Leonidas gave her kiss. “I’m expecting an important delivery. Call me if someone comes.”
She waved her hand, then settled into a chair with her drink. Leonidas let his eyes linger on her face. As debauched as Isabel appeared, she was still beautiful. He went into the bathroom to shower, not knowing that it was the last time he would ever see her alive. If he’d not been so wasted, he would have seen through Salazar’s fake charm.
As he washed away the sweat and grit, his mind regained some of its sharpness and he began to lay out plans on what to do with his money. It wouldn’t be as much as he wanted, but still a substantial sum. He might have to give up the luxury hotel suites until he got more work. Hell, maybe he’d even retire from the killing business altogether. Since he knew all the tricks, he might be able to make a living protecting people from assassins like himself.
He got out of the shower, thinking that a cottage by the sea in Majorca might be a nice place to set up a business. He was toweling off his body when he heard a strange noise, through the half-open door, that set off alarms in his head. It was a distinct thut, and he knew exactly what it was. The muffled shot made by a pistol armed with a silencer.
He edged to one side and peered through the crack between the doorjamb. Two men were standing in the room. They were big guys, both dressed in dark sport jackets over black T-shirts. Sunglasses hid their eyes but their mouths had the cold-blooded hardness of the men he’d worked with in Special Ops.
They both held pistols with extended barrels. One man had his weapon pointed down at Isabel’s bloody body lying on the floor. Leonidas reconstructed what had happened. Isabel had gone to the door so she could proudly present him with the delivery. She wanted to please him. That’s all she wanted to do. The strangers had stepped inside, closed the door behind them, and taken care of Isabel with a single shot.
He picked up the sock holster hanging on a chair with his slacks, eased the gun out, turned the shower back on, and called, “Be out in a minute, darling.” The bathroom began to fill with steam. The man stepped through the door and aimed his gun at the shower curtain. Standing with his shoulders against the wall, Leonidas placed the .22 caliber muzzle on the back of the man’s head, and kept it there for a second. He wanted the stranger to know exactly how he was going to die.
The shower noise drowned out the snap of the gunshot. The man crumpled to the floor. Still wearing the towel wrapped around his waist, Leonidas stepped over the body and into the living room, pistol raised. The other man saw him and could have gotten off a shot with the gun in his hand, but he became locked as he stared at the monstrous ruin of Leonidas’s face. His hesitation was fatal. Leonidas aimed for the man’s Adam’s apple and squeezed the trigger.
The man grabbed at his throat with both hands and crashed to the floor. Leonidas let Isabel’s killer choke on the bloody froth for a minute before he shot him in the heart. Walking over to Isabel, who lay face down, he turned her onto her back. She’d been shot in the forehead. The T-shirt was so drenched with blood the word “Malibu” was now unreadable.
Leonidas felt something akin to sorrow, but that was quickly replaced by an icy anger. Salazar had set this up. The bastard intended to pay him, but not with money. He thought about Hawkins again. Salazar had wanted the man dead and would try again. If he stuck close to Hawkins, he might get to Salazar. The woman, who he now knew was named Kalliste, had been required to submit every detail of her project to the Spanish government, including hotel arrangements made for her and Hawkins. Salazar’s government informant had sent Leonidas the information. Digging it out, he called the same hotel to reserve a room, using a phony credit card he’d bought on the black market. The name on the card was Fred Healy.
“A friend of mine is staying at the hotel,” he told the clerk. “His name is Matt Hawkins. I wondered if you had a room close to his.”
“I can give you room 311, Mr. Healy. Your friend is in room 308. That’s the best I can do.”
“That would be fine. Please don’t let him know I called. I’d like to surprise him.”
“I understand, sir.”
He booked the room and thanked the clerk, then went into his bedroom. He made up a face with the features of a man in his sixties. The gray wig was in need of a trim. He dressed in tan slacks, a blue Oxford shirt under a navy blazer. Standing in front of the mirror, he practiced a slight hunch of the shoulders. Not bad. Middle-aged men were practically invisible.
Leonidas took a small, flat, plastic box from his suitcase and tucked it into his jacket pocket, then he wiped down the .22 pistol and placed it in Isabel’s hand. He carried a spare pistol to replace the one from the holster. The police would ID her as a prostitute. Maybe they’d figure the dead guys were her pimps. It was a thin story but might just keep the cops occupied for a while.
He blew Isabel a kiss and slipped out of the room. Minutes later, he was in a cab heading for the hotel.
The clerk remembered his call. “You’re in luck, Mr. Healy. Your friend just returned and is in the lounge.”
Leonidas bought a Financial Times and walked into the lounge. He sat at a table against a wall, ordered a club soda with lime, and unfolded the pink newspaper pages. Hawkins was sitting at the bar, head bent over an electronic tablet, when a couple entered the lounge.
The man with the shaved head was slightly less than six feet tall, although the muscular shoulders that bulged against the seams of his olive suit made him seem even bigger. He moved with an easy confidence in his step. Leonidas sized him up. Military. Probably seen combat. The attractive auburn-haired woman by his side was dressed in a black business suit. Leonidas thought at first that she was corporate, but there was an assertiveness in her slender body suggesting she also had military training on her resume.
The couple walked to the bar, and the man said, “Hey, Hawk. Brought you a surprise.”
Hawkins swiveled on his stool. Leonidas would have been dead long ago if he couldn’t read people from a distance. The oak-carved face of the American engineer displayed a mixture of amazement and pleasure. A stare. A hike of the brows, and a wide grin.
Leonidas placed his cell phone on the table in front of him and stuck a set of ear buds into his ears. An app allowed the phone to be used as a directional receiver. Keeping his eyes on the newspaper, he adjusted the volume.
This was going to be interesting.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hawkins slid off his stool and wrapped his arms around his ex-wife.
“You never cease to amaze me, Abby.”
She pecked him on the lips. “Where’s your Greek friend? The stuffy old archaeologist.”
“I never said Kalliste was stuffy,” Hawkins said. “I said she was highly-respected. Too bad you can’t meet her. She went back to Greece.”
“Good thing. I looked her up on the internet. She’s quite attractive for a middle-aged woman. Actually, for any age.”
“C’mon, Abby. You flew across the Atlantic because you were jealous?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Hawkins. I came to Spain because I heard you’d gotten yourself into a pile of trouble.”
Hawkins gave Calvin a look. “It was no big deal.”
“I’d say having a boat shot out from under you and almost drowning is a big deal.”
His friend shrugged. “The lady is very persuasive.”
“Don’t blame Calvin,” Abby said. “You and I were only married a short while, Matt, but long enough for me to know when you’re being disingenuous with that cavalier attitude of yours. I would have worn Calvin down eventually and wormed the story out of him. I’m glad you weren’t seriously hurt.”