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  ASSASSIN FOR THE SHEIKH

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

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  BY ANNABELLE WINTERS

  THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (USA)

  Curves for the Sheikh

  Flames for the Sheikh

  Hostage for the Sheikh

  Single for the Sheikh

  Stockings for the Sheikh

  Untouched for the Sheikh

  Surrogate for the Sheikh

  Stars for the Sheikh

  Shelter for the Sheikh

  Shared for the Sheikh

  Assassin for the Sheikh

  Privilege for the Sheikh

  THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (UK)

  Curves for the Sheikh (UK)

  Flames for the Sheikh (UK)

  Hostage for the Sheikh (UK)

  Single for the Sheikh (UK)

  Stockings for the Sheikh (UK)

  Untouched for the Sheikh (UK)

  Surrogate for the Sheikh (UK)

  Stars for the Sheikh (UK)

  Shelter for the Sheikh (UK)

  Shared for the Sheikh (UK)

  Assassin for the Sheikh (UK)

  Privilege for the Sheikh (UK)

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  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  Copyright © 2018 by Annabelle Winters

  All Rights Reserved by Author

  www.annabellewinters.com

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  Cover Design by S. Lee

  ASSASSIN FOR THE SHEIKH

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

  1

  Kathryn Krane shut the freezer door and listened. The whir of the cooling fan above her. The hum of the kitchen lights to her left. The sounds of the party on the main floor of the restaurant one flight up. The rich aroma of catered food. Shot-glasses clinking. Bottles being slammed down on tables. Loud men making toasts in Russian.

  “One less loud man after tonight,” she muttered, glancing at the shining silver door to the freezer and wondering if she should lock it. Yuri Gorka had been drinking all evening, and she’d made sure she lured him back to the empty restaurant pantry and its dark freezer rooms before he’d had a chance to eat from the lavish buffet dinner that had been brought in by the outside caterers. The cold would take him faster this way.

  She’d planned it perfectly, arriving as the date of a minor Russian businessman who was soundly in the CIA’s pocket. Not that he had any idea who she was anyway. And she’d made sure she looked unremarkable. Very little makeup. Dull black dress that mostly hid her curves. Not much eye contact with anyone besides Yuri.

  Yuri Gorka. The man privately slated to be the next mayor of the important Russian city of Sevastopol. A man still not on the radar for most of the world’s media. But the CIA had its own radar, and Gorka had been on it for some time now.

  “The man is old school, old world,” her handler in the CIA had told her when they’d set this up. “Our strategists think he’s pegged to be a major player in the next few years. If any man has the potential to draw the United States into another catastrophic war ten years from now, it’s him. We’re going to take him out before he gets too big.”

  “Like they say,” Kathryn had said, her expression barely changing, her full lips twitching for a whisper of a moment, “an ounce of prevention . . .”

  A pre-emptive strike. The CIA’s bread and butter. Under the radar. Behind the curtains. In the shadows.

  “And I am that shadow,” whispered Kathryn as she glanced at the lock on the freezer door and shook her head. She couldn’t lock the door. She had to trust the process. She had to trust the plan. She had to trust herself.

  “Hypnotism? Hah! I do not engage in party tricks. But why not. Let us see what you can do,” Yuri had growled when she’d led him to the stairs through the side entrance down a corridor from the restrooms. Yuri had brought his wife to the party, and so Kathryn knew he’d be careful not to be seen. And he was drunk enough now. Drunk enough that what she’d learned about hypnotherapy in her previous training as a psychiatrist would work.

  So she took off her dress without being asked, and when Yuri gasped at the sight of her smooth curves under the yellow light of the empty kitchen, her dark red nipples and brown triangle on full display, she smiled and whispered in Russian:

  “Snova i snova. Levo i pravo. Vverkh i vniz,” she said, touching one nipple and then the other, back and forth until she was rhythmically circling each crown in a slow, consistent pattern. The specifics didn’t matter so much in hypnotism, she knew. You just needed to focus the subject on some repetitive movement. No pendulum? No worries. Circling your nipples will do just fine.

  “I am drunk and you are beautiful, but I do not cheat on my wife,” Yuri had whispered as his mouth hung open for a moment. “Yet I want to follow you. Who are you?”

  He’d taken a step forward, and she’d almost lost her concentration when she heard him say he didn’t cheat. She’d pegged him for a wild womanizer, and his CIA profile confirmed it. But whatever. He was probably also a world-class liar. She got a hold of herself and kept going, speaking softly in Russian, circling her big red nipples as he slipped into a subtle trance.

  It’s science even though it looks like magic, she’d told herself as she watched the familiar telltale flutter of his eyelids that signaled Yuri would be extraordinarily open to suggestion now. Should she ask him to jump out of a window? Maybe have him pull out the Glock .17 she knew he carried in a shoulder holster? Get him to pull the trigger, blow his own brains out? Perhaps get him to write a suicide note too! Wouldn’t it be nice if she could actually do that. Would have made things a lot easier over the years. Too bad hypnotism didn’t work to that extent in real life. But it was a nice fantasy.

