The Kill Shot by Nichole Christoff Read Free Book Online

figured he’d been after Katie and the snitch visas and the Oujdads. But I didn’t want to tell Philip this. I didn’t want him to ask me why the Oujdads were so important to some Middle Eastern regime. And I didn’t want to tell him my father and Congress’s Armed Services Committee couldn’t wait to get Dr. Ikaat Oujdad back to Washington where the good doctor could spill all his secrets about covert nuclear facilities.
    Fortunately, we reached The Elizabethan Rose before I had to come up with any kind of reply.
    As the hotel’s doorman opened the car for me, I squeezed Philip’s hand. “I’ll call you. I promise. But right now, I just want to get to my room.”
    “Of course.” And to my chagrin, he climbed from the vehicle after me. “You must be exhausted after your ordeal and in a great amount of discomfort. I’ll see you to your suite.”
    I opened my mouth to protest.
    Philip interrupted me. “Perhaps you’ll introduce me to your friend.”
    “Friend?”
    The word triggered thoughts of Barrett and that stopped me cold. He was supposed to be thousands of miles away, on an assignment of his own, yet he was in London—I was certain of it. I’d seen him with my own eyes. And I’d watched him kill a killer. The memory made my stomach cramp.
    But Philip wasn’t talking about Barrett.
    “If Katie deMarco isn’t your friend,” Philip asked, “does that make her your client?”
    I frowned. I didn’t want to talk about my client list with anyone. I certainly didn’t want to discuss it with Philip.
    I turned away from him, intending to change the subject. My head grew light with the move and the pain in my left wrist burrowed through the broken bone. I must’ve faltered, because Philip slid a protective arm around my shoulders.
    “Come, Jamie. I’ll help you inside.”
    And since his suggestion suddenly seemed like a good one, I didn’t object.
    Philip and I rode the lift to my floor. The doors slid open silently. Down the hall, a housekeeper with thick white towels over her arm and a basket of chocolates in her hand keyed the lock to my suite and went inside.
    Turndown service and a chocolate on my pillow sounded pretty terrific just then. Finding Katie and the Oujdads safe in my room would be even better. But I didn’t get to have either one. Because behind the closed door to my room, a woman shrieked. And her scream was nearly harsh enough to break glass.
    Instantly, Philip and I broke into a run. With my good hand, I ripped my key card through the lock. Philip pushed his way inside and I followed, hard on his heels.
    The sitting room was as dark as Dickens’s tomb, but light from my bedroom fell in a fat wedge across the carpet. It ran up and over the housekeeper, who lay on the floor like a damp mop. Blood, red and viscous, glistened at her temple and the porcelain lamp from my bedside lay shattered beside her head.
    Philip knelt at her side. He reached for her throat to check for a pulse. He didn’t have a chance to find it, though.
    The light died with a snap. Through the dark, I sensed motion, heard the rush of running feet. I scrabbled for a wall switch, found one, and flicked it on.
    Illumination caught the motorcyclist I’d seen at Heathrow, framed him in the doorway to my room. How he’d traced us to The Elizabethan Rose I had no idea. But here he was. He still wore the red and black leather jacket he’d worn then. And he still wore the red and black helmet with the visor that concealed his face.
    In his hands, he gripped the pink velvet slipper chair from the foot of my bed.
    He raised it high, swung it at Philip’s head.
    I snatched a Lalique bowl from a credenza, dumping its bounty of fresh fruit, and hurled it at Helmet Head. The bowl—all Bohemian babes and lead crystal—was heavy, and I grunted as I flung it shot-put style. It slammed into Helmet Head’s chest. He staggered a step. The chair slipped from his grasp. And that was enough for Philip to seize Helmet Head’s