The Betrayer (49 page)

“I have a driver waiting downstairs. His vehicle should be outside now. He will take us to the hotel, then leave us.”

The Russian thought about that, then said, “What kind of vehicle?”

“A white van. It has been disguised to look like an electrician‘s truck.”

She had no way of knowing for certain if Johnny‘s father and Kirkland were in place outside yet, but what choice did she have? The Russian stepped to the window, glanced down, then faced her again.

He seemed satisfied with this part of her story, so the van must have been there. But he was clearly still thinking, still trying to work out whether or not to trust the gift before him.

It was obvious that he wanted to trust it.

And it was obvious that he wanted her, was probably already thinking of things he would do to her, make her do to him.

Haley had long ago learned to see that in a man‘s eyes.

She said, “I was instructed to tell you that Smith was an FBI agent, and that he and John Coyle have Morris and will probably know everything Morris knows soon, if they don‘t already know. I‘m also supposed to remind you that Morris was the one who left the surveillance photos and information packet in your room upstairs, so Smith and Coyle know, or will soon know, that you are here.” She paused to let that sink in, then said, “I don‘t think we have a lot of time to waste, Vitali. I certainly don‘t want to be here when the authorities come knocking.”

The name he went by, she hoped, would erase all doubt that Fiermonte had sent her.

And establish the trust she would need, and would quickly betray.

The Russian glanced down at the medical supplies on the floor.

Looking at Haley again, he said, “Get started.”

Richter McVicker had entered the lobby moments ago, but remained by the door as if waiting for someone.

The door was glass, and he was watching the street.

The man behind the front desk glanced at the large man several times but said nothing.

The conversation being picked up by Haley‘s cell phone was being relayed by John Coyle and Kirkland via a transmitter to the small “earbone” receiver wedged in Richter‘s ear.

When he heard the Russian say, “Get started,” Richter turned and approached the front desk, moving with long, determined strides.

He was halfway to the desk in a matter of seconds, at which point he drew his weapon. As the clerk began to look up, Richter ordered, “Eyes down.” The clerk‘s eyes went to the weapon aimed at him by the approaching man, not the man‘s face. Richter, just feet from the desk, repeated his order, and the stunned clerk bowed his head instantly.

The lobby door opened, then shut, and Kirkland moved fast to join Richter.

“I‘ll need your master key,” Richter said to the clerk.

The man, his head still bent, found the large ring on his desk, grabbed it, and held it up.

Richter took it.

Stepping around the desk, Kirkland put his own weapon to the clerk‘s temple and told him to get down on his stomach.

“Make sure you get his driver‘s license,” Richter said.

Kirkland nodded, then asked the man whether the security camera was connected to a DVD recorder or DVR.

The man said it was a DVD, and as Kirkland asked where the recorder was hidden, Richter bolted for the door to the stairs, ring of keys in hand.

Vitali sat on the bed, facing the mirror so he could watch Haley.

His handgun was lying beside his right thigh.

“What is your name?” he said.

Of all the things Kirkland had prepared Haley for, this was not one. She thought quickly, deciding fast on her middle name.

All good lies, after all, contain some truth.

“Nicole.”

If he had noticed her slight hesitation, he seemed not to care about it.

Haley studied the wounds on his back.

Four gashes, each a quarter inch long. The bullet fragments, as dark as wood slivers, were clearly visible inside them.

“I‘m going to need to take the fragments out,” Haley said. She was more asking permission than stating a fact.

The Russian nodded.

She retrieved the syringe and glass vial from the pile on the floor. Tearing open the package and removing the syringe, she was about to insert the needle into the vial when the Russian spoke.

“No painkillers.”

Haley held up the unmarked glass vial. “It‘s just an antibiotic.”

He looked at the vial, then nodded.

Haley inserted the needle and pulled back the plunger, filling the syringe with the exact amount she had been instructed to use.

“It‘ll be painful,” she said. “Getting those fragments out.”

“I don‘t care.”

It was only then that Haley noticed that his two front teeth were broken.

“Suit yourself,” she said.

She proceeded to inject the Russian in his shoulder.

Quick, like she knew what she was doing, like she had done it a hundred times before.

Withdrawing the syringe, she stepped back and returned to the pile on the floor, kneeling down as if to select the items she would need next.

But really she was buying time, watching for the first signs that the large dose of the powerful tranquilizer Martin had given her — ketamine, she‘d been told — was beginning to take effect.

It‘s a drug the Russian knows all too well
, Kirkland had said.

The Russian saw that Haley was looking at him out of the corner of her eye. He also saw that the only item in the pile of supplies that she had actually picked up was the long scalpel.

It didn‘t take long at all for him to feel the first of the effects.

And to realize what she had done.

Haley saw a look of cognition in his dark eyes.

And sudden rage as well.

The Russian stood, or tried to — the drug had already begun to affect his balance. As he struggled to rise, the towel around his waist came undone and slipped to the floor. Naked, he lunged for Haley, but she had already risen to her feet, the scalpel gripped in her hand. The Russian managed one step but stumbled on the second, dropping to one knee. Haley took two steps back and remained beyond his reach.

