Drawpoint (Blake Brier Thrillers Book 4)

by L. T. Ryan

  “You would tell me if you did?” Nikitin asked.

  He’s Russian.

  There was no mistaking the accent. But why were the Russians taking such drastic action? What did they already know about the program?

  “Yes, yes, of course I would. Look at me. I’m chained up. The way I see it, I’ve got no other choice but to tell you whatever you want to know. But I guarantee, I don’t know anything that would be of use to you.”

  Ornal winced. He knew he was laying it on too thick, too soon.

  Nikitin laughed. “You are terrible liar. Good thing for you, I don’t give shit about your work.”

  “You don’t? What then?”

  “My boss wants to talk to you about personal matter.”

  “Who’s your boss?”

  “You ask him yourself.”

  The click and scuff of each footfall echoed through the empty space. Ornal tried to look over his shoulder, but the limited range of motion in his neck prevented him from doing so. He wondered if it could be broken. Sprained, at the least.

  From Ornal’s left, the second man circled around and came into view.

  Sokolov.

  While he had never met Sokolov, he had seen dozens of pictures. And after what had happened two years prior, he wasn’t likely to ever forget his face.

  “Is this about Goldmann?” Ornal laughed. It amplified the pain in his chest and caused him to cough, which made it worse. “Come on, seriously? I don’t know where he is if that’s what you want to know.”

  “I know where he is.” Sokolov said. “Every piece of him. What you’re going to tell me is where my diamonds are.”

  “Your diamonds? How the hell am I supposed to know?”

  Nikitin swooped in with a blow to Ornal’s ribs. Ornal stomped his feet as he gasped for air through the pain.

  “You do not hear me,” Sokolov said. “From now on, every lie you tell, Pavel is going to cut off a piece of you.”

  Nikitin produced a blade from a sheath, fastened to his belt.

  Ornal had initially felt a sense of relief and genuine amusement at the realization this was about something he had no knowledge of. Now, not as much.

  Urgency returned to his demeanor. “Goldmann’s the one who stole from you. He screwed us and took off with the case. I figured you already knew that.”

  Nikitin twitched. Sokolov held up his hand to keep his dog at bay. “You see Pavel, this is a clever guy. These are not lies. Mister Goldmann did steal my case. This is true. I will ask better question.”

  Sokolov took a step toward Nikitin and held his hand out. Nikitin placed the handle of the knife into Sokolov’s palm. In one fluid motion, Sokolov spun around and drove the blade into Ornal’s thigh. He twisted the handle as he punctuated each word. “Where are my fucking diamonds?”

  Ornal cried out and squirmed against his restraints. As soon as he regained the ability to speak, the words gushed out in a rapid stream. “No one cared about your diamonds. We were there about the uranium. We were there to shut you down. I swear to God, I never saw them. I never even saw inside the case. Goldmann played us, just like he played you.”

  Sokolov let go of the knife and straightened his back. His eyes glazed over. Ornal hoped it was a sign of contemplation and not rage.

  Nikitin grabbed the handle and ripped the blade free from Ornal’s flesh. Ornal braced himself, but the pain wasn’t as bad as he anticipated. It was more of a relief than anything else.

  Nikitin disappeared around the back of the chair.

  Ornal knew Sokolov didn’t believe him. Sokolov was convinced Ornal knew where the diamonds were and wasn’t going to accept anything less than a full confession. But Ornal had nothing to give him. Not even enough information to make something up.

  There was no sense in denying it. Ornal was a dead man. But in the resignation, he was surprised to find that his biggest concern was not for himself, but for his team. He wished he could warn them. It saddened him to know the same fate was in store for them, and like him, they would never see it coming.

  Escape was impossible. Handcuffed and injured, Ornal stood no chance against two men. Especially not these men. He could try to fight, but he couldn’t win. Then again, he thought, what was the worst that could happen? He couldn’t get more dead.

