Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80660 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80660 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Gabor was drunk, and that totally worked for Alexei.
He paused long enough to surreptitiously wipe his fingerprints from the glass he was holding; then he set it down on a table as he followed the crowd of people into the house. Carefully, he cut through the crowd without bumping or jostling anyone, closing the distance between himself and Gabor. His heart pounded harder as the feet between them turned to inches.
As they stepped inside, the only person between him and his target was a leggy blonde with large, fake tits. They had to be fake, because those fuckers didn’t move as she wobbled on her too-tall heels. Poor thing. She was going to break her ankle before the night was out.
With the fingers of his left hand, he reached into the sleeve of his black button-down shirt and pulled forward his weapon of choice. He opened his mouth to catch Gabor’s attention as they reached the main hall. The words temporarily got caught in his throat when he saw his mystery fox slipping out the front door. The man paused and looked over his shoulder, his eye catching on Alexei once again. But this time, he didn’t seem surprised. He winked and then disappeared outside.
Cheeky bastard. Alexei wanted to be the one doing all the winking.
No matter. It was better that the poor guy was escaping now. This party was about to go to hell fast.
“Mr. Kalman!” Alexei called out, allowing his natural Russian accent to bleed through. As he’d expected, Gabor stopped and jerked around to see who’d called for him.
Not giving him a chance to react, Alexei stepped forward and grabbed the man’s right hand in his right hand. With the first pump, Alexei loudly clapped the fingers of his left hand over the top of Gabor’s hand, forcing the super-thin needle into his flesh without him noticing.
“I want to say it is such an honor to finally meet you. When Yelena asked me to join her for your party, I had no idea it would be so fabulous. You’ll have to join us next week in our loft in Shoreditch. It’ll be fabulous.”
Gabor sort of blinked at him like a deer in the headlights while Alexei deftly pushed the plunger on the syringe with the heel of his palm, pumping the poison directly into his body without him knowing it. No, Gabor was too busy trying to figure out who this kid was, which of the six Yelenas at the party had brought him, and if a Shoreditch loft party was worth his time.
As quickly as he moved in, Alexei released his hand and continued through the crowd, vaguely aware of Gabor’s confused laugh and comments about a party being a great idea. Alexei smoothly moved to the next room, made a few playful comments to some other guests, then slipped right out the front door less than a minute after the poison had been delivered.
Yes, most assassins turned their nose up at poison. It was dirty and sneaky, but Alexei contended that it was a lost art. When he used poison—which wasn’t that often—he always got up close and personal with his target. He always made sure that he looked the person in the eye as he delivered the lethal dose. They might not know it, but he always saw their last healthy moments in their face as the death sentence was carried out.
He was soundlessly descending the front stairs when the sound of breaking glass from inside the town house reached his ears along with some muffled shouts of surprise. Yep, the poison had just reached his heart, stopping it permanently. The window for counteracting that poison was microscopic. It was already too late for Gabor Kalman. The arms dealer wasn’t going to supply anyone guns and missiles now.
Strolling down the street, he pulled the syringe from where it was tucked in his left sleeve and wiped any fingerprints from it before tossing it into a wastebin. A couple of blocks more and he hailed a taxi to take him to St. Pancras station. If traffic remained on his side, he’d be able to catch a late train to Paris tonight.
In the darkness of the cab as it wove its way through the winding London streets, he sent a text off to Marilyn, his handler, informing her the job was complete. She’d have the full payment—minus her fees—in his bank account in less than twenty-four hours. A second text was sent off to his uncles.
I’m safe.
Gabriel replied immediately that he should have a wonderful night. Five minutes later, Justin texted a picture of Gabriel stretched out on the floor with his two massive Norwegian Forest cats, Lucian and Francis, as they received belly rubs.
Okay, maybe he missed those cats as much as he missed his uncles.