The Assassin Read online

  Damon smiled faintly. Plans. He had plans of his own— plans that would make William regret that rescue twenty years ago.

  He parked his motorcycle near a little red Miata in the lot at the Tulsa campus of Oklahoma State University. He’d learned a lot from William, not only about business but also about himself. Such as how to compartmentalize himself, to show people only the aspects of his personality that would help him achieve his goals. This meeting might be the most important test of that he would ever face.

  The workday was over, as were most of the classes, so the lot was nearing empty and the steady flow of employees and students streaming out had slowed to a trickle. As he passed the Miata, he dropped his keys, crouched to pick them up, then continued to the nearest building to wait.

  It wasn’t a long wait. As his target passed, he stepped out of the alcove and followed a half-dozen feet behind her to the parking lot.

  She would have been easy to pick out of a crowd and was impossible to miss alone. Even in heels she barely topped five and a half feet, and she was so slender that a good breeze might get her airborne. Her hair was pulled back in a fancy braid, and her ivory suit looked good against the olive tones of her skin. Give her a pair of wings and she could pass for a delicate little fairy. There was nothing delicate, though, about the words that came out of her mouth when she saw her car.

  “Fuck me. Aw, shit. I can’t believe . . .”

  She stopped ten feet from the Miata, scowling at the right rear tire. Damon walked up beside her, looked from her to the tire, then back again. “You’ve got a flat.”

  “Brilliant observa—” She glanced at him, and the scathing retort faded away. So did her scowl, replaced by a chagrined smile. “Sorry. I’ve had a lousy day, and I was really looking forward to getting home and putting it all behind me.”

  “If you have a spare, I’d be happy to change it for you. It wouldn’t cost you more than . . . oh, an hour or so of your time for dinner or a drink.”

  Her eyes twinkled. She was accustomed to men coming on to her, and why shouldn’t she be? She was twenty-five, single, and beautiful. She liked herself, liked men, and it showed. “You change my tire, and I’ll be happy to give you two hours or even more.” She practically purred the words, obviously a ploy that had taken her far with other men.

  He held out his hand for her keys and went to work. She leaned against the lamppost next to the car, one slender ankle crossed over the other, her arms folded underneath her breasts. She was a woman he would have looked twice at even if he hadn’t known who she was.

  Changing a tire was about the extent of his mechanical ability. After stowing the flat in her trunk, he cleaned his hands with the wet-wipe she offered from her purse. She looked up at him, dark eyes screened by long lashes, and smiled seductively. “How can I thank you?”

  “Dinner?”

  “Where?”

  “Wherever you want.”

  He expected her to choose something upscale, expensive—in his experience, women liked expensive—but she surprised him. “How about Billy Ray’s Barbecue? Do you know where it is?”

  Though he did, he shook his head.

  With a smile that promised all sorts of wicked things, she slid behind the wheel, started the engine, then lowered the car’s ragtop. “Follow me.”

  She drove exactly the way he expected an easy woman in a red convertible to drive—fast. He kept the Ducati mere feet off her rear bumper the whole way, then roared into a space beside her in the restaurant parking lot.

  As she got out, she removed the band that held her hair, combed her fingers through to loosen the braid, then shook it free. Thick, black, it reached just past her shoulders and looked soft as silk. Thanks to William, he knew just how soft that was.

  No—thanks to himself. William had given him opportunities, but he was the one who’d taken them, who’d done the work, who’d repaid every chance a hundred times over. He was grateful to his boss . . . but gratitude took a man only so far.

  “We forgot to introduce ourselves,” she said as they started toward the door.

  He hadn’t forgotten. He’d just been waiting for the right time. “I’m Damon.”

  “And I’m Lucia Ceola.”

  He knew that.

  Truth was, he knew everything about her.

