Free Kill Shot by Liliana Hart Page B

birthday celebration of his mother. He’ll be
there at least another twenty-four hours.”
    Grace nodded and swiped her card in the
elevator. “Then we don’t have a moment to spare. I assume you have
a weapons room in this monstrosity?”
    “You could say that.”
    “Good. When do we leave?”
     
     
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
     
    Washington, D.C.
     
    William Sloane had just sat down to
breakfast on his private terrace when his butler tapped gently on
the door.
    “Excuse me, sir. There’s a Mr. Shawn Kimball
at the door. He’s quite insistent on seeing you, though he’s not on
your list of callers for the day. He said you’d want to hear what
he has to say. Should I send him away?”
    “I’ll see him. Send him in, Peters.”
    “Very good, sir.”
    Peters backed out of the room, and Sloane
slathered his English muffin with butter. He glanced at his watch
and saw it was just after seven. He had meetings that started at
eight, and he was already dressed in an expensively cut suit the
color of charcoal. Ruby cufflinks glinted in the sun when he turned
his wrists just right, and business documents sat neatly stacked at
his elbow.
    He was an affluent man, though a busy one,
and nothing could ruffle the calm exterior and quiet determination
that had made people give him the nickname of Bulldog over the
years. He didn’t take his attention from the meal or papers in
front of him as soft-soled footsteps made their way closer. He
chewed quietly and looked out at the blooming gardens he’d had
built in the back of his Georgetown home.
    “Come in, Kimball. Have a seat.”
    Sloane watched the large man out of the
corner of his eye. Kimball reminded him of a hulking cat, ready to
spring. Dark brown hair that always needed a cut and a body like a
linebacker. But it was the coldness and pure evil in Kimball’s
muddy brown eyes that had caused Sloane to hire him. And the fact
that the man had a unique brain hidden under the obvious brawn. He
was a man easily underestimated.
    Sloane frowned as Kimball helped himself to
a cup of coffee and propped a booted foot on one of the dining
chairs.
    “I take it you didn’t come to see me for
breakfast,” Sloane said, not bothering to let his irritation
show.
    “You told me to dig into everything Frank
Bennett was involved in, retrace all of his steps over the last
month. Have you changed your mind?”
    Sloane still regretted that he hadn’t found
out about Frank Bennett digging around in classified files before
Frank stumbled across The Passover Project. If Bennett had waited
even twenty-four hours to snoop around, all of the files would have
been gone. But Bennett had found them, and taken all the
information back to his home. It would have only been a matter of
time before Bennett found out who was behind The Passover Project’s
resurgence. Bennett had been a good man—a useful man. But Sloane
didn’t regret for a minute having Kimball take him out, especially
once Bennett started asking the wrong questions.
    “Not at all,” Sloane said. “Did you find
something?”
    “Possibly. Bennett used the CIA courier
service to have a package delivered to London. I don’t know what
was in it, but it was signed for by an Edgar Harris.”
    “What do you have on Harris?”
    “Not a damned thing. On the surface Harris
is a forty-four year old financial investor with a prosperous
business, Worthington Financial Services, LLC¸ located on Chapel
Street. He’s divorced with no children. Pays his taxes. Makes twice
yearly visits to another home in the south of France.”
    “What are you not telling me?”
    “I had one of my men put the business under
surveillance. The place is more secure than Fort Knox. It’s a hell
of a setup, and it made my Spidey senses tingle, so I’ve had my men
following Harris to see what he’s been up to. He flew in on his
private plane from a location that was undisclosed, and I couldn’t
get hold of the pilot to try and persuade him to tell me