  Ornal felt Nikitin’s fingers clamp onto his ear. With all his might, he threw himself forward and into a standing position—the chair still attached at his back. He spun, sending the wooden legs careening into Sokolov’s midsection. The legs splintered under the force. Sokolov didn’t budge.

  A smile flashed over Sokolov’s face as he cocked back his fist and drove it into Ornal’s nose. Ornal staggered backward and landed on the chair. The broken legs sent him to the concrete floor. The blood, pooling around his mouth and nose, bubbled as he groaned.

  “Pavel, a moment.” Sokolov said.

  Pavel stepped over Ornal, and the two men walked away. Ornal watched their fuzzy forms recede as he lost consciousness.

  “He does not know,” Sokolov said.

  “Possible,” Nikitin replied. “Or he has not had enough pain.”

  “You are free to keep trying, but believe me, he will not have the answers we need.”

  “Should I bring another? The one who remains in Israel?”

  “No, not yet.” Sokolov ran the nail of his pinky between his two front teeth and then examined it. “We need pressure. These people are not who we thought they were. This one knows about the uranium. These are not hired muscle. No. These are spies. They will not be so easy to break. We need to find out what they care about it. I want to know everything about them. Who they are sleeping with, what family they have, what kind of pets they have. What are their secrets?”

  “You want me to keep this one? Until we know more?”

  “No. He is spent. I need you to go to the United States and handle the woman, Haeli. She is believed to be dead, yes? Someone makes themself disappear, they have done something they should not have done.”

  Nikitin thumped his chest with his fist. “I will handle her.”

  “We will take a different approach. I will give you instructions before you leave. For now, you can clean up this mess.”

  “With pleasure.”

  “And Pavel... Before you kill him, find out what he’s been working on. It may be information I can sell.”

  Nikitin grinned his rotten grin. He withdrew his knife and set off to finish his work.

  10

  “You see them often?”

  “No, not really,” Wan said. “Since you left, it hasn’t been the same. Everyone’s moved on to different things. We do talk once in a while. Even got together four or five months ago. Little Ricky was dating this girl who does stand-up comedy. He asked if we wanted to come out and see her perform.”

  Haeli scanned the cars parked in front of the twelve-story apartment building. They were all empty. She did the same with the row of balconies running up the center of the building, staggered like the teeth of a giant concrete zipper. As far as she could tell, there weren’t any eyes on them.

  Haeli followed Wan toward the front entrance. “Was she any good?”

  Wan grimaced. “No. Not at all.”

  Haeli laughed.

  “But we had a good time. Got sloshed. You know, like old times.”

  She did know, and she missed it. The comradery. The antics. Despite all the hairy situations they had gotten themselves into, and out of, as a team, it was the goofy stuff that stood out in her memory. It was much like when she was with Blake and Griff and the others.

  Wan pulled the heavy brass door and held it. “It’s apartment 12B.”

  Haeli entered, surveying the interior. On the way over, she searched online real estate listings, finding two units for sale in the building. The listings provided pictures of the units’ interiors. Each layout the mirror image of the other, but otherwise identical. It wasn’t much, but she’d take whatever preparation she could get.

  There w
ere no pictures of the lobby, which she was surprised to find was less grand than one would assume, given the price tag. But while it was small and the ceilings were low, the light-colored tile and modern minimalist decor prevented it from being stuffy.

  The only furnishings to speak of were a plush bench, perpendicular to the south wall on the left, and a white lacquered podium to the right. An older man with kind eyes and a sharp gray suit had departed the rear of the podium and was already descending on them. She assumed him to be the doorman.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked in Hebrew.

  Wan answered. And just as well—she was a little rusty and he was always better at speaking Hebrew, anyway. “We’re just visiting a friend.”

  “May I have the name?”

  “Chet Ornal. 12B.”

  “And your name?” The doorman moved to the front of the podium, reached over and picked up an acrylic clipboard.

  Wan shot Haeli a look. Neither of them had expected the inquisition.

