Assassin Zero. Джек Марс

Sara just sit here and wait for him to come back? Or would she be a flight risk, if left to her own devices and demons?

      “It’s so much worse than I thought,” Maya murmured. Then, resolutely and without a second thought she added, “I’m staying.”

      “What?”

      She nodded. “I’m staying. There’s only three more weeks of school before Christmas break. I can make up the work. I’ll stay here through the holidays, go back to New York after New Year’s.”

      “No,” Zero told her firmly. “Absolutely not—”

      “She needs help. She needs support.” Maya wasn’t sure what sort of help or support she could offer her sister, but she would have time to figure it out. “It’s okay. I can handle it.”

      “It’s not your job.” Her dad leaned over and touched her hand. She nearly flinched, but then her fingers closed around his. “I appreciate the offer. I’m sure Sara would too. But you have goals. You have a dream. You’ve worked hard for it, and you need to see it through.”

      Maya blinked, a little taken aback. Her father had never once shown support for her goal of joining the CIA, of becoming the youngest agent in history. In fact, he had often attempted to talk her out of it, but she remained steadfast.

      He smiled, seeming to pick up on her surprise. “Don’t get me wrong. I still don’t like it at all. But you’re an adult now; it’s your life. Your decision to make.”

      She smiled back. He had changed. And maybe there was a chance after all to get back to what they once were. But there was still the matter of what to do about Sara.

      “I think,” she said carefully, “that Sara might need more help than we can give her. I think she might need some professional help.”

      Her dad nodded as if he already knew it—as if he’d been thinking the same thing himself, but needed to hear it from someone else. She squeezed his hand gently, reassuringly, and they let the silence reign over them. Neither of them knew what would come next, but for now, all that mattered was they were home.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Whoever named New York “the city that never sleeps” has never been to Old Havana, Alvaro mused as he wound his way toward the harbor and the Malecón. In the daylight, Old Havana was a beautiful part of the city, a rich blend of history and art, food and culture, yet the streets were jammed with traffic and the air was filled with the sounds of construction from the various restoration projects to bring the oldest part of Havana into the twenty-first century.

      But at night… night was when the city showed its true colors. The lights, the scents, the music, the laughter: and the Malecón was the place to be. The narrow streets surrounding Calle 23, where Alvaro lived, was vibrant enough but most of the native Cuban bars closed down at midnight. Here on the broad esplanade at the edge of the harbor, the nightclubs stayed open and the music swelled ever louder and the drinks continued to flow in many of the bars and lounges.

      The Malecón was a roadway that stretched for eight kilometers along Havana’s sea edge, lined with structures painted sea green and coral pink. Many of the locals tended to snub it because of the staggering tourist population, but that was one of the many reasons Alvaro was drawn to it; despite the increasingly (and irritatingly) popular Euro-style lounges, there were still a handful of places where a lively, addictive salsa beat combated the EDM from neighboring buildings.

      There was a joke among locals that Cuba was the only place in the world where you had to pay musicians not to play, and that was certainly true in the daytime. It seemed as if every person who owned a guitar or a trumpet or a set of bongos set up shop on a street corner, music on every block accompanied by the rumble of construction equipment and the honking of car horns. But nighttime was a different story, especially on the Malecón; live music was dwindling, losing the fight to electronic music played through computers—or worse, whatever pop hits had recently been imported from the States.

      Yet Alvaro did not concern himself with any of that, so long as he had La Piedra. One of the few genuine Cuban bars left on the seaside strip, its doors were still open—quite literally, both of them propped with doorstoppers so that the dynamic salsa music floated to his ears before he stepped inside. There was no line to get into La Piedra, unlike the long queues of so many of the European nightclubs. There was no swarming throng, six deep of patrons vying for the bartenders’ attention. The lighting was not dimmed or strobing, but rather bright to fully accentuate the vibrant, colorful décor. A six-piece band played on a stage that could hardly be called such, just a one-foot raised platform at the farthest end of the bar.

      Alvaro fit in perfectly at La Piedra, wearing a bright silk shirt with a white and yellow pattern of mariposas, the national flower of Cuba. He was tall and dark-featured, young and clean-shaven, handsome enough by most standards. Here in the small salsa club on Malecón, he was not just a sous chef with grease under his fingernails and minor burns on his hands. He was a mysterious stranger, an exciting indulgence. A tantalizing story to bring back home, or a sultry secret to keep.

      He sidled up to the bar and put on what he hoped was a seductive smile. Luisa was working tonight, as she did most nights. Their routine had become something of a dance in itself, a well-practiced exchange that no longer held any surprises.

      “Alvaro,” she said flatly, barely able to suppress her own smirk. “If it isn’t our local tourist trap.”

      “Luisa,” he purred. “You are absolutely stunning.” And she was. Tonight she wore a bright maxi skirt, slit high up one leg and accentuating the curves of her hips, with an off-the-shoulder white crop top just barely cresting over a perfect belly button pierced with a stud in the shape of a rose. Her dark hair cascaded like gentle waves over the gold hoops in her ears. Alvaro suspected that half the patrons of La Piedra came just to see her; he knew it was at least true for him.

      “Careful now. You wouldn’t want to waste your best lines on me,” she teased.

      “I reserve all my best lines especially for you.” Alvaro leaned on his elbows on the wooden bar top. “Let me take you out. Better yet, let me cook for you. Food is a love language, you know.”

      She laughed lightly. “Ask me again next week.”

      “I will,” he promised. “And in the meantime, a mojito, por favor?”

      Luisa turned to make his drink, and Alvaro caught a glimpse of the butterfly tattooed on her left shoulder. So went the pasos of their dance, the steps of their own personal salsa; compliment, advance, reject, drink. And repeat.

      Alvaro tore his gaze from her and glanced around the bar, swaying gently along to the rapid and animated music. The patrons were a pleasant mix of music-loving locals and tourists, mostly American, generally peppered by some Europeans and the occasional group of Asians, all of them seeking the authentic Cuban experience—and with a little luck, he would become a part of someone’s experience.

      Down at the end of the bar he caught sight of fiery red hair, porcelain skin, a pretty smile. A young woman, likely from the States, mid-twenties at best. She was there with two friends, each seated on barstools on either side of her. One of them said something that made her laugh; she tilted her head back and smiled wider, showing perfect teeth.

      Friends could be a problem. The redheaded woman wore no ring and appeared dressed to attract, but it would be the friends who ultimately decided for her.

      “She’s pretty,” Luisa said as she set the mojito down in front of him. Alvaro shook his head; he hadn’t realized he’d been staring.

      He shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it off. “Not nearly as beautiful as you.”

      Luisa laughed again, this time at him, as she rolled her eyes. “You’re as foolish as you are sweet. Go on.”

      Alvaro took his drink, his heart breaking just a little more each time Luisa spurned his advances, and went in hopes of seeking the solace of a pretty redheaded American tourist. His methods were well-practiced, though not entirely foolproof. But tonight Alvaro was feeling lucky.

      He