Termination Orders(38)

His lips were still moving when Morgan approached. “—it’s just this full-body sensation, and I’m telling you, you’ve never experienced anything like it. It’s just wave after wave of—excuse me, can I help you?”

“Yeah. You can get the hell out of here.”

Natasha looked at him, intrigued.

The young man said in a huff, “Hey, buddy, do you know who I am?”

“What you are is leaving,” he said. “Now.”

The kid frowned. This lack of deference was obviously a new experience for him. He turned to face Morgan, chest puffed out, hands made into fists, in his best imitation of a tough guy. “What if I don’t?”

Morgan turned to face him. The other man was taller, but Morgan was a fighter, and it showed. “Don’t tell me you’re actually threatening me,” he said dismissively. He noticed that the kid had looked toward his bodyguard. “I wouldn’t,” said Morgan.

“Oh, yeah? Why not?”

“I’m not afraid of a fight. But you, on the other hand . . .”

“I know karate and capoeira.”

“And I’ve killed a man with my bare hands. Now listen. You get out of here now, or I start breaking fingers. How many do you think I can get to before your bodyguard pulls me off of you?”

The kid recoiled, then turned to walk away. “Savage plebeian,” he said under his breath as he went.

Morgan was left alone next to Natasha, who had been ostentatiously ignoring the interaction. “Lovely crowd, aren’t they?” said Morgan nonchalantly.

“Give a trained monkey a decent suit and a professional haircut, and he would fit right in,” she replied, without missing a beat. She had only the slightest accent.

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “Dressing a monkey in a suit would constitute fun, and I don’t think they allow that here.”

“I think they do,” she said without looking at him, “but only if it comes here to die.”

Morgan chuckled. “Sounds like you’re not crazy about being here.”

“I am counting the minutes to when I can leave this excruciating event.”

“Funny,” Morgan retorted. “I’ve been told that you’re actually fairly eager to stay.”

Her cunning eyes flashed on him with immediate understanding. “Perhaps,” she said. “Now that you’re here.”





Natasha opened the door to her suite at the Mandarin and pulled him in by his tie for an aggressive kiss. Her breath was fragrant, like wine, and her kisses were fervent, almost desperate. She held his head in her hands, leaning her forehead into his, noses scrunched up against each other. She breathed heavily with desire and smiled.

She was a subtle seductress. A lesser manipulator would have just used her body, leering stares, pure sex. But this, this was passion—real passion, calculating as it might have been. This was, without a doubt, a cat-and-mouse game, but it was unclear who was which. Both their masks were layers deep, and there was no way of telling how far down sincerity was, if it was there at all.

Morgan walked into the room warily. As assassinations went, this was the oldest trick in the book, and he would not fall for it, not even for a woman like Natasha. But there wasn’t anyone else in the suite. All that caught his eye was—

“Is that a checkerboard?” he asked, with a hint of authentic enthusiasm. It was the first chink in the armor, a tiny wrench in the works of their mutual manipulation. It was a touch of sincerity, of something genuine in what would have been, for both of them, a completely fabricated interaction.

“My favorite pastime,” she said. “It helps to while away the long hours of boredom. Do you?”

“Do I play? I’ve only been wiping the floor with any opponent since I was eight.”

“Then we play,” she said, decisively. “We shall find out if you can wipe the floor with me.”

She set up the board, and she chose black. They sat across from each other.

“Care to make it interesting?” he said.

“And how do you propose that?”

“An item of clothing for each captured piece,” he said.

“That’s hardly fair, is it? Capture six of my pieces, and I’ll be . . .” She smiled and blushed—a blush that Morgan suspected was not born of modesty. “I suppose that would be acceptable.”

She made her opening gambit, and he made his. As they made their plays, Morgan began to get a feel for her style. It seemed naïve, unsophisticated. He captured one of her pieces. With an alluring smile, she slowly removed a shoe, black and high-heeled, letting him get a look at her stockinged leg. She placed the shoe on the table next to the board.