The Last Assassin Read Free Page A

while, I “wandered” around the first floor, checking everything—eclectic gift shop, low-key bar, comfortable lounge, spacious stairwells, abundant elevators—and found nothing out of place.
    I took the stairs to the third floor, paused outside 309, and listened for a moment. The room within was quiet. I placed my bag and empty glass on the ground, took off my jacket, crouched, and loudly slipped the key into the lock. Nothing. I held the jacket in front of the door and opened it a crack. Still nothing. If there was a shooter in there, he was disciplined. I shot my head over and back. I saw only a short hallway and part of a room beyond. I detected no movement.
    I stood up, eased the Benchmade from my front pocket, and silently thumbed it open. “Hello?” I called out, stepping inside.
    No answer. No sound. I let the door close. It clicked audibly behind me.
    â€œHello?” I called out again.
    Nothing.
    â€œThat’s weird…must be the wrong room,” I muttered, loudly enough to be heard. I opened the door and let it close. To anyone hiding inside, it would sound as though I had left.
    Still nothing.
    I padded down the hallway, toe-heel, pausing after each step to listen. My newly purchased soft-soled Camper shoes were silent on the polished wood floor.
    At the end of the hallway, I could see the entire room but for the bathroom. The closet door was open. Probably that was Delilah, knowing I would approach tactically and wanting to make it easier for me, but I wasn’t sure yet.
    There was a note on the bed, conspicuous in the middle of the flawless white quilt. I ignored it. If this had been my setup, I would have put the note on the bed and then nailed the target from the balcony or bathroom while he went to read it.
    The glass doors to the balcony were closed, the curtains open, and I could see no one was out there. Probably Delilah again, lowering my blood pressure.
    All that remained was the bathroom, and I started to relax a little. The worst part about clearing a room, especially if you have only a knife and the other guy might have a gun, is clearing the “fatal funnel,” where the enemy has the dominant position and a clear field of fire. In this case, narrowing down the ambush points to just the bathroom reduced my vulnerability considerably.
    I walked to the side of the open bathroom door. I paused and listened. All quiet.
    I rolled up the jacket, paused to take a deep breath, then hurled the jacket into the room. I followed an instant later, bellowing a war cry. No amount of training can eradicate the flinch response, and even the hardest-core professional will find it difficult not to momentarily track a sudden movement, especially when the movement is accompanied by a roar. The distraction might last for less than a second, but that second can make all the difference—especially if you’ve mistakenly brought a knife to a gunfight, as I might have.
    But the distraction was unnecessary. The bathroom was empty.
    I let out a long breath and walked past the glass-enclosed shower to the window. The views, as promised, were stunning: the city and the sea to one side; the snowcapped peaks of the Pyrenees to the other. I looked out for a few minutes, unwinding.
    I went back to the door and looked through the peephole. All clear. I retrieved my bag and the glass, brought them into the room, and picked up the note from the bed. It said: I’m at the indoor pool. Come join me.—D.
    Hard to argue with that. I checked the room for weapons first, then paused for a moment, just breathing, until I felt calmer. I pocketed the note, threw my jacket over a chair, and headed out. A minute later, I entered an expansive glass-and-stone solarium with vaulted ceilings and a sparkling, stainless-steel-bottomed swimming pool.
    Delilah was on her back on one of the red upholstered lounge chairs surrounding the pool. She wore a one-piece cobalt-blue bathing suit that showed