Читать книгу: «The Perfect Target»

Miranda’s mouth went dry when she saw Allessandro standing in the shadows.

He was wearing nothing but a pair of well-worn camouflage pants and a white undershirt that emphasized the darkness of his tan, the strength of his chest. In his hand he held his semiautomatic, as if it were as an impenetrable shield between him and the world. In his eyes glittered a harshness she didn’t understand, a look that was equal parts pain and pleasure.

Dangerous, she thought. Not just because he held a gun in one hand and her life in the other, but because his brutal exterior couldn’t hide the glimmer of compassion deep inside him.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just watched her, the light from across the street slashing in, momentarily rescuing him from the shadows, then returning him to darkness.

Something deep inside her started to tremble. Dangerous…

Dear Reader,

“In like a lion, out like a lamb.” That’s what they say about March, right? Well, there are no meek and mild lambs among this month’s Intimate Moments heroines, that’s for sure! In Saving Dr. Ryan, Karen Templeton begins a new miniseries, THE MEN OF MAYES COUNTY, while telling the story of a roadside delivery—yes, the baby kind—that leads to an improbable romance. Maddie Kincaid starts out looking like the one who needs saving, but it’s really Dr. Ryan Logan who’s in need of rescue.

We continue our trio of FAMILY SECRETS prequels with The Phoenix Encounter by Linda Castillo. Follow the secret-agent hero deep under cover—and watch as he rediscovers a love he’d thought was dead. But where do they go from there? Nina Bruhns tells a story of repentance, forgiveness and passion in Sins of the Father, while Eileen Wilks offers up tangled family ties and a seemingly insoluble dilemma in Midnight Choices. For Wendy Rosnau’s heroine, there’s only One Way Out as she chooses between being her lover’s mistress—or his wife. Finally, Jenna Mills’ heroine becomes The Perfect Target. She meets the seemingly perfect man, then has to decide whether he represents safety—or danger.

The excitement never flags—and there will be more next month, too. So don’t miss a single Silhouette Intimate Moments title, because this is the line where you’ll find the best and most exciting romance reading around.

Enjoy!

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

The Perfect Target
Jenna Mills

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JENNA MILLS

grew up in south Louisiana, amid romantic plantation ruins, haunting swamps and timeless legends. It’s not surprising, then, that she wrote her first romance at the ripe old age of six! Three years later, this librarian’s daughter turned to romantic suspense with Jacquie and the Swamp, a harrowing tale of a young woman on the run in the swamp and the dashing hero who helps her find her way home. Since then her stories have grown in complexity, but her affinity for adventurous women and dangerous men has remained constant. She loves writing about strong characters torn between duty and desire, conscious choice and destiny.

When not writing award-winning stories brimming with deep emotion, steamy passion and page-turning suspense, Jenna spends her time with her husband, two cats, two dogs and a menagerie of plants in their Dallas, Texas, home. Jenna loves to hear from her readers. She can be reached via e-mail at writejennamills@aol.com, or via snail mail at P.O. Box 768, Coppell, Texas 75019.

For my terrific editor, Stephanie Maurer…

this one is all yours!

Thanks for the inspiration and collaboration.

I’ll always remember our thunderstorm in New Orleans.

Thanks also to Patrick and the rest of the SPSS gang,

for helping make this book possible.

And always, my husband, Chuck.

You are my light. I love you

more than words can express.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Prologue

Two roads diverged in a wood

And I took the one less traveled by

And that has made all the difference.

—Robert Frost

“Turn on your TV.”

Alessandro Vellenti squinted through the darkness of his Lisbon hotel room. He’d seen closets bigger, closets dedicated solely to shoes and handbags. But the small room had a shower, and that’s all he’d really wanted.

Well, maybe not all he wanted, but all he could have.

Night had fallen while he’d stood under the spray of a lukewarm shower, trying to ignore the metallic smell of the water. Now, flashing lights from the discotheque across the street cut through the threadbare curtains like something straight out of a macabre horror flick.

“My TV?” He positioned the mobile phone against his shoulder and fumbled for the bedside lamp. Anticipation increased his heart rate. Javier was hardly a television kind of guy. Sandro doubted his partner wanted him to see the newest reality show to disgrace the airwaves. “What’s going on?”

