the morning. She looked like every tourist on a budget who had ever walked through the front door.
“Second floor, please—street side, if you have it,” she added almost apologetically. She already knew he did—the key to room 205 hung on an antiquated peg board mounted on the wall behind the desk. That was the room she wanted.
She’d already done a quick recon of the three-story building by sneaking in through a rear service door and catching up with the assignment she’d followed from Langley to Lima. The woman had half-carried, half-walked her drunken mark up the first flight of stairs and into room 203.
The clerk dragged himself away from his laptop, swiveled on his creaking chair, and rolled over to the board. He snagged the key to room 205, rolled back, and slid it across the counter without ever meeting her eyes.
“Up the stairs, third door down the hall,” he mumbledin thick Spanish, then asked for cash up front as she signed the register.
She carefully counted out several 10 nuevos soles bills—she was a tourist on a budget, after all—then inspected her change. “Gracious, señor.”
He’d already dismissed her from his thoughts, his full interest back on his game. She picked up her duffel, smiled serenely to the two elderly gentlemen bent over a card game in the corner of the timeworn lobby, and headed down the hall.
The soles of her sandals where whisper quiet as she walked over the tile floor and climbed the single flight of stairs. Once on the second floor, she slipped off the glasses, stowed them in her shirt pocket, then paused briefly by room 203. The murmur of voices assured her they were indeed inside, and she moved on to her room.
Once inside, she checked her watch. The night was young. It was barely nine p.m. There was much to look forward to.
She set the duffel on the bed, withdrew the briefcase containing her specially fitted Heckler & Koch MP5KA4 and two boxes of ammo. In her line of work it was the perfect weapon, designed for close quarters battle because it didn’t even have a butt stock, just a flat end cap with a sling loop on the outside. Perfect also, because this particular MP5K could be operational, if necessary, with a squeeze of the briefcase handle. Control freak that she was, she’d hand-loaded the 9mm, subsonic-blended, metal-armor-piercing,antipersonnel bullets herself. A quick and devastating kill had to be a certainty. Hands-on loading insured that component.
She set the briefcase on the bed and opened it up. Almost had an orgasm just looking at the gorgeous weapon. With care, she removed and inspected each piece before she assembled it, double-checked the magazine, and screwed the sound suppressor onto the end of the barrel. No, it wouldn’t muffle the bulk of the sound but before anyone in this dive decided to investigate, she’d be long gone, the job done.
If an elimination ended up being the job.
Her heart rate picked up just thinking about it. She stroked a finger over the barrel, then laid the gun on the bed and drew a deep, steadying breath. She needed to settle herself down, check the adrenaline spike. Shaking her hands to encourage circulation to her fingertips, she walked into the bathroom and turned on the cold-water faucet.
She bent over the sink, splashed tepid water on her face, then straightened slowly and studied her reflection in the small mirror. Several more deep breaths restored her rock-steady composure. Finally satisfied with what she saw, she touched her fingers to her lips, kissed the tips, and pressed them to the mirror with a grin.
Then she returned to the bedroom, dug her surveillance gear out of her bag, and set up shop.
3
Eva Salinas recrossed her legs and stared at her captive. He looked like hell—drugged, cuffed, and maybe . . . just maybe . . . almost as scared shitless as he needed to be.
But not quite.
Desperate times, desperate measures—and she was damn close to desperate.
Somebody was after her, trying to
“Second floor, please—street side, if you have it,” she added almost apologetically. She already knew he did—the key to room 205 hung on an antiquated peg board mounted on the wall behind the desk. That was the room she wanted.
She’d already done a quick recon of the three-story building by sneaking in through a rear service door and catching up with the assignment she’d followed from Langley to Lima. The woman had half-carried, half-walked her drunken mark up the first flight of stairs and into room 203.
The clerk dragged himself away from his laptop, swiveled on his creaking chair, and rolled over to the board. He snagged the key to room 205, rolled back, and slid it across the counter without ever meeting her eyes.
“Up the stairs, third door down the hall,” he mumbledin thick Spanish, then asked for cash up front as she signed the register.
She carefully counted out several 10 nuevos soles bills—she was a tourist on a budget, after all—then inspected her change. “Gracious, señor.”
He’d already dismissed her from his thoughts, his full interest back on his game. She picked up her duffel, smiled serenely to the two elderly gentlemen bent over a card game in the corner of the timeworn lobby, and headed down the hall.
The soles of her sandals where whisper quiet as she walked over the tile floor and climbed the single flight of stairs. Once on the second floor, she slipped off the glasses, stowed them in her shirt pocket, then paused briefly by room 203. The murmur of voices assured her they were indeed inside, and she moved on to her room.
Once inside, she checked her watch. The night was young. It was barely nine p.m. There was much to look forward to.
She set the duffel on the bed, withdrew the briefcase containing her specially fitted Heckler & Koch MP5KA4 and two boxes of ammo. In her line of work it was the perfect weapon, designed for close quarters battle because it didn’t even have a butt stock, just a flat end cap with a sling loop on the outside. Perfect also, because this particular MP5K could be operational, if necessary, with a squeeze of the briefcase handle. Control freak that she was, she’d hand-loaded the 9mm, subsonic-blended, metal-armor-piercing,antipersonnel bullets herself. A quick and devastating kill had to be a certainty. Hands-on loading insured that component.
She set the briefcase on the bed and opened it up. Almost had an orgasm just looking at the gorgeous weapon. With care, she removed and inspected each piece before she assembled it, double-checked the magazine, and screwed the sound suppressor onto the end of the barrel. No, it wouldn’t muffle the bulk of the sound but before anyone in this dive decided to investigate, she’d be long gone, the job done.
If an elimination ended up being the job.
Her heart rate picked up just thinking about it. She stroked a finger over the barrel, then laid the gun on the bed and drew a deep, steadying breath. She needed to settle herself down, check the adrenaline spike. Shaking her hands to encourage circulation to her fingertips, she walked into the bathroom and turned on the cold-water faucet.
She bent over the sink, splashed tepid water on her face, then straightened slowly and studied her reflection in the small mirror. Several more deep breaths restored her rock-steady composure. Finally satisfied with what she saw, she touched her fingers to her lips, kissed the tips, and pressed them to the mirror with a grin.
Then she returned to the bedroom, dug her surveillance gear out of her bag, and set up shop.
3
Eva Salinas recrossed her legs and stared at her captive. He looked like hell—drugged, cuffed, and maybe . . . just maybe . . . almost as scared shitless as he needed to be.
But not quite.
Desperate times, desperate measures—and she was damn close to desperate.
Somebody was after her, trying to
Similar Books
Cole in My Stocking
Jessi Gage
The Sandman
Erin Kellison
Games Divas Play (A Diva Mystery Novel)
Angela Burt-Murray
Marilyn's Last Sessions
Michel Schneider
The Marked Girl
Lindsey Klingele
Deep in the Heart
Staci Stallings
Once Touched
Laura Moore
The Sight
David Clement-Davies
One Good Thing
Lily Maxton
Crossing Savage
Dave Edlund