Don’t Blink

The former governor of New York notwithstanding, most men know that two thousand dollars was a pretty good price to pay for a call girl. Meaning she better be pretty and she better be good.

Anastasia didn’t disappoint. As the cocktail dress slipped off her shoulders, her blue eyes and high cheekbones became all but an afterthought to the rest of her. There was no bra, no panties underneath the dress. Just all-natural, gravitydefying talent and beauty.

“You know what, Sebastian,” she purred. “I like you.”

Torenzi finally laughed and then he unbuttoned his dress shirt. When it came off, along with his white undershirt, Anastasia couldn’t help but stare. He was solid muscle, chiseled to perfection. But that wasn’t all.

“My God, what happened to you, honey?” she asked. She couldn’t help herself.

The better question would’ve been what hadn’t happened to Bruno Torenzi. His left shoulder and arm were riddled with the scars of a shotgun blast – black tarlike circles the size of nickels and quarters. Count them all up and you had a buck fifty in change.

His other shoulder bore the scar of a severe burn, a sixinch patch of leathery skin that had the texture of beef jerky left out to bake in the sun for a month.

There was more. On one side of his stomach were two stab wounds, the scars bubbled up from the flesh. Very hard to look at.

Torenzi glanced down at himself but said nothing. Certainly no explanation. All he did was remove his trousers and underwear and climb onto the bed.

Anastasia didn’t press it. As it was, she was begi

“Oh, I get it,” she said playfully, the back of her hand gently brushing across the curve of her breasts. “You’re one of those. A real tough guy, right?”

She had no idea.

Neither did the two men just now stepping off the elevator, heading for the hotel room. Her partners.

For a year, the three of them had had the perfect scam going, but they had overlooked one thing this time.

Even contract killers get horny sometimes.

Chapter 25

THE BELOVA BROTHERS, Viktor and Dmitry, pumped up on adrenaline and blow, arrived at room 1204 of the San Sebastian. They eyed the plush hallway around them to make sure they were alone.

“Our father wouldn’t approve,” said Dmitry. He always said that before they did a job. Always.

“Fuck him,” said Viktor, who thought he was sounding more American every day. “Fuck our father, Dmitry.”

A dozen or so times before, they had stood outside expensive hotel rooms all over Manhattan, breathing fast to the point of panting while flipping off the safety switches on their Yarygin PYa semiautomatic pistols. The Yarygin’s seventeenround double-column, single-feed magazine was a major reason why it was the standard Russian military-issue sidearm. But for Viktor and Dmitry it was the ultrasleek stainless-steel barrel that they loved. It felt sturdier than the old-school Makarov pistol, more reliable.

Not that they had ever had to pull the trigger during one of these jobs.

That was the beauty and the brilliance of the scam. Most of the time they caught their victims with their pants down.

More important, the johns were always too embarrassed to go to the police afterward.

These were men of some means, usually high-level executives traveling on business. They had reputations to protect. They had wives and children. Whatever was stolen from them wasn’t worth looking an NYPD detective in the eye and explaining, “I just got swindled by a prostitute and her two partners.”

And all it had taken was an ad in the back of 212 Magazine promising the highest-quality escort for the discerning gentleman. “From Russia with Love” read the headline.

It was good enough to entice somewhere around twelve men to date – not that Viktor and Dmitry were keeping track. They were too busy counting the laptops, gold Rolexes, Kiton suits, and cold hard cash.

The brothers traded quick nods. Everything was good. Anastasia had placed the swath of tape over the lock chamber, same as always. All they had to do was turn the handle and they could stroll right in – no muss, no fuss.

But where was the fun in that?

Instead, the two of them burst into the room like a couple of class 5 hurricanes. They immediately spotted Bruno Torenzi lying buck naked above the covers.

“Don’t move, motherfucker!” barked Viktor, taking advantage of one of the design features of New York ’s better hotels: thick walls.

Torenzi’s confusion lasted only a second. He eyed Anastasia standing at the end of the bed. She confirmed what he already knew. It was a setup; she was the bait and he was today’s sucker.

Sure enough, she started to put her dress back on. “Duffel bag,” she a

Dmitry’s eyes moved off Torenzi and he walked over to the black duffel bag on the table in the corner. His smile grew as wide as Red Square at the sight of the cash inside.

Then the smile disappeared. It was gone. Totally gone.

“What the hell is this?”

Chapter 26

DMITRY REACHED DOWN into the duffel bag. He removed a gray rectangular block of C-4 explosive. A detonator wire was hanging from one end like a mouse’s tail. Next he pulled out an absolute beast of a handgun, the Model 500 Smith & Wesson Magnum. A box of.50-caliber cartridges followed.

This was one serious duffel bag.

Dmitry’s eyes narrowed to a suspicious squint as he looked back over at Torenzi. It was as if he’d just seen the second image in one of those optical illusion drawings.

This guy was naked, with the shiny barrels of two guns aimed directly at him. But he was completely calm and under control. Not a trace of fear.

Who is this guy? Is he co

Dmitry pulled at the baby-blue silk shirt now sticking to his chest. “Do you work for somebody?” he asked.

Torenzi stared straight back, taking his time to answer. “Not your business.”

Dmitry jerked his head at the duffel bag. “What are you doing with this stuff?”

“Not your business.”

“I’m making it my business!” he snapped. “I say again, what are you doing with this stuff? You better talk to me.”

Torenzi continued to stare at Dmitry, only now he was silent. Then he actually smiled and scratched his balls.

Suddenly Viktor lunged forward, jamming the barrel of his Yarygin into the john’s cheek.

“YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY? SOME KIND OF JOKE? MY BROTHER ASKED YOU A QUESTION!” he yelled.

But Torenzi didn’t even look at Viktor. His eyes remained focused on Dmitry, over by the table. There was something else in the duffel bag – a box the Russian hadn’t discovered yet.

Viktor pulled back the hammer on his Yarygin. “HEY, I’M TALKING TO YOU. YOU DEAF?”

“For Christ’s sake, answer him!” chimed in Anastasia. She was practically pleading with the Italian. “These guys aren’t fucking around.”

Neither was Bruno Torenzi.

Faster than Viktor’s trigger finger, Torenzi swung his hand and knocked away the barrel of the Yarygin pressed against his face. With his other hand he reached underneath the goose-down pillow behind him. He pulled out a Bersa Thunder.380 pistol.

The other box in the duffel bag was the extra ammo for it. Not that it was needed right now.

Bruno Torenzi’s first shot caught Dmitry Belova high in the chest. The second split his forehead between the eyes. Only then did Viktor Belova’s reflexes kick in. He tried to muscle his gun back toward Torenzi, but it was no use. Torenzi was too strong, too quick, too good at what he did.

He pumped three rounds into Viktor’s stomach, causing the Russian to fall backwards onto the carpet. As he lay faceup and spilling blood, Torenzi stood and lodged his gun into Viktor’s open mouth. The blast sent his brains shooting out from his skull in a perfect circle.