“Something big. What took you so long to answer the phone? I’m not finally interrupting something, am I?”

Sandro ignored the jab and wrapped a threadbare towel around his hips. Rivulets of water clung to his chest and slid down his legs, but he didn’t finish drying. There was no need. The room reeked of stale cigarettes and harsh antiseptic, but the temperature was only slightly cool. Sandro had certainly endured colder. And hotter.

He preferred the hot. “I’m not a kiss-and-tell kind of guy,” he muttered, looking for the remote. “What’s going on?”

“Jorak Zhukov was arrested crossing into the United States from Canada. The ambassador to Ravakia is giving an interview right now.”

Finally, the urgency in Javier’s voice made sense. Implications and questions immediately surfaced, raised more questions. “Was he by himself?”

“Apparently.”

Sandro went down on one knee, locating the remote under the narrow bed, adjacent to a skimpy black bra and slinky white scarf. He didn’t even want to think about how the erotic garments had found their way under the bed. Doing so would be too depressing. Instead, he aimed the ancient control at the pathetic excuse for a television across the room.

Nothing happened. “Has he been charged with anything?”

“Just traveling on a falsified visa. So far. But I can’t imagine the United States letting him slip through their fingers, not after what happened to those agents.”

Sandro hit the power button again, still with no luck. Banging the useless instrument against the nightstand, he recalled the countless reports he’d reviewed about Jorak Zhukov and his father Viktor, the overthrown leader of the Eastern European country Ravakia. The two were wanted in connection with the deaths of eight undercover operatives. Word on the street had it something even bigger was going down.

It was Sandro and Javier’s mission to find out what.

“What of Viktor?” Anticipation whirred deep inside Sandro. Nailing the notorious father-son duo would save countless lives. “Any indication they were traveling together?”

“The State Department doesn’t think so.”

Sandro gave up on the remote, took the room in three long strides, and jabbed the on button. A bright light yawned across the screen, but no picture and only the sound of static.

“They think Viktor’s holed up somewhere in Europe,” Javier added.

Maybe. Probably. When the U.S. got determined about finding something, safe hiding places became scarce. “Do they know where?”

“If they do, they’re not saying.”

A distorted picture finally formed. Sandro flipped through channels on the old black-and-white until he found the familiar CNN logo. The picture remained fuzzy, however, the sound garbled.

“The State Department’s heightened the travel warning for American citizens and interests,” Javi added. “With Jorak in custody, Viktor will be desperate. They fear retaliation.”

Sandro slammed his palm against the side of the television, still no sound. Against a backdrop of a proud American flag, Ambassador Peter Carrington grew more animated by the second. Defiance glowed in his eyes, hardened the lines of his patrician face. His hands moved as he talked, slicing through the air like a chop to the neck of an invisible opponent.

“What’s he saying? I can’t get any volume.”

“The usual. The United States is not in the business of negotiating with criminals on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list.”

Sandro stepped back from the television, suddenly cold. “Zhukov will take that as a direct challenge.”

A hard noise broke from Javi’s throat. “I don’t understand people like Carrington, so snug in his ivory tower that he doesn’t realize he’s not insulated from the real world.”

“He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth,” Sandro pointed out. The highly revered, much loved Carrington family skirted as close to royalty as America got. “He’s never had his world blow up around him.”

“That’s about to change,” Javi warned as the interview ended. A shadowy image of General Viktor Zhukov replaced that of the newly appointed ambassador to Ravakia. “Viktor’s already on the move, knows he needs leverage.”

Leverage. The word snaked through Sandro like rancid meat. “You mean a hostage.”

“Viktor made contact about thirty minutes ago,” Javi said, his voice practically drowned out by a siren somewhere in the city. “He’s already got a plan. And a target.”

The news didn’t surprise Sandro. “Who?”

“Miranda Carrington.”

The name did. An image immediately formed, of leagues of chestnut hair and exotic green eyes. “The ambassador’s daughter?”

“A child for a child,” Javi muttered cryptically. “Word on the street is she’s in Europe indulging some gypsy fantasy. She was last seen in Seville.”

Only a few hours’ drive from Lisbon.