“Now,” she said softly. She was speaking to anyone and everyone who was listening via the cell phone.

And then, with a little more urgency, she said it again.

“Now.”

The Russian reached down, placing his hands on the floor to brace himself, then he lifted his knee off the floor. On two feet now, he forced himself to stand — rising through the pain and despite the tranquilizer softening his mind and weakening his powerful legs.

He lunged again, like a bull, and Haley backed up, the scalpel held the way Johnny had taught her.

Ready to swing, ready to open his flesh.

But she had misread her environment and came up against the wall.

The lumbering Russian threw himself into her, driving his shoulder into her sternum with all his weight.

It hit her with the force of a sledgehammer.

Two grunts — hers, as the wind was knocked from her lungs, and his from the pain he felt as his wounds reopened.

Stunned, Haley‘s knees buckled and she slid, nearly lifeless, down the wall to the floor.

Standing over her, the Russian seized her right forearm with one hand, then grabbed her right hand with the other and applied a wristlock.

The scalpel fell from her hand. The instant it hit the floor, the Russian kicked it away.

It skidded toward the middle of the room and stopped.

Grabbing her left arm, the Russian hoisted Haley off the floor. She was suddenly airborne, little more than a ragdoll. He slammed her against the wall once, then again. She gasped for air but her lungs would not fill. He released her, dropping her to the floor, then leaned over her and grabbed a handful of her short hair, pulling it so her face was raised.

He slapped her with his huge open hand, but that didn‘t satisfy him, apparently, because the next blow was a punch.

Hard knuckles against her left cheek.

For several seconds Haley could only see blackness.

The next thing she knew she was airborne again — in his rage the Russian had lifted her once more, sliding her up the wall till she was raised over his head, then he turned and flung her across the room.

She landed hard on the floor and slid several feet before coming to a stop.

Just feet from the long scalpel.

Her sight had returned, but all she could hear now was a loud, steady ringing. She couldn‘t hear the Russian approach but she could feel the floorboards bouncing under the weight of each step he took.

And it only took a few for him to reach her.

He was over her again, and he half knelt down, half dropped to his knees, mounting her like a schoolyard bully.

With two hands he ripped her blouse open, scattering buttons. His power was unreal; she felt as if she were caught in some relentless machine. Another tear and the blouse was two shredded halves. Another and those two halves were gone completely.

He was tearing at her bra, had that off, too, in a matter of seconds.

And then he suddenly stopped.

Haley‘s vision was blurred, but not so badly that she couldn‘t see that her attacker was looking at her.

At first she thought he was staring at her breasts, but then she realized what it was that had caught his eye and caused him to pause.

He was looking at her right arm.

And the distinctive, colorful dragon tattoo spiraling up it.

This confused the Russian for a moment — but only a moment.

He knew now who she was.

Who he had beneath him.

But it was only a matter of time before the ketamine won, both she and the Russian knew that. There was simply no time for what he needed to do.

For what his instincts had driven him to start.

What his swelling penis demanded, required, craved.

He grasped Haley‘s throat with two hands, lining his thumbs up with her larynx, then simultaneously pressed down and squeezed.

In a wild panic Haley grabbed his thick wrists, but of course he was too strong. She reached out with her right hand, frantically searching the floor for the scalpel but not finding it.

Her vision was narrowing, growing hazy, and the ringing in her ears, though still steady, was being replaced by the sound of her own blood pounding.

Her eyelids were fluttering, her eyes themselves beginning to roll up and back. Her head was about to burst from the blood trapped in it.

And then, suddenly, the hands around her throat loosened slightly.

Then just as suddenly tightened again, closed even tighter before being yanked away completely.

Gasping, Haley clutched her throat. Free of the weight of the man that had been straddling her, she rolled to her side.

She hadn‘t taken a breath in close to a minute, and her panicked heart was pounding, her still-deflated lungs aching.

She opened her eyes but couldn‘t stop them from blinking.

Through the tears she looked for the Russian, but all she could see at first were feet — a pair of large bare feet and a pair of large booted feet.

The booted feet were standing, the soles of the bare feet facing her.

They were so pale they were almost paper white.

She realized that Richter had pulled her attacker off her.

The naked Russian now lay flat on his back, looking up at Richter with barely conscious eyes.

The Russian tried to sit up, but Richter wasted no time. He pushed the Russian back down to the floor with the heel of his boot, then bent and grabbed him by one arm, dragging him across the floor. Reaching an empty corner, he pulled the Russian into a seated position and leaned him against the wall.

Then Richter retrieved the Russian‘s gun from the bed, crouched beside him, and placed the weapon in the Russian‘s right hand.

It took a moment to slip the Russian‘s index finger through the trigger guard, but once that was done he placed the muzzle of the suppressor into the Russian‘s mouth and slid his own index finger over the Russian‘s.

Helpless, the Russian locked eyes with Richter.

Richter met them, held them for a second, then said, “This is for my father,” and pressed the trigger.