There Fell a Shadow by Andrew Klavan Read Free Book Online

coffee table in the center of the room.
    As he bent forward to put the tray on the table, I saw Colt come up beside him. The reporter reached into his pocket, brought out his money clip. He thumbed through it for a tip. I turned away from the mirror. Walked to the bathroom doorway.
    I was looking out the door when the bellboy straightened, turned around. He and Colt faced each other in profile before me, Colt to my right, the bellboy to my left. The bellboy, I saw through bleary eyes, was dressed all in black, like the doormen. His face was dark brown with deep-set, intense eyes. He wore his hair cut close, almost in a crew cut. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, if that, but dark lines creased his brow and pinched the corners of his mouth.
    Colt fumbled with his money clip. He found a couple of bills and held them out to the kid. The bellboy killed him.
    I saw it this way. Suddenly the kid had a knife in his left hand. He must have slid it out of his shirtsleeve. It was a wicked-looking dagger. Its blade was short and curved like a scimitar’s. It flashed once as he brought it up under Colt’s ribs. It went into the reporter with no more noise than a whisper of tearing cloth and flesh. Colt gave a soft little “oof.” He bent forward with the blow. As he did, his killer twisted the knife expertly. Colt’s face went blank. He hadn’t even had time to be surprised.
    With a smooth flick of the wrist, the bellboy pulled the dagger free. As he did, Colt keeled over. He hit the coffee table. The tray rattled with the blow. Colt rolled onto the floor, landing on his back. At last he lay still, his eyes staring up at the ceiling, his arms splayed inelegantly. Blood was bubbling up through the hole in him.
    That’s when I realized he was dead. That’s when I cried out: “Colt!”
    That’s when the bellboy turned and saw me.
    That’s when he knew he had a witness.

O nly the slightest hesitation raced across the young-old face of the assassin. His eyes shifted toward the door. He was wondering if he should break for it. I was still staring dumbfounded, my eyes flashing back and forth from the killer to the body of Timothy Colt. Not five seconds had passed since the kid had pulled the knife.
    The fountain of blood burbling out of Colt’s midsection grew weaker. His white shirt was now soaked scarlet. As I fought to grasp the fact of the reporter’s death, the bellboy made up his mind. He came for me.
    It was an expert approach. He moved in, crouched low, the knife gripped lightly, held close to his side. He kept his intense eyes trained on my chest, like a basketball player watching for the fake.
    I tried to rouse myself. I was dull with hangover and shock. I glanced at the door to gauge the possibility of escape. The killer thought with me. He circled around me as he came on until he had blocked the path to the exit.
    I had two ways to go and a second to choose. I could either retreat into the bathroom and fight cornered, or move out into the room and keep away from him as best I could. I saw that unswerving stare, that curling blade, no more than two steps away. I moved out into the room, my back to the wall. I crouched low with my open hands held up before me.
    He sprang. I thought—crazily—of Antoinette, the tiger. He sprang like that. A single, flowing motion, swift as death. But in the moment before he leapt, I saw him reverse the position of the knife in his hand. He held it ready to deliver a quick forehanded slash at my cheek. That would turn my head to one side and leave me open for the returning backhand that would plunge the blade into my throat. It was a good move. If I’d never seen it before, I’d have never seen it again.
    But I had. A drug ring enforcer from Washington Heights had shown it to me to impress me with his abilities. I was impressed. Impressed enough to remember.
    The assassin reversed the blade in his hand. I had a fraction of