Page 58 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

Sweeney.

Selina could guess who her kidnapper was.

“Move, bitch.” He shoved her into the massive entryway of Fisher’s mountaintop mansion.

To open the door, Selina noticed, Sweeney had typed in what seemed like a ten- or twelve-digit security code. Of course Fisher would have an elaborate security system.

Sweeney’s hazel eyes narrowed. “Give me your cell phone.”

No sense lying about having one. That might earn her a rough pat down or a bullet hole in her body.

She slowly pulled it out of her pocket, wondering whether she could chance unlocking it with her fingerprint and tapping the speed dial for Carmen.

“Please don’t hurt me.”

“Just do what I say, and you’ll be fine. Lay it on the floor.”

“Okay, whatever you want, Mr. Sweeney.”

“The fuck do you know my name?” His eyes were narrow with rage and concern.

“I just . . . I’m sorry.”

“Phone now.”

She tried the fingerprint thing.

“Don’t get cute. Leave it locked and kick it over here. Now.”

“Let me go. The police know I’m here.”

“Not unless they’ve given you the okay to pilfer mail. I’m not asking again: phone.”

Selina set the unit down and used the edge of her shoe to slide it toward him.

Without ever taking his eyes off her, Sweeney tapped the toe of his shoe on the floor until he felt the phone underneath his foot.

He ground the device under his heel. “We wouldn’t want your big sister calling you, would we?”

A whisper: “You know who I am?”

“Selina Sanchez,” Sweeney said. “And your sister Carmen is a Fed.”

How had he found out? Nando?

The driver of the black Edge?

Someone else, betraying her?

She glanced around the massive room, the doorways, the windows.

He gave a cold laugh. “Don’t bother. You can’t outrun a bullet.”

She was tempted to say sarcastically, “Oh, that was a clever line,” but she had to maintain the aura of helplessness.

“Just so you don’t do anything that would be stupid for you and irritating for me, sit down in that chair.”

“Yes, sure. Whatever you say. Just don’t hurt me.”

“Don’t have your sister’s balls, do you?”

She wiped her eyes. “She’s a cop. I’m a student.”

“Sit.” He walked closer to her and put his hand on her shoulder to shove her down.

Which was when the “helpless” girl struck.

The scared attitude was fake, as was the phony crying, which Sweeney might have noticed if he’d bothered to look closely. For a professional hit man he wasn’t at the top of his game.

The sobbing young girl turned suddenly into an athlete who had been trained, by her sister, in the devastating Russian martial art of Systema.

She swung in close, grabbed his collar and slammed her sole into his knee.

He cried out in pain. Systema is a form of grappling.

It has none of the elegance of karate or tae kwon do but is far more utilitarian.

It was created during the Mongol occupation of Russia so that soldiers could learn it fast. The system is also known by the Russian words for “know yourself.”

He swung a fist, which caught her on the shoulder. She staggered back, pain coursing through her upper body.

But when, enraged, he came toward her it was with a decided limp.

Selina balanced her weight and, as he drew closer, she seemed to go once more for the leg, but when he shied away she slammed the heel of her palm into his nose.

“ Don’t ever use a fist. You’re more likely to break your own bones than inflict any damage on the opponent. ”

Sweeney staggered back, wiping at the blood on his face, groaning in pain. “You fucking bitch ... That’s it. I’ve had it!”

Well, I haven’t, Selina thought and picked up a small statue, then tossed it at his head. It sailed past and smashed into the window, cracking the glass.

Sweeney charged forward, the gun up.

“No, no, okay ... okay!” Selina held her arm up as if that would deflect bullets.

“The chair.”

Glaring, she walked to it and sat.

Sweeney looked at the blood on his fingers, from a sweep of his face. And bent his knee, wincing.

As she sat staring at him, she said, “I know what’s going on.”

“Do you?”

“You killed my dad.”

“Figured that out, did you?”

“My father was a financial adviser. He found something suspicious with one of his clients’ accounts.” She lifted her head and looked around. “Christopher Fisher.”

The expression that crossed his face told her she was on the mark. “Smart little thing, aren’t you?”

“So, it’s true.”

“That’s right.”

She looked him over. “I heard you specialize in making murders look like suicides.”

“How the hell did you know all this? Tell me!”

She got a small taste of what Carmen must feel like when someone is surprised into making an unintended admission.

“You screwed up, Sweeney. Left a trail so clear even a college kid like me could follow it right to you.”

“I’m not fucking around. Tell me who ratted me out.”

This was the only reason she was still alive. He had to know where the holes were so he could plug them.

“I’ll tell you. But first, I want to know exactly how Fisher did it.”

He gave her a cruel look, up and down. “I could just force you to talk.”

“If I’m in pain, I might lie. If you tell me the truth, I’ll return the favor.”

He laughed. “You’re a piece of work.”

“What did Dad discover, exactly, that made him so dangerous you were hired to kill him?”

“I tell you and you give me the leaky faucet that gave up my name.”

“Sure. You’re both pricks. I don’t care what happens to either one of you.”

No smile now. He glared coldly.

“Okay, about your dad ... well, you’re just a kid. I don’t suppose you know much about money laundering.”

“I’ve heard of it,” she said. “Only I know it by a different name. Fortuna and Hygeia.”

And she enjoyed the look of complete confusion crossing his ruddy face.