Hitman vs Hitman - L.A. Witt Page 0,4

to kill you. I didn’t even know you were going to be here.” He looked Ricardo up and down. “Though, ugh, I should have known it was you as soon as I saw the name on the back of the uniform. Pest Assassin, seriously? You couldn’t go for something a little less obvious?”

Torralba looked at him for a long moment before lowering his weapon. “It’s only obvious if you know the joke,” he said, not bothering to put the gun away.

Called that one.

Well, August wasn’t going to stand around holding a gun when he could be holding a bottle of Saint Emilion red instead. He holstered his P320 Compact, gently lifted the bottle off one of the nearby wine racks, and inspected the label. “Ooh, nineteen forty-seven,” he said appreciatively. “This is a very nice vintage. And you don’t have to know the joke to roll your eyes at someone trying to run a business called Pest Assassin. You might as well say you’re a professional neck-snapper. No homemaker wants a van with that logo to be seen outside their house.”

“Lucky I’m not trying to make a real business out of it, then,” Torralba said, and was that a bit of a grate in his voice? Oh, good. “And speaking of not subtle, what the fuck are you wearing? I thought you didn’t leave home without making sure you were safely disguised as an investment banker first.”

“Rude,” August chided him, genuinely offended. “Are you kidding me? Those idiots can’t dress. They’re a waste of good New York real estate, the way they never bother to take advantage of fashion week.” What he wouldn’t give to be wearing one of his own suits right now. Not New York style, he didn’t have the shoulders for it, but he had a whole closet full of Milanese masterpieces…

He glanced down at himself and sighed. “And you maybe have a point about the subtlety thing, but in my defense, it’s not as though I planned to be seen in this.” Not that he didn’t feel a certain camaraderie with Michelle Pfeiffer in this black catsuit, but it wasn’t exactly formal attire.

“Why the fuck are you…just…why?” Torralba demanded, and ah, finally, up came the gun. How friendly. “What are you doing here?” His voice lowered dangerously as he stepped closer.

August was two inches taller than Torralba, but there was an incredible intensity to the other man that could probably back down giants. Something about him—everything about him right now—screamed danger.

Inexplicably, the fact that Torralba was showing his real self made August more comfortable with him. Letting yourself be seen as what you actually were was honest, and he appreciated that. It was one of the nice things about Ricardo Torralba: whenever possible, he was honest. It was possibly the only nice thing about him, other than his ability to set paper on fire just by smoldering at it.

August wasn’t honest. Being truthful had never gone well for him. “I’m scoping the place for a future hit,” he said smoothly, glancing down at the wine again. It really was an excellent vintage, and he hadn’t bought a Christmas gift for his sister yet. This might be just the thing. “The Baldwins have signed a contract to sell the place to a Russian caviar czar that a client of mine has a grudge against.”

Torralba narrowed his eyes. “You’re here to kill Lance Baldwin too.”

God damn it, why did the corollary to his honesty have to be an ability to tell when other people were lying? August was good at lying, for Christ’s sake! Only two people ever saw through his lies—his mother, and Ricardo Motherfucking Torralba. “What do you mean, ‘too’?” August asked.

“Well, I’m not actually here because I had a change of heart and decided to go into another line of work,” Torralba replied. “Who hired you?”

“Who hired you?”

He gritted his teeth. “Don’t fuck with me on this, Morrison. Who. Hired. You?”

Ah, now they were getting into more comfortable territory. “I don’t think I feel like sharing that information with you, ‘Marty,’” August replied, careful not to let his smile show his teeth. It had been several years since he and Torralba had seriously clashed, and he’d been too incautious last time, too swept up in the adrenaline to be careful with his image. His best defense was in being underestimated. “Not without getting something in exchange.” Show me your cards, Torralba.

To August’s absolute astonishment, Torralba started to talk. “No name or direct contact given. Just