CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
EPILOGUE
Note from the Author
Connect with Cate
More Books by Cate M. Turner
Acknowledgments
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
He had never hired a hitman before. The thrill of putting his scheme in motion outweighed his fears of it all going wrong. He’d planned this for months, detail by detail, until he was certain it was foolproof.
From his seat at a corner table near the back of a teahouse, he cast a glance toward the front. It was a typical scene, one he witnessed often around Cairo. Groups of men sat on couches, sharing a smoke from long, flexible pipes attached to a tall, thin, metal shisha instrument. Tourists congregated at tables, laughing and smoking between sips of tea. Vapor from the pipes filled the air with fruity aromas.
Through the haze, he focused on the arched doorway at the front. Six minutes and thirty-two seconds until their rendezvous.
When a waiter stopped at his table, he ordered tea, the local kind—a clear red liquid served cold in a glass cup. After a few sips, he pushed the drink away. It was much too sweet.
He took out his phone and typed a few messages, then at seventeen seconds until the hour, movement from the front of the teahouse drew his attention. There she stood, a short, broad-shouldered woman with straight, chin-length black hair and Cleopatra bangs. A few curious glances were shot her way as she meandered around the tables and chairs. Her eyes flickered back and forth until they fixed on him. They were cold and dark, like the shaft of a tomb, sending an icy draught down his back despite the warmth of the teahouse. The carefully vetted killer stood before him in the flesh. His stomach twisted.
With a curt nod, he slipped his phone into his pocket and sat up straight. He gestured at the chair across from him. Without taking her hands out of her pockets, the woman sat down. She stared at him pointedly, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“How’s the karkadé?” She jerked her head at the cup.
“Delightful.” He broke eye contact, placed his backpack on the chair next to him, and sifted through its contents until he found a slip of paper. Using the tip of one finger, he slid it across the table’s glossy tiled surface.
She stared at the newspaper clipping but her stony features revealed nothing. Eventually, she took it in her right hand. Her eyes darted left and right as she read through the article, then focused on the photograph at the end. No blink, no twitch, nothing to hint what she might be thinking. The woman’s gaze shot back up to meet his.
“She your ex?” she asked with a flash of amusement in her eyes. She dropped the clipping onto the table.
“No.”
“She owe you money?”
“She owes me nothing,” he said sharply, one side of his upper lip twitching. That better end the questions.
