Free Dead Eye by Mark Greaney

the shadows of a potted orange tree at a table in the outdoor café, ignoring the patrons sitting in the sun as all but a few of the men there ignored her. Her face was half-hidden behind her huge designer sunglasses, and her head hung over the demitasse of espresso nested in her hands on the bistro table. Occasionally she appeared to gaze out across the street in front of her, past four lanes of moderate traffic and toward an alley that ran behind a four-story apartment building and a parking garage.
    It was a perfect December afternoon in Faro, Portugal, with sunny skies and temperatures in the midfifties. And although this was certainly not an intersection with a scenic view, nor did this urban neighborhood possess any tourist value whatsoever, the tables that poured onto the sidewalk from the café were more than half occupied, mostly by afternoon shoppers and locals from the nearby middle-class apartment building and the alley behind it.
    But the woman under the orange tree just sat by herself, far away from the rest of the patrons, nursing her espresso. She flicked her midlength brown hair out of her face and glanced again to the apartment building.
    A text appeared on the iPhone lying next to her purse on the table. She picked up the phone and glanced at it.
    Where are you?
    She tapped back a response with her thumb.
    Watching TV on the sofa. Why?
    She put the phone back on the table and resumed her languid gaze across the street, but seconds later she heard the screech of metal chair legs dragging across the sidewalk next to her. An attractive middle-aged man in a gray suit sat down, putting his phone on the table alongside hers. She saw the text she had just sent displayed on the screen of his phone.
    He spoke softly as he settled in. “It hurts my feelings when you lie to me.” His accent was thick, but his English flawless.
    The woman smiled a little now, but she did not turn to look at the man. “You know me too well, Yanis.”
    Yanis had already bought a cup of tea from the counter inside, and he stirred sugar into it while he talked. He, unlike the woman, did not smile.
    “You aren’t supposed to be here,” he said.
    “I know.”
    “You did the same thing in Buenos Aires, and you did the same thing in Tangiers.”
    “And in Manila. But you didn’t catch me in Manila.” She turned to him; her smile was no longer sheepish. It had turned sexy. Coquettish. “What can I say? I like to watch.”
    Yanis was not as playful. “It’s not the protocol. You know that. This could be dangerous.”
    She turned back to the building across the street. “Were you so concerned for my safety at any time during the past six weeks? I don’t recall you once asking me if I was keeping a safe distance from those two bastards in that apartment over there. As a matter of fact, weren’t you pressing me to get even closer?”
    Yanis Alvey softened his tone. “The investigation is over, Ruth. Your role is complete. Let’s get out of here and let the bad boys do their part.”
    “I’m not in the way. And I am not going anywhere.”
    Yanis sighed. He’d fought these battles with Ruth Ettinger before, and he’d always lost. He was senior to her in their organization, but she was both so damned obstinate and so damned good at her job that he let her get away with little things like this.
    Yanis knew he would lose now unless he claimed victory. “All right. You can stay. I guess you deserve it.” Yanis gazed up and down the street, then spoke into his phone. “Clear.” He put the phone down and turned his attention back to the pretty brunette. “It feels odd executing in daylight.”
    “That was my suggestion. The targets stayed up all night, worked till past noon. Right now is the best time to hit them.”
    “I hope you are right.” He cleared his throat. “You aren’t armed, are you?”
    “I’ve got Mace in my purse.”
    “That must be of great comfort to you.” His sarcasm was clear. “I am armed, of