DIE EASY: Charlie Fox book ten (the Charlie Fox crime thriller series) by Zoe Sharp, Joel Goldman Read Free Book Online
Authors: Zoe Sharp, Joel Goldman
quartet petered into silence, but since they were playing the live equivalent of lift muzak they might simply have reached the end of a piece.
Through the crowd I caught a glimpse of a tall young man with a lanky build and a distinctive gait.
I heard someone nearby say, “It’s Gabe Baptiste!” with something approaching awe in their voice.
Tom O’Day heard it, too. He nudged Blake Dyer’s arm, leaned in close. “Ysabeau was the one who sweet-talked the prodigal son into returning home. When young Lyle put himself in the hospital, she was the one who came up with a suitable replacement. Gabe Baptiste—hell, he would have been my first choice if I’da thought we stood a cat in hell’s chance of getting him to agree.” He shook his head. “Boy didn’t even come home for his papa’s burial. But Ysabeau makes the call and here he is. Don’t have the faintest idea how she did it.”
“Oh, I think you have more of an idea than that.” Blake Dyer flashed him a cynical look. “You just don’t want to know for sure.”
Across the room, Baptiste emerged from the knot of admirers who’d engulfed him, smiling, shaking hands. There was no sign of the outright fear he’d shown back in the hotel lobby when he’d come face-to-face with Sean Meyer. He was back in control, confident and cocky, a sporting superstar heading for legend status.
Maybe that confidence was the reason Baptiste was allowing his hands to wander more than they should over the tall cool blonde on his arm. I was surprised to recognise her as the young woman O’Day had introduced earlier—Autumn. She was currently managing a much more convincing impression of boredom than I had, a tolerant smile on her face at all the fuss. And yet, underneath it, I sensed something more than the surface illusion.
After our earlier meeting I’d checked over the guest list again. It merely said “O’Day, T—plus one” which hadn’t been overly helpful.
Now, I passed a dispassionate eye over the expensive silvered gown that fitted her like a second skin and speculated over several possible roles she might have been asked to play in the proceedings. It crossed my mind that she might be some kind of “professional” O’Day had brought along to keep the talent happy. I daresay she would not have been flattered by any of my other guesses, either.
Out of habit, I made a quick pass over the rest of the crowd, watching eyes and hands for anyone whose attention seemed oddly focused or who was using the new arrival as a distraction. It’s a routine I’ve been through a thousand times before, in all kinds of situations, with all kinds of principals.
On this type of low-level assignment, with a client against whom there have been no specific threats, it very rarely—if ever—came up positive.
This time was different.
Seven
The man who tripped my internal alarm system was dressed in a lounge suit rather than the tux of an invited guest, but was clearly not a member of the security contingent either. He was too lightly built to be a heavy, too hesitant to be someone who relied on speed rather than weight for the kill.
But he was almost incoherently angry and that made him just as dangerous.
I could see it in the tension of his upper body, the white-knuckle fists. He shouldered his way around the piano heading towards my principal—and if there wasn’t actually steam coming out of his ears it was a close-run thing.
“Sean,” I said quietly. I stepped around Dyer, closed on my target, checking his angle of intent. Definitely heading straight for us.
One more step, sunshine, and you’ve crossed the line . . .
The man kept coming.
I moved in, one long stride, and thrust my empty right hand between his arm and body as he took a mirror-image stride towards me. From there it was easy to his use own momentum to swing his arm back and round, locking it up hard behind him.
He
Through the crowd I caught a glimpse of a tall young man with a lanky build and a distinctive gait.
I heard someone nearby say, “It’s Gabe Baptiste!” with something approaching awe in their voice.
Tom O’Day heard it, too. He nudged Blake Dyer’s arm, leaned in close. “Ysabeau was the one who sweet-talked the prodigal son into returning home. When young Lyle put himself in the hospital, she was the one who came up with a suitable replacement. Gabe Baptiste—hell, he would have been my first choice if I’da thought we stood a cat in hell’s chance of getting him to agree.” He shook his head. “Boy didn’t even come home for his papa’s burial. But Ysabeau makes the call and here he is. Don’t have the faintest idea how she did it.”
“Oh, I think you have more of an idea than that.” Blake Dyer flashed him a cynical look. “You just don’t want to know for sure.”
Across the room, Baptiste emerged from the knot of admirers who’d engulfed him, smiling, shaking hands. There was no sign of the outright fear he’d shown back in the hotel lobby when he’d come face-to-face with Sean Meyer. He was back in control, confident and cocky, a sporting superstar heading for legend status.
Maybe that confidence was the reason Baptiste was allowing his hands to wander more than they should over the tall cool blonde on his arm. I was surprised to recognise her as the young woman O’Day had introduced earlier—Autumn. She was currently managing a much more convincing impression of boredom than I had, a tolerant smile on her face at all the fuss. And yet, underneath it, I sensed something more than the surface illusion.
After our earlier meeting I’d checked over the guest list again. It merely said “O’Day, T—plus one” which hadn’t been overly helpful.
Now, I passed a dispassionate eye over the expensive silvered gown that fitted her like a second skin and speculated over several possible roles she might have been asked to play in the proceedings. It crossed my mind that she might be some kind of “professional” O’Day had brought along to keep the talent happy. I daresay she would not have been flattered by any of my other guesses, either.
Out of habit, I made a quick pass over the rest of the crowd, watching eyes and hands for anyone whose attention seemed oddly focused or who was using the new arrival as a distraction. It’s a routine I’ve been through a thousand times before, in all kinds of situations, with all kinds of principals.
On this type of low-level assignment, with a client against whom there have been no specific threats, it very rarely—if ever—came up positive.
This time was different.
Seven
The man who tripped my internal alarm system was dressed in a lounge suit rather than the tux of an invited guest, but was clearly not a member of the security contingent either. He was too lightly built to be a heavy, too hesitant to be someone who relied on speed rather than weight for the kill.
But he was almost incoherently angry and that made him just as dangerous.
I could see it in the tension of his upper body, the white-knuckle fists. He shouldered his way around the piano heading towards my principal—and if there wasn’t actually steam coming out of his ears it was a close-run thing.
“Sean,” I said quietly. I stepped around Dyer, closed on my target, checking his angle of intent. Definitely heading straight for us.
One more step, sunshine, and you’ve crossed the line . . .
The man kept coming.
I moved in, one long stride, and thrust my empty right hand between his arm and body as he took a mirror-image stride towards me. From there it was easy to his use own momentum to swing his arm back and round, locking it up hard behind him.
He
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