No One Lives Forever

It happened again. No, it hadn't been his imagination. Someone stood on the roof across the way, an office building or warehouse. An odd place to catch a smoke in the middle of the night. Folding his arms over his bare chest, he watched awhile longer, to make sure.

'Haven't you heard?' he whispered, heading for his bedroom to change. 'Smoking is bad for your health.'

For only a second, he thought about waking Jasmine to tell her where he was going. But he felt certain she would want to come along . . . and bring her knife as a companion.

No way, Jose Cuervo! He'd fly solo on this mission.

CHAPTER 8

Day six

Nearly four in the morning and the hotel lobby was quiet as Christian slipped out a side entrance. Very little activity. Outside, muggy air seized his skin like a warm washcloth. And without a breeze, the air felt thick and oppressive. Motionless, it deadened sound, muffling noise in its vacuum.

Given the temperature, he already regretted his choice in clothing, but his gear had been picked more for stealth than comfort. Dressed in dark clothes and boots, he would meld into the night. As he crept along an alley, he stuck close to a brick wall, mingling with its shadows. He felt the Glock pressed against the small of his back, tucked into the waistband of his pants with a black T-shirt worn loose over the weapon.

On cue, the darkness closed in as it usually did. To regain control, he shut his eyes and focused, allowing his senses to take hold. He steadied his breathing and tapped into his abilities. The act had become second nature. In no time the hunter emerged and exhilaration infused his blood. Eyes vigilant, he now searched for the best spot to cross the street—unseen from above.

Already his skin felt damp, a layer of sheen glistened on his forearms. The extreme humidity sucked the moisture from his pores. Christian glanced down the street. Parked cars along the thoroughfare held his attention as he looked for movement.

Nothing. Before he darted across, he glanced to the rooftop. No sign of his prey.

But as he made his move, he heard a sound. In the distance, a high-pitched splinter of broken glass followed by the shriek of a cat. The eerie cry resonated along the buildings of the side street, prickling his skin. Despite his reaction, he smiled. Another creature of the night ... a kindred spirit.

Finding a likely spot to cross the deserted street, he zeroed in on the building. The doors to the street were locked, but he located a fire escape to the roof. With little effort, he leapt to grab the ladder and pulled it to the asphalt. The metal groaned in complaint, rust on its hinges. He winced at the sound.

Why don't you send up a flare? Make a real announcement, Delacorte!

Whoever watched the penthouse surely knew he was coming now. Still, he had to see for himself. He pulled the Glock, pointing it toward the night sky. He climbed step by step, focusing on the parapet wall of the building. His muscles tensed, ready to dive for cover if necessary. He waited for a shadow to peer over the edge. No sign of the man.

As he drew closer, reaching the landing on the final flight of stairs, Christian dropped to a knee. He pressed a shoulder to the wall and listened. Nothing.

He craned his neck and peered over the top of the wall, grip taut on his weapon. On the far side of the roof, a brick structure housed a door, presumably a stairwell shaft into the building. The easiest place for someone to hide.

Relying on gut instincts, he switched his hunting mode into high gear. In one fluid motion he leapt over the edge and crept toward the door, ducking near the mechanical room housing a commercial grade air-conditioning unit. As he did, the equipment kicked on, an abrupt whirring sound. He cursed under his breath until he realized he could use it to his advantage, moving closer without being heard. But the noise would interfere with his hearing too.

Hell! He was going into this blind.

With his element of surprise questionable, he knew he had one other distinct edge. Following a marginal plan, he navigated the exhaust vents to circle the brick structure, keeping to the pockets of murky dark. It put the light from his hotel across the street to his back, keeping his face in shadow. The man would be forced to deal with the glare. Repositioned on the far side, his back pressed against the wall, he hoisted his gun, inching his way to the corner.

As he drew near, the damned AC unit droned on, deadening his senses. He swallowed hard, knowing he'd have to move or risk the tables being turned on him.

Now or never, hot shot!

He sprang from his hiding spot, gun drawn. In that same instant, the AC unit stopped and the stillness of the night closed in. In a voice way too loud, he shouted, 'Freeze!' hoping to sound like a cop. Pretty lame since he only spoke English.

No one. Damn it! His eyes searched the shadows. He found nothing out of the ordinary, except—

The lingering stench confirmed his suspicions. A cigarette had been tossed aside, as if the smoker had just lit up. Smoke wafted into the air, lazy swirls made heavy by the humidity. He hadn't imagined it. Someone had been there, but left in a hurry.

After he inspected every dark corner of the rooftop and found no one, Christian slipped his gun into his waistband. He walked back to the discarded cigarette butt and shifted his gaze across the street to the balcony of his suite. From this distance, with the hotel room dark, he couldn't see much. But if someone had the right surveillance gear, the range wouldn't be a factor. Jasmine's precautions to thwart surveillance had been prudent after all.

With the release of tension, Christian raked a hand through his hair and headed for the parapet wall. The Glock pressed against his belly, he climbed back over the building ledge and tromped down the fire escape stairs. Stealth, be damned!

Once on ground level, he meandered down the short alleyway, heading for the street and his hotel. Fatigue eased into the muscles of his shoulders. As he approached the quiet intersection and stepped into the street, a harsh sound pierced the night air.

Tires screeched. He caught motion to his right.

Faint light glinted off a windshield as gloved hands braced the steering wheel. A face veiled in shadow. A dark sedan with no lights barreled down. It crossed the center lane, swerving straight for him.

Shit! Without thinking, he lunged left.

The car fishtailed. Grinding metal, it crashed into another vehicle, forcing the shrill cry of a car alarm. The sedan careened by. Its mirror grazed his hip as he turned. With the impact, he spun out of control, falling against a parked car. The momentum hurled his body to the ground like a rag doll. He slammed to the asphalt—hard.

'Arrghh.' He gasped, air rushing from his lungs.

To break his fall, he braced his forearms in front of his face as he skidded to a stop, scraping his hands and elbows. He struggled for air, chest heaving. And the sting of road rash burned his skin. Bits of gravel stuck to raw flesh.

Car alarms blared without compassion, head and taillights flashing in cadence to the siren—two-toned, high- pitched. The noise served as cruel torment for his aching head.

'Ahh . . . hell,' he groaned, leveling his eyes to catch a glimpse of the car speeding away. But a flashing headlight blinded him. He squinted in pain, trying to recall the make or model of the getaway car. Other than the description of a dark sedan, nothing registered in his mind. It happened too fast.

He strained to get a look at the license plate, but his vision was blurred. His own hand, held inches from his face, would have been a challenge. Now the vehicle weaved in and out of shadows, racing from his sight with tires squealing as it turned a corner. Gone. Only the smell of its exhaust fumes lingered.

Christian struggled to catch his breath, assessing the damage. Nothing broken, but his chest felt like a mule had kicked it—twice. The Glock wedged in his pants had bruised his ribs. For a long moment he lay on the ground, unable to budge, trying to shake loose the cobwebs. Lights whirled and vanished to an inky black as he faded in and