in a bright red and yellow Hawaiian shirt and blue jeans.
He stepped out and bowed to her. “Meet Alexander Karlsson, the retiring assassin.”
“Yikes, you look like a scrawny, Swedish Fabio with a bad wardrobe.” Sarah walked around and checked him out. “You really are a master of disguise. You’ll have to do Brad Pitt for me someday soon.”
When he glowered, she laughed. “Never mind, I’m kinda partial to the Rukh look.” She reached up and touched his face. “How do you make yourself look thinner?”
“I’ll explain later,” he said, tapping his wristwatch. “Your disguise is in the bathroom.”
Sarah changed into the clothes he’d conjured up. Dressed in a UT orange T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and scuffed sneakers she looked like a college kid. “This is it?”
“Nope.” He stepped away to reveal a wig, a cap and sunglasses lying on the bed. Jasmine laughed as she wrapped her curls into a tight knot and donned a black wig sporting dreadlocks. She jammed the bright Rastafarian knit cap on top and donned a pair of sunglasses.
“Personally, I think the cap is a bit much,” she said.
Rukh ignored the heaviness in his gut. So many things could go wrong at this meet. But he’d risk anything to keep Jasmine safe. He winked. “It’s you, babe.”
Chapter Seven
Rukh settled down at a table under the shade of a gigantic umbrella with an iced coffee in the Whole Foods’ patio. Families and groups of friends occupied nearby tables, laughing over coffees and pastries. Oblivious and carefree.
Surrounded by the crowd, exposed in broad daylight and waiting for his contact gave him the jitters. Rukh forced himself to drink as he scanned one building after another. Any one of them could be hiding a sniper. The bullet would hit before he’d hear the report of the rifle, leaving him no time to thin his substance. The speed of the bullet would drive it deep into his being, the poison of the metal would shred his essence, leave it in tatters. Healing would be slow and full of pain.
Then there was the possibility of accident and ricochet. And casualties. The chubby toddler waving a rattle, or the Willie Nelson look alike in the battered cowboy hat. Shit. Bile churned in his gut. He shoved the coffee away. His heart yearned for Jasmine.
Casually, he leaned back in his chair and glanced over at the live band performing under the covered area. She swayed to the music at the fringe of the patio, languid and sensuous in her movements. Heaven and hell, she was gorgeous…even in that getup. If he hadn’t watched her transform, he wouldn’t have recognized her and that was good. But where was the photographer?
On the dot of four, a man carrying a briefcase and a cup of coffee stopped by Rukh’s table. Dressed in a dark blue suit, red and silver power tie and sunglasses, he could have stepped out of Forbes Magazine . His short blond hair glinted in the afternoon sun.
“Hi. Do you have the time?”
Rukh glanced at his watch and then back at him. Was this his contact? If not, the man would probably think him a certifiable loon and vacate the area. Worked either way. “One-thirty a.m. Kabul, 10:00 p.m. Belfast, or 4:00 p.m. Austin.”
The man flashed a toothpaste ad smile. “Aloha. Finally we meet.”
Rukh inclined his head and tossed out a half smile. “Aloha to you too.”
The guy shifted from foot to foot, then cocked his head toward one of the empty chairs at the table. “Could I borrow that for a sec?”
Rukh nodded and looked away at the traffic streaming past on 6th Street—cars, bicycles and a bright yellow duckmobile filled with happy tourists. But he studied his contact through the corner of his eye. Thank God for reflective lenses.
The guy set his coffee on the table and pulled out the chair. Then he lifted his left foot on it and retied his shoe.
“Thanks.” He straightened up and picked up his coffee. Bending, he grabbed a case. “Sayonara,” he said before sauntering
He stepped out and bowed to her. “Meet Alexander Karlsson, the retiring assassin.”
“Yikes, you look like a scrawny, Swedish Fabio with a bad wardrobe.” Sarah walked around and checked him out. “You really are a master of disguise. You’ll have to do Brad Pitt for me someday soon.”
When he glowered, she laughed. “Never mind, I’m kinda partial to the Rukh look.” She reached up and touched his face. “How do you make yourself look thinner?”
“I’ll explain later,” he said, tapping his wristwatch. “Your disguise is in the bathroom.”
Sarah changed into the clothes he’d conjured up. Dressed in a UT orange T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and scuffed sneakers she looked like a college kid. “This is it?”
“Nope.” He stepped away to reveal a wig, a cap and sunglasses lying on the bed. Jasmine laughed as she wrapped her curls into a tight knot and donned a black wig sporting dreadlocks. She jammed the bright Rastafarian knit cap on top and donned a pair of sunglasses.
“Personally, I think the cap is a bit much,” she said.
Rukh ignored the heaviness in his gut. So many things could go wrong at this meet. But he’d risk anything to keep Jasmine safe. He winked. “It’s you, babe.”
Chapter Seven
Rukh settled down at a table under the shade of a gigantic umbrella with an iced coffee in the Whole Foods’ patio. Families and groups of friends occupied nearby tables, laughing over coffees and pastries. Oblivious and carefree.
Surrounded by the crowd, exposed in broad daylight and waiting for his contact gave him the jitters. Rukh forced himself to drink as he scanned one building after another. Any one of them could be hiding a sniper. The bullet would hit before he’d hear the report of the rifle, leaving him no time to thin his substance. The speed of the bullet would drive it deep into his being, the poison of the metal would shred his essence, leave it in tatters. Healing would be slow and full of pain.
Then there was the possibility of accident and ricochet. And casualties. The chubby toddler waving a rattle, or the Willie Nelson look alike in the battered cowboy hat. Shit. Bile churned in his gut. He shoved the coffee away. His heart yearned for Jasmine.
Casually, he leaned back in his chair and glanced over at the live band performing under the covered area. She swayed to the music at the fringe of the patio, languid and sensuous in her movements. Heaven and hell, she was gorgeous…even in that getup. If he hadn’t watched her transform, he wouldn’t have recognized her and that was good. But where was the photographer?
On the dot of four, a man carrying a briefcase and a cup of coffee stopped by Rukh’s table. Dressed in a dark blue suit, red and silver power tie and sunglasses, he could have stepped out of Forbes Magazine . His short blond hair glinted in the afternoon sun.
“Hi. Do you have the time?”
Rukh glanced at his watch and then back at him. Was this his contact? If not, the man would probably think him a certifiable loon and vacate the area. Worked either way. “One-thirty a.m. Kabul, 10:00 p.m. Belfast, or 4:00 p.m. Austin.”
The man flashed a toothpaste ad smile. “Aloha. Finally we meet.”
Rukh inclined his head and tossed out a half smile. “Aloha to you too.”
The guy shifted from foot to foot, then cocked his head toward one of the empty chairs at the table. “Could I borrow that for a sec?”
Rukh nodded and looked away at the traffic streaming past on 6th Street—cars, bicycles and a bright yellow duckmobile filled with happy tourists. But he studied his contact through the corner of his eye. Thank God for reflective lenses.
The guy set his coffee on the table and pulled out the chair. Then he lifted his left foot on it and retied his shoe.
“Thanks.” He straightened up and picked up his coffee. Bending, he grabbed a case. “Sayonara,” he said before sauntering
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