“Cristo.” Sandro knew little of the ambassador’s youngest child, other than that in her late twenties, she seemed the exact opposite of her perfect, politically correct older sister and brother, Elizabeth and Ethan, dubbed the E-twins by the press. Not that Miranda wasn’t perfect in her own right…

She sure as hell could kiss, he thought, then wished he hadn’t. Vividly, he recalled a tabloid photo of a bikini-clad Miranda wrapped around some Ivy League frat boy, mouths locked in a pose more suited to the cover of an X-rated video.

Sandro sucked in a sharp breath and shoved wet hair back from his face. His body groaned in frustration.

Don’t go there, he warned himself. Don’t even think about there. Especially not with a woman targeted to become a pawn in a high-stakes international game. Especially not while he stood wet and naked in a hotel room that reeked of sex by the hour. He couldn’t afford to be distracted any more than he could afford the nasty kink in months of grueling undercover work. His mission was clear: gain the general’s trust, learn his secrets, then bring him down.

“It gets worse,” his partner added, seemingly reading his mind, as always. “That’s why I’m calling.”

Sandro braced himself. “Lay it on me.”

“The general wants you to get her for him, amigo. Said if you can deliver the girl, he’ll know where your loyalties lie.”

Sandro went very still. A test. The irony of it burned clear down to his bones. If he failed the test, he failed his country.

But if he succeeded…

Reeling, Sandro dragged the phone back to the narrow cot and slipped his hand under the pillow, where his 9mm awaited, silencer intact. “Tell him I’m onboard.”

He’d always excelled at tests, wouldn’t fail now. Training and loyalty left him no choice. He had to find her. Find the ambassador’s daughter. Find her fast, find her first.

Before the long-awaited chance to cozy up to the general went up in flames.

Chapter 1

No one recognized her.

Miranda Carrington lowered her tortoiseshell sunglasses and glanced around the open-air market, savoring the sense of liberation. No one watched her every step. No one shoved a camera in her face. There was no one grabbing a mobile phone to excitedly report her outfit, her language, the drink in her hand. No one waiting for her to commit a faux pas worthy of splashing all over the covers of every grocery-store tabloid.

Exhilaration tumbled through her hard and fast. Miranda wanted to twirl around the crowded cobblestone sidewalk, to laugh. Instead, she smiled. Last night a storm had raged, but the morning held nothing but clear blue skies and cool Atlantic breezes.

And freedom.

Here, in the small Portuguese village of Cascais, no one gave a flip about her or her prestigious family. No one noticed the two glasses of port she’d nursed the night before. No one paid attention to her slightly off-kilter sense of fashion. No one watched. No one cared.

Here, she was just another woman, on just another day. She could dance in the street without speculation that she was practicing witchcraft. She could laugh out loud.

Smiling, Miranda reached for the camera draped over her shoulder, lifted it to her face, and snapped several shots of the vendors working the market.

“Bom dia,” she greeted the older gentleman who’d moved from South Africa to Portugal, where he now made his living carving wooden toys for children by night and selling his crafts by day. He offered her a big smile, which she captured on film.

“Astrida! Astrida!”

Down the cobblestone walkway, an older woman grinned despite her missing front teeth.

“Rosita,” Miranda greeted, then snapped a shot of the woman standing proudly in front of her stall, with a fine array of brightly colored scarves blowing in the April breeze. Miranda had purchased one just yesterday, and now used the slinky turquoise fabric to hold blond hair back from her face.

“Obrigada,” she said in thanks, then continued on her way. A few feet away, she took a shot of a young woman showing off handmade seashell wind chimes to a group of older tourists.

Years of sweltering under the public eye kept Miranda walking at a brisk pace. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself. She wanted to savor anonymity as long as she could.

The thrill never went away. Sometimes, she still couldn’t believe she’d finally convinced her father to let her live her own life. Eleven years before tragedy had forever changed their family, and in its wake, he’d tightened the net around his family to near unbearable restrictions. But Miranda hadn’t seen Hawk Monroe or any of his men in weeks. And she’d certainly looked. She knew the tricks, knew the small tests to figure out if someone was shadowing her or merely living their own lives.

More than anything, Miranda wanted to live her own life.

