Burke huffed, rankled by the turn of events. “Then why isn’t Moore answering his phone? Isn’t he willing to defend his own orders?”
Adabelle ignored the question and instead pressed a hidden button on the panel. A set of doors set into the privacy panel slid open, revealing a veritable arsenal: several handguns, two assault rifles, and an assortment of knives.
At the sight of the firepower, Burke’s mood improved considerably.
“I really, really want one of those rifles,” he said. “But I’m afraid it would be too noticeable. I will, however, take the CZ 75 P-09.”
Adabelle smiled and handed it over. “And for you, Miss Archer?”
Lyndsey considered and then indicated the Glock 38.
“The weapons are loaded and ready for action,” Adabelle said, as she gave the Glock to Lyndsey. “Of course, you may check them, if you wish.”
Lyndsey moved to do so, but before she could eject the magazine, the Mercedes came to a sudden, lurching halt.
9
“Dis is it,” Timo said, pointing through the car windshield at the looming Hagia Sophia. “You sure dis is where you want to be? Flick won’t be here still. Dat address I give you is where my man said Flick is stayin’.”
Perry nodded. “I want to start from where he was last seen and work my way back to his living quarters. To follow his footsteps, you know?”
Timo nodded. “You would do good as a Finder. You are a hunter.”
“And I plan to bag some big game today.”
Perry got out of the car. He reached into his pocket and withdrew money.
Timo shook his head vehemently. “Not dis time, man. You get dis guy and that’ll be payment enough.”
“Thanks, Timo.”
“Good luck, bruddah.” Timo gave up a fist bump and then drove away.
Once again alone, Perry stood looking at the Hagia Sophia. He had seen it before, but it was still impressive. The Byzantine church turned mosque turned museum was a striking edifice and even Perry, who prided himself on being difficult to impress, found it almost breathtaking.
At last he looked away and examined the scrap of paper in his hand. On it was the address of the one person in the world he truly hated, hated with a passion burning deep and hot like a charging volcano. The pressure had been building for three years and now, with any luck, it might have the opportunity to explode.
Perry wondered if killing Flick would remove the anger—if vengeance would be a healing agent. It also occurred to him, quite suddenly, that he wasn’t sure what life would look like without the anger to fuel it. He had teetered on the edge of alcoholism since Trina’s murder, but the desire to avenge her death had given him focus. Once resolved, all that remained would be the alcohol. In a rare appearance of his poetic side, Perry realized killing Flick might also be a signature on his own death warrant. These revelations did nothing to dissuade Perry from the goal, of course. He would kill Flick even if he knew the consequence would be immediate execution. He was willing to sacrifice himself in order to kill Flick; he owed it to Trina.
Perry entered the address into his phone and it immediately displayed the shortest walking route.
I love technology, he thought. Except when I don’t.
He started walking, but had only gone a few steps when a strange, wavering cry floated out over the city. It was ezan, the call to prayer, alternating between the minarets of the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. The holy conversation rose and fell in the air, and Perry—who was not by nature religious—felt his neck hairs stand on end. It was as if his mission to rid the world of Flick had received some sort of divine blessing.
According to his phone, his route took him around the Grand Bazaar, the same place Flick had been in Piet’s photo. Although he hated the often-frenzied atmosphere and the pushiness of the vendors—those rug dealers were out of their minds—the Bazaar was an excellent place to disappear should he need to. Large, milling crowds and endless nooks and crannies made it a covert agent’s dream, even if that agent suffered from a mild case of agoraphobia and a healthy dose of misanthropy. Still, just because Timo’s man had seen Flick enter a residence did not mean he was still there. And there was always the possibility Flick had made the tail and intentionally led the man to the wrong location. Underestimating Flick was a mistake Perry intended to never make again.
Perry squared his shoulders and walked on toward the Bazaar, his face set in a mask of rigid determination.
Adabelle punched a switch with her index finger, causing the privacy panel to slide back. “What the hell is going on? Why are we stopping?”
“Traffic, ma’am,” the driver said. “We are near the Grand Bazaar. Many pedestrians.”
“Well, damn,” Adabelle said, pressing the switch again. “Go around it, can’t you?”
“I will try my—” the driver said, his words cut off as the soundproof panel closed entirely.
Burke took the opportunity to repeat an earlier question. “Where exactly are we going?”
