Hooper, Kay - [Hagen 09] by It Takes A Thief (V1.0)[Htm]

other
security man.
    In Brady Seton's room, Skye searched quickly and
thoroughly out of habit, then drew the counterfeit plate from its
hiding place inside his black leather jacket and, after a moment's
deliberation, placed it on the top shelf of the closet at the very
back against the wall. He cast a professional glance over the
seemingly undisturbed room, then turned to leave.
    The main door to the sitting room opened with a soft
click.
    In fluid movement, Skye was against the wall beside the
door, a silenced automatic held in his right hand. He listened
intently as footsteps moved through the sitting room, but didn't move
himself until Brady Seton walked into the bedroom.
    "Hello."
    Seton turned quickly, a hand reaching toward his lapel
as if to draw the gun nestled under his arm. But he froze, the
movement half completed.
    "Rotten timing," Skye told him softly.
    Seton was an ex-marine, had grown up rough, and knew a
variety of self-defense tactics. He had also learned, somewhere along
the way, at which moment in a dangerous situation it was wisest to
simply give in and think about living another day. This was that
moment.
    The man he faced was smiling, but Seton trusted that
smile the way he would have trusted the polished molars of a shark.
His first impression of a big man dressed all in black with a
businesslike – and silenced – automatic had been
perfectly accurate, and had his impression stopped there he might
well have attempted a defensive move. Dangerous men he was accustomed
to facing.
    But the eyes stopped him cold. They weren't
particularly menacing eyes, not cold or hard; they weren't the
empty, flat-black eyes of a soulless killer, or the mad eyes of a man
beyond the limits of reason. In fact, they were very alive and
intelligent eyes. But they were . . . reckless. Careless. They were
almost an impudent invitation for Seton to try something.
    Try something.
Go ahead. And we'll both have a little fun.
    Brady Seton didn't move a muscle. He had seen eyes like
that before, in the faces of incredibly courageous and lucky men. Men
who had led other soldiers into battle, men who had braved burning
buildings to rescue trapped occupants. Men whom fate seemed to
have touched with a kind of aura, like impenetrable armor.
    "Let's have the gun. Carefully."
    With extreme and utter caution. Seton handed it over.
    Skye stuck the gun inside his belt, then sighed a little
ruefully. "You have botched the plan, friend. What am I going to
do with you now?"
    Seton didn't venture a suggestion.
    After a moment, Skye said, "Well. No choice, I'm
afraid. Pack a bag – and you're in a hurry, so don't bother to
be neat about it."
    Seton packed a bag.
    * * *
    For the men who remained in the parlor after Garrett
Kelly left, the next quarter of an hour was somewhat uncomfortable.
They were all too curious to completely Ignore what was going on,
especially since they could hear the faint echoes of Jennifer
Chantry's voice even through closed doors and sturdy walls. Their own
conversations dried up after a few murmured attempts, and they
were left contemplating their drinks and each other.
    "That one's a shrew," one man finally
observed.
    "She's got reason," another said, and grinned
faintly. "You ought to hear her mother."
    "Who is she?" asked one of the few In the room who had no knowledge of the past events.
    "She grew up here at Belle Retour," the first
man told him. "Her family owned this place for two hundred
years, until Garrett won it from her father in a poker game."
    "Hell, the stakes better not be that high in
tonight's game."
    Very conscious of the verbal battle going on several
rooms away, and the presumed activities in another part of the house,
Dane said, "The word I got was that Garrett's been on a losing
streak. He may have to stake this place trying to recoup his losses."
    "I'd rather play for cash," one man said
plaintively.
    An older man shook his head disapprovingly at Dane's
comment. "You should never stake