The Gift of the Dragon (15 page)

“I have no idea. I can’t read Japanese. Nice label, though.” He grinned. “I like eagles.”

She looked at him closely. “Yet you are part Japanese?”
 

He laughed at that. “Yes, long ago, my mother came from the islands. I have never been myself.”

“You look as though you know what things cost. Do you know what that bottle is worth?”

He looked at it again. Wine was not one of the products he followed closely. Too perishable—stuff he worked with needed to be easily moved or very durable, able to be dropped from planes, pounded by rough seas in small boats. Sold quickly.

“No, sorry. No idea.”
 

Callan remembered thinking,
If she is nice, she will explain without mocking. If she is a bitch, she will be a bitch. If she is nice, I can use her. If she is a bitch, well, let her be one.
He had dealt with worse things in his life than a wine snob.

She laughed, nicely. “I have to admit I have no idea exactly why, but Screaming Eagle’s best bottles sell for six figures. One sold for five hundred thousand last year! It’s good wine and grown very well. They use organic techniques. Tastes quite fine, they say. I can’t imagine buying a bottle and drinking it.”

Callan winked at her. “I can. Well, maybe not paying for it, but drinking it… I can imagine that.”

“Ha!” Extending her hand, she said, “I’m Sara Moore, by the way.”

Callan thought for a moment of giving her a false name. Instead he had said, “Callan. Callan Grabin.”
 

“Aha, Japanese and… Russian?”

“Yes, my middle name is eclectic.”

He was still not sure why he gave her his old name instead of one of his many fake names or the name he actually used. A person who knew his real name could find out more about him than Callan wanted anyone to know.
 

Talking with Sara then brought him back many years to school, when his last name had been Grabin and when he had a beautiful, dark-haired teacher. He had not listened to the teacher well and, soon after that last year, dropped out to focus on military training, yearning for his absent Russian father.
 

Sara listened in school, he could tell, and for some reason, she seemed to have a desire to teach him. A desire that annoyed him. He smiled, though, and said, “Well, thank you for the lesson on wine and manga. I need to go now.” She had smiled back and waved a little, oddly intimate wave—the sort you would give to a friend you would see soon again.

He called Thorn and reset the location of their meeting to a Mexican spot down the street, at Third and Howard. As he walked in it had begun to rain lightly. The outside seating under an awning had been mostly empty. He had chosen a table out there. Thorn tended to be loud. Callan ordered margaritas and chips.

When Michel Thorn walked in, he quickly found Callan and dropped into the seat across from him. Thorn was tall, and in excellent shape, but had the manners of an oaf. He slammed and grunted as if he had weighed more than he did. As if he couldn’t thread a needle with a thrown knife or shatter clay pigeons backward over his shoulder with his favorite Beretta Xtrema2 shotgun. As if Callan’s carefulness and innate delicacy were a weakness.

Thorn set into lecturing Callan about how to kill his next target. It must look like an accident, and as the man favored riding a motorcycle in his daily commute, Thorn suggested shooting the tires out when he was in traffic. Thorn proceeded to describe the different methods of killing a person on a motorcycle as if Callan was a rookie instead of an expert with as many kills under his belt as Thorn would dare claim after a few more of the happy-hour margaritas.

It relieved Callan to see Sara Moore then, emerging from the misty street in her forest-green coat, shining with drops of rain, just as Thorn began an impassioned discourse on the superiority of a sawed-off shotgun over other forms of weaponry. Having heard this speech often, Callan forgot his earlier peevishness and stood up to welcome Sara as if she were a long-lost sister.
 

“Good to see you again, Sara!” Ignoring the pissed off look and snort from Thorn, he said, “Please, join us.”

 
“Well, I don’t mind if I do. I was heading back up to Market, but I guess I got turned around in the rain.”

Delighted, Callan watched Thorn stare open-mouthed as Sara sat down and ordered her own margarita.
 

When the waiter left, Thorn glared at her and spat, “My friend and I are in the middle of something important here!”