At the end of the street stood a trendy boutique, boasting the seaside village’s finest collection of European perfumes. Miranda was tempted to dash inside but didn’t want to waste the hazy morning light. She’d seen a fleet of old, rainbow-colored fishing boats bobbing in the harbor from her hotel window, and—

The all too familiar feeling of dread slammed in from nowhere. She stopped abruptly and sucked in a sharp breath, but the icy fingers at the back of her neck didn’t go away. Slipping her sunglasses back on, she turned slowly, carefully scanning the crowd milling about the bazaar.

Nothing. Nothing out of place, anyway. No one hurriedly ducked into a shop. No one covertly turned away. No one quickly raised a newspaper to cover their face. She was only imagining things, so used to living in a fishbowl that even here, in this small seaside village, she felt the eyes of the world watching.

Posh, she scolded herself. Get a grip. She flat-out wasn’t that important, even if her family was.

Her heart, however, refused to slow. The uncooperative organ kept pounding, spewing adrenaline with every hurried beat. Dismayed, Miranda forced herself to round the corner and head for the ocean. No way would she let paranoia spoil the perfect, storm-washed morning.

Beyond the battered seawall, the glistening blue of the Atlantic stole her breath. The day before, she’d stood in just this spot, staring over the water and imagining what it must have been like for those long-ago Portuguese sailors, who left their familiar worlds behind, in search of something new.

Freedom.

Odd, she thought. Her own quest for freedom had carried her across the very same ocean, but in the opposite direction.

Silently, she thanked God for airplanes.

Through the camera’s lens, she scanned the swelling waves and bobbing fishing boats, over to the palm-lined promenade along the shore, where pigeons flocked and a young couple kissed with what could only be described as desperation. They were wrapped around each other so tightly, not even the breeze could squeeze between them. The man had one hand buried in the woman’s dark brown hair, the other hand securely around her waist. Their mouths moved like a ballet, not overtly sexual, but erotically intimate, as though they were making love right there—

Miranda caught herself. She of all people knew better than to aim a camera at intimate moments. Returning her attention to the harbor, she tried to focus on the weathered fishing boats practically begging to be photographed, and not the unwanted longing yawning through her.

“No, no, no. That’s not right at all.”

The rough-hewn voice rumbled through Miranda, causing her pulse to surge like one of the waves against the seawall. She abandoned the perfect close-up on a battered blue boat and turned. Felt her body tense.

A tall, dark-haired man stood less than a foot away, closer than American manners dictated, invading her personal space in a style common to European men. She’d grown accustomed to the practice, but this man’s nearness kicked her nerves into high gear. Dark sunglasses concealed his eyes, the frames and lenses the color of the whiskers shadowing his jaw. They were the kind worn by rock stars to create that edgy, mysterious persona that drove women wild. In hiding his eyes, he concealed his intent and sent a current streaking through Miranda, as indefinable as it was unsettling.

“I beg your pardon?” she said with a refinement that would have done her perfect older sister proud.

He nodded toward the camera in her hands. “The picture you were about to take. It’s all wrong.”

“Wrong?” She felt her spine stiffen. She may have been a novice when it came to political intrigue, but she knew photography inside out. “How so?”

He slid the sunglasses from his face, revealing eyes as dark and impenetrable as the lenses that had shielded them. A slow smile touched lips too full for a face of sharp angles and hard planes. “Because you’re not in it.”

The breath stalled in her throat. Her heart thudded against her ribs. Not just because of the unexpectedly provocative words, but because of the way he looked at her, like she was the coveted trophy at the end of a long, hard fought battle. She’d never seen a gaze so full of secrets and promises, never seen eyes that dark, like the color of midnight.

Walk away, countless hours of security training commanded. This man wasn’t what he seemed. He watched her way too expectantly; his stance held the same deceptive casualness as the bodyguards who’d followed her around at Wellesley. But instead of finding his nearness threatening, Miranda found herself curious. No one knew her here, she reminded herself. No one lurked in the shadows, ready to hurt her or shame her family.

“I’m not in it?” she repeated with a smile of her own. He was tall, she noted, well over her brother’s six feet. And his hair matched the color of his eyes. “I see myself in the mirror every morning. I hardly need a picture of myself.”

His voice dropped an octave. “Then give it to me.”

This time she did step back. “Now why would I do that?”

His eyes met hers. “So I can remember the way you look standing here, with the sun in your hair and the smile on your face.”

