Risk the Night

  Risk the Night

  by Anne Stuart

  Copyright 2011 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge

  CHAPTER ONE

  It had started as an average day. The man currently calling himself Constantine awoke in his small apartment in the third arondissement of Paris after three hours’ sleep. He seldom needed more, and often made do with less, a blessing or a curse from the surly god who made him. He’d showered, shaved and dressed in work clothes, staring at himself in the mirror for a long time. He had no vanity – his face and body were tools of his trade and nothing else. He had a lean, wiry frame, deceptively strong, and he was taller than he appeared. His face was narrow, with strong bones, and the only thing remarkable about him were his bright blue eyes, an unfortunately memorable shade of turquoise. He put in the muddying contacts, surveyed the results with satisfaction before tying his hair back and covering it with a cap. In his black jeans and black turtleneck he would blend in with the students in the area, particularly with the backpack he’d purchased for the occasion.

  He double-checked its contents. A change of clothes. His Glock and silencer, just in case. He tucked the knife in one of the black boots he wore, yanking the jeans over the bone handle. He’d planned carefully, as always, and it wouldn’t take long. He’d have more than enough time to return here for a shower if things got messy. The good thing about black – blood never showed.

  It was a warm spring day, promising rain later. He moved down the streets at a leisurely pace in the early morning hours, reaching the discreet boutique hotel well before the city day had begun. Scum of the earth like Mirador never gave him a moment’s pause. He had a gift, a gift for death, and in the case of someone like Mirador it was well-used.

  He didn’t know why he hesitated. He’d been trained for this by none other than the United States government, though they no longer paid his bills. And at least on his own he could pick and choose his targets. He didn’t have to worry about shades of gray – either the target was scum or worth redeeming. He had more than enough business taking care of the absolute scum.

  So much, in fact, that he was getting tired of it. So damned tired. But for now he had no reason to quit.

  He took care of Mirador, quickly, cleanly and headed back to his apartment, going straight for the shower. By the time he emerged, made his second cup of coffee for the day and turned on the television the hit had already made the news. Switching off the television, Constantine headed out for the worst part of his day.

  “I was an idiot to tell you I’d do this,” he said, walking into the empty third floor flat Taggart had rented for the occasion.

  Taggart had been leaning over a camera, but he rose and looked up at him, his face creasing with annoyance. He was older than Con, and he’d been in the business since he was very young. He knew more, had done more than Con even wanted to think of, and he owed him. Though he wasn’t sure he owed him this much.

  “Cry to someone else,” Taggart growled, not bothering to remove the cigarette from the side of his mouth. “Your voice will be disguised, the room will be pitch black and the reporter will be on the other side of a barrier. There’s no way you’ll be identifiable.”

  Con made a grumbling noise. “So why are we doing this?”

  Taggart shrugged. “I owed someone a favor. Like you owed me a favor. Probably the guy I’m doing it for owed someone else. You weren’t just hatched – you know how these things work.”

  “I know how these things work.” He looked around the empty apartment. He was restless, edgy, and the last thing he wanted to do was sit down and spin stories for a gullible reporter. But Taggart was right. He owed him. “Where?”

  “Got the bedroom set up. There’s a bullet-proof divider between you, just in case this isn’t as innocent as it appears. The windows are completely blacked out – there won’t be a shred of light getting in.”

  Con’s smile was cool and brief. “Don’t think I won’t kill you if this blows up in our faces. I’m not that sentimental.”

  “Neither am I,” Taggart said, opening the door into an inky dark room. “I assume Mirador was your work?”

  “Why assume that? I’m on vacation.”

  “Sure you are.”

  At least Taggart had seen to the basics. Coffee, wine, fresh bread and cheese and fruit. He wasn’t particularly hungry – he didn’t eat much the days that he worked. Taggart would know that as well, but Con wasn’t interested in playing games. He made himself a cup of coffee and leaned back in the darkness, waiting.

  He heard the shuffling noise a few minutes later, another sound, as if someone bumped into a piece of furniture, and then the scraping sound of wood on the marble floor. He leaned forward toward the microphone that would distort his voice. “Do you have a blindfold on?” He spoke in French. He suspected the reporter was American – they usually were.

  He was right about that. He just hadn’t expected it to be a woman. “Yes, and it’s a pain in the ass,” she said in a low voice, her schoolgirl French adequate. She’d had an expensive education, an anomaly which normally would have interested him. Right now he had too many other things on his mind. “Renard said I could take if off once you told me I could.”

  “Not yet.” He lit a cigarette, the flare of light blinding in the inky darkness. Stygian darkness. He wondered if this was what hell looked like. He expected to find out sooner rather than later. “All right,” he said. The faint glow of the cigarette wouldn’t give anything away, and it would throw her off. He didn’t smoke.

  He heard the rustle of cloth, the clearing of her throat, and he knew she wanted to ask him not to smoke. She didn’t dare. Smart woman.

  “What did you want to know?”