“Yes, apparently. Well, just pretend I’m not here. Don’t worry, you can plan the next Yahoo or Pets.com all you want—won’t mean a thing to me.” She smiled that wide, innocent smile of hers.
 

Thorn leaned forward and squinted at her. More softly, he said, “Look, miss, ever notice how now and then you meet someone you shouldn’t fuck with? This is one of those times. Move on.”

She met his stare with her own. “And I’m one of those people you shouldn’t speak to like that. I’m so very pleased to meet you.” She had held out her hand, palm down, as if for Thorn to kiss it.

Callan broke in and said, “Listen to her, Borlov,” using Thorn’s cover name in an attempt to remind him they were supposed to be discreet. “We don’t need—”

Just then, as Thorn glared with disbelief at her hand, Sara flipped it over and raised her middle finger.

Thorn grabbed the high collar of her green coat then and dragged her half over the table, popping the top button off. Other diners half-turned at the sudden violence, and the hum of conversation stopped.

Callan moved in and said more firmly, “Let her go, Bork-lov—now,” intentionally adding a K to the name. Thorn ignored him, shaking the girl. Sara’s wide smile left, and her eyes showed just a touch of fear.
 

Callan jabbed his Taser C2 into Thorn’s chest, right below his heart. “You know what this will do, Dork-lov. Let her go.”

Thorn looked at him, and something changed in his eyes. Callan could feel the shift of Thorn’s hatred from the woman back to Callan, where it belonged.

“This is not over,” Thorn said, still staring into Sara’s eyes. Callan could hear a period after each word.
 

Callan took Sara’s arm and walked her back out into the rain. It was falling harder, and out from under the restaurant’s awning, her long hair swiftly got soaked.
 

“Your friend has issues,” Sara said.
 

“Not my friend, someone I have to deal with. You shouldn’t have upset him. He’s actually a pretty bad person to have angry with you.”

“He looked very angry with
you
.”

“Yeah, but I’m used to it.”

She looked at him and smiled her smile as if the scene with Thorn had never happened.
 

“Do you know RN74?”

She was asking about a restaurant. As if she had not just pissed off one of the most dangerous people on the planet. Michel Thorn must have seemed just another rude drunk to her. Sara had lived in a very different world—and she apparently wanted to get to know Callan.

He could use that.

“In the Millennium tower, on Mission?”

“Be there at nine.”

Without waiting for an answer, she gave him a wide-eyed grin and, holding her green jacket closed against the rain, went back up Third Street.
 

***

A wave slapped his stomach, bringing him out of his reverie. The dark-haired woman had long since done her Venus act and left. Small fish darted around him in the fading light, jumping silver fire, tiny eyes trying to decide if he was a worse threat than the jacks feeding below. He could hear steel drums playing from the casino and a voice singing faintly about there being a woman to blame.
 

Turning away from the fading light, Callan followed the music back toward land.
 

Faith

Faith Parcy sat at the purple glass-topped bar of the Treasure Bay casino. After her tactical flyby of Callan at the beach, she went back to her room, showered, and put on a little black dress, heels, and some of her favorite honey-and-lemon perfume. If he took the bait, she hoped he liked it. She loved the way the perfume worked with her own scents to build up to a very sexy, sweetly smoky combination. It increased her confidence, which she found to be the main thing she needed when working to attract a dangerous man.

As she waited, Faith thought back on how she had come to be at the beach outside the casino that afternoon. After Stoddard had disbanded Gulfwatch, several of Faith’s former team had taken security or rent-a-cop positions at various Gulf Coast casinos. She had sent them Osiel’s description of the
fachero
’s
boat. Earlier, one of them had sent her a text saying that a boat matching that description had arrived at Treasure Bay’s marina. She had been camping out in a mid-range hotel in Mobile, and she had grabbed her things and gotten to the Treasure Bay by mid-afternoon. She had identified Grant on the dock and watched him for a while from where she had sat under a huge hat and oversize, tent-like cover-up. Her waterproof digital Canon binoculars did not appear to be anything special unless you looked closely, but the computer chip inside them had given her a clear, sharp view of the docks.
 

