I put some bounce in my step. I was dressed as a funky twenty-something. My hair was covered with a purple wig cut in a bob style that skimmed my jaw. I wore a plaid, short skirt with heavy, black boots. My headphones sat on my ears and I wore a cute backpack. No one had to know that it was filled with weapons.
My prey was directly ahead of me.
Why was Bastian walking down the Strip? My nose wrinkled as I watched him. He had a fleet of fancy supercars and a bunch of black SUVs with drivers that he used when he needed to go anywhere. Today, he wore another suit that hugged that masculine body. It was dark blue, and the jacket accentuated his broad shoulders, and unfortunately, covered his ass. I bet his suit pants fit him just fine.
I emitted a low growl. I didnotcare about his ass.
I clocked the way people looked at him. Women did a double take, and some men looked back as well, for an envious second glance.
Bastian didn’t notice. He was moving like a ship locked on course. But I knew that he did notice. He’d be taking in everything and everyone around him. Good assassins always did.
A good assassin is aware of their surroundings, every minute of every day.
Another of Ed’s rules.
Where was he going?
I kept an eye on Bastian, not daring to get too close. A moment later, he turned into the Venetian Casino.
Frowning, I followed.
Inside, he didn’t head for the elevators or the casino floor. Instead, he headed for the Grand Canal Shoppes.
The famed indoor shopping mall was a replica of the Grand Canal in Venice. My lip curled. It was a poor imitation. I’d been to Venice several times and loved it. I glanced around the faux canal. A gondola lazily sliced under an arched bridge. The faux-Italian architecture was lined with high-end shops. Overhead, the ceiling was painted sky blue, and dotted with fluffy, white clouds.
What was Bastian doing here? Maybe he had a business meeting? Or a…date? My stomach curdled.
The why didn’t matter. It was time that I did what I’d promised Ed.
I would avenge his death.
I owed him that much.
Bastian had betrayed him. I would right that wrong.
Ahead, Bastian turned down a corridor. I glanced at the sign above. Ahead, lay the elevator to the 1923 Prohibition Bar.
Frowning, I gave him some time, then I followed.
The elevator descended then spat me out in a small vestibule. I cautiously looked around. There was no sign of Bastian. No sign of anyone. I glanced at the sign on the wall and saw that the bar was closed today.
A huge, gold-framed image of a blonde flapper in a beautiful, beaded dress and clutching a long cigarette filled the wall.
The picture had a door handle.
I pushed it open and the picture frame swung open revealing a hidden door.
I blinked, studying the hidden bar beyond. It was like stepping back into the 1920s. There was lots of wood-paneling, red-patterned wallpaper, and leather and velvet furniture.
Slowly, I inched inside, every sense on high alert. I slid along the wall.
I spotted Bastian. He was leaning casually against the long, wooden bar. Like he had all the time in the world. I gave myself a second to drink in that face—the high cheekbones, straight nose, dark eyes.
I ducked down behind a long, velvet couch and moved closer.
There was no one here. The bar was closed. Was he meeting someone?
“I know you’re here, Lark.”
