Gone Cold by Douglas Corleone Read Free Book Online

too hard in my direction, I intend to use it.”

 
    Chapter 10
    Despite my warning, by that point I did trust Ashdown. Because had he in any way considered me a hostile, he would have been ready for me. Even if he hadn’t considered me a substantial threat, he would have at least been prepared to put up a struggle. Relieving him of his firearm would have been no simple task. Especially considering the shape I was in after eleven months of skipping not just the gym but meals and full nights of sleep. Right up to and including the previous twenty-four hours. Not only had I lost significant muscle, I was practically dead on my feet. A sleepwalker. That I was able to disarm him at all was owed to pure instinct. But had an elite officer like Ashdown executed the simplest handgun retention technique, he’d still have possession of his weapon, and I’d have been riding the down elevator in cuffs.
    Given Ashdown’s lack of preparedness, I had been certain that when we arrived downstairs at the Orangerie Bar, I would see a woman I instantly recognized. Maybe the Warsaw lawyer Anastazja Staszak. Maybe the London private investigator Wendy Isles. Maybe someone I hadn’t thought of in ages. But surely someone I’d be able to identify the moment I laid eyes on her.
    Not so.
    When we entered the bar I turned to Ashdown, expecting him to say, “Let me give her a buzz; maybe she stepped outside for a cigarette,” or “Let’s have a seat at that booth; she probably just went to the ladies’ to powder her nose.”
    But no.
    Ashdown instead looked back at me in silence, anticipation evident in his cold blue stare. I scanned the room a second time. An older couple sipping gin and tonics in the far corner. Three boisterous businessmen in shirtsleeves with untied ties hanging from open collars, throwing back shots of whiskey at a tall bar table. Two Middle Eastern women sipping tea in a booth. A young man nursing a black and tan at the bar. Next to him a woman somewhere in her late thirties or early forties, flirting with the well-built bartender who probably had first-year college classes scheduled early the next morning.
    Then there was the cocktail waitress, a fit young lady with short, dark hair. Before I could get a good look at her face, she turned her back to us to collect the empty shot glasses being stacked like a house of cards by the rowdy business boys.
    “You don’t recognize her, do you?”
    “Should I?”
    “No,” Ashdown said, “I don’t suppose you should.”
    He led me to an intimate round table where we each took one of the plush green chairs. I slipped a hand inside my black leather jacket and gripped the butt of Ashdown’s gun, just in case. But I knew by then I wouldn’t need it.
    I eyed the empty lounge sofa, wondering who was about to sit across from us.
    A second, older waitress came by to take our orders.
    Ashdown said, “A pint of Smithwick’s.”
    I said, “I’ll have an espresso.”
    As she walked away, Ashdown asked whether I planned on sleeping tonight.
    “Sleep will come when it wants me bad enough,” I told him.
    Our drinks arrived before our guest. My impatience began clutching at my throat. My nerves were raw, my skin tingling. I removed my hand from inside my jacket. Took a bite of the biscotti then downed half my espresso.
    I set the cup down on its saucer and leaned back in the chair, pinching the bridge of my nose and squeezing my eyes shut because I felt a monstrous headache coming on. When I opened my eyes, I glanced at my watch without noticing the time. I exhaled audibly, lifted my cup of espresso but didn’t take a drink. Instead I tilted my head back and gazed up at the high ceiling.
    When I looked down, the thirty- or fortysomething woman from the bar was seated directly opposite me.
    She stared at me, though I wasn’t sure whether it was to scrutinize me or to avoid Ashdown’s gaze. The tension between them was immediately obvious—and thick enough to smother