When Grant had walked up to his large white-and-black boat, for a minute she had thought he might have been leaving. Instead, he had gone into the cabin and then come out a bit later, having changed into surfer-style swim shorts. As he had walked back on the long causeway from the boat docks, Faith had looked him over closely. She thought him more handsome than even the handsome-looking photo on Trevor’s phone. Under his straight black hair lurked a lean, rugged face with dark eyebrows, almond eyes, and a sharp nose that looked to have been broken several times. He looked just shy of smug, confident with wide eyes and dark, thick lashes. His shoulders were square, solid, and muscular without being overdone. He rolled more than bounced when he walked. She had seen that walk before among the Special Forces operators she had worked with, men who trained so hard that every step came with a plan B, leaving them ready to leap aside or duck. She walked like that. But with Callan there was more, almost as if a brighter light was following him, as if he were a movie star. People he passed seemed affected by it—most men appeared to be pushed away. Women seemed to lean in. He made her feel uneasy.
 

“Time to see if I can be in this movie,” she had said to herself, and then as Callan walked into the ocean, she had shed the disguise of her hat and the floral cover-up that made her look like an escapee from an elderly housewives convention and glided into the water behind him. Back down into the shallow water she had dived, her belly scraping the sand, and swum smoothly out well past where he was standing. She had circled back so her emergence would have maximum effect.

As she had risen dripping from the water, patting it from her long hair, she had watched his eyes. The sun was shining behind her. She could see clearly as he squinted. She had giggled to see his look, as if he had been seeing a ghost. “Next time he sees me, he’ll say hi,” she had thought then.
 

She sat picking at her appetizer of fresh Gulf shrimp with red beans and rice. She looked at her nearly-finished Manhattan. If Callan didn’t make a move soon, she would have to order another one. Just then, her waiter brought her a fresh drink, pointing with his chin to a man who had just arrived at the other side of the bar. She raised the sparkling red glass and saw Callan looking at her. She took a sip and smiled at him.

He walked over and sat down next to her. As if he already knew her, he asked, “How’s your night going?”
 

She laughed and asked, “Why should I tell you?”

He smiled. “How about I buy you dinner, then will you tell me?”

“I can get my own dinner.”

“Of course you can.” He looked toward the side, and a waitress showed up as if she had sprung from beneath the floor.
 

“Two orders of that yellowfin catch I saw being unloaded today. Seared, with stuffed tomatoes.”

“What if I don’t like tuna?”

Callan looked at her with innocent eyes. “Fresh yellowfin tuna is the best thing to have in Alabama. They just brought some in an hour ago. We would be insane to eat anything else at this restaurant today.”

Smiling at his audacity, Faith said, “I can’t accept dinner, not even fresh yellowfin, when I don’t know your name.”

“James,” Callan said. “Tim James.”

She laughed out loud at that.
 

“Tim James is the governor!”

His jaw dropped, and he looked like a little boy caught doing something bad. She could see now why his file reported that he did well with women. He was a handsome, athletic man who could transform into a not-so-innocent-looking boy in an instant. She knew his number now and laughed to herself. This would not be as hard as she had previously thought.
 

“Okay, you got me. My name is Callan.”

“That’s all?”

The man called Callan grinned at her. “That’s all for now.”

“Faith,” she held out her hand palm-down. He looked up at her briefly when she did that. He almost looked scared for an instant, and then, with a lopsided grin, he raised her hand and kissed it.

“Pleased to meet you, Faith.”

His lips landed softly on her skin. She didn’t feel a spark, but she felt something different. He looked up at her from under his rich dark brows as he finished his kiss. The look a fox gives a hare. If she had not been on the job, she would have left. She strangled the thought. Of course something was not right.
He is a killer and a thief, and I am trying to catch him!
 

She laughed to herself. He clearly wanted her. Well, she would be the sheep-clad wolf to his feral hound. She wanted him also—to take her to his room so she could bug his luggage, his shoes, maybe his electric razor if he owned one. Wherever her key fob–sized GPS unit would stay hidden. She smiled at him as he sat back in his seat.