  Shortly before midnight, Selena pulled into the River Parks lot just off Thirty-first Street, parked in the shadow of a tall oak, and stepped out of the car. It was past curfew for the park, and her lemon-yellow Thunderbird was the only car in the lot. Resting her hand on the hardtop for balance, she bent her right knee and brought her foot up behind her in a slow stretch. The night was too warm for the clothing she wore—black warm-up pants, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and a black ball cap—but she was expert at ignoring minor discomforts.

  She’d spent three hours in the park the night before, hunkered down in the shadows, watching William’s house, timing the guards’ activities. Earlier that morning, she’d familiarized herself with the neighborhood, had walked and run the trail that curved from the river and behind the house on its way north. She’d learned all she could learn from this side of the fence. It was time to see what was on the other side.

  Pulling on a backpack, she walked to the west end of the lot, climbed the stairs to the bridge that crossed Riverside, then stopped on the far side to study the house. An iron fence encircled the entire estate, with only two ways in: the main gate at the northwest corner of the property, an elaborate arch set in massive stone pillars and guarded at all times by armed men, and the service entrance at the rear of the property. The gate there was smaller, purely functional, and security was limited to a fixed camera sighted on vehicles entering or exiting the estate.

  On her visit two years ago, that was the gate she had been instructed to use. It had been William’s way of reminding her of her place in his world.

  Shivering, Selena concentrated on the task ahead of her. The house, big enough for a half-dozen families, gleamed white in the night. If William’s description did it justice, it was every bit the mansion the Marlowe place was. She couldn’t say, since she hadn’t been allowed inside the main-house to see for herself.

  At the distant corner of the estate, lights shone in the guard shack located just inside the main gate. There were two guards on duty during the day and three at night, two of whom patrolled the grounds every hour. Between that and the alarms on the house and the guest cottage, William apparently felt secure enough. There were no motion sensors on the grounds, no surveillance cameras along the fence, no dogs to ferret out intruders.

  Drawing a penlight from her pocket, Selena jogged back the way she’d come. After the trail entered the wooded area, she flicked the flashlight on and kept it pointed at the path, not to light her way, but to search for the marker she’d left alongside the trail earlier that day—a small pile of stones, none bigger than a golf ball. The weeds behind them showed only faint signs of her passage that morning, and she was careful to make a new path as she headed through the underbrush once more.

  Once she reached the heavy shadows at the bottom of the hill, she shut off the flashlight, keeping one hand on the fence to guide her. When she arrived at the point she’d chosen that morning, a glance at her watch showed the guards should be returning to their command post. It would be another fifty minutes before their next rounds, probably another hour before they reached this location. Plenty of time for what she planned.

  It was poor judgment on the part of William’s security people to let a tree grow in such proximity to the fence, but perhaps that had been his decision. He liked pretty things, and among the many unremarkable trees that surrounded her, the mimosa was, indeed, pretty. It was a massive specimen, its feathery-tipped branches extending gracefully in all directions, and it was well suited for climbing, each limb leading easily to the next.

  She quickly reached the branch she’d targeted, a thick limb extending over the top of the fence. Carefully she edged away from the trun
k until the branch began to dip beneath her weight. Then she pulled a rope from her backpack, knotted one end around the limb, and studied the area.

  There was no sign of life on the grounds, and only one light was visible in the house—a dim bulb in what she presumed was the kitchen. During her visit two years ago, William had warned her to avoid his live-in staff, an elderly couple who worked as housekeeper and butler. They were likely snoring in their quarters at the north end of the house, and William was probably sleeping, as well, arrogant in his certainty that he was safe from all danger.

  All except her. But he didn’t consider her a danger, did he?

  He should know better. After all, as he constantly reminded her, he’d made her what she was.

  She let the rope drop, its free end hitting the ground with a soft thud. She would need it to make her escape, but she chose an easier route in. Wrapping both hands securely around the branch, she let herself slide off into thin air. For a moment, she hung there, swinging slightly, then she let go. As the ground rushed to meet her, she drew her knees to her chest, landing with a harsh grunt. Instinctively, she rolled, letting her body absorb the shock before rising to her feet.

