The FBI Thrillers Collection(270)
She laughed with him. “I’ll bet Ollie is pleased.”
“Yep, but he wanted to be the one to make the arrest. Oh yeah,” he added, raising his face just above hers, “your wedding present from me is arriving tomorrow. You took the day off to see your doc so I set up the delivery.”
She grabbed his arms, hugged him, then shook him. “What is it? Tell me, Dillon, what did you get me?”
“I ain’t talkin’, honey. You can just wait for now, but I sure want to hear something out of you when I come in tomorrow night.”
“You won’t even give me a hint?”
“Not a single one. I want you to wallow in anticipation, Sherlock.”
She sighed, then punched his arm. “All right, but I’ll probably be too excited with all this anticipation to sleep. Would you sing me just one line?”
He blinked, then raised his head and sang, “I don’t know nothin’ better than a spur that’s got its boot.”
“All right, that’s not enough. More.”
He kissed her ear, then her throat. “I don’t know nothin’ better than a barb that’s got its wire.”
She laughed and snuggled closer. “More.”
“I don’t know nothin’ better than a glass that’s full of scotch.”
“More.”
“I don’t know nothin’ better than a poke that’s got his cow.”
“And the last line?”
“No, I don’t know nothin’ better than a man who’s got his mate.”
“Oh, Dillon, that’s the greatest.”
“Goodness, you’re easy.” He kissed her mouth. “No, my sister didn’t write that one, I did. You like that? You’re not putting me on, are you? You appreciate the finer points of my music?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Oh yes.”
“I wrote it for you.”
She gave him a radiant smile. “I just thought of another verse.”
An eyebrow went up.
She sang in an easy western twang, “I don’t know nothin’ better than a fetlock with its horse.”
“A team,” he said. “We make a great team. What’s a fetlock anyway?”
She just grinned up at him. He stroked his fingers over her soft skin. He began kissing her and didn’t stop for a very long time. When he was finally on the edge of sleep, he wondered what she’d play for him first on the new Steinway grand piano that was being delivered tomorrow.
The Target
CATHERINE COULTER
Table of Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
Epilogue
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE TARGET
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1998 by Catherine Coulter
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://us.penguingroup.com
ISBN: 978-1-1011-9175-0
A JOVE BOOK®
Jove Books first published by The IMPRINT Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
First edition (electronic): July 2001
TO DR. ANTON POGANY,
WHO HAS THE INSTINCTS,
THE PATIENCE, A LIGHT
TOUCH. IN OTHER WORDS,
HE’S GOT THE RIGHT
STUFF. LET’S KEEP
ON COOKING.
My thanks to Alex McClure, Esquire, for her intrepid assistance on the workings of the federal justice system.
Prologue
HE SAW THE man clearly: tall, with dark clothes, a stark figure against the misty gray sky. He was walking into the big granite building, ugly and flat-looking, with scores of windows that didn’t look out over much except if you were up high. Then, suddenly, he was behind the man, just over his shoulder, keeping pace with him, watching him take the elevator to the nineteenth floor. He was nearly beside him as he walked down the long corridor and opened the door to a large office. A smiling receptionist greeted him, laughing at something he said. He watched the man greet two other people, a young man and a young woman, both well dressed, both obviously subordinate to him. He went into a large office with the man, saw a United States flag, a huge desk with its computer on top, the built-in bookshelves behind him, the windows beside him. He punched up the computer. Then, he was right behind the man; he could have reached out and helped him put on the long black robe. He watched him fasten the two clips closed. The man opened a door and walked into a big room, the look on his face somber, becoming cold, all the earlier humor wiped clean. There was a buzz. It stopped abruptly when he came into the room. Then the place went deathly silent.