  And anyway, a fake suicide wouldn’t work. The CIA had profiled him, and he wasn’t the type. It wouldn’t fit, and she’d agreed with their assessment. This had to be an accident. And a simple accident, at that. A drunk man at a party wandering into the subzero meat freezer and falling asleep? A bit strange, but certainly within the range of things drunk men do, yes? And when they found no sign of drugs or sedatives in his system, no evidence of violence, no signs of anyone else being on the scene, the headline would be simple: Drunk Meathead Dies in Meat Locker!

  Which meant she couldn’t lock the door. It was twelve degrees below zero Fahrenheit in there, and in three hours Yuri would be dead. It was only ten in the evening. This was a high-powered gathering, and Yuri’s wife was used to her husband stepping away for private discussions with other heavy hitters. Bodyguards were not a concern because the party was closed-door, and everyone in the room had been cleared beforehand. There were no regular restaurant staff either—just the trusted caterers—which meant the kitchen floor was empty. So the wife, Nisha Gorka, would be the only one who’d eventually notice, but by then it would be too late. Poof.

  “Yes,” she’d whispered as she backed her way into the freezer, shivering slightly as her nipples puckered up from the chilled air. She asked him to sit. She asked him to relax. She watched as he leaned his head against the metal walls and smil
ed glassy-eyed at her.

  Yes, she thought as she waited a moment before leaving him there. It’s science even though it looks like magic. She took a breath and glanced down at her naked body, shaking her head as she quickly dressed and slipped back out to the party. And it’s murder even though it’s just my job.

  2

  “Kathryn Krane, you’re a patriot, not a murderer,” her handler told her the next morning on the private, unmarked plane that would take the two of them to London, where they’d catch a commercial flight back to the United States. They often flew commercial. Sometimes it was easier to stay in the shadows when you were out in the open.

  “Six of one, a half dozen of the other,” Kathryn muttered, checking the online news report of Yuri’s “accidental” death and then tossing the phone onto the empty leather seat beside her. She looked up at her handler, who only went by the name Mel. Mel was in her late fifties, a slim, cold-looking woman who nonetheless could fake a shocking warmth when she wanted. She must have been a very good killer, Kathryn thought as she gritted her teeth and squinted out the window.

  Below her she could see the deep blue of the Caspian Sea, that old body of water bordered by both Iran and Russia. There was oil in the Caspian Sea, which meant there was always trouble in this area. There would always be trouble in this area. Until oil stopped being important. Hah! Like the powers in control would ever let that happen!

  “I’m done, Mel,” Kathryn said calmly, pushing away the thoughts of conspiracies, thoughts that were a part of her life, had been a part of her life for over ten years now, ever since she’d been recruited straight out of medical school. She’d been on her way to becoming a psychiatrist, and then Mel had somehow swooped in and talked Kathryn into serving her country. “This was the last one. I can’t do it anymore.”

  Kathryn waited for the onslaught from Mel, but it never came. The woman just nodded.

  “No one can do this forever,” Mel said quietly, her eyes narrowing and softening at the same time. There was that fake warmth, Kathryn thought. Careful now. Mel is one of the best at what she does, which is to manipulate people into doing what I do.

  What I did, Kathryn thought firmly, holding the eye contact with Mel and wondering if she could hypnotize the woman. No chance. Hypnotism only worked if the subject was receptive and off-guard. Or drunk and already open to suggestion.

  “Don’t even start with me, Mel,” Kathryn snapped, knowing the sales pitch was coming before Mel said another word. “I know you as well as I know anyone. The one before Yuri was supposed to be the last, but then there was Yuri. And he was the last. I’m done. Get me out.”

  “Out?” said Mel, frowning as if she was truly surprised. “You want out of the CIA altogether?”

  Kathryn smiled. “Am I even in the CIA? I mean officially? Technically I’m an agent, not an officer, yeah? Just a contractor. No pension plan. No Navy Seals swooping in to rescue me if I’m taken.”

  “You know I slept with a Navy Seal once,” Mel said quietly, and her dark gray eyes looked almost blue for a moment. What the hell had happened to this woman’s eyes over the years, Kathryn wondered. And what the hell was that comment out of the blue? Was Mel actually human? Was she actually a woman?

  “That was my last one,” Mel continued, a thin smile cutting across her face. “He was the last.”

  The last man you ever fucked? When was that, like twenty years ago, Kathryn wanted to say. But she held her tongue when she reminded herself how long it’d been since she’d been with a man. Like really been with a man. She glanced at Mel and then it hit her. “Your last one? Wait, you killed a Navy Seal?” Kathryn asked, her eyebrows almost jumping off her usually calm round face. “How? I mean why? Why was that even your job? If he’d gone rogue or committed treason, the military would take care of it internally. I don’t understand—”

  But Kathryn did understand. People like Mel and Kathryn were only called in when there wasn’t enough evidence for a judge or jury. They truly were the shadows. After the Patriot Act and 9-11, all it took was for the right senators to talk to the right folks in Homeland Security and the CIA, and there was no need for judge or jury. Poof, and then they were gone.