Something inside Miranda turned hot and liquid. Fascination whispered louder. The man’s dark hair and unshaven face lent him an aura of danger, but he spoke like a poet. He was dressed like a tourist, but held a professional-looking briefcase. His swarthy skin hinted at Mediterranean ancestry, but he wore his loose-fitting black shirt and olive slacks like only an American could. He spoke accented English, but used perfect grammar.

“I should be going,” she said, pulling away before she stepped in too deep.

He reached toward her. “Let me take your picture first.”

Miranda went very still. She looked down at her arm, where his warm fingers curled around her wrist. The sight jarred her, of a blatantly masculine hand on her body. For the past few years, if a stranger so much as brushed against her in a crowd, agents or bodyguards emerged from the shadows, alert and ready.

And Miranda had hated it. She’d hated being watched, monitored, hated being denied a normal life because of her family’s notoriety. She hadn’t asked to be born a Carrington. She didn’t care about politics. She had no interest in carrying on the family legacy.

She’d just wanted to live her life, to laugh and dance and even fall down sometimes, without the whole world watching.

Butterfly, her maternal grandfather had called her. The only butterfly in a family of eagles.

Instinct had her covertly scanning the surrounding area, half expecting to see Hawk Monroe running toward her. But just like before, she found only a dazzling fountain spraying toward the pale blue sky, pigeons, street merchants and tourists.

Slowly, the stranger released her. “Bella? Did I say something wrong?”

Bella. There it was. The first clue to the puzzle. Italian. “No,” she said. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”

“Then why do you look so…nervous?”

That got her. She didn’t want to be nervous. She didn’t want to react with paranoia to the very situations she’d come to Europe to experience. “What makes you think I’m nervous?”

“The way you’re standing, like you’re about to take off running. The fact you’ve yet to let me see your eyes.”

She lifted her chin, smiled. Very slowly, very deliberately, she slid the Euro-chic tortoiseshell sunglasses from her face.

“Should I be nervous?” she challenged.

“That depends upon what makes you nervous,” he answered in that faint but drugging accent. He glanced toward the showy fountain, then around the open-air market, as though looking for something. Then he stepped closer. “If you’re worried that I’m a serial killer, I assure you I am not. This is Portugal, not America. That kind of thing is rare here.”

Laughter broke from her throat. “I don’t think you’re a serial killer.”

He didn’t grin or smile as she expected. Instead, his gaze turned serious. “Don’t let down your guard quite so easily,” he muttered darkly. “Just let me take your picture. That’s all I ask. Here,” he said, reaching for her camera. “What harm can there be? Just one shot.”

The man could no doubt talk her cousin’s four-year-old into surrendering her favorite teddy bear, Miranda thought absently. Intrigued, she decided to play along.

“Just one,” she agreed, uncurling her fingers from the sleek 35mm she’d purchased before leaving the States.

“Back up a little,” he instructed. The camera hid his eyes, but she knew they would be focused and intense.

Odd, Miranda thought, stepping against the seawall. He held her camera in his left hand, but he’d yet to put down his briefcase.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “Now untie the scarf.”

She blinked. “The scarf?”

“Hair like yours is too pretty to confine. Let the wind play with it.”

Heat streaked through her, completely unrelated to the burgeoning warmth of the day. Something about the word play, she knew. And that raspy voice. “I prefer it off my face.”

“Just for the picture,” he coaxed. “Just for me.”

Caution warned her to call the whole thing off, but her newfound sense of freedom refused to be denied. Having a man flirt with her, with no ulterior motive, felt too good. Charmed, she reached for the turquoise scarf she’d purchased from Rosita and pulled the fabric free. The breeze blowing off the ocean instantly sent long strands of blond hair fluttering around her face and tangling over her shoulders.

“Perfect,” the stranger said. “Perfect.”

Miranda fought an odd jolt of self-consciousness, as though she stood before the man completely naked, rather than in an off-the-shoulder crimson shirt and a long, gypsylike skirt she’d purchased from one of the locals. Every nerve ending felt charged and exposed. Her heart strummed low and expectant. The stranger had her posing for him, and she didn’t even know his name.

For the moment, she didn’t care.

