Ava Gray - Skin Game

Then Foster glanced at Reyes. “Don’t worry about your failure to complete the job. You did exactly as I expected, and the stain on your record dies with him.” He paused at the door. “By the way, if you have the stomach for it, I suggest chopping off his hands and etching him with some Russian characters. There’s a cop named Sagorski who’d love to hear about it.”

That took all the defiance out of Serrano, who gazed wildly between Kyra and Reyes. “Don’t. Jesus, no. Can’t we come to some kind of agreement? Keep the money. I can give you more if you want.”

“I have the stomach for it,” Reyes said, smiling. “If the client pays for it, I’m happy to make the hit look like it came down from a certain criminal contingent. I’m good at emulating M.O.”

A surge of pure fury went through Kyra. “No, he’s mine.”

Foster slid out whistling a tune she couldn’t place. She tucked the poems into her pocket, and stared at Serrano. He looked older than his late forties now, frail somehow. It roused no pity in her.

“At least tell me why,” Serrano begged. “What the hell did I ever do to you?”

She lashed out with a spin kick, knocking him to the ground. “You took away the only person who ever gave a shit about me,” she snarled. “You had an old man beaten up, and he died in an alley like a dog. He didn’t even cheat you, asshole. He won nothing! His system didn’t work, but you never show mercy, do you?” Hate spread like wildfire through her. “And neither will I.”

That was what he was best at, after all. No mercy.

She hit him again and again. Rage took her. When she came to herself long minutes later, she heard Serrano moaning in pain, and his face was damn near unrecognizable. Reyes silently handed her the gun, and she finished what she’d started so many months before with two shots to the back of the head.

Serrano died with tears in his eyes.

Kyra stood for a moment studying her handiwork. “That’s for you, Dad.”

“It’s over, then. He’s dead, and you’ve still got the money.”

She swung her gaze his way, armored with violence. It made it easier to strike, hoping it would hurt him, even a little. God, she’d told him she was falling in love with him. Between the stink of Serrano’s voided bowels and the crash she was fighting back by the skin of her teeth, it was all she could do to stay on her feet now.

“Yeah. And we’re done, too. It’s been . . . interesting, Reyes. Don’t follow. Don’t try to find me. I don’t want to see you again.”

Kyra stumbled out to look for Mia, leaving him alone in the house of the dead.

Reyes researched his next job a hell of a lot better.

As Foster had promised, nobody seemed to know that his last contract had gone wrong. The offers poured in as they always had, and he continued to pick and choose. He reviewed Interpol files for Nicolao Vadas and he didn’t like what he saw, including the names of his movies and the pictures of his victims. After due investigation, he chose the job in Budapest for several reasons, though it wasn’t even close to the highest bid.

One: it was across an ocean from Kyra Marie Beckwith. Two: the scumbag deserved to die. The e-mail came in through layers of encryption from a bereaved father in Hungary; his daughter had been lured into the life with promises of a film career, and she was dead by fifteen of a drug overdose. The man was a grocer, but he’d scraped up fifteen grand. Reyes would’ve done the job for $5.95. Odd as it might sound to a normal, he needed a righteous killing to feel clean.

A lesser factor . . . he’d discovered that Monroe was hiding there. After giving him up to Van Zant, he had reason to fear. He’d considered the man a friend, but he should know better than anyone, friendship could be bought and sold like anything else. Monroe had to know Reyes would come for him.

So he booked himself on an overnight flight. He couldn’t outrun the memories, but maybe it would help to be a world away. Rising costs kept people from traveling, so he had an empty seat next to him in first class. The pretty blond flight attendant showed signs of interest, but he kept his expression impassive and turned his face toward the window. Thereafter, she kept her attention professional.

He took out One Hundred Years of Solitude and brushed his fingers over the cover. In his mind’s eye, he could see Kyra curled up in his loft, reading it. Reyes placed his fingers where she’d held it. For a long, aching moment, he let himself remember.

Then he opened the book.

The flight was long, but uneventful. They landed at JFK with a minimum of fuss, and then he had a connection in two hours. He didn’t try to sleep. His eyes felt achingly dry, full of grit and weariness. He bought a coffee to combat the feeling. Reyes couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept well.

Liar. It was at the little house in the woods, the last time you held her.

Along with the other passengers, he boarded the flight to Amsterdam just before midnight. He accepted a pillow and blanket to make his flight more pleasant, but in truth, he just wanted an excuse to shut everyone out. After refusing dinner service, he dozed in fits and starts, and dreamed of a woman’s freckled face.

Eight hours later, the Boeing put down in Amsterdam, where he went through immigration, baggage claim, and customs. Most countries were like that these days, even if you were only passing through. Reyes rechecked his luggage and barely made his connection to Budapest.

This was the last leg of the journey. It felt like he’d been traveling forever, though it had only been a little over a day. He never traveled directly to a hit, so there would be other stops to cloud the waters. Time-consuming, but it had helped more than once in throwing people off his trail. He paused at a currency exchange for some forints.

As it was late morning, Reyes went directly to an apartment building near the opera house where he had rented a studio apartment before. It was white stone with ornate cornices and small balconies beneath each window. Some residents would plant flowers in the springtime. The owners kept small furnished rentals for travelers, offering more privacy and self-sufficiency than a hotel. Budapest was a gorgeous city, and if he hadn’t been so damn tired, he would’ve appreciated it more.

Reyes knocked on the manager’s door, Istvan Laszlofi, as he recalled. The man came to the door eventually, clad in tan slacks and a white undershirt. His thinning hair was mussed, and by his expression, he’d interrupted a meal. The manager raised bushy brows, coal black in contrast to his silver hair.

“Nekem bérelnem kell egy szobát.” He wasn’t fluent, but he had enough conversational Hungarian to ask to rent a room.

“Milyen hosszú?”

A week ought to do it. If his business didn’t take that long, he’d let the guy keep the extra cash. “Hét nap . ”

The manager named a sum; he paid out the bills and received a key in return. As if he knew Reyes wasn’t fluent, the man spoke slowly in telling him that he had a room upstairs, first door on the right. Reyes nodded in thanks and jogged up the stairs.

He didn’t have much stuff to stow, but he needed to get some sleep. The studio was small, even by European standards. Technically he supposed one could call it a loft, but there were no stairs, just an actual ladder leading up to a deep ledge where they’d stashed a mattress.

The downstairs held a small fridge with a white microwave sitting atop it. There was also a black futon, hardwood floors, and a TV. Just one window. The balcony would make it hard to get in. He peered out at the street, which was narrow, lined with trees in clay pots.