Stafford did not look like a killer, but that’s what he was. And he knew that among the right kind of people—men and women whose judgment and opinions mattered—he was considered one of the very best killers alive. Several other people who would have been on that list were dead. He had crossed many names off himself. Not as a vendetta or through an insecure need to be number one but because they had been given to him as targets.

Angelique was not a target. She was, for five delicious hours, his lover.

She thought he was an investor who’d gotten rich trading currencies.

The people who knew him back during his college days agreed that he looked like either a third baseman from one of the better teams or a tennis pro. Fit but not in any overdeveloped way. He moved like an athlete, one of the fast kinds. A springy step and easy grace. And he smiled like a sports star. Lots of white teeth, brown hair with natural blond highlights, and a tan nearly as good as Angelique’s.

He was considering whether he had the stamina for another round when his cell phone buzzed. Stafford picked up the device, looked at the screen display, and got out of bed immediately.

“I have to take this,” he said. “Business call.”

Without waiting for an answer, he went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and sat on the closed lid of the toilet. He used a cable to attach the cell to a tiny device no larger than a cigarette lighter. A small red light glowed, flickered, and then turned green, letting him know that the scrambler was engaged. It used a sophisticated 128-byte cyclical encryption that was virtually impossible to crack. The device was specifically designed to foil the MindReader computer system. Satisfied that his end of the call was secure, he cupped a hand over his other ear and spoke one word.

“Line?”

“Clear,” said the caller. “What is on your business agenda for today?”

It was the right phrase, and he recognized the voice. All the screen display had shown was a number he didn’t know. A burner, a disposable phone. Very few people had his current cell number. Had the caller used any wording other than those nine words, Stafford would have hung up and fled the hotel, leaving most of his possessions behind, along with Angelique’s corpse. The fact that the right phrase was used told him he hadn’t been compromised.

However, it was not a phrase he particularly wanted to hear. Nor did he want to hear it from this man. Kuga. It was hard as hell to tell him to go piss up a rope. But he gave it a try.

“I’m enjoying my vacation,” he said, meaning it. Letting a bit of resentment flavor his tone.

Kuga snorted. “Yeah, well life’s a bitch, and then you die.”