Read Online Don't Blink by James Patterson, Howard Roughan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Patterson, Howard Roughan
Tags: Retail
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“Sebastian.”
“Sure,” he mumbled, walking over to an open black duffel bag perched on a round table in the corner. He pulled out a stack of cash. “Two thousand, right?” he asked, removing the rubber band holding the wad together.
“Not including gratuity,” said Anastasia, hoping the Italian man, the apparently rich Italian man, didn’t know the rules of the game.
Torenzi peeled off twenty crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and stuck out his hand. “I wasn’t born yesterday … Anastasia .”
She took the two thousand and thought that would be good — for a start.
Then she nuzzled up to his ear while sliding her hand down to the crotch of his black trousers. Nice material, Italian-made. “You know what Anastasia means?” she whispered through lips painted cherry red. “Means ‘flower of resurrection.’”
Torenzi took a swig of his beer. “Excellent. Now take off your clothes,” he repeated. “Forget about the history lessons.”
The big guy liked to be the boss and he was hardly the first, thought Anastasia as she reached for the zipper running down the back of her dress. Let him enjoy it while he still can .
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 beginning to feel sorry for the guy.
“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
“Sure,” he mumbled, walking over to an open black duffel bag perched on a round table in the corner. He pulled out a stack of cash. “Two thousand, right?” he asked, removing the rubber band holding the wad together.
“Not including gratuity,” said Anastasia, hoping the Italian man, the apparently rich Italian man, didn’t know the rules of the game.
Torenzi peeled off twenty crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and stuck out his hand. “I wasn’t born yesterday … Anastasia .”
She took the two thousand and thought that would be good — for a start.
Then she nuzzled up to his ear while sliding her hand down to the crotch of his black trousers. Nice material, Italian-made. “You know what Anastasia means?” she whispered through lips painted cherry red. “Means ‘flower of resurrection.’”
Torenzi took a swig of his beer. “Excellent. Now take off your clothes,” he repeated. “Forget about the history lessons.”
The big guy liked to be the boss and he was hardly the first, thought Anastasia as she reached for the zipper running down the back of her dress. Let him enjoy it while he still can .
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 beginning to feel sorry for the guy.
“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
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