered in his ear, “Your suite? Half an hour?”

His eyes were big with anticipation. He swallowed and said, “Oh, my, yes, please.”

“You're sure you can get away from your minders by then?” Megan asked.

“They'll do whatever I tell them to. They work for me, you know.”

Actually, they don't, Megan thought. They work for this young man's father. So it was possible the bodyguards might pretend to go along with his orders while still keeping an eye on him without his being aware of it.

She'd just have to keep an eye out herself.

She gave him a sultry smile and did the quick little up-and-down trick with her eyebrows that she knew excited men, then moved away from him to mingle with the crowd in the big hotel ballroom. She sipped from the flute of champagne in her hand, and when she'd finished it she snagged another from a passing waiter in a red jacket.

It hadn't been easy to get an invitation to this exclusive, black-tie charity event, but a few weeks of effort had managed it. Megan had a lot of contacts and had worked them for all they were worth. Even at that, she probably wouldn't have been able to swing it if any important members of the royal family had been attending. There was nobility in the room, but more of the garden-variety type.

She wasn't interested in noblemen. The young man she had targeted with her attention was the son of an industrialist and financier who had risen from nothing, the offspring of Moroccan immigrants, to become one of the richest men in England. He had established a trust fund worth five million dollars for his son, who had a reputation for being what earlier generations would have called a playboy and a wastrel.

Megan liked that word, wastrel. She supposed that was because she was an old-fashioned romantic at heart.

And what could be more romantic than stealing from the filthy rich?

From the corner of her eye, she watched as Peter Mahmoud spoke to his bodyguards and then left the room. The two burly men followed him. Megan knew they would accompany him up to his suite, but once he was safely inside maybe they would seize the opportunity for a little downtime.

She would believe that when she actually saw it, though.

When she judged that she had killed enough time, she started to leave the party herself. She was well aware of the heads that turned and the eyes that watched her go. The long waves of her hair were like dark honey, and the classic little black dress she wore showed off the sleek lines of her body to their full advantage. More than one man had told her that her eyes were deep green pools in which they would happily drown. She looked like a successful attorney, or a business executive on her way straight to the top of the corporate ladder.

A few of the male guests spoke to her on her way out of the ballroom and tried to convince her to stay, but Megan turned them aside with a smile and a gently humorous comment or two. She'd had plenty of experience at deflecting passes, since she had spent several years surrounded almost entirely by men.

The ballroom was on the third floor of the hotel. She timed it so that she was able to get in an elevator by herself and start down. But she stopped it at the second floor, got out, walked quickly past some meeting rooms, and slipped through a door that opened onto the fire stairs.

The stairwell was deserted, as she had expected it to be. She went up nine flights to the tenth floor, which was also the top floor. It was divided into two suites, one being used by Peter Mahmoud, the other empty tonight since it cost a small fortune to book it.

Peter had a large fortune.

Megan eased the stairwell door open a crack and peered through it. The door opened onto a short corridor. The elevator was at one end of it, two doors at the other end. The door to Peter's suite was to the left.

No one was waiting outside it. Maybe the bodyguards really had left.

Megan couldn't see behind her to the elevator, though, and she couldn't open the door far enough to look in that direction without being seen. So she eased it closed again, walked back down to the ninth floor, and went out into the corridor there. She was in superb condition, so all the going up and down stairs hadn't winded her.

She summoned the elevator, then rode it up one flight to the tenth floor. When the door slid open, she stepped out with an air of unconcern, as if she had just come from the party in the ballroom down on three.

As she started toward the doors to the suites, a British-accented voice said behind her, “Hold on there a moment, miss.”

Megan put a smile on her face as she turned and said sweetly, “Yes?” She let a trace of her native New Orleans creep into her voice. Most men couldn't resist a beautiful woman with a Southern accent.

This one looked like he didn't give a damn where she was from. Big, shaven-headed, broken-nosed, clearly not comfortable in the tuxedo he wore. He glared at her and said, “You're not on the list of approved visitors on this floor, miss.”

“How do you know?” she asked coyly. “Do you have it memorized?”

“As a matter of fact, yeah. It's only got two people on it. Wasn't much of a chore.”

His voice held a trace of dry wit, and to Megan's surprise, she found herself liking this guy. Even more surprising, she was attracted to him.

Not that she didn't have the usual appetites. Very healthy ones, in fact. But she'd always been able to switch them off when she was working.

Well, it was nothing to worry about. No matter what she was feeling, she wasn't going to let it distract her from the job at hand.

She frowned slightly as she took a step toward him.

“Isn't this the ninth floor?” she asked.

“Tenth. And I suspect you know that.”

She tried the coy smile again and said, “You caught me. But doesn't it make a difference that Mr. Mahmoud invited me up here?”

“Which Mr. Mahmoud?”

“Peter.”

The bodyguard shook his head stoically. “I work for the lad's father. He and Peter are the only ones allowed up here. You'll have to go back down to the party.” For the first time, he smiled. The expression didn't make him any less ugly, but it made a throb go through Megan anyway. He went on, “Nice try, though. But you know the boy's only twenty, don't you? He doesn't come into his trust fund until next year.”

“Close enough,” Megan said.

And in fact, she was. Her hand came up and drove the hypodermic needle into the side of his neck. The syringe was small enough that she had been able to conceal it in her palm, but the drug inside it packed plenty of punch, which she delivered with a push of her thumb against the plunger.