Identity had nothing to do with what was scrawled on your birth certificate, but rather, the ideals you carried deep inside. If she asked the stranger his name, he’d ask hers.

She wasn’t ready to taint the moment with either the truth, or a lie.

“What are you waiting for?” He almost seemed to be stalling.

“The sun,” he answered without hesitation. “You’re not a woman for shadows.”

His voice was hoarse, like a man who lived on cigarettes and whisky. No one had ever talked to her like that. No words had ever drifted through her like a feathery caress. She studied him closer, that full mouth and those dark whiskers sprinkled across a strong jaw, the thick neck leading to the kind of chest women dreamed about—

Miranda jerked her gaze back to his neck, where a nasty scar slashed across his throat, a faded testimony to a brutal attack. This man’s raspy voice did not stem from pleasure or vice, but from pain and violence.

“Hurry up,” she said. Well-honed instincts kicked harder. He may not have asked her name, but he’d skillfully pinned her between his big body and the ocean behind her.

“Don’t be so impatient, bella. Some things aren’t meant to be rushed. There can be tremendous reward in lingering.”

The words were soft, but they robbed her of breath like a punch to the gut. Miranda hungered for freedom and adventure, but she also knew when she’d stepped in over her head. She could fend off attackers and wield a knife like a pro, but when it came to playing cat and mouse with outrageously good-looking, mysterious men, her defenses jammed like traffic in gridlock.

Fortunately, her legs didn’t. Pushing away from the seawall, she strode toward him, hand outstretched. “Give me my camera back.”

“But I haven’t—”

“The camera,” she said, firmer than before.

He refused to hand over her prized possession. “Have lunch with me. Maybe the clouds will clear by the time we’re done.”

“No.” Fascination crumbled into determination. This man was not what he seemed, and she knew better than to teeter on a rocky outcropping with the tide rushing in around her.

“Look, I really need to get going, so just give me my camera,” she said, extending her hand, “and—”

He took her wrist and started to tug. “Relax, bella. I know just the place—”

“Miranda!”

The urgent voice came from behind her and had her spinning toward the shopping district. A large Viking of a man broke from the crowd of older tourists and sprinted toward her. “Miranda!”

Hawk.

Her heart started to race, adrenaline spewing like a geyser out of control. They’d found her.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The second a man touched her, one of her father’s men always, always came running.

“Miranda!” Hawk shouted, gaining ground.

The stranger’s grip on her arm tightened. “Do you know him?” he asked with an urgency that hadn’t been there before. But before she could answer, the sound of gunfire ripped through the late morning and sent the crowd scattering like leaves in the wind. Pigeons took flight. Hawk went down.

Miranda screamed, lunging toward her fallen bodyguard.

But the stranger wouldn’t let her go.

“Get down,” he commanded, shoving her toward the nearest merchant’s stall. He crouched beside her, sandwiching her between a display of rooster tablecloths and his big body. “Stay low.”

A large man dressed in army fatigues bolted around the corner, with what looked to be a semiautomatic in his hand. “Hold your fire!” he was shouting. “We’ve got you surrounded!”

“Too bloody late,” the stranger muttered.

The man in fatigues kept running. He was beside the fountain when another volley of gunfire ripped through the chaos. His arms flew out as though he’d slammed into an invisible wall, and he crumpled to the ground.

“Cristo.” The stranger glanced around sharply. “Where the hell are the shooters?” He held his briefcase in front of him, scanning the crowd. “I’ve got to get you out of here.”

“But Hawk—”

“—is probably dead.”

Horror convulsed through her. Hawk. She’d spent the past year evading the unyielding man at every turn, but she didn’t want him dead. Until now, everything had always seemed more like a game than life or death.

“Look!” she cried, “he’s getting up.”

“Fool,” the stranger hissed, just as the first police officer arrived, running from the perfume boutique to dive behind a nearby stall. Sirens screamed nearby.

“Stay down,” the stranger shouted. “Be ready to run when I tell you.” Then he took aim on the police officer’s hiding place and sprayed the area with bullets.

From his briefcase.

More screams. And Hawk went back down.

The sirens wailed louder.

But there was no movement from behind the stall.

The stranger didn’t stop firing. He pointed his briefcase toward a tree, unleashed another volley and brought a slender man with a ponytail crashing into the fountain.