  She cleared her throat again. “My name is Elizabeth Shannon and I’m writing an article …”

  “I don’t care who you are or what you’re doing,” he said, bored. If that was her real name then he was christened Constantine. “Renard made the arrangements. If I didn’t trust him I wouldn’t be here.” Trust Taggart to have taken a name like Renard. Sly old fox. “Ask your questions. I have things to do.”

  “I’m taping this. Do you mind?”

  “Why should I?” He took another drag of his cigarette and waited, patient, bored. Slightly distracted by the husky note in her voice. Unlike others he never found sex appealing on the days that we worked. But there was something about her voice …

  “You kill for a living?” She asked the question in English. Mid-Atlantic seaboard upper class American English. He was right.

  “I do.” He answered her in the same language, with a guttural German accent. German accents were tricky – you could easily start sounding like a Prussian nobleman or a Nazi commandant. He always used a light touch, even when he used a working class voice.

  “Who hires you?”

  “Whoever can meet my price. Governments. Private contractors. Individuals. I’m not fussy.”

  “What is your price?”

  “It depends on the job, the complexity, the fame of the individual. I’d say probably more than you can afford. Were you looking to hire me?”

  “No.” He was spooking her, deliberately, and she was trying not to show it. Good for her. He could terrify combat veterans if he tried. He considered toning it down, but didn’t.

  “How many people have you killed?”

  “I’ve lost count.” He was lying to her, of course. Another of his curses – a photographic memory. He knew each face, each name, each job, and always would.

  “Are there jobs you would refuse to take?”

  “Why would I?” He was toying with her, more interested in her answers than his own variety of lies.

  “Because the … the victim … the target … what do you call them?” She was begin
ning to sound rattled. He took another drag on the cigarette he didn’t want and smiled.

  “Take your pick,” he said. “Victim sounds good.”

  He could pick up on her annoyance now. She suspected he was playing with her. Good. He liked an intelligent adversary, and she was most definitely that.

  “Did you kill Congressman Walters?”

  “No comment.”

  “Did you kill the King of Waziristan?”

  “No comment.”

  “Did you kill Jimmy Hoffa?” she demanded, frustrated.

  “No comment.”

  “Would you kill a good man? If the price was right?”

  “How am I to know whether a man is good or not? One man’s savior is another man’s terrorist. It’s not my place to judge.”

  “Just to carry out the sentence.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you kill a woman?”

  He took another drag on the heavy Turkish tobacco. When in France he smoked Gitanes if necessary, unfiltered. “What makes you think women are any less innocent than men? I can assure you, certain women are far more dangerous than their male counterparts.”

  “I take it that means yes.”

  “Take it any way you wish.” Taggart was going to be annoyed with him. He was supposed to give this inquisitive female enough to feed her paranoid fantasies with no real information. Instead he was stonewalling her, for the simple reason that he wanted to annoy her. To get a reaction from her. For God’s sake, he wanted to move her. What the hell was wrong with him today?

  He heard her intake of breath. “Have you ever killed a woman?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  “A child?”

  “No.”

  Silence as she digested that information. He should have lied to her – he didn’t want her making the mistake of thinking he was human. “Are you here in Paris for a particular job?”

  “I’m on vacation,” he said. “I’m here for the wine and the food and the pussy and nothing else.”

  He felt her instinctive reaction, and he wanted to laugh. A crude word was such a minor thing compared to the world he was opening up for her.

  It went with his accent – rough German that was then distorted by the microphone. He could croon to her in a few hours and she’d have no idea who she was talking to. The idea was tempting.

  He wondered what she looked like, he thought as he fielded her questions. Was she tall and leggy, unnaturally thin and nervous like so many career women? Was she slightly plump, with glasses and sensible shoes? He liked that idea. He was tired of wafer-thin models.

  He found he was getting turned on, which was odd. Not his style. He liked the idea of fucking her. Of going out and finding her after this was done, seducing her, seeing how far he could push her. He could seduce just about anyone, and this woman, whose name was most definitely NOT Elizabeth Shannon, would be child’s play.

  Blonde or brunette? Tall or short? He fantasized as he spun her stories, some blatant lies, some horrifyingly true, and she was naked with her sweet, questioning mouth on his cock. He didn’t usually like women to be frightened of him, not in bed. He liked an even match, a woman who gave as good as she got, one who had the illusion that she was in control. They never were. He made it a rule never to walk into a situation where he didn’t command complete control.

  It would be easy enough with this one. She was young, thinking she was experienced. Those were the easiest to get to.

  He shook his head, amused at himself. He wasn’t taking care of that little problem this afternoon. This was business, this was for Taggart.

  “Tell me,” he said, pitching his voice low. Even with the distortion and the German accent he knew it would come through the other side of the wall as pure seduction. “Do you have a lover?”

  He felt her instinctive withdrawal as she considered her answer. “In fact, I have. A very kind, sweet man. Not that it’s any of your business. Why do you ask?”

  “Do you like kind, sweet men? Do you fuck in the darkness, missionary-style? Do you even suck his cock?”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  He laughed softly. “That answers my question. You should try it sometime. You might even like it.”