  “We’re not on the list,” Wan said. “He’s not expecting us.”

  Haeli chimed in. “We were in the area and figured we’d drop in and say hello.”

  “I will call up to Mister Ornal.” Retreating behind his perch, the doorman lifted a receiver. “Who shall I say is asking?”

  “Uh…” Wan stuttered. Haeli understood his reservation. Sokolov could be listening. Haeli was hoping to keep her little trip to the Middle East a secret for as long as possible. If he were to catch wind that she was there, she would lose any advantage her anonymity afforded her.

  “Adam Goldmann,” Wan said.

  Haeli glared at Wan, her jaw locked in a dramatic clench and her eyes slightly squinted. The universal expression of disapproval, or so she intended it to be. Speaking that name was worse than giving their own. Wan’s only response to her scowl was a shrug and a guilty grin.

  “I’m sorry,” the doorman said. “It doesn’t appear that he is in at the moment. It seems your trip has been a waste.”

  “No, no. We were in the area—”

  Wan took Haeli by the arm. “Thank you. Sorry for the trouble. We’ll just give him a call later.” Wan headed for the door with Haeli in tow.

  Outside, Wan stopped, their backs toward the door.

  “We’ve got to find another way in,” he said to the buildings across the street.

  “I don’t think so,” Haeli said. “I say we walk back in there, call the elevator, and go to the twelfth floor. He’s a doorman. And he seems like a nice old man. What’s he going to do to stop us?”

  “He’ll call the police, that’s what he’ll do.”

  “And by the time they get here, we’ll be gone. You, me, and hopefully Chet, too.”

  “Fine. You go to the elevator, I’ll distract him.”

  As they passed back through the door, Wan made a beeline for the podium. Haeli sauntered over to the elevators.

  “We were thinking,” Wan started, “if you wouldn’t mind leaving a note for—”

  The doorman looked over Wan’s shoulder, keeping his attention fixed on Haeli. “You can’t go up there.” He circled around Wan.

  Standing by the lit button between the two brass colored elevator doors, she weighed her options as she held her ground. She could either ignore him completely or come up with a polite way to say, “stay out of my way, I’m going up there whether you like it or not.” Ignoring him would have been rude.

  “We’re sorry for the inconvenience. I promise it won’t take long.”

  The doorman barreled toward her, but stopped a few feet short. He stomped his foot. “You are trespassing. You must leave now.”

  A chime signaled the arrival of the car.

  This time, Haeli didn’t bother with a response.

  She slipped into the elevator before the doors had fully opened and pressed twelve. Wan squeezed by the doorman with an “excuse me,” and joined Haeli.

  Haeli could tell the man was at a loss for what to do next. He rocked back and forth as if he were contemplating leaping into the elevator.

  As the doors shut him out, they heard him yell, “I’m calling the police.”

  “See,” Wan said. “What did I say? He’s calling the police.”

  “We’ll be quick.”

  The doors opened on the twelfth and they followed the numbers in sequential order until they stood in front of the door to 12B. Haeli knocked and then joined Wan to pose for the peephole. There was no answer.

  The elevator chimed and the second elevator doors opened. The doorman stepped into the hallway.

  “Great,” Wan said, under his breath.

  The doorman called out after them. “He is not at home, I’ve told you. You must leave.”

  Haeli stepped forward to knock again. She felt something crunch under the sole of her foot. She squatted down to examine it.

  Glass.

  A small shard shimmered against the already gleaming polished stone floor. She saw another, and another. Getting low, face an inch from the floor, she looked down the hallway, toward the approaching doorman. She tilted her head side to side, catching the glint of a few more pieces, trailing away from the apartment.

  “What is it?” Wan said.

  “Someone tracked broken glass out of Chet’s place,” she said.

  “What are you doing now?” The doorman appeared more frustrated than angry.

  Haeli stood up. “Do you have a key for these units?”