The guard made a grab for her in the second he had before he passed out. Megan darted back, kicked her shoes off, and bent sideways at the waist as she drove her right heel into his midsection. That doubled him over, and the drug took care of the rest. He hit the floor, out cold.

Too bad, Megan thought as she shook her head. He didn't seem like a bad guy . . . and he would probably lose his job when this was all over.

She slipped back into her shoes, tucked the empty syringe away in her handbag, and bent to take hold of the unconscious man's coat collar. She had spotted the little alcove with a tiny round table and a chair where he had been sitting to keep an eye on the elevator. He was a load, but she was stronger than her slender frame seemed to indicate. She dragged him in there, took the gun from the shoulder holster under his tux, dropped the magazine, and ejected the round that was in the chamber. The magazine and the extra bullet went in her bag, too.

Then she straightened her dress, took a deep breath, and sauntered toward the door to Peter Mahmoud's suite.

He looked surprised when he swung the door open in response to her knock.

“You came!” he said, then quickly went on, “I mean, I didn't really expect to see you up here. I didn't think Keegan would let you get by him.”

“Who's Keegan?” Megan asked, all sincere innocence.

“The minder who stayed to watch over me.” Peter leaned to the side to look past her along the short corridor. “Huh. I don't see him.”

“Maybe he stepped out for a smoke.” Megan smiled and rested a hand on Peter's chest. He had taken off his coat and tie but still wore the tuxedo pants, cummerbund, and white shirt. “No matter where he got off to, let's not waste the opportunity.”

“I should say not.” He stepped aside to let her into the suite. “Please. I have some champagne . . .”

“I've already had quite a bit, but some more would be lovely,” Megan said. “You don't mind if I'm a little drunk, do you? I promise not to get
too
crazy.”

“Don't make promises you can't keep,” he told her.

Her tolerance for banter like this was pretty small. As soon as the door was closed behind her, she moved into his arms, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her body against his. Again Peter seemed surprised, but obviously he didn't mind her boldness. He brought his mouth down on hers.

He wasn't the greatest kisser in the world, Megan thought. But he was young yet and certainly had plenty of enthusiasm. He would improve with practice, and he would get plenty of practice because he was young, handsome, and rich. He still had years to look forward to in which an abundance of beautiful girls would throw themselves at him. She hoped he was smart enough to appreciate just how lucky he was.

In the meantime, she had work to do. She was going to make him slightly less rich. He wouldn't miss it, but it would be a fortune to her.

She jabbed a needle like the one she had used on Keegan into his neck.

Peter jerked back, his eyes widening in shock and pain.

“What . . . what did you—”

He threw a wild punch at her. She blocked it easily and took him to the floor, which was so thickly carpeted in this fancy suite that it was almost like knocking him onto a mattress. He tried to struggle as she pinned him down, but the drug was already taking hold and he weakened rapidly.

The shot didn't knock him out like the one she had given Keegan. It just made him too groggy and feeble to put up a fight. And it had an effect on his brain, too, removing all the safeguards that might have been there otherwise. Megan figured she could have seduced him into telling her what she wanted to know, but this way was so much quicker.

“Tell me the code for your trust fund drawing account,” she said.

She wouldn't be able to touch the bulk of the fund, but Peter's father made sure he had plenty for day-to-day expenses, which in Peter's case could be astronomical compared to a normal person's. Megan's contact at the bank had assured her that the balance in the account never dropped below half a million pounds and might be twice as much as that.

Peter said groggily, “Wha . . . wha' you do—”

Megan slapped him hard enough to make his head jerk to the side.

“The code,” she repeated. “Now.”

He started slurring numbers. She struggled to understand him and commit the string of figures to memory. When he was finished, she stood up and went to the laptop that she had already spotted sitting open on an antique writing table.

It took her only a moment to get into the bank's database. Her hacking skills were excellent. She had a natural talent for it, and her years in Special Forces had only increased her abilities. She had been driven to succeed, in no small part because there were so few women in the unit. Ninety-five percent of male soldiers couldn't make it; the odds against women were even higher. They had to be even better.

She typed in the code Peter had given her.

ACCESS DENIED.

Megan took a deep breath. Maybe she had hit a wrong key somewhere in there. It was a long number, after all. She went through it again, slower this time.

An account screen popped up. She sighed in relief. Her glitch had cost her a moment or two, but that was all. Quickly, she initiated the transfer and watched in satisfaction as the money in Peter's account began draining into her Cayman Islands account.

Out of curiosity, she looked to see what the balance was in his trust fund. Her eyes grew big with amazement. She had known he was rich, or soon would be, but that number was just . . . astounding. And that was just a trust fund. Peter's father, Hasan Mahmoud, was many, many times richer.

Maybe she had made a mistake. Maybe she should have played a long game and gotten Peter to marry her.

Even better, Hasan was a widower. He might have enjoyed having a gorgeous young American wife . . .

The transfer finished, ending that line of speculation in Megan's mind. Time to get out of here.

She had just stood up from the writing table when the door to the suite burst open and Keegan charged in like a bull.

That was crazy. He should have been out cold for at least another half-hour. His metabolism had to be incredible for him to start throwing off the drug's effects this soon.

But he wasn't at the top of his game, that was for sure. He swung a wild punch at her that she easily avoided. She chopped at the side of his neck, but she might as well have been hitting a block of wood for all the effect it had.

As he lunged at her again, she bent low and swept his legs out from under him. He hit the floor with a crash. She started to dart past him.

He caught her ankle and dragged her down. She cried, “Oh!” and kicked at his face. That didn't make him let go. His fingers were locked around her ankle like bands of iron.