Ник Картер - The Spanish Connection

She fired the Webley with a gurgling scream.

The slug blasted itself into the hotel wall, penetrating through to the other side.

My chest burned from the fire of the exploding powder.

I fell back.

She went down and the arterial blood pumped out of her body onto her golden skin.

What a waste.

What a hell of a waste.

Shuddering, I got up and lifted her body and carried her to the bed.

She opened her eyes once.

“Nick,” she whispered, and smiled a funny smile. “I’ll never make it to seventy-seven, will I?”

“You picked the wrong profession,” I said.

She went limp.

I attended to Juana, trying to comfort her as I untied her from the chair, then hustling her to the closet where she slipped into her clothes. Then I went to my room and got into mine.

I strolled back. I was holding my Rolleiflex now, looking exactly the way my cover story said I should look. Dear old Hawk.

Actually, I was happy to be dressed. It is always much easier to talk about mundane things when you have your clothes on.

“Where is that microfilm?” Juana asked me.

I lifted the Rolleiflex. “In here,” I said. “A good cameraman always carries his film in a camera.”

She stuck her tongue out at me.

I caught it on film. After all, I was one of the best photographers from the midwest, wasn’t I? And Juana did not need to know that I had the microfilm in my pants pocket, like a pack of cigarettes or a key chain, did she?