Choke Point Read Online Free PDF

accentuated the word, a climbing sarcastic drawl. “—you people don’t make mistakes.”
    Mawl took a deep breath, long and slow, suppressing the urge to snap back. “We guarantee our work.”
    “Guarantee.” Trader snorted, as if the word gave him a bad taste. “You missed your chance. You’ll never get close to him again.”
    It was time, Mawl realized, to play his last card, the only good-news card he had in what was otherwise a busted hand. “There’s an excellent chance we won’t need to. He may already be dead.”
    “You hit him?”
    “That’s affirmative,” Mawl answered, keeping his voice matter-of-fact. “I saw him go down.”
    “You’re quite sure?”
    Mawl found the question insulting—he always hit what he aimed at—but realized this was no time to make the point. “I have a source at the hospital. I should know something soon.”
    “I’ll expect a call the minute you do. The very minute.”
    “Of course. And what about the hotel?” Mawl hated having to ask; it made him feel like a lackey. “Is it time for another problem?”
    “No! Absolutely not. After the shooting, that would be too suspicious.”
    “That’s not a concern. It’ll look like an accident.”
    “No! The press is going to be all over this. I don’t want to draw any kind of negative attention.”
    The man was half a world away, clearly beyond “attention,” but Mawl made it a rule never to argue with a client, especially those with deep pockets and shallow tempers. “So what do you want us to do?”
    “Do?” The answer came hissing back over the line. “I want you to finish the fucking job! That’s what I want you to do!”
    There was a faint click and the line went silent.

C HAPTER F OUR
     

Teterboro Airport, Teterboro, New Jersey
     
    Wednesday, 27 June 13:26:21 GMT-0500
     
    Simon watched as the small jet completed its rollout and turned onto the taxiway, directly toward his courtesy car parked at the edge of the tarmac. Though nowhere near the size or opulence of Jake’s whale taxi —used to ferry high-rollers to his gaming Mecca in the desert—the Gulfstream G550 was no less impressive. Sleek and fast, with skin the color of champagne, it only whispered of the power and wealth it represented.
    The cabin door was open and the stairway extended even before the twin Rolls-Royce turbofans quit spinning. Looking no less impressive than her father’s plane, Kyra Rynerson stepped into the doorway and waved. “Hiya.” Dressed in a white button-down oxford shirt and khaki wash pants, she looked both stylish and casual, a woman in her mid thirties with the body of a college athlete.
    Forcing a cheerful smile, Simon scrambled up the steps with his luggage. “Hiya to you.”
    She gave him a peck on the cheek and stepped back. “Thanks for coming.”
    It never occurred to him that he had a choice. “Thanks for picking me up.” He stepped inside, she punched a button next to the door, and the stairs instantly began to fold up and retract into the fuselage. He dropped his bags and leaned forward, giving her the eye-to-eye. “You okay?”
    “Oh sure.” She glanced away. “I’m fine.”
    But what he saw was a little girl playing brave soldier, and what he heard was: Hell no, I’m not okay — my father’s been shot and I don’t think he’s going to make it. He reached out and pulled her into his arms. “Don’t worry, kiddo, your dad’s the toughest guy I know. He’s going to be fine.” And he believed it; to think of Big Jake Rynerson losing a battle, even a battle with the Almighty, was inconceivable.
    Her stoic resolve seemed to crumble, her body melting into his, silent tears dripping onto his shirt. He waited, saying nothing, letting her get it out. After a minute, maybe two, he felt her body stiffen and grow taller as she gathered herself, drawing on that deep genetic pool of Rynerson strength. Finally she stepped back, took a deep breath, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.