“I already told you,” Adabelle said, looking distractedly out the window at the milling crowd.
“You told us we were going to get our weapons. We now have them. Is there any reason we still need to be in this car?”
Adabelle sighed. “We’re going to find Perry Hall. He’s the entire reason behind this mission after all.”
“Sorry to intrude on your process,” Burke said, his sarcasm poorly masked. “But surely you can understand how Lyndsey and I might be feeling a little out of the loop. We’re both used to being in charge of joint operations, so this is a different experience for us.”
“Yes,” Adabelle said. “I’m aware you are two of Moore’s favorites. But for now you’re going to have to put that aside. I’ve been tasked with making sure you follow through on the mission, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.”
Burke ground his teeth. “I don’t need a baby—” his words broke off as he saw a familiar figure moving swiftly into the Bazaar. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Was that...Perry? He looked again and was convinced of it. Although he hadn’t seen the man’s full face, the profile, hair, and gait were all Perry. Burke glanced over to see if Lyndsey had seen the same thing, but she was looking out the opposite window. Normally, Burke would have jumped from the car and sprinted after Perry, but something stopped him. The inaction made it clear to Burke how conflicted he was over the mission. Perhaps Moore had been right to provide a little mission oversight. Having seen his best friend—or at least someone who could play him in a movie—Burke was now less sure than ever he’d be able to pull the trigger.
He snapped back to the present to find Adabelle was speaking.
“But if you insist on knowing, we are going to pay a visit to a SpyCo contact who has a known connection to Perry. We’re hoping Perry has spoken to him.”
Burke and Lyndsey exchanged glances. That had been their plan as well. It might turn out to be difficult to shake Adabelle, if such became necessary. Lyndsey gave Burke a minute but firm shake of the head. She said nothing, but Burke knew she was reminding him that her position on the killing of Perry Hall was non-negotiable. Burke responded with a quick nod—and she understood. Lyndsey’s face brightened and she gave him a smile that made Burke feel like a goddamn hero.
Perry leaned against the side of the tobacco shop, trying to appear as a casual sightseer, while using the corner of the building as cover. Across the street and at a slight angle, stood a row of houses, the second in being the one Timo’s man had said Flick entered. The curtains were all drawn. Perry looked for any movement in the fabric, any flicker of light that would indicate Flick was still inside. But he saw nothing.
After waiting thirty minutes, with no sign of activity from the house, Perry cut diagonally across the opposing street. Moving quickly, but not running, he passed under the shade of a tree grove. This gave him at least scant cover until he was in line with an alley running behind the row of houses. He paused, only briefly, and then went for
the alley. His heart pounded with anticipation. It was all he could do to keep from running. Was it possible he would at last find justice for Trina?
Once in the alley, Perry forced himself to stop and assess his surroundings. This was a quiet neighborhood, at least at the moment. It had a decided sketchy look, and he wondered what it was like at night.
He moved along the alley and didn’t stop until he was flat against the rear wall of the house, with the back door to his right. He reached into his jacket and pulled the pistol Zeki had provided for him from its holster.
He tried the door. To his surprise, it opened easily, instantly giving him an eerie feeling. Perry disliked any aspect of a covert operation that was easy. It made him feel as if he were walking into a trap or that the other shoe was about to drop. Consistently, mildly difficult was his preference—well within his skill level, but tricky enough to keep him on his toes. This business of unlocked doors did not qualify. These days, the only people who left doors unlocked were people expecting welcome guests...or those they were waiting to kill.
Perry used the gun muzzle to push the door open wide enough to see inside. It was dark inside the house. All the lights were off and it was quiet. Wait, no, there was one sound...a gurgling, bubbling sound. Perry’s first thought was of someone dying from a knife wound to the throat, choking on their own blood.
When he moved, he moved fast. Inside the house, around the corner of the door, sweeping the room with a lightning fast back-and-forth motion, pistol at the ready. Empty. Forward to the next room, separated from the first by an open archway.
Perry paused briefly and then spun into the second room, performing the same sweeping technique—also empty. At least now he knew the source of the bubbling sound—a caydanlik or Turkish tea pot sat on the stove, the burner turned up high. Three clear, tulip-shaped glasses sat on the counter, along with a saucer of sugar cubes. Clearly, Flick was preparing to enjoy a Turkish pastime—the consumption of cay—and expecting company. Perry had not envisioned Flick as a tea drinker; it seemed too refined for a calloused killer. But then again, Hitler had loved dogs and, reportedly, children.
