Look-Alike. Meredith Fletcher

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СКАЧАТЬ beside a rack of DVDs with covers that left nothing to the imagination. A young couple peered at a swing contraption made of leather and wood that Jan was showing them.

      Jan was a thick-bodied man with a bored air. His dark hair was neatly clipped and gold chains hung around his neck. He wore a New York Yankees baseball jersey. As he looked up to greet them, recognition flared in his gray eyes.

      “Hella,” Jan called in English, scrambling to reach under the counter. “Kill her.” Then he did a double take, seeing Sam behind Elle. “Kill them both.”

      The scarlet neon from the tubing played over the burn scars on Hella’s face. He moved smoothly, showing years of practice. He was at least fifty, his hair white with age, smooth shaven like someone’s kindly grandfather. The coat slid away from the cut-down double-barrel 12-gauge shotgun hanging from a whipit sling on his right arm.

      Elle ignored the bodyguards, trusting Sam to handle them. With the men spread out inside the sex shop, the danger was spread across two fronts.

      Sam stepped toward Hella, got in close and blocked the man’s attempt to bring the weapon to bear on Elle, who was closing the distance on Jan. The shotgun erupted in a deafening blast. Neon light shimmered on the picture window as the concussive wave hammered the plate glass. The swarm of double ought buckshot cut a mannequin in half, blowing the top part off the bottom in a popcorn spray of hardened plastic.

      The couple at the counter dove to the ground and covered their heads. The woman screamed hoarsely and didn’t stop.

      Elle felt bad for them. They’d appeared a little embarrassed just to be in the sex shop, and the negative experience they were going through was partly her fault. But they’d provided the distraction she’d needed that allowed her to get close to Jan. Now the trick was to keep them safe. She didn’t want innocent blood on her hands. Even as she moved, she kept track of her sister, hating the fact that she was distracted. It wasn’t professional.

      Sam put a hand on the top of the shotgun to push it down to the floor just as Hella discharged the second blast. Pellets tore holes in the linoleum and shredded leather outfits and rattled chains.

      With the shotgun empty, Sam released the weapon, slid back, then delivered a snap-kick to the front of Hella’s knee, another to his crotch and—when the man bent over—a roundhouse kick to the face that drove him sideways.

      By that time, Jan was bringing up the weapon he kept beneath the counter. Elle placed her hands on the countertop and vaulted over almost effortlessly. Balanced like a gymnast, she drove both feet into the center of Jan’s chest.

      A painful explosion ripped from Jan’s lips as he stumbled back and slammed against the wall behind him. Shelves filled with sex toys tumbled down around him, but he fought his way back up, cursing vehemently. Elle landed on her feet and threw herself at Jan again, reaching for the weapon. She caught sight of Sam using Hella to block his partner’s efforts to get at her.

      The second man had cleared his pistol and brought it up but couldn’t get a clear shot because Sam kept his partner between them. Moving quickly, Sam stepped around Hella and caught the man’s gunwrist with one hand while with the other she rammed the Y between her thumb and forefinger into the man’s throat. He hurked and dropped to his knees.

      Shifting, Sam scooped up the fallen pistol. It was a Heckler & Koch .45, heavy and solid. Oil gleamed on the black metal barrel. She slid into a modified Weaver stance, left foot in front of the right, left palm cupped under her right palm.

      Hella groped for the shotgun with one hand. He held two fresh shells from his jacket pocket in his other hand.

      Voice calm, as if she were in situations like this all the time, Sam spoke in English, modeling Jan. “Touch the weapon and I will kill you.”

      Evidently Hella believed her. His hand withdrew from the shotgun.

      Elle stopped admiring Sam’s technique and fought Jan for the pistol. Although the man was larger than her, she maintained leverage over the weapon. If he got free, she knew Jan would kill her and Sam without a second’s hesitation. Unexpectedly, she broke the hold she had on the pistol and sunk in on Jan. She moved like an automaton, delivering devastating elbow and knee strikes in bruising syncopation. The style was Krav Maga, the close-in fighting katas often used by Israeli Mossad and special forces.

      Jan stumbled back. For a moment, he dropped to the floor, then fought his way to his feet. The pistol bounced away. He reached for a wooden dowel on the wall behind him, part of the erotic swing kit he’d been showing the couple.

      Elle reached into her pocket and pulled out a flick knife. Expertly, she flipped the weapon twice, baring the blade and locking the handle grips together, then drove the sharp point through Jan’s hand and impaled it on the wall. She didn’t even think about the pain she caused her opponent.

      Her father had taught her to distance herself from such things. Pain was a tool she’d learned to use just as she’d learned to use weapons and martial arts. Many agents were too squeamish to use such tactics. In the beginning, Elle had felt a strong reluctance to employing measures like this, but time often meant lives. Her father had told her that.

      On one mission, Elle had been with a senior agent who hadn’t used methods like this to get an answer quickly. The woman they had tried to save, a mother of two who’d been taken as a kidnap victim for ransom, had suffocated in a shallow grave before they reached her. It was a lesson Elle had never forgotten.

      With a man like Jan, Elle never hesitated to go to extremes early. It saved time.

      With a cry of pain, Jan stood as if transfixed. He swore in English and Dutch and French.

      Not even breathing hard, Elle kept her hand on the knife handle. She distanced herself from her own emotions, going numb inside as her father had taught her. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” she asked.

      Jan cursed at her.

      Elle wiggled the blade and the man groaned, sagged against the wall, then pleaded with her to stop.

      Elle spoke in English. “The last time you saw me, you swore that you would kill me.”

      Face trembling in agony, Jan stared at her.

      Still holding the knife, Elle said, “Now I’ll make you a promise. If you try to kill me again, I’ll kill you. It won’t matter what information I want from you. There are other places to get it.”

      Blood ran along Jan’s arm and dripped to the floor. He blinked his eyes rapidly. “My hand,” he whispered.

      “Not yet. For the moment, I like your hand where it is.” Elle closed her fingers around the knife handle.

      “What do you want?” Jan whispered.

      “A man named Tuenis Meijer.”

      “Dmitri’s,” Jan gasped. “Try Dmitri’s. There’s a girl there that Meijer thinks he’s in love with.”

      Silently, Elle pulled the knife from the wall. The man cradled his injured hand to his stomach and sank down on his haunches. He gave Elle a harsh look.

      Squatting, Elle wiped the blade clean on Jan’s pant leg. He didn’t move to avoid her. “Don’t think about following me. Don’t think about warning Meijer I’m coming. Do you understand?”

      Jan’s СКАЧАТЬ