James Patterson - Kill Me If You Can

“This is ridiculous,” Laurent said. “Surely, you can’t be threaten—”

She snapped his finger in two, and the crack of Laurent’s bone was followed by a piercing scream.

Marta covered it up immediately with a shriek of her own and began laughing hysterically. The harried desk clerk was still on the phone with the dissatisfied guest and barely turned to see what the noise was about.

Marta let go of the concierge’s broken finger and grabbed on to his pinkie. “You’ve got nine left,” she said. “So let me ask you again. How much do you care about your fingers?”

Tears were streaming down the concierge’s face. Excruciating pain and paralyzing fear trumped hotel policy.

“I made reservations for Monsieur Bannon this morning,” he whimpered. “A flight to Venice and dinner at the Antico Martini at eight tonight.”

“What hotel?”

“The Danieli.”

“One more question,” Marta said. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? You don’t strike me as a man who would be a slave to hotel policy.”

“Monsieur Bannon gave me a hundred euros to be discreet about where he was going.”

Or where he was taking Chukov’s diamonds, Marta thought.

She released Laurent’s pinkie. His hands flew to his chest and he tucked them safely under his armpits.

He stood there cowering as Marta picked up the fifty euros she had put on his desk. She slipped the money into her purse, then slowly turned and left the hotel.

What a merry little chase this was turning out to be. Marta Krall absolutely loved it.

It was 4:30 a.m. in New York City when Chukov’s phone rang. The voice on the other end was female and the accent German. Marta Krall didn’t have to identify herself.

“He’s in my sights,” she said.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in a taxi on my way to Charles de Gaulle airport.”

“ To the airport?” Chukov said. “Aren’t you on your way from the airport into the city?”

“I did that while you were sleeping. I went to his hotel. He checked out this morning.”

“Checked out — where did he go?”

“Venice. He booked a room at the Hotel Danieli.”

“The Danieli?” Chukov screamed. “Do you know how much that costs?”

Marta laughed. “I’m sure he doesn’t care. He’s spending your money.”

Chukov was apoplectic. “That’s a five-star hotel! I want five bullets in his head — one for every star.” He grabbed the inhaler from his night table and sucked on it.

Marta closed her eyes and savored the sound of the fat Russian gasping for air.

“Five bullets won’t be easy,” she said. “One shot with my forty-five-caliber Glock and his head will explode like a mush melon.”

“Then put the other four bullets in his worthless dick,” Chukov wheezed. “But first get the diamonds.”

“If he still has them,” she said. “He was in Paris for twenty-four hours. He could have sold them.”

“No,” Chukov said. “What idiot would sell diamonds in Paris? And never in Venice. He’s not stupid. He’ll go to Antwerp or Amsterdam or even Tel Aviv.”

“No, he won’t,” Marta said. “Venice will be Matthew Bannon’s final stop. I promise you that.”

CHUKOV TURNED UP the hot water in the shower full blast. He stood on the bathroom floor for ten minutes inhaling the steam, sipping his morning vodka, and trying to figure out his next move.

He dressed, ignoring the Bowflex and the rest of the exercise equipment he regularly bought from late-night infomercials, some of the pieces still in their boxes.

Then he called the Ghost. “Do you still have your thumb up your ass in Paris?” he asked.

“No,” the Ghost said. “My ass is currently in Venice, sitting in a very comfortable chair in a premium deluxe room at the Hotel Danieli.”

Chukov was stunned. “You’re at the Danieli already? How did you find out Bannon was in Venice?”

“It’s what I do,” the Ghost said. “The better question is, How the hell did you know? It’s five in the morning in New York. Who called you?”

Chukov took another swig of his vodka. Time to put his plan in motion. “Marta Krall. Do you know her?”

“Only by reputation,” the Ghost said. “She’s slow, she’s stupid, but she’s beautiful, so she has no trouble convincing lonely men like you to pay her fat fees and first-class travel. And then, more often than not, she botches the job.”

Chukov laughed. The Ghost was just like the rest of them. He didn’t like competition. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Or maybe you can buy Fraulein Krall a celebratory drink after she’s found the diamonds and killed Bannon. She’s the one who’s been doing all the heavy lifting.”

“Are you firing me?” the Ghost said.

“Why would I fire you?” Chukov said. “Two assassins are always better than one. But just a reminder — only one of you gets paid.”

THE GHOST HUNG up on Chukov.

He looked around the room. It was exquisite — highly polished antique furniture, lush draperies made from the finest Venetian fabrics, a luxurious handcrafted marble bathroom, all counterpointed with state-of-the-art electronics, including a forty-two-inch flat-screen LCD television, high-speed Internet, and a relaxing Jacuzzi.

The Danieli was expensive but well worth it. Especially with Chukov footing the bill. And now, the Ghost thought, it turns out he’s hired a backup.

Krall . Despite what he had said to Chukov, the Ghost knew Marta Krall was anything but slow and stupid. Contract killing was more than her profession, it was her passion. She was the queen of the slow death.

She had once put eighteen bullets into an undercover DEA agent over the course of three days. The man died from shock and blood loss four times, but Krall revived him each time with a makeshift crash cart to keep the party going. The Jamaican drug lord whose operation had been infiltrated by the narc happily paid a premium for the additional pain and suffering.

The Ghost stood up and looked out the window at the lagoon directly below. The view was spectacular. Venice was incomparable — a thriving cultural center surrounded by water. He only wished he had the time to stay and enjoy it.

He stretched out on the brocade silk spread that covered the king-size bed and stared up at the crystal chandelier.

He closed his eyes and tried to think like Marta Krall would think. Where was she? What was her next move? How could he stay one step ahead of her?

The door to the room burst open with a bang. Before he could move, a woman bounded into the room, leaped onto the bed, and pinned him down.

And then she kissed him. Hard.

“Jesus, Katherine,” he said. “You scared the living shit out of me.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her again.

“I tried your cell, but it went straight to voice mail,” Katherine said. “Who were you on the phone with?”

“The Antico Martini,” he said. “I was just confirming our dinner reservation. I want to make sure it’s extra special.”

“I don’t care where we eat,” she said, “as long as it’s just the two of us. You’re a real catch, Matthew Bannon. I wouldn’t be surprised if another woman came after you.”

“What woman would possibly want to come after me?” Matthew asked, smiling at the irony.

“Sweetie, you look a little pale. Are you sure you’re okay?” she said.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “Just a little tired. It’s a lot of hard work being a tourist.”

“Okay,” Katherine said. “But you had me worried. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”