The Diabolical by David Putnam

Author:David Putnam [Putnam, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I FOLLOWED DARLA over to the slot closest to the front door to the hotel, the one marked “Manager,” Herb Templeton’s slot. She was parking in the manager’s space while he was out of town hiding from the PR fallout Sam Snead created on the ninth-hole sand trap.

I got into the white BMW sedan as she screeched the tires backing up. She shifted gears and smoked the tires heading out of the driveway.

I said, “Take the—”

“I know where you live, Bruno. Tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s the third Russian—the third guy who jumped me and Otis the other night. He’s at my house, watching it.”

She nodded and paid attention to the road, the BMW continuing to accelerate in the narrow residential streets. Two miles would click by fast at seventy mph.

We came up and passed Waldo running out of steam, his gait nothing more than a goofy lope. “Slow down, that’s my dog. Let him in the car.”

She took her eyes from the road and glared at me for a half-second. “No dog’s getting into this car. And I thought you said that wasn’t your dog?”

“Gimme a break, would ya?”

“We’re gonna talk after this.”

“Yes, we are.” I said it with venom.

We came to the last street—a right turn and then we’d be there. She came up on it too fast. She yanked up the parking brake, throwing the car into a sideways skid around the corner.

What the hell? She could really drive.

A man in a tank top with a white bandage on his shoulder, dressed in utility shorts, had just jimmied the lock on the front gate to the estate and was about to enter.

The skidding tires alerted him.

His head jerked around to see the white BMW sliding sideways toward him thirty yards away.

He was a pro and didn’t panic. He’d studied his egress and ran toward us trying to get to the open jungle on the south side of the estate.

I had the door open before the car came to a stop and took after him. He put on a burst of speed, but running to work every day improved my wind. I got right on him and started closing the gap. He didn’t have time to jump into his jungle exit and ran along the road in front of residential houses; houses on one side, jungle on the other.

Behind me came the slap of bare feet.

I chanced a look over my shoulder.

Darla Figueroa, the Ice Princess, ran on the hot pavement barefoot. And with a large handgun in her hand, one I recognized, one commonly used in Germany and Eastern Bloc countries, a Walther 9mm. Son of a bitch, a 9mm.

Up popped a quick image of her naked, tanned, and oil slick body on the roof of the hotel. The gun in her hand was incongruent with what I knew about her.

I resumed pursuit, watching my prey as I continued to gain on him. Behind me Darla yelled, “Move out of the way and give me the shot.

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