Risk the Night by Anne Stuart

 
 
    CHAPTER ONE

 
    It had started as an average day.   The man currently calling himself Constantine awoke in his
small apartment in the third arondissement of Paris after
three hours’ sleep.   He seldom
needed more, and often made do with less, a blessing or a curse from the surly
god who made him.   He’d showered,
shaved and dressed in work clothes, staring at himself in the mirror for a long
time.   He had no vanity – his
face and body were tools of his trade and nothing else.   He had a lean, wiry frame, deceptively
strong, and he was taller than he appeared.   His face was narrow, with strong bones, and the only thing
remarkable about him were his bright blue eyes, an unfortunately memorable
shade of turquoise.   He put in the
muddying contacts, surveyed the results with satisfaction before tying his hair
back and covering it with a cap.   In his black jeans and black turtleneck he would blend in with the
students in the area, particularly with the backpack he’d purchased for the
occasion.
    He double-checked its contents.   A change of clothes.   His Glock and silencer, just in case.   He tucked the knife in one of the black boots he wore,
yanking the jeans over the bone handle.   He’d planned carefully, as always, and it wouldn’t take long.   He’d have more than enough time to
return here for a shower if things got messy.   The good thing about black – blood never showed.
    It was a warm spring day, promising rain later.   He moved down the streets at a
leisurely pace in the early morning hours, reaching the discreet boutique hotel
well before the city day had begun.   Scum of the earth like Mirador never gave him
a moment’s pause.   He had a gift, a
gift for death, and in the case of someone like Mirador it was well-used.
    He didn’t know why he hesitated.   He’d been trained for this by none other than the United States
government, though they no longer paid his bills.   And at least on his own he could pick and choose his
targets.   He didn’t have to worry
about shades of gray – either the target was scum or worth
redeeming.   He had more than enough
business taking care of the absolute scum.
    So much, in fact, that he was getting tired of it.   So damned tired.   But for now he had no reason to quit.
    He took care of Mirador , quickly, cleanly
and headed back to his apartment, going straight for the shower.   By the time he emerged, made his second
cup of coffee for the day and turned on the television the hit had already made
the news.   Switching off the
television, Constantine headed out for the worst part of his day.  
    “I was an idiot to tell you I’d do this,”   he said, walking into the empty third floor flat Taggart had
rented for the occasion.
    Taggart had been leaning over a camera, but he rose and looked up at
him, his face creasing with annoyance.   He was older than Con, and he’d been in the business since he was very
young.   He knew more, had done more
than Con even wanted to think of, and he owed him.   Though he wasn’t sure he owed him this much.
    “Cry to someone else,”   Taggart growled, not bothering to remove the cigarette from the side of
his mouth.   “Your voice will be
disguised, the room will be pitch black and the reporter will be on the other
side of a barrier.   There’s no way
you’ll be identifiable.”
    Con made a grumbling noise.   “So why are we doing this?”
    Taggart shrugged.   “I owed
someone a favor.   Like you owed me
a favor.   Probably the guy I’m
doing it for owed someone else.   You weren’t just hatched – you know how these things work.”
    “I know how these things work.”   He looked around the empty apartment.   He was restless, edgy, and the last thing he wanted to do
was sit down and spin stories for a gullible reporter.    But Taggart was right.   He owed him.   “Where?”
    “Got the bedroom set up.   There’s a bullet-proof divider between you, just in case