  “I’ll have you know that I’ve …” her voice trailed off as she realized what he was doing. Her laugh was rueful, and he was hard. He should have had Taggart put a filter on her voice too. It was low, melodic, slightly nervous and most definitely self-aware. “You’re the one who’s supposed to answer the questions,” she said. “Not me.”

  “You don’t want to tell me about your sex life?”

  “Not particularly. Any more than you want to tell me about yours.” The moment she said the words she knew her mistake. “Cancel that. You’d probably like nothing more than to try to embarrass me with salacious stories. I’m here to find out about your work as an assassin, nothing more.”

  He smiled to himself. “I don’t like that word, ‘assassin.’ It’s too melodramatic.”

  “God, you’re not going to use one of those tough-guy movie terms, are you? Like Cleaner?” She’d relaxed now, ready to lob some of his snark back at him. She had no idea how mismatched they were, but he could be gentle with her. For now.

  He laughed softly. “No, sweetheart. I avoid terminology. I am what I am, do what I do. Aren’t you tired of this by now? Do you want to go somewhere and fuck?”

  Her heard her swift intake of breath, but her reply was calm enough. “If you think sexual innuendoes are going to scare me off after some of the stories you’ve told me then you have a strange opinion of women.”

  “You’re American. Most Americans are far more comfortable with violence than sex. Just look at your television shows.”

  “I’d rather not,” she said dryly. “And no, I don’t want to go somewhere and fuck, though you’re very kind to offer. I’m meeting my boyfriend for dinner.”

  “Too bad. If there were more time I’d unzip myself and …”

  “I gather you’re getting bored with all this.” Her voice was brisk, interrupting his crude comment. “So am I. Just one more question.”

  Just as well, he thought. He was getting distracted.

  “Would you tell me your name?”

  He laughed, a short, sharp sound. “You know the answer to that. If I did I would have to kill you,” he said. “And don’t decide to be Nancy Drew and try to find out who I am. If you do I will kill you. And you won’t be some Daniel Pearl type martyr. I’ll make it look like an accident, and no one will ever know you died for your fucking story.”

  Her heard her intake of breath, and he knew she believed him. “I won’t,” she said.

  “I didn’t think you would,” he said peaceably. “Anything else? I need to get to my gym.” Another lie. He worked out in whatever room he was inhabiting, exercises to keep him agile and alert. He didn’t need fancy machines.

  “Just one. Why do you do it?”

  He laughed. He could imagine how it sounded on the other side of the pitch dark window, like the sound of the devil, laughing from the fires of hell.

  “Because I’m good at it. Everyone has certain talents. You’re a journalist. I kill.”

  Dead silence from the darkness. “Are you a sociopath? Or a psychopath?”

  Good for her, he thought silently. “A psychopath loves his work, sweetheart. I’m a sociopath. I just don’t care.”

  And he flicked off the microphone.

  Enough.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Madison Mary Banks felt the micro-recorder slip out of her sweat-damp hands and land on the floor. It was tough enough to withstand the punishment, having survived war zones and her sister’s energetic toddler, but she made no effort to retrieve it. She felt strange, disoriented, she smell of tobacco on the air, the sound of his distorted voice in her ear. She wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself. She had just spent the better part of an hour in a darkened room with someone who could only be called a mo
nster – it was no wonder she felt ill.

  His stories lingered in her brain, and she wished there was some way to wipe it clean. He’d answered everything in detail, but not in specifics. No names, but how long it took a man to bleed out, depending on which artery was severed. Which poisons worked the best. Sniper training, but not where he’d received it. She now had a sickeningly clear view of what it was like to be a … a termination specialist in the modern world. She just wished she didn’t.

  The door opened, and light flooded the room, momentarily blinding her. She felt an instant’s panic, but it was simply Renard, the friend of a friend of Drake, her boyfriend, the man who’d facilitated this meeting.

  Drake was going to laugh at her, say “I told you so” when he saw her. But maybe she’d have managed to pull herself together by then.

  “You okay, mademoiselle?” Reynard’s voice was cool and obsequious. Just the kind of man whose ancestors stormed the Bastille and knitted while the aristocrats were beheaded. She knew how she presented to most people, no matter what kind of thrift store clothes she dressed in, and he was probably wishing they still had tumbrels.

  “Fine,” she said, her voice hollow. “Has he gone?”

  Renard raised an eyebrow. “Yes, mademoiselle. He left a good ten minutes ago. I was waiting for you to open the door.”

  “I was … was assembling my notes,” she said weakly, reaching down and picking up the recorder. “It’s good to have your thoughts in order while they’re still fresh.”

  “Indeed, mademoiselle. You will tell our friend I fulfilled my part of the bargain?”

  Which friend, she wondered. Drake, or a friend of a friend of Drake’s? She rather hated the idea that she was sleeping with a man too closely connected to the creature she’d just interviewed.

  “I’ll tell him,” she said, rising, the recorder clutched in one hand.

  Constantine heard the door to the apartment close behind their departing guest, and he sank to the floor with another cup of coffee, his legs crossed beneath him as he watched Taggert dismantle his safe house.