Джеймс Паттерсон: Target: Alex Cross

“Well?” the woman purred. “Are you going to accept? Or should I go away and tell him you weren’t interested?”

Lawlor hesitated, then thought: How long has it been? Three weeks? No, at least four.

He thumbed the buzzer, said, “Third floor, end of the hall.”

Excited but cautious, Lawlor hurried to the bedroom and pulled on dark slacks and a black V-neck T-shirt. He crossed to a suitcase and got out a small knife in a sheath hanging off a strap. He put it around his ankle, then found a small Ruger nine-millimeter pistol that he stuck in his waistband at the small of his back.

A gentle knock came at the apartment door. He slipped on running shoes, padded to the door, peered through the peephole, and saw a very chic woman in her thirties wearing a long black faux-fur coat that went well with her jet-black hair, high cheekbones, ruby lips, and pale skin.

Spectacular, he thought as he turned the door handle. Bloody work of art.

She stepped in. Lawlor smelled her perfume and her own intoxicating smell.

He closed the door, took her hand, spun her around, and pushed her firmly against the wall.

“Hey!” she protested, though she didn’t struggle.

“Hands up against the wall,” he said. “I need to check your purse and pockets.”

“For what?” she said, raising her hands.

“Things I don’t like.”

He took the purse from her and set it aside. Then he patted her down from behind; he found nothing.

“Turn and open the coat.”

She sighed, pivoted, and undid the two hooks holding the coat shut.

The flaps fell away, revealing a very fit body in lacy black lingerie, stockings, stiletto heels, and nothing else.

“Surprise,” she said, smiling.

“Sorry, my sweet,” Lawlor said. “Old habits.”

“You were a cop?” she asked, looking nervous.

“Soldier,” he said before picking up the purse and opening it.

“Where are you from?”

He didn’t answer as he went through the purse, finding a cell phone, two condoms, a black elastic hair band, a small bottle of lubricant, a pair of thin latex surgical gloves, a small lint brush, a shower cap tucked in a sleeve that advertised the Willard hotel, a container of breath mints, and a tube of lipstick.

“Gloves?” Lawlor said.

She smirked. “Some gents enjoy a little prostate massage.”

Lawlor grunted. “None of that.”

She shrugged. “Are we done or do you want to do a full strip search?”

“We’re done,” he said, handing her the purse.

“You’re not much for setting the mood,” she said, taking it.

“Give me time.”

She grinned saucily at him.

He gestured toward the hallway, said, “Can I take your coat?”

“It’s part of the show,” she said, and she giggled pleasantly as she headed down the short passage into the sitting area. “Nice place.”

“Airbnb,” he said.

“No kidding?” she said, sounding impressed. She looked around before walking to the thermostat. “Mind if I make it... hot in here?”

“By all means.”

She fiddled with the gauge and then turned to regard him. She seemed to like what she saw. “You work out?”

“I do. You?”

“Every day. You’re British?”

“Long time ago. You?”

“Florida. You an actor now or something?”

Lawlor cocked his head.

“Your ‘happy agent’?”

“Oh, he’s more like a broker. I do security work. He sets me up with the gigs.”

“Sounds dangerous,” she said, crossing the room to a small leather club chair and setting her purse on an end table. “Stressful.”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Can I get you a drink? Vodka?”

She smiled as she patted the chair. “This is about your stress, not mine, baby. Be a doll, now, sit right here and let me take care of every little thing.”

Lawlor looked at her, thought, Gotta be four weeks at least.

He went and took the seat. She tugged off a lace-and-leather glove with her teeth, got out her cell phone, and tapped at it until Ariana Grande started to sing “Love Me Harder.”

She set the phone down on the side table, slipped the glove back on, and danced with the music, gliding her hips from side to side, gripping the lapels of the fur coat, and teasing him with more glimpses of what he’d already seen. She straddled his legs and ground ever so softly against him while leaning in for a kiss.

Under her weight, Lawlor felt his pistol press into his back, and he shifted slightly before letting her lips meet his. When she drew back, the assassin was already aroused. She ran her leather-clad fingers down his chest, stopped above his waist, then stood again, her humid eyes on him as the music picked up.

Singing the chorus, she took a few steps back and let the coat fall open. “Like what you see?”

“I’d have to be an imbecile to not love what I’m seeing, lass.” He chuckled.

She liked that. She danced over, trailed her hands across his chest again, then slipped around the back of the chair. She leaned over and nuzzled his neck, letting her hair fall against him.

“This is going to feel so good,” she whispered in his ear. “So good.”

He shivered when she ran the tip of her tongue along the top of his ear. “It is good right now.”

“Just you wait, doll,” she murmured, then she straightened and flipped a loop of piano wire over his head.

During his search, Lawlor had not detected the length of piano wire that had been slipped into the lining of the right sleeve of Kristina Varjan’s coat. But the instant Lawlor felt the wire touch his throat, he seemed to know what he was in for.

Like the professional he was, Lawlor did not thrash or reach up and try to grab at the wire as Varjan cinched the loop tight and wrenched it back. Instead, he arched hard in her direction.

Gun at the small of his back, Varjan thought, remembering the way he’d shifted when she’d straddled him. Gun now!

Lawlor’s left hand came up with a small Ruger pistol; he twisted it her way and fired a split second after she flung herself to her right, still holding on to the wire. The pistol barked. The muzzle blasted so close to her ear, she thought her eardrum had ruptured.

Years of training forced her to swallow the pain and fight. As Lawlor choked and tried to aim at her again, Varjan let go of the wire with her left hand and used it to chop savagely at the curve of his neck, right where it met his shoulder.

The blow stunned his whole arm. The pistol went off a second time, but the bullet flew well wide of her. She chopped again and again until Lawlor dropped the pistol.

Varjan grabbed hold of the piano wire with both hands this time and threw her knee into the back of the chair; she heard Lawlor choke hard, and then the slick sounds of the wire cutting through his skin and into muscle.

Lawlor arched again, came up with a knife from somewhere, and tried to stab her. He missed.

She stepped away from the blade and wrenched and twisted the wire as hard as she could, then heard a noise like melon rind separating as the garrote broke through Lawlor’s trachea. He made gurgling and gasping noises, stopped trying to stab her, dropped the knife, and began to thrash and try to dig the wire out of his neck with his right hand.

Every movement made the wire cut deeper; the struggle made the end come that much quicker. Thirty seconds later, Lawlor collapsed and died.

Varjan let go of the wire and fell to her hands and knees, chest heaving, her fingers numb, sweat boiling off her brow. She stayed that way, panting, for several moments before her instincts kicked in.