Hitman vs Hitman - L.A. Witt Page 0,76

had that gala next week and these were the only ones that went with his newest, most glorious suit, and if he had to wear an older one to something like this he would be so pissed…

By the time he reached the center fountain, “Augustus” was well and truly annoyed with life, and more than a little annoyed with the man in the blue tie and white jacket sitting on a stone bench all by himself. He had strange hair, silky blond in a bowl cut—it had to be a wig—and his eyes were hidden by dark sunglasses. His face was thin, but his smile was wide.

“You made it! Well done, Mr. Mason, I wasn’t sure you’d be able to get here on time.”

“I was promised very dire consequences if I didn’t make it, which—rude,” August said in a tone bordering on a whine. “The line at the bank was abhorrent, though, thank God my personal banker was available.”

The smile got wider. “I take it that means that you’ve brought the money.”

August rolled his eyes. “I’m not lugging around this briefcase because it matches my belt.”

“Brilliant. Just brilliant.” The man patted the spot on the bench next to him. “I think we can do business together, Mr. Mason. Sit down and tell me what my employer needs to know.”

“Um.” August looked down at the bench, then at his suit. “This is a vintage Kilgour. I’m not sitting on something that’s public in this.”

The man began to chuckle. “Kilgour! Kill gore, really? I hope you’re doing this on purpose, because that’s just hilarious, all things considered!”

“Um…my bespoke tailoring shop is a pun because you work for hitmen? Oops!” August lowered his voice. “Because you work for hitmen?” he repeated, saying the last word in a hissing whisper.

“Exactly! So many people say puns are the lowest form of humor, but I have to disagree. I think in the right place, with the right company, they’re positively sidesplitting.”

“Ha ha, another pun I guess?” August affected boredom. “Can we get down to business now, please?”

The man’s smile faded a bit. “I suppose, if we must. But I have to insist you sit down, Mr. Mason. You’ll draw attention standing up like that.”

Sitting down was the last thing August wanted to do right now—it would decrease his visibility and make covering him harder on Ricardo, but he didn’t want this guy to spook, either. “Fine.” He took the pocket square out of his suit jacket, set it on the bench and smoothed it flat, then gingerly sat down. “Let’s talk, Mr., ah…what’s your name?”

“You can call me Nick.” He glanced at the briefcase. “I assume the money is all in there.”

“All of it, in hundreds.”

“I asked for small bills.”

“And I wasn’t about to drag a rolling duffel bag out here to deliver it to you in twenties, so you get it in hundreds,” August snapped. “Honestly, if you wanted a smaller denomination you should have given me more time.”

“Perhaps,” Nick allowed. “Please open it, so I can see that there are no dye packs or small explosives mixed in.”

“Why would I blow up my own money?” August asked, but he did as the man asked. He’d talked about this with Ricardo, and they’d agreed it was better to keep things clean. If a tracking device was found in the briefcase, then they’d lose whatever momentum they’d built. “Satisfied?” he asked after riffling through some of the stacks. “Can we close this before I get mugged?”

“Don’t you worry about that, Mr. Mason,” Nick said soothingly. “You’re perfectly safe. No one else can get to you here.”

That’s an odd thing to say. “Can we talk about the guy now?” he asked.

“We can, we can. Although honestly, I’d prefer to talk about him somewhere a bit more private, where we can have a real heart to heart conversation about whether or not what you’ve told me so far is truly in line with your desires. My employer has no wish to be drawn into some sort of war of attrition between you and Mr. Garcia.”

August groaned theatrically, but inside all his warning bells were ringing like it was a five-alarm fire. “You couldn’t have told me that before I forced myself out here in this heat? Let’s go already.”

Nick held up a hand. “Just assure me of one thing, Mr. Mason,” he said. “Are you truly concerned with whether or not Mr. Garcia has you in his sights?”

It felt like an oddly fraught question, and August knew that