The Last Assassin Read Free

pay-masters when they ordered her to set me up. Defy, hell, she had very nearly betrayed them. She had warned me what was coming, and then worked with me to straighten things out. There must have been something between us, something worthwhile, if we had managed to avoid so many potentially lethal obstacles, and Barcelona was going to be the time and place to figure out what.
    On the day Delilah was due to arrive, I checked out of Le Meridien and did some shopping in preparation for my transition from anonymous salaryman to the more cosmopolitan persona I think of as the real me. I bought pants, shirts, and a navy cashmere blazer at Aramis in Eixample; underwear, socks, and a few accessories at Furest on the Plaça de Catalunya; shoes at Casas in La Ribera; and a leather carrying bag to put it all in at Loewe, on the ground floor of the magnificent Casa Lleó Morera building on the Passeig de Gràcia. I paid cash for everything. When I was done, I found a restroom and changed into some of the new clothes, then caught a cab to the Hotel La Florida, where Delilah had made a reservation.
    The ride from the city center took about twenty minutes, much of it up the winding road to the top of Mount Tibidabo. I had already reconnoitered the hotel and environs, of course, during my exploration of the city, but the approach was every bit as impressive the second time around. In the late afternoon sunlight, as the cab zigged and zagged its way up the steep mountain road, the city and all its possibilities appeared below me, then disappeared, then came tantalizingly back. And then vanished once again.
    When the cab reached the entrance to the hotel, seven stories of taupe-painted plaster and balconied windows overlooking Barcelona and the Mediterranean beyond, a bellhop opened the door and welcomed me. I paid the driver, looked around, and got out. I had no particular reason to think Delilah or her people wanted me dead—if I had, I never would have agreed to meet her here—but still, I stood for a moment as the cab drove away, checking likely ambush positions. There weren’t many. Exclusive properties like La Florida aren’t welcoming to people who seem to be waiting around without a good reason. The hotels assume the lurker is a paparazzo waiting to shoot a celebrity with a camera, not a killer possessed of rather more lethal means and intent, but the result is the same: inhospitable terrain, which today would work in my favor.
    The bellhop stood by, holding my bag with quiet professionalism. The grounds were impressive, and he must have been accustomed to guests pausing to enjoy the moment of their arrival. When I was satisfied, I nodded and followed him inside.
    The lobby was bright yet intimate, all limestone and walnut and glass. There was only one small sitting area, currently unoccupied. It seemed I had no company. My alertness stayed high, but the tension I felt dropped a notch.
    A pretty woman in a chic business suit came over with a glass of sparkling water and inquired after my journey. I told her it had been fine.
    â€œAnd your name, sir?” she asked, in lightly Catalan-accented English.
    â€œKen,” I replied, giving her the name I had told Delilah I would be traveling under. “John Ken.”
    â€œOf course, Mr. Ken, we’ve been expecting you. Your other party has already checked in.” She nodded to a young man behind the counter, who came around and handed her a key. “We have you in room three-oh-nine—my favorite in the hotel, if I may say so, because of the views. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
    â€œI’m sure I will.”
    â€œMay I have someone assist with your bag?”
    â€œThat’s all right. I’d like to wander around a little before going to the room. See a bit of the hotel. It’s beautiful.”
    â€œThank you, sir. Please let us know if there’s anything else you need.”
    I nodded my thanks and moved off. For a little