“Are you the man known as Outlaw?” The voice was soft, not deep, standard American.
“Yeah.” He didn’t ask who was calling. It didn’t make any difference. The guy would lie anyway. If necessary for the job, Outlaw could find out. Otherwise, he didn’t give a shit as long as the money landed in the bank. “What do you need?”
“Ah, a man who comes directly to the point. I like that.”
“Well, since I’ve got myself a rep as a straight shooter, let me tell you straight out I’m not moving until my fee is in my bank.”
“I was told about your…style, Mr. Outlaw. If you check your bank account, you will find your fee. Plus. I will send you the information on the person of interest in ten minutes, once you’ve ascertained this.”
Outlaw didn’t need ten minutes. Inside a minute, he’d logged onto his bank account and yes, there it was, 500K with an extra 100K thrown in for goodwill.
Outlaw knew his employers lived, breathed and died for money. Extra money meant this was extra important.
After ten minutes, a beep from his cell phone. He had a text message.
Nicole Pearce. Translation agency, Wordsmith. Morrison Building, San Diego, California.
Nicole Pearce received data in e-mail sent from Marseilles on June 28. Retrieve hard disk, possible flash drive, search for backups, eliminate computer, eliminate Nicole Pearce. Strict timeline. Job must be completed by July 2.
Okay.
Get a hard disk from a woman, snuff woman. He’d done harder things in his life. He checked the website of this business, Wordsmith. After half an hour, he had a handle on what it did and he’d gotten a good look at Nicole Pearce.
Christ. She was a fucking looker. One of his men, Dalton, was perpetually horny. If Dalton had been on this op, he’d toss Dalton this Pearce babe to play with for a while. Make him grateful.
He checked Vital Statistics and saw that she lived with one Nicholas Pearce, her father, not her husband.
Outlaw purged his search history from his computer, stood up and stretched. He finished his bourbon looking out the window at his little fiefdom.
He loved this life. He loved the heft and feel of it, the money and the power. He loved having hard skills and making soft men pay through the nose for them.
Outlaw stood at the window, watching the planes from Hartfield climb into the sky, one after another, like clockwork. In his own way, he was as precise a technician as any pilot or surgeon.
He’d go down to his state-of-the-art gym and give himself a good workout, get limber, then would have a light lunch with water. No more booze. He was now officially on Op Time, dedicated solely to the mission, and would be until the job was done.
He had a private plane at his disposal. He’d book it for 3 P.M., give him time to research the person, the hit.
His eyes lingered on the lovely face on his computer screen.
Christ, a real beauty. Who was about to be sacrificed to the money men.
Sorry, honey, he thought.I don’t know how you did it, but you just stepped on the wrong toes.
SEVEN
San Diego
June 29
Sam putthe phone down for the bazillionth time, teeth grinding. Nicole wasn’t answering. She hadn’t picked up the phone the first time he called, she wasn’t picking up the phone the thirtieth or fortieth time.
He knew that the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different outcome each time.
Washe insane?
God only knew. He sure wasn’t entirely sane. He’d been pinging off the walls of his own brain ever since he’d woken up in a post-coital glow unlike any he’d ever had before, only to find that Nicole had sneaked out while he was sleeping.
Without a word, without even a goddamnednote.
