Chimera by Rob Thurman Read Free Book Online Page A

gesturing hand, the waiter pushed away from the wall and headed our way. His bored look was now mingled with a slight hint of unease. It seemed he wasn’t quite as thickheaded as I’d thought.
    “Never mind, Stefan. I must cut this lunch short.” Konstantin was folding the newspaper with quick, precise movements. “Perhaps you’ll have an opportunity for a little education with our preyatel upon our next visit. I have an appointment to attend to.”
    Taking care of the bill, I rather hoped the next time we came back, the rock star wannabe would have gotten a new job. For his sake. Gurov didn’t hold grudges; he’d invented them. Kicking the shit out of some waiter, I didn’t need a fortune-teller to read that in my future.
    I led the way out of the restaurant, pausing in the doorway to check the sidewalk and street. Clear. Konstantin tapped a finger against his watch impatiently. A glittering gold and diamond piece, it cost more than my condo. My priorities in life would be viewed as askew by some, I knew. I was more than a little fucked up and there was no denying it. But when it came to material things, I’d learned the hard way. Money couldn’t buy the things that mattered. If I spent that much on a watch, it shouldn’t just keep time; it had better let me travel through it too.
    Moving down the sidewalk, I fished in my jacket pocket for the remote to Gurov’s car and started it while we were still half a block away. Our guys weren’t much on bombs, but the Colombians lived and breathed explosives. Fortunately for the fire hydrant we were parked next to so blatantly, the car started without incident. Opening the door for the older man, I scooped the ticket off the windshield and stuffed it in my pocket. As I headed around the front of the shiny black hood, I spotted them. There were two big guys wearing similar Windbreakers. I was sure Saul would’ve said it was a fashion disaster, but even in the winter Miami’s warm weather made you work to cover up your gun.
    Rocking back casually on my heels, I did another quick visual check. Yeah, just the two, and amateurs to boot. Not Mafiya ; I could tell that at a glance. They were most likely punks out to jack a car. About eighteen or nineteen, one white, one black, they had identical empty eyes. I saw a blade flick to life in one tattooed hand held close to a leg. Someone hadn’t listened to their guidance counselor any more than I had.
    I didn’t bother with planning or subtlety. That sort of thing would be wasted with these guys. Within seconds they were in front of me, faces as predatory as the vulpine face of any wolf. I hit the one without the knife first. His empty hands were even more threatening. A knife I could deal with; a gun out of nowhere would be a little trickier. Flashing a cheerful grin, I leaned against the closed driver’s door. “Nice jackets. Can I help you guys? You lost? Out to spread the word of God maybe?” I couldn’t look innocent. Life had made damn sure that was something my face would never be able to wear. But I gave it my best shot only to see it reflected back at me in a sudden uneasiness in the face of the man with the switchblade. Wolves recognized their own. On the other hand, the one I kicked in the stomach didn’t look uneasy. In fact, he didn’t look anything but nauseated.
    One hand on the car supporting me, I twisted sideways and planted a foot in the abdomen of the one whose empty hand had suddenly darted toward his jacket. Before he hit the asphalt, I gave him another on the point of his chin, taking him out of the game then and there. No flies on him when it came to self-interest, his buddy had already lunged at me. With sharp silver metal and teeth bared in a twisted face, he slashed at me while hissing curses like a foul-mouthed pit viper.
    Kids.
    I blocked his arm with my left one, my hand fisted. My other hand was wrapped snugly around the grip of a Steyr 9mm. Yeah, flies weren’t exactly roosting on me