Double Down Read Online Free Page B

film. But quite unsettling, I agree.”
    â€œMmm,” she said with a sigh. That was the Hitchcock film that had always scared her the most. She’d had her share of living in cold, empty houses alone, and it always made her uncomfortable.
    â€œWhen do you have time for movies?” Mahmoud said, casing out the right angle for them to make their way in.
    â€œUsually I watch something scary on my phone in between killing and fucking. It’s the right way to transition from one to the other.”
    He stifled a laugh. “Yes,” he agreed, “that’s why I like to watch Gilmore Girls .”
    â€œNot really, Mahmoud?”
    â€œNo. I just thought the idea might make you smile.”
    Indeed. She turned away so he wouldn’t see the corners of her lips struggling to stay put. She looked out over the Mediterranean waves that lapped against the stone foundation of the villa. A ramp led right down to the water, and partway down was a stone balustrade with an overgrown stone bench and tables. She imagined it was very beautiful in the daylight, and considerably less creepy. As it was now, it gave her the shivers. The stone bench was cracked, and vines grew around a rusted old railing. The water was clear and rhythmic as it gently touched the building; a bright harvest moon shone upon its surface. She nodded and looked up. He nodded back to her. One of her great skills was scaling buildings—she grabbed a length of rope with a small hook at one end and effortlessly threw it up to the small balcony. It landed silently and caught in the perfect spot, anchoring with ease.
    She moved up the side of the building as quietly as a cat. Mahmoud followed, and while he wasn’t as quiet as she was, his climbing skills were excellent. When they had gathered the rope, Mahmoud used a set of lock picks to open the sliding door, then slipped inside. Within ten minutes they had checked every room, only to find the villa unoccupied. It seemed only occasionally used—a vacation home, maybe? Turning on small flashlights, they went to work in separate rooms, not speaking, searching for anything that might link Birdsong to the work of Baba Samka.
    Forty-five minutes later, Mahmoud approached Tyka with a determined look on his face. Grabbing her hand, he led her downstairs and into a small office. He pressed a button underneath the desk and a painting slid to the side to reveal a small safe. “Think you can crack it?” he asked quietly.
    â€œOh, Mahmoud. Please tell me this is not how you choose to challenge me.”
    â€œWhy not, Ms. Tyka?”
    â€œFar too easy.”
    Her first teacher had been a master of espionage, a young street-rat-turned-genius. Spliff was British, nicknamed for selling pot, and he had found Tyka in London after she had run away from her mother. She had hitchhiked from Paris to London with a wad of cash she’d found in her mother’s makeup kit, grabbed one of her mother’s spare guns as well, and was sitting in a pub drinking a beer when Spliff sat next to her. He was just twenty at the time, and they spent five years working together before he was gunned down by one of Bruni’s men—killed by the Marconis just like Chuck Palmer, Chas’s father; and now Gabriella. Gabriella had meant the most to her, but Spliff had taught her everything she knew, not the least of which was breaking into anything, anytime, anywhere. She hadn’t done a safe in many years, but this one didn’t look too tough. If she only had a hammer and a tire iron—it would take her less than two minutes.
    â€œDo you have a hammer and a tire iron?” she asked Mahmoud, careful to keep her voice barely a whisper.
    â€œSorry?” he asked. “Are you being serious?”
    â€œOf course not,” she said, a scowl on her face. “Don’t you know a joke when you hear one?”
    â€œI should have known,” he said with a smile. “You’ve