  “I do, but—”

  “I need you to open this door, right now.” Haeli put her hand out to thwart his inevitable protest. “Listen. Our friend may be in trouble. He may be hurt. Do you see this broken glass? Now, you can either open it, or we’re going to kick it in, it’s your choice. You’ve already called the police, right? If I’m lying to you, you can have us arrested.”

  The doorman’s expression had changed from frustration to concern. Haeli assumed it was for Chet, but given the stern ultimatum, it could have just as easily been for himself. She had a sneaking suspicion he had not followed through on his threat to call the authorities. Either way, he relented and produced the master key.

  As the doorman swung the door open and stepped out of the way, Haeli’s heart sank. It was what she had feared. They were too late.

  The aluminum frame of the sliding door leading to the balcony, was twisted and bent. Huge shards of broken glass littered the living room floor. The sound of traffic flooded in from the city below.

  Haeli moved quickly into the single bedroom, with the faint hope that she would find him there. She didn’t. What she found was a mess. Bedding strewn about. One chair flipped over and the other smashed into several pieces. Holes in the walls above piles of dusty debris. “There was a struggle.”

  Wan had moved into the bedroom and come up behind her. She startled as he put his hand on her back. “Bathroom’s clear. I don’t see any blood, do you?”

  He was right. There was no blood. It meant that Ornal might have been taken alive.

  “They must have dropped down from the roof to the balcony,” Wan added.

  Haeli looked over her shoulder to see the doorman standing just inside the bedroom. He was pale and silent.

  “Did the police give you a time frame?” Haeli asked.

  “I—I didn’t call them.”

  Knew it.

  “I need you to go downstairs and call them. Tell them there’s been an incident and one of the tenants may have been kidnapped. Do you have cameras?”

  “Outside and in the lobby, but they went out two days ago, and no one has come out to fix them yet.”

  Of course they did.

  It was a given that Ornal’s abductors would have disabled the cameras beforehand. Fortunately, the measure benefited her and Wan as much as it did Sokolov’s men.

  “Go, call them now. We’ll stay here and wait for them. We need to be sure no one disturbs anything.”

  The doorman nodded and scurried off.

  “Are we sure this is Sokolov?” Wan a
sked.

  “Who else would it be?”

  “I don’t know. Wild party or something.”

  She gave him her best deadpan as she pushed past him.

  From beyond the open apartment door, the elevator chimed, and the doors squeaked open and closed. “Come on.” She moved into the hallway.

  Wan followed her to the end of the hall and the two slipped into the stairwell.

  In a few minutes, the doorman would return with the police. He would be frantic as he tried to explain to a suspicious audience that the man and woman were ‘right here when I left.’ His bewilderment promised to make it a comical episode.

  Haeli and Wan would not be there to see it.

  11

  Two Days Ago. Yuri pulled the black SUV to the curb.

  “This is good,” Nikitin said.

  A few feet away, past the cobblestone sidewalk and the strip of manicured lawn, the narrow opening to the alley was marked by two clusters of bulbous bushes.

  The two men left the vehicle and mustered at the entrance.

  Ahead, the pin straight asphalt strip was flanked on either side by salmon-colored cinderblock walls, which threatened to converge somewhere in the distance.

  Yuri gripped the cell phone, holding it in front of him like a compass.

  “You lead,” Nikitin said.

  Yuri brushed between the bushes, keeping his eye on the map as he walked.

  Although each of the townhouses shared their exterior walls, melding them into one block-long building, the front-side facade was clearly marked to differentiate one address from the next. From the back, they all ran together.

  They could have counted the doors and little wooden porches, but it would have required pulling themselves up the six-foot wall to catch a peek every twenty meters or so. Instead, the GPS would lead them to the right spot with little effort.

  About half-way down the corridor, Yuri stopped and turned. He pointed at the wall.

  “Right here.”

  Nikitin hooked his fingers over the top of the blocks and pulled. As he mantled, he straightened his arms and swung one leg over. “Clear.” He swung the other leg and dropped.