Christopher Smith - Running of the bulls

He took the bottle of rubbing alcohol from her hand, poured it over the wound and allowed it to splash into the sink. He saved half for the clean-up and handed the bottle back to her.

“Get a needle,” he said. “Stitch me up. It’s past nine-thirty. I want to be out of here in fifteen. We have four people on our list and we’re getting through them tonight.”

She looked surprised. “I thought there were five.”

“There were,” he said. “But I had an opportunity to take out Alan Ross earlier today and so I did.” She was about to speak when he held up a hand. “I’m not explaining it to you. Later, you can watch the footage yourself to see how it went down. Just stitch me up so you can take care of that scrape on your forehead and make yourself look pretty. We know Yates’ routine. He’ll be sitting at that bar in twenty minutes.”

When they left the building, Carmen was a new woman.

Her face was clean, she’d applied fresh makeup, brushed her hair, concealed the scrape and changed into a short black dress that revealed long, slender legs and a robust bust. Her dark hair tumbled down her back and swung when she moved. In her ears were faux black diamonds that concealed tiny microphones. The brooch she wore was a camouflaged miniature camera. She was beautiful, she knew it, and just how deeply she knew it was reflected in the confident way she held herself.

She was wearing heels for the first time in what seemed like months and even though she hated them, she knew how important they were. This next job was all about illusion. As pretty as she looked right now-and as sexy as she was without going over the top-it was just a tool to generate the interest of one man.

Spocatti was ahead of her, climbing into the van parked curbside. Carmen went to the passenger-side door and slid in. She opened the small, jeweled black purse she’d brought with her, checked her gun to make certain it was loaded, looked for the syringe Spocatti had filled with a lethal dose of potassium chloride and, satisfied, snapped it shut.

The drove uptown in silence.

When they arrived at a private club called The Townhouse, which was just off Park on 67th Street and which Wolfhagen had made arrangements for Carmen to enter, Spocatti stopped at the street corner to drop her off.

“Stick to the plan,” he said. “Don’t pull another Hayes.”

She lowered the illumined visor for a final check of her appearance. “I learned my lesson, Vincent. Don’t worry about it.”

“Yates is fat and lonely and old. This should be easy for you. I’m expecting you to be out of there in twenty.”

“He’s also worth billions, which erases age and weight. I have no idea what I’m walking into or which starlet will be trying to charm him when I find him. But I’ll be quick. And I’m better looking than most. Expect to hear from me in fifteen.”

“Don’t use the gun.”

She was growing tired of him. She was every bit as good as he was and he knew it. She applied a last swipe of lipstick, smacked her lips together, shut the visor and opened the door. She pulled her hair away from her face and turned to look at him. Her voice was steady when she spoke. “Cut the condescending bullshit attitude toward me or you’re finishing this alone.”

On the street, it was quiet. This was mostly a residential neighborhood, but there were a handful of restaurants and, of course, The Townhouse, which was two-thirds of the way down the street on the right.

Carmen moved down the sidewalk as if on air.

She was still in pain from the bookend Cain smashed against her side, but unlike most people, Carmen didn’t mind the pain. Her awareness of it only made her focus more intently on the task at hand and so she moved through it, holding herself with the confidence of the rich, her black dress swinging along with her hair as she approached the building’s red-carpeted entrance.

At the top step stood a middle-aged man in an expensive business suit. His hands were behind his back and he smiled at her as she approached. “Welcome,” he said when she took the steps. “Beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

She smiled at him.

“Are you here to meet someone?”

“No,” she said. “I’m in town for the week and a guest of one of your members.”

“May I ask who?”

“George Redman.”

“Your name?”

“Sophia Bianchi.”

From behind his back, he pulled out an iPad. Carmen watched him turn it on and, in the glow reflected upon his face, move his finger down the screen until he arrived at her name, which he clicked. “Perfect,” he said. He stepped aside and opened the glass and bronze door. “Have you been to The Townhouse before?”

“First time.”

“You’ll find a lively crowd on the first level, a terrific new talent performing wartime standards on the second, and the lounge on the third. Waiters are throughout, so you won’t want for a drink. But if you are looking to relax with a cocktail before potentially coming upon someone you know, I recommend the lounge first.”

She moved past him and then, turning on her heel, stopped on the cusp of entering the crowded room. “Actually, I am hoping to find an old friend here tonight. Do you happen to know if Ted Yates has arrived?”

“You’ll find him in the lounge.”

When it came to taking a life in public, Carmen was no stranger.

She’d slit throats in Sicily during open-air operas, she’d broken necks in Paris while shopping for shoes in the Marais, she’d swept down the Alps and caused one especially difficult man to go flying into a tree, and on one job in Vienna, she’d taken down a pedophile priest (and a few unfortunate others who were there to absolve their sins) when she poisoned the wine being offered at Communion.

Now, as she walked into a room that harkened back to another time-dark mahogany woodwork reaching to the tall ceilings, Tiffany windows and fixtures splashing color along the golden walls, lights dimmed just low enough to flatter the well-appointed crowd-she felt suddenly recharged with the life she was about to take.

Ted Yates had earned his billions thanks to Wolfhagen and, in turn, Wolfhagen had earned at least part of his fortune thanks to Ted Yates. With their contacts, their knowledge and insights into national and international markets-not to mention Wolfhagen’s ability to garner inside information-they once were an unassailable team, until Wolfhagen was charged, put on trial and had to face Yates when he took the stand to testify against him.

For his trouble, Yates was offered immunity, as was everyone. As a slap on the wrist, everything was taken from him save for his apartment on Fifth and all the money he’d managed to tuck away in Swiss accounts. In all, he’d lost close to a billion in cash, securities and property, but it was just a dent in what he really had at his disposal. Though people assumed but could never be sure, Ted Yates was among the wealthiest men in the world.

And today he would die.

“Can you hear me?” she asked Vincent while turning her head to toy with one of her earrings.

“I can hear you.”

“And the brooch? You can see everything?”

“You’re fine, Carmen. Move.”

At the end of the room was the staircase that led to the two additional levels. There also was an elevator to the left of the staircase. In a glance, she could see it was the building’s original elevator-this crowd would have it no other way-and that it likely was too slow for her needs.

And so Carmen moved through the smiling crowd, took to the stairs and passed the level on which a young woman was singing “The Memory of Your Face,” which was just ironic enough to make Carmen smile. The woman was so good, Carmen longed to listen, but there was no time. She went quickly up the last flight of stairs and into the lounge, which was dominated by an enormous mahogany bar and just as crowded as each of the rooms below.