Blood of the Assassin (Assassin Series 5) by Russell Blake

man in a highly starched white shirt and black vinyl apron, thinning hair trimmed close to his head, like his carefully groomed goatee. Lips permanently pursed in judgment, he was busily polishing the gleaming bar top with a rag as muted lounge music drifted from hidden speakers. In three hours the place would be standing room only, filled with young professionals with money to spend and time to kill, looking for that one special connection that would satisfy their desires for the night; but now, during rush hour, it was dead.
    The stylish doors pushed open and a medium-sized man in his thirties with conservatively cut black hair and a mustache entered and looked around the dimly lit interior. The bartender eyed his understated rugby shirt and tan slacks without interest and returned to his chore, leaving the newcomer to find a place to sit and order something whenever he was ready.
    He chose a booth in a far corner, facing the door, checking his watch as he sat down, and after tossing the jacket he’d been carrying on the seat next to him, pulled a smartphone from his pocket and checked his e-mail messages, peering at the tiny screen intently, seemingly unaware of the bartender. After a few minutes, another man entered – this one older, tall and thin, his movements measured, wearing a black leather jacket and jeans, the dome of his shaved head shining from the beams of the overhead can lights, the shadows accenting his cadaverous features.
    The new arrival’s eyes scanned the bar and then settled on the only other patron, still fiddling with his phone. He took long, fluid strides across the black and white checkered floor and took a seat across from the younger man before glancing at the bartender, who stopped what he was doing and came around the long bar to their table.
    “What’ll it be, gentlemen?”
    The older man looked at the bottles standing sentry in back of the bar. “Chivas. Neat.”
    The younger man put his phone on the table top and regarded the bartender. “Do you have Bohemia?” he asked.
    “Yes. Regular or dark?”
    “Regular, please.”
    The two men didn’t speak until the drinks had been brought and paid for, and the bartender had moved out of earshot.
    “What do you have for us?” the older man began in a surprisingly soft voice.
    The younger man took a pull on his beer. “I put out the word to everyone I know, and I think I got a bite on the location you were asking about.”
    The older man nodded, then took an appreciative sip of his drink. “Good. Were you able to get any details other than a location?”
    “Only after a long night buying my source tequila shots and staying out till three in the morning.”
    “Sounds like rough duty.”
    “You don’t know the half of it. I feel like I was dragged behind a garbage truck for a few miles.”
    “I’m sure it was terrible. Now what about the information?”
    “It was harder to get than I imagined. Nobody else even had a hint of anything helpful. That’s almost unheard of. It should be worth more. A lot more.”
    The older man sighed, weary of the game. “How much more?” He bit off each syllable.
    The younger man reclined and took another drink of beer. It was promising that the older man hadn’t just gotten up and left, confirming his instinct that the information was valuable.
    “I was thinking double.”
    The older man’s eyes narrowed to slits. “In every relationship, there comes a point where one of the two parties involved realizes that he’s not getting adequate value from the other to continue.”
    “Which wouldn’t be the case here, as this is the most hotly sought info I can recall, and a bargain at four times the price. Besides which, if anything happens once I give it to you, I’ll be under substantial scrutiny, as will everyone else who had access. That additional risk needs to be compensated for. It’s not unfair.”
    The older man sat back and contemplated killing the younger one, right there, and then calmly