Assassin Zero. Джек Марс

it on his elbows, tapping a foot rhythmically to the music and waiting, biding his time. Then, after a full minute, he glanced casually over his shoulder.

      The redheaded girl glanced back, and their eyes met. Alvaro looked away, smiling shyly. He waited again, counting to thirty in his head before he looked back at her. She looked away quickly. She was watching him. That was all he needed.

      As the song came to an end and the bar erupted in applause for the band, Alvaro plucked up his mojito and approached the girl—not too quickly, shoulders back, head high and confident. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

      “Hola. ¿Bailar conmigo?”

      The girl blinked at him. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered gently. “I don’t speak Spanish…”

      “Dance with me.” Alvaro’s English was flawless, but still he exaggerated his accent to seem more exotic.

      The girl’s cheeks flushed crimson, almost matching her hair. “I, uh… don’t know how.”

      “I will teach you. It is easy.”

      The girl smiled nervously and—as he expected—looked to her friends. One of them gave her a small shrug. The other nodded enthusiastically, and Alvaro had to keep his smile from broadening into a grin.

      “Um… okay.”

      He held out a hand and she took it, her fingers warm in his as he led her to the dance floor, little more than the foremost third of the bar where the tables had been pushed outward to make room for the two dozen or so likeminded patrons who had come for the music.

      “Salsa is not about getting the steps right,” he told her. “It is about feeling the music. Like this.” As the band began the next song, Alvaro stepped forward with the beat, rocking on his back foot, and moving back again. His elbows swayed loosely at his sides, one hand still in hers, his hips moving with his steps. He was by no means an expert, but had been gifted with natural rhythm that made even the simplest pasos appear impressive.

      “Like this?” The girl imitated his steps stiffly.

      He smiled. “Sí. But looser. Do like I do. One, two, three, pause. Five, six, seven, pause.”

      The girl laughed nervously as she fell into step, loosening up as she became more confident in the movements. Alvaro bided his time, not moving in just yet, waiting for the song to end and another to begin before he gently put a hand on her hip, both of them still moving to the beat, and said, “You are quite beautiful. What is your name?”

      The girl blushed deeply again. “Megan.”

      “Megan,” he repeated. “I am Alvaro.”

      The girl, Megan, seemed to loosen up further after that, succumbing to the charm of a dark, handsome stranger in an exotic land. He had her right where he wanted her. She dared to move closer, closing her eyes, feeling the music as he had instructed, her hips swaying with each small salsa paso closer and away—not as shapely or pleasant as Luisa’s hips, he noticed, but attractive all the same. Alvaro knew from experience not to move too quickly, to let the music and her imagination take its hold first, and then…

      He frowned as a sensation trembled through him. It was unusual for the pulse-pounding electronic dance music from the club next door to be heard through the walls, but he could have sworn that he heard it.

      Not heard, he realized—felt. He felt a strange thrum in his body, difficult to discern and even harder to describe, so much so that his immediate assumption was the heavy bass from the too-powerful speakers of the next-door club. His redheaded dance partner opened her eyes, her face creasing in a concerned frown. She felt it too.

      Suddenly the entire club shifted—or it seemed like it did as a wave of dizziness crashed over Alvaro. He stumbled to the side, catching himself on his left foot before he fell over. The American girl was not so lucky; she fell to her hands and knees. One by one the musicians of the band stopped playing, and Alvaro could hear the groans and frightened gasps of La Piedra’s patrons, backdropped by the dim pounding of the bass from next door.

      Whatever this was, it was affecting everyone.

      A powerful headache prodded at his skull as nausea bubbled up within him. Alvaro looked sharply to his left in time to see Luisa fall behind the bar.

      Luisa!

      He managed two steps before the dizziness cascaded again, sending him stumbling into a table. Glass crashed to the floor as he overturned it. A woman screamed, but Alvaro couldn’t seem to locate it.

      He fell to his hands and knees and crawled, determined to find Luisa. To get them out of there, even if he had to drag them both along the floor. But when next he looked up, all he could see were vague shapes. His vision blurred. The sounds of the panicked bar fell away, replaced by only a single high-pitched tone. The vibrant colors of La Piedra dimmed, the edges of his periphery turning brown and then black, and Alvaro let himself slump to the floor, nauseous and dizzy and unable to hear anything but the tone before he lost consciousness.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      Jonathan Rutledge did not want to get out of bed.

      It was, to be fair, a terrific bed. Fit for a king, as well as king-sized—although, he mused to himself in those early morning hours, perhaps it would be more fitting to call it president-sized.

      He groaned as he rolled over and instinctively reached for the empty spot beside him. Strange, he thought, how he still stuck to his side of the bed even when Deidre was out of town. He was astounded by how quickly she had taken to her new position; currently she was on a circuit through the Midwest, lobbying for funding of art and music programs in public schools, while he pushed his face further into a down pillow as if it might drown out the sound that he knew was coming any moment.

      And with that, the phone at his bedside rang again.

      “No,” he told it. It was Thanksgiving Day. The only things on his schedule were to pardon a turkey, pose for some photos with his daughters, and then enjoy a nice, private meal with them. Why were they bothering him at the crack of dawn on a holiday?

      A sharp knock at the door startled him. Rutledge sat up, rubbed his eyes, and asked loudly, “Yes?”

      “Mr. President.” A female voice floated to him through the thick door of the White House master suite. “It’s Tabby. May I come in?”

      Tabitha Halpern, his Chief of Staff. She couldn’t be bringing good news this early, and definitely not coffee.

      “If you have to,” he muttered.

      “Sir?” She hadn’t heard him.

      “Come in, Tabby.”

      The door swung open and Halpern entered, dressed smartly in a navy blue pantsuit with a crisp white blouse. She took two brisk steps inside and then paused just as suddenly, casting her gaze at the carpet, seemingly uncomfortable standing over the president while he was still lying in bed in silk pajamas.

      “Sir,” she told him, “there’s been an… incident. Your presence is required in the Situation Room.”

      Rutledge frowned. “What sort of incident?”

      She seemed hesitant to say. “A suspected terror attack in Havana.”

      “On Thanksgiving?”

      “It occurred late last night, but… technically yes, sir.”

      Rutledge shook his head. What sort of deviants planned an attack on a holiday? Unless… “Tabby, does Cuba celebrate Thanksgiving?”

      “Sir?”

      “Never mind. Is there time for coffee?”

      She nodded. “I’ll have some brought up immediately.”

      “Great. Tell them I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

      Tabby turned on a heel and marched out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her and leaving Rutledge grumbling under his breath about the injustice of it all. At long last he swung his bare feet