  “If this is your pitch to get me to stay on, then I gotta say you’re losing your touch, Mel,” Kathryn said, knowing immediately that Mel wouldn’t say anything more about it. It had been an uncharacteristic show of vulnerability from Mel, and Kathryn frowned as she tried to read her handler.

  And then she got it. Mel already had another job lined up. And this one was important. That’s why Mel was on edge in her own way. Kathryn really did know Mel as well as anyone, didn’t she? God, was this woman the closest thing she had to a friend? Shit, she needed to get out more!

  “You’ve already committed me to one more, haven’t you?” Kathryn said quietly as the plane hummed its way past the western shores of the Caspian Sea.

  Mel nodded once, her gray eyes turning down for a moment and then back up into Kathryn’s baby browns.

  “Who?” said Kathryn, blinking but holding the gaze.

  Mel shook her head. “Even I don’t know. John Benson wants to see you alone when we get to London.”

  Kathryn scrunched up her face. “Benson. I’ve heard of him. CIA Station Head in Dubai, right? What, he wants me to take out some extremist Sheikh or something?” She tried to smile, but a chill ran through her for some reason. Benson was famous in CIA circles. He was plugged into the Middle East scene like no other, and rumor had it he maintained close relationships with several powerful Sheikhs . . . some of whom were now married to American women. Benson was different. He had a military background, but he wasn’t a brute force guy. He was a finesse guy.

  Stop, Kathryn told herself, realizing that the chill she’d felt was the beginnings of that terrifyingly addictive rush of adrenaline that came every time she got a new assignment. This was the reason she needed to stop. She was getting too good. She was getting too damn good . . . and with that came detachment, dehumanization, a coldness that took root at the deepest levels.

  You can’t end up like her, Kathryn thought as she glanced at Mel. Where your most precious memory is the Navy Seal you fucked and then murdered. Walk away while you’re still human, Kathryn. Walk the hell away.

  But then Kathryn heard herself speak. “You didn’t answer my question, Mel.”

  “What question was that?”

  “What do you think Benson wants me to do? You must know something. If he asked for me, then it’s clearly something that needs to happen quietly, behind the scenes. You guys don’t call me when a drone strike or a sniper can do the job.”

  Mel shrugged and turned back to her phone, a flash of color passing across her pale, long face. “Your guess is as good as mine on this one. Maybe he does want you to put on that black dress and take out some Sheikh.” She almost smiled as she glanced up again. “Though with your wide hips and big butt, I’d go with some harem pants.”

  Kathryn laughed and slapped her hands against her thighs, finally getting Mel to smile all the way. Then they were both silent, and Kathryn reclined her seat and glanced lazily out the window, watching the white mist of clouds drift by as she thought of harem pants, desert sands, and Sheikhs. Was she really going to the Middle East? That actually sounded interesting. Maybe one more. Maybe just one.

  3

  “Sheikh Hyder,” said Benson. Those were the first words he said to her. She hadn’t even sat down yet. In fact he hadn’t even invited her to take a seat.

  “Never heard of him,” Kathryn said, though the name did ring a bell. A vague, distant bell.

  Benson looked up from the black leather binder on his brown desk. He smiled. “Good. And you don’t speak Arabic either, right?”

  “Not a goddamn word, Sir.” Kathryn felt her lips twisting into an obstinate, almost sulky smile. Perhaps Benson would change his mind now. Suddenly she didn’t
want to do this job. None of it. She wanted out. Now, dammit. “Sir . . .” she began to say, swallowing hard as she wondered if she should give her retirement speech right then. The CIA paid their shadow-killers well, and it wasn’t like she had much of a life outside work. Not enough of a life to spend much money, anyway, which meant she had enough saved to start a new life. A real life. Maybe there was enough humanity left in her to be salvaged.

  “Enough with the ‘sir’ crap. You don’t work for me, Krane,” Benson said with a half-smile. He flipped that black leather binder around and slid it across the table. “In fact, if things go right, starting next week you work for him. For ten days, at least.”

  Kathryn blinked as that chill came back, and she blinked again to make sure she was seeing clearly. The picture was hazy, taken from a distance, with digital enhancement that added a grainy touch to the final printout. The photograph had been taken at dusk, with the glow of the setting sun casting the man in a golden shadow.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered under her breath, wondering why her heart was pounding as she glanced into the green eyes of the man in the photograph. He was dark, handsome, and rugged. Middle Eastern with sharp features and high cheekbones, broad shoulders and a thick, muscular neck. The man was standing at the edge of an ornate balcony, glancing into the distance, slightly off center from the camera. His strong jaw was tight, his large hands gripping the thick sandstone parapet firmly. He wore a dark robe, open in the front, and Kathryn blinked again when she saw the way the light captured the ridges of muscle lining his torso.

  What are you thinking, Kathryn found herself asking the man in the photograph. What are you thinking, great Sheikh?

  And then she knew she was going to say yes to whatever this was. Maybe this was a different kind of job. Maybe for once she wouldn’t be asked to . . .