  She stayed close to the fence and the shadows that enveloped it as she approached the guesthouse. Her first impulse was to hurry past, to pretend she didn’t see it, but she forced herself to maintain a steady pace, to give up the security of the shadows in order to inspect it more closely. If she pressed her face to the dark windows, she would see through the sheer curtains to a lovely space, decorated in soothing tones and textures, as homey and welcoming as anyone could ever want. And yet the worst night of her life had taken place in there. The night that had, ultimately, forced her back here again.

  The pool between the guest cottage and the house was still, as well, illuminated by a few weak lights. The patio furniture was in pristine condition, as if a party might begin at any moment. William liked parties and was a consummate host, or so he said. She couldn’t agree from experience. She had never been invited to any of his social affairs.

  But he’d thought of her when he needed a man killed.

  Selena crept around the house, making a mental note of every entrance, locating the electric meter and the point where the phone lines entered the house. There were keypads for the alarm inside every door, and there were likely motion sensors in every room, at least on the ground floor. There was an intercom system, as well, and probably a panic button that sounded in the guard shack.

  Moving stealthily through the quiet night, she approached the guard shack next. Two men sat watching television, while a third dozed on a cot beneath the window she peered through. A bank of monitors, their screens displaying the service gate, the front of the detached garage, and the patio, sat on the opposite side of the room from the TV. Another poor decision on security’s part.

  She ducked out of sight and headed for the garage. She’d already proven that the perimeter could be breached. The guards could be disarmed almost as easily, and with a little advice from Montoya, the camera signals blocked, power and phone service disrupted, and alarms bypassed. She could gain access to William and escape with no one the wiser.

  If she found it necessary.

  When he’d called a week ago and threatened to destroy her life, he hadn’t been so crass as to do it outright. No, he’d hinted, implied, his voice rich with avuncular concern. It would be a shame if the authorities found out what happened two years ago. You would lose your lovely home, the gallery you’ve worked so hard for, everything. The best you could hope for is deportation, the worst . . .

  She’d frozen at the threat. The worst was life in prison, or possibly death. She’d spent half her life fighting to survive, and she wasn’t ready to give up. But prison—spending the rest of her days locked away in a small cell, never having the freedom to walk outside in the sun, never being able to take a single breath that didn’t hurt . . . That just might be a fate worse than death.

  And how would the authorities find out? she had asked. Whispered. Only William knew what she had done. He had cleaned up after her, had destroyed the evidence—

  And then she’d known. He hadn’t destroyed anything. He had merely been biding his time until he could use the proof of her crime to blackmail her, to bend her to his will.

  Her uncle was not an honorable man, but he was a man of his word. If he said he would destroy her, he would. So she had agreed to come to Oklahoma to do what he asked. Yet despite all he’d done for her, despite all he’d given her, if she had no other choice . . .

  A shudder rocked through her as she bypassed the front of the garage and went to a small door on the side. She pulled a lockpick set from her pack. Her hands were shaking badly, but she soon had the door open and was slipping into the dark cavernous space.

  Know your enemy, William often preached. How ironic that now the enemy was him.

  The beam of her flashlight played over the garden equipment that filled the first bay of the garage. A Mercedes was parked in the next, a Cadillac beyond that. Holding the light between her teeth, she dug out a small notebook and ink pen and scrawled the Mercedes’ tag number on the first page. She didn’t know if she could even get any information from the number, but if she couldn’t, Jimmy Montoya could. He knew people who could find out anything, he’d once told her, and she believed him.

  She was straightening, intending to copy the same information from the second car, when a hand grasped her shoulder from behind. Before she could do more than stiffen, a bright light spilled over her shoulder to illuminate the car’s trunk. The notebook and pen slipped from her fingers and the penlight clattered to the concrete.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” The voice was male, with a strong twang. Her first impression was “redneck”; her second, “arrogant redneck.” “Looks like you took a wrong turn while you was out for your midnight stroll. Get those hands in the air and come on back here where I can get a good look at you before I handcuff you.”

