Killing Time Read Online Free PDF Page B

her mind in anticipation of these orders.
    The only question was, which option sounded the most enticing? Did she go in fast and hard and take them out before they knew what hit them? Or did she play with them for a while? Even a pro needed a little diversion now and then.
    She checked her watch—still early—and glanced toward the terrace doors. And decided she had time to think about it.

5

    Mike pulled himself together, pissed that he’d let this woman get to him.
    She knew about Operation Slam Dunk. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know why; he only knew she wasn’t going to stop badgering him until she got the answers she wanted.
    But then, unexpectedly, she did stop. She stopped cold. She got a look on her face that made him think she might be second-guessing herself.
    She broke eye contact suddenly and whirled away. Shoulders tense, back rigid, she walked to a pair of multipaned glass doors that he guessed led to a balcony or terrace. The glass was coated with the grime of the city and backlit by a light haze from the cantina and restaurant signs burning up and down the street below.
    After a furtive look outside, she undid the latch and shoved both doors open onto the narrow terrace. Car exhaust, overripe fruit, and the tang of unwashed bodies bled into the hotel room, along with traffic sounds from a story below. A distant church bell chimed tentimes. Ten p.m. on one of the longest days of his life. Overlaying it all was the faint scent of El Río Rimac . She breathed deep, as if preferring the foul city air to a breath tainted with his presence. Then she stared out into the night . . . like she was searching for something or someone, before quickly closing the doors again.
    When she finally turned around, he couldn’t decide if she looked relieved or wary. She moved away from the doors, head down, clearly uncertain, possibly scared.
    It was the first chink he’d seen in her armor, and he pounced on the opportunity like a fat man on a pile of French fries.
    “What’s your name, chica ?” He’d grown tired of playing her game. He had to get out of these cuffs, and the best and only option he had now was distraction.
    She hesitated, then expelled a deep breath. “Pamela Diaz.”
    Another lie. Like a bad poker player, she had a tell that gave away her bluff. He’d noticed it when she’d denied she’d lost anyone. A little lift of her chin. An absent tap of her index finger—which happened to be resting against the barrel of his gun and reminded him to proceed with caution.
    But at this point he didn’t care if she told him she was Margarita Thatcher. She’d answered a question. It was a start.
    “Okay, Pamela Diaz  . . . I’ll consider answering your questions if you answer mine.” He didn’t waitfor her to point out the obvious—that she held the gun and the advantage. “What’s your stake in Operation Slam Dunk?” When she hesitated again, he pressed his slight opening. “You know you’re going to have to tell me sometime.”
    A humorless smile tipped up one corner of her mouth. “And why is that?”
    “Because you haven’t killed me for a reason. And I think we can rule out sex.” He lifted a brow. “Yes? No?”
    She snorted and he saw another sign of hope. She’d wanted to smile.
    “So, that’s a yes. Which means you want something else from me . . . and that you need me alive to get it.”
    She considered him with a long look, then finally walked back to the chair and sat down.
    Tick. Tick. Tick. He had nowhere to go and no way to get there—yet. He could wait her out.
    He knew instinctively that there was nothing he could say that would make her talk. She had to decide what happened next.
    But he knew he was right. She wanted him for something other than a whipping boy. And to get his help—good luck with that—she was smart enough to know she had to give him something, because they’d reached gridlock. If she wanted information, she needed to lay her cards on the