Killer Instinct (Instinct #2)(67)

Ping!

Foxx and I turned to my phone, sitting on the conference room table. It could’ve been anyone texting me, but there was something about the way the sound broke the silence of the room—the timing of it—that had us both thinking one thing. It was her.

So sorry! Been crazy busy. Hope we’re still on for 2night. Gramercy Tavern @ 8?

I read it once, then twice. Foxx did the same.

“Something doesn’t feel right,” he said.

He had a point. Her taking so long to follow up with me set off every alarm in my head. But as my thumbs hovered above the screen, all I wanted to do was type back and confirm.

I’d signed the contract with Foxx. I’d even borrowed a pen from him to do it. I was now an agent of the CIA. For all intents and purposes, an operative again. What Foxx was waiting for, though—what he needed to see and hear—was that I’d truly bought in. Does Dylan Reinhart have that same killer instinct?

There was only one way to convince him. “If I have to, I’ll take her down myself,” I said.

Foxx nodded as I texted Sadira and confirmed our dinner.

“Welcome back, Reinhart,” he said.





CHAPTER 95


I WANTED to be the first to arrive at Gramercy Tavern. I showed up twenty minutes early. Twenty minutes wasn’t early enough.

Sadira was sitting at the end of the bar, a book in one hand and a glass of red in the other. Only ten feet away, I froze as soon as I saw her. She would’ve easily noticed me, standing like a statue, were it not for the fact that the bar was three rows deep with people. Even if it weren’t for the crowd, she seemed pretty engrossed in the book. I stared.

Not at her, though. If you ever want to fully appreciate how attractive someone is, simply watch the people around them. The furtive looks. The up-and-down glances. And that was just the other women in the room. The men were far less subtle. Many of them were flat-out gawking at Sadira.

“What are you reading?” I asked, walking up to her. Right away I noticed that she’d held a chair open for me with her purse and a wrap. Or maybe it was just a way to prevent some of those male gawkers from hitting on her.

“Well, hi there,” she said, greeting me with a kiss on the cheek. Her scent was lavender. She turned the book so I could see the cover. It was a biography of René Descartes.

“Ah, yes. A little light reading while waiting for a table,” I joked. There was nothing light about Descartes.

“Actually, I was thinking we could eat right here, if you don’t mind.” She put down the book and scooped up her purse and wrap from the vacant chair, hanging both on a hook by her knees. “I always find that the drinks come faster when you sit at the bar.”

“I like where your head is at,” I said, taking a seat. “Faster drinks can be a good thing, especially on a first date.”

“Is that what this is?” she asked. For a second, she looked a bit put off by my calling it that, but I saw right through her. She was messing with me.

“Nice try, Professor,” I said.

“Good for you,” she replied, flashing a smile. “You don’t fool easily.”

“Not as easily as most.”

Sadira motioned to the nearest bartender. “No more grape juice,” she announced, pushing away her glass of wine. “I think it’s time we take it up a notch.”

I almost felt like one of the guys gawking at her as she ordered a couple of Blanton’s for us, her just assuming that I would enjoy a bourbon. She was beautiful, smart, funny, and liked to throw a few back. A killer combination, you might say.

“No luck with a reservation at that new Italian you mentioned, huh?” I asked. “Not that I don’t love this restaurant. Who doesn’t?”

Gramercy Tavern was the very definition of iconic in Manhattan. It was synonymous with the city. The warm wood and earth-tone décor. The impeccable service. And, most of all, the food itself. Ninety-nine percent of all restaurants will open and shut down without ever winning a James Beard award. Gramercy Tavern has won nine.

“To be perfectly honest, I didn’t even try that other place,” she said. “With what’s happened this week, the bombings, I suddenly realized the last thing I wanted was new and different.”

“Taking comfort from the tried and true,” I said as our bourbons were placed in front of us. “I get it.”

“I feel ashamed to admit this, but I can’t even watch coverage of it anymore. The funerals. Learning the life stories of all the victims. That’s awful of me to say, isn’t it?”

“Hardly,” I replied. “I remember reading this article after 9/11. People who weren’t from here couldn’t fathom how quickly New Yorkers seemed to go about their lives again as if we were somehow less affected than the rest of the country.” I motioned to the rest of the bar, everyone enjoying themselves. “But this? This is as human as it gets. When surrounded by death is when we most need to feel alive.”

Sadira grabbed her bourbon, raising it toward me. “To feeling alive,” she said. “To being alive.”

“Yes,” I said, clinking her glass. “Here’s to being alive.”





CHAPTER 96


SADIRA LED the charge. We were on our third round of bourbons before we even cracked the menus. By the time our entrées landed in front of us, we were five deep and heading for six. If Sadira was trying to kill me, she’d chosen a method I didn’t see coming. Alcohol poisoning.