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Following the action both of them tilted their heads to the side.
“She must be double-jointed.”
“Triple,” McNab decided. “And it’s obvious nobody in this group has a spine, otherwise they couldn’t get in that position.”
They turned their heads again, this time toward each other, and their eyes met with identical gleams of lust and challenge.
“We can’t let a bunch of porn actors outdo us.” McNab was already pulling at the hook of her trousers.
“Damn right we can’t. But it’s probably going to hurt.”
“Cops feel no pain.”
“Oh yeah? Try this.” She was laughing as she pulled him to the floor.
In another part of town, Sylvester Yost finished his after-dinner brandy and cigar. He’d activated his single server droid for precisely twelve minutes, to deal with the disarray of his kitchen and dining room.
Of course, he would check on the job himself. Even well-programmed droids usually failed to see that all was in the perfect order Yost demanded.
He’d prepared himself a delightful veal picatta for dinner. Often after a job he liked to putter around his kitchen, enjoying the scents and textures of cooking, sipping an appropriate wine as his sauces thickened.
But an indulgence like that dirtied pots and pans and so on. The droid came in handy there, as Yost preferred to relax with his brandy and cigar rather than loading the dishwasher.
With his eyes half-closed and his big, muscular body draped in a long robe of black silk, he listened to the swelling strains of Beethoven.
Such moments, he believed, were a man’s right after a successful day’s work.
And soon, very soon, such moments would stretch to days, and days to weeks as he moved into quiet retirement. Oh, he would miss the work, he supposed. Now and then. Of course, if he missed it enough he could certainly take the occasional contract.
Interesting ones, just to slay any dragons of tedium.
But for the most part he was certain he would be quite content with his music and his art, his leisure and his solitude.
When this contract had been offered, Yost had taken it as a sign. It was the perfect end to his career. Never before had he had occasion to come so close to a man of Roarke’s stature or capabilities. Because of that, he’d been able to demand, and receive, three times his usual fee for three targets.
The fourth was to be acted on only at his discretion. If he saw his way clear to assassinating Roarke himself within two months after the initial contract was fulfilled, he would receive a lovely bonus of twenty-five million dollars.
Such a pretty retirement nest, Yost thought.
He had no doubt he would see his way clear, quite clear.
It would be the most brilliant act of his career. And one he looked forward to with relish.
chapter eleven
Eve methodically picked her way through the first reel of red tape to access personal data on Justice Thomas Werner. According to official data, Werner had suffered a fatal heart attack and died at his home in an exclusive suburb of East Washington.
It had taken a little time to identify the judge from the scanty data she’d been given, but she’d run through the archives of the screen news bulletins for the previous winter and had finally hit on Werner’s death.
Now, it was a matter of winding her way around and through the Privacy Act that shielded a man of Werner’s standing from curiosity seekers. And, even with proper identification, hampered an official inquiry.
“You stupid son of a bitch,” she muttered. “I’m a cop. You’ve got my badge number, my case file code, my voice print. What do you want now, blood?”
“Problem, Lieutenant?”
She didn’t bother to glance over at Roarke’s question. “East Washington bureaucracy bullshit. It wants me to submit my request again during working hours. Well, I’m working, aren’t I?”
“Perhaps I could—”
