Eleven

Rutskoi looked up at the skyscraper right across the street from Drake’s building.

Most of the building was made up of offices for everything ranging from import-export to dental studios. There were a few apartments, scattered here and there throughout the building. Most of the apartments were rented by companies on short-term leases. Two he suspected were used by high-class sex professionals for by-appointment-only sex.

Rutskoi was tempted…but no. Not until the job was finished. But afterward, hell. He’d have 10 million dollars. There wasn’t a woman in the world he couldn’t buy, for the rest of his life, or at least until his dick gave out. And even then, there was always Viagra.

Bless the Americans and their inventions.

By a fluke, there were two apartments on the thirtieth floor facing Drake’s quarters, both in the middle, across from where Drake’s living room was. A corner apartment or office wouldn’t do any good, because Rutskoi needed a straight shot from the center of the building into the room at the center of the building across the street.

Drake’s windows were treated with polycarbonate, probably lots of it, knowing Drake. His windows would be as bullet-resistant as you could get. Bulletproof didn’t really exist—not even armored cars were entirely bulletproof—but Drake’s would come close. Even a bullet fired from the most powerful weapon—and Rutskoi had the best, a Barrett 95—wouldn’t penetrate the treated glass at a sharp angle with any degree of accuracy. If it did penetrate, he couldn’t be sure of a kill shot.

He had to be sure. Absolutely positive.

So he needed to be in a place with a direct line of sight straight into Drake’s living room. It was the only room Rutskoi had been in and he’d counted the doors. Fifth from the south end.

The plans of Drake’s building were nowhere to be found, not even in the municipal zoning offices. Rutskoi had found the name of the architect’s studio that had designed the building and there, too, the plans were gone. Disappeared, like a puff of smoke.

Well, Drake was smart but he wasn’t God, all-knowing and almighty. The plans of the building across from his were right there where they should be, both in the city zoning office and the architect’s offices, and Rutskoi studied them carefully. Then he hacked into the building administrator’s office.

The thirtieth floor held the offices of an interior decorator, an ad agency, a graphic designer, the New York offices of a Chinese manufacturing company, a ballet school and two small apartments.

Apartment 3033 belonged to one Christopher Wright, low-level broker and sometimes day trader. Which meant he did a lot of work from home. Wright was thirty-four, married to a freelance designer who did a lot of volunteer work. They had a child.

While Rutskoi was perfectly prepared to take a family out so he could establish his sniper’s nest, there could be consequences. Wright and his wife seemed to be plugged into the world. The child went to school. A family like that couldn’t just disappear. Inside of twenty-four hours, forty-eight max, someone would call and, not getting an answer, would show up.

Rutskoi needed to hole up for as long as it took, or as long as the situation let him.

Apartment 3034 looked better. It was owned by one of the advertising agencies and used as a residential hotel for visiting clients. Rutskoi took a look at the schedule and saw that he had a stroke of luck. The next occupancy was one Oscar Melim from Florianopolis, Brazil and he wasn’t due until December 2. Until then, Rutskoi was free to arrange his nest. He would have liked an open-ended availability but it was unrealistic to hope that the perfect spot would remain eternally empty. Still, fourteen days wasn’t bad.

About time things started breaking his way.

“Come on, get up.” Drake tugged at Grace’s hand, the only thing visible under his fur blanket besides a swirl of shiny, reddish-brown hair.

Grace waggled her index finger. No.

“Come on,” he wheedled, “I’ve got something to show you. You’ll like it, I promise you.”

The finger wheeled. Later.

“Presents,” he said slyly. “Lots of presents, for you.”

The hand flapped up and down. Bye-bye.

The sex had exhausted her, but not him. He was thirty-four years old and he had no idea sex could do that to him. Make him feel relaxed and on top of the world, while forgetting all about the world.

He didn’t even mind that he hadn’t come. Just watching her, that beautiful face flushed with pleasure, feeling her soft little cunt milking him, feeling her shudders, ah—it had been worth it.

He bent down and kissed the tip of her shoulder, the only piece of skin showing besides her hand. A pretty little shoulder it was, too. He kissed it again. A sigh came out from under the blanket. “Not fair.” Her voice was muffled.

He loved the English saying All’s fair in love and war. “Not fair” was a concept for losers. He kissed her again and she rolled over, looking at him out of mutinous eyes.

“I was just falling asleep. Someone exhausted me. You might be Iron Man, but I’m not.”

“I think a bullet hole pretty much proves I’m not Iron Man. And you can sleep later, I promise. But right now you need to get up, love. There are some things I have to show you.”

There was nothing more he would love to do than to slip back into bed beside her, hold her tightly while she slept. And when he felt her begin the slow rise toward wakefulness, he would slide his hand downward, gently caress her soft little sheath until he felt the dampness begin, and enter her with his fingers. He wanted her to awaken on an orgasm, her own body’s pleasure the gentlest of alarm clocks. He would turn her until he was flush against her back, lift her leg and slip inside. She would be tight. But a little less tight than last time. She would soon stretch to accommodate him. Over time, her cunt would slowly become branded as his, shaped to receive his cock, and his only.

They’d make love very, very gently, half asleep, coming slowly awake in a haze of pleasure. Afterward, they’d snuggle in bed until late afternoon, when Drake would ring for more food. He’d have fun feeding her again, watching that luscious mouth open for his fingers, stroking her breasts. He wouldn’t let her get dressed. Clothes were for civilians.

Quiet time, for two lovers just discovering each other. The most natural thing in the world.

Of course, that was all on an alternate planet, in another universe, where Drake was free to love whom he wanted, without fear that his woman would get her brains blown out, or her skin flayed off, or raped for days as payback.

Wasn’t going to happen. They weren’t going to get her. Not while he drew a breath.

He needed to start on a long and treacherous path today, if he was to be able to guide them to safety, and he needed to start now.

“Grace,” he said, putting the bite of command into his voice. “I’d like for you to get up now, please.”

It worked. She turned over, sat up, startled. “Sure.”

Throwing back the blanket, she stood up in one graceful move. She took in his work clothes—a black turtleneck sweater and black jeans—and reached for his gi. Drake nearly sighed as he watched her pull up the pants almost to her breasts so she wouldn’t trip on them and wrap the top around herself almost twice.

On this other planet, Drake would simply keep her naked. Make it easier.

It pained him to see her in his ugly gi, but luckily, he had an answer for that. In boxes in the study.

He stepped close to her and kissed her on the neck. “Sorry to disturb your rest, love, but there are some things I have to show you.”

Any other woman would have berated him for making her get up. But Grace took one look at his face and merely nodded. Good girl.