  His fingers bit into her skin as she slowly raised both hands to her shoulders, and he began pulling her back. As soon as they cleared the cramped quarters behind the car, no doubt he would turn her around and shine that light in her face, and she would be in a world of trouble. Even the most basic of descriptions—a half-black woman—would be enough for William.

  “You must be some kind of stupid, breaking in here. Hell, boy, do you have any idea—”

  Clear of the car, Selena jabbed her right elbow into his stomach, then wrenched free. Doubling over with a yelp of pain, he dropped his flashlight but managed to key the microphone attached to his uniform collar. “Webster, get in—”

  Grabbing a handful of hair, she shoved him, head first, against the Mercedes’ rear door. He sank bonelessly to the floor. For a moment she just looked at him. She had trained with Montoya for two years, had sparred and fought and attacked and defended, but this was the first time she’d ever used what she’d learned for real. It had come surprisingly naturally.

  “Brodie? What the hell’s going on?” The shout came from both the radio and from outside, accompanied by the pounding of footsteps on the driveway. The man was headed for the door both she and Brodie had used, standing open in invitation. Selena snatched up her penlight, then crouched to locate the notebook and ink pen. Dropping them into the pack, she squeezed past the Mercedes, then the Cadillac, into the empty fourth bay and punched the button for the overhead door.

  The guard named Webster charged into the garage as the door ground its way up, the beam from his flashlight bouncing crazily around the space. “Brodie— Hey! Stop!”

  She ducked under the door and set off at a full run for the southeast corner of the estate. She didn’t need to look to know he was following her. His boots thudded heavily as he slowly gained ground, but his breathing was growing heavier, too. He would be winded before they reached the tree, but how much wind did he need to tackle her—or to shoot her? The thought spurred her to push harder, to lengthen her str
ide by a few precious inches, to ignore the demands placed on her own lungs.

  The moonlight gleamed silver on the outer layer of the mimosa’s delicate leaves, but the rope hanging underneath remained in shadow. Sweat dampening her face, she took a flying leap, caught hold, and was shimmying up its length when the unmistakable click of a revolver being cocked, sounded behind her.

  “H-h-hold it right—right there,” Webster panted.

  She froze in midair, hands gripping the rope, legs dangling, body swaying.

  “C-come on down here. Don’t make me—” He dragged in a wheezing breath. “Don’t make me shoot . . .”

  Giving up wasn’t an option. Neither was getting shot. She remained motionless, surveying the distance to the ground. Eight, ten feet, tops. Opting for the element of surprise, she let go of the rope, hit the ground, rolled, and came up in a kick that knocked the guard’s feet out from under him. Another kick, this one to the chin, snapped his head back against the ground with a solid thud.

  She quickly grabbed his pistol and the radio, throwing both into the distance, then returned to the rope, climbing hand over fist to the branch that was her bridge over the fence. Catching her breath, she cut the rope, crammed it into her pack, then slid the knife back into her waistband as she shimmied down the tree on the opposite side of the fence.

  By the time Selena reached the running trail above, she’d stripped down to the tank top and running shorts she wore as a second layer. She stuffed the gloves in her pack, wadded the rest together, and jogged back to her car. As soon as she reached the motel, the clothes went into the Dumpster and she went to her room, where she undressed and climbed into the shower.

  Know your enemy, William said. Good advice.

  Maybe he would live to regret not getting to know her.

  Or maybe he would regret that he’d ever known her at all.

  Dwayne Samuels brought his SUV to a stop in front of the brick ranch house and climbed out, scowling at the dust that settled on the bright red paint job. He’d rented this place out here off Coyote Trail because it was fucking hard to find and nobody lived close by, but damned if he wasn’t tired of having to wash his truck every goddamn time he came out here.