Hannibal Rising by Jon Sharpe Page A

ran her fingers through his hair, then worked at his belt buckle.
    Fargo reached down, took her hand, and placed it on his pole. She uttered a tiny mew and melted against him, her fingers wrapped around his member.
    “Oh my,” she breathed.
    Fargo began undoing the dress. A row of tiny buttons that ran from the nape of her neck to the small of her back took forever. He would as soon have ripped the dress off her. At last he slipped a hand underneath. A few tugs at the tie to her drawers and his hand brushed silken thighs. She squirmed as he kneaded them. Inching higher, he covered her nether lips.
    “Yes! Ohhhh, yes!”
    Fargo plunged a finger in. Her mouth became molten; she kissed and licked and sucked with abandon. A few moments more and he had her breasts free. Her nipples poked into his palms like tacks.
    Samantha raked his shoulders with her nails and pushed against him. Her legs parted in invitation.
    Fargo was so intent on their lovemaking that he almost didn’t hear the rasp of the latch. He was sucking on a nipple, and glanced over.
    A young maid had entered and was staring at them. She wore the usual purple uniform and was holding a silver tray with a pitcher of water.
    Fargo figured she would make a hasty exit but she stared at him with her lips curled in a strange sort of grin. He raised his head from Sam’s melons.
    “What’s the matter? Why have you stopped?”
    “We have company.”
    Samantha twisted around. “What the hell? I gave instructions I wasn’t to be disturbed.”
    Without looking behind her, the maid pushed the door shut with her foot.
    “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” Samantha angrily demanded.
    The maid threw the bolt.
    “Are you insane? Leave this moment or you’re no longer in my employ.”
    There was something about the maid’s face that triggered sudden alarm in Fargo. She had her hair up in a bun and it took him a few seconds to realize where he had seen her before—it was the female assassin who had tried to kill him on the Yancy and helped her brother slay Tobacco Man. He pulled at his pants and started to roll off the bed, his member jutting like a flagpole.
    “What are you doing?” Sam asked.
    The maid exploded into motion. In two bounds she was at the bed. She had hold of the pitcher and before Fargo could duck or dodge she swept it up and out. The water caught him full in the face, getting into his eyes and his nose. Blinking and backpedaling, Fargo swiped a sleeve across his eyes to clear his vision.
    The pitcher and the tray hit the floor with a crash. The maid’s hands flashed behind her and flashed out again, each holding a knife. She slashed at Samantha, who recoiled, and then she was around the bed in a crouch, still grinning her strange grin, her eyes alight with glee.
    Fargo stabbed for his Colt but it wasn’t there. His gun belt was lying on the bed.
    The holy terror in the maid’s uniform never said a word. She was all business, and her business was slaying him. Her knives weaved figure eights in the air.
    “My pistol!” Fargo shouted to Sam but she was frozen in shock. He avoided a stab at his belly and a slash at his neck. He had to let go of his pants and they began to slide down his hips. Grabbing hold, he shifted to the right but went left. The feint saved his life.
    The assassin lost her grin. She speared a knife at his chest and when he jerked aside lanced her other knife at his jugular.
    Fargo flung himself back and collided with the wall. Inadvertently he had backed himself into a corner. He held on to his pants to keep them from falling and tried to spring past her but she was much too quick. He had to jerk back again to avoid having his throat cut from ear to ear.
    “No!” Sam cried, and threw a pillow.
    The assassin swatted it aside and came at Fargo again. He tried to grab her wrist and pain seared his upper arm. She had cut through the buckskin sleeve and drawn blood. Before she could skip out of reach he whipped a