He probably thought they were delicious, Perry mused.
He reached out and turned off the heat, hoping to silence the bubbling. Flick was a quiet killer and Perry didn’t need anything masking even the stealthiest of sounds. After a moment, the water in the pot settled and Perry moved to the door. It, too, was an open archway. Perry gathered himself. Every empty room he found raised the possibility the next would be the one, the one where Flick was waiting like a jungle cat to spring with his knife and—
Perry flew around the corner and began a sweep of the room. There was a blur of movement in his right peripheral, a sense rather than a sound, and something slammed into his shoulder. He twisted, moving with the impact, bringing his gun around. Something flashed in a shaft of light spearing through a crack in the curtains, and Perry knew what it was without even seeing it. A knife. Flick’s knife. Probably the very knife that had pierced Trina’s pale, delicate neck.
Perry let out a warrior’s yell. He ducked, twisted again, saw a dark form looming in the kitchen archway—Flick. Perry charged, his sense of strategy gone and replaced with burning hatred that blotted out his vision and exchanged it for a veil of red blood. Kill—kill—kill—it was all he could think. His gun was up, firing.
Blam! Blam!
He kept moving forward. Blind from anger, deaf from the roaring of the shots, Perry reached and grasped cloth with his fingertips. He held on like a rat terrier, pulling himself closer.
His vision cleared and there, standing eye to eye, was Flick. The killer’s eyes were dead, hard, cold, but the veins stood out on his forehead and neck, pulsing with exertion. Perry tried to bring up his gun, to drive it into Flick’s mouth and pull the trigger, but the move was blocked by a chopping blow that knocked the gun from Perry’s hand. The blade flashed again and came down in a sweeping arc. Perry grabbed the killer’s forearm, stopping the attack, but this time Flick had him in a choke hold, dragging him backward into the kitchen and forcing him toward the floor.
“And now you will die, you stupid dog,” Flick ground out between gritted teeth. “You want to see your bitch wife again? I can make it happen. Soon you can embrace her in hell.”
The knife came down.
Perry’s head felt like it might explode from the pressure of the choke hold. His eyes bulged and his ears rang. In desperation, Perry reached up and grabbed the handle of the tea pot and, using his last reserve of oxygen, turned the entire tings upside down on Flick’s head.
The killer shrieked as boiling water splashed down his head and neck, running into his face and, Perry hoped, his dead, stupid eyes. The knife clattered to the floor as Flick clawed at his head and face. Perry rolled onto his back and glanced around for his gun, but it was nowhere to be seen. Then he saw the knife and lunged for it, but Flick stepped on the blade and swept his foot backward, sending the knife spinning across the kitchen floor. Perry scrambled forward, but Flick was already standing and reached the knife a step ahead. He scooped it up, turned, and made an awkward slashing motion.
Then Perry saw the face. The right side was scorched red, with blisters already forming around the eye. The hair on top of the killer’s head was partially scalded away, leaving behind deep red patches of bubbling scalp.
Perry got to his feet. There was still no sign of the gun, but he did spot a knife block on the counter. The handles of the knives stuck out like beacons of hope. If he could get one of those knives, he might have a fighting chance.
“Looks like that might sting a bit,” Perry said, edging slightly toward the counter. “You do know, of course, when your mother said to stay out of hot water, she meant it both figuratively and literally.”
Flick did not seem amused. “You will pay for this. Pay dearly. I was going to finish you off quickly, like your little whore, but now I will make it slow and painful.”
Perry shook his head. “As much as I appreciate your desire to spend more time with me, I sadly must decline.”
“You have no weapon. And I have my knife.”
Perry lunged for the knives, gripping the first handle he felt and jerking it from the block. He brandished his new weapon at Flick. “And this makes two of us!”
Flick burst into wild laughter despite his obvious pain. “No, I’m afraid it’s still only me.”
Perry glanced his hand, the one holding the...spatula spreader? Damn it, of all the options he’d grabbed a spatula spreader.
“It would have made no difference,” Flick said, seeing the chagrin on Perry’s face. “You would have been no match for me with a blade.” The killer started forward, the knife pointed directly at Perry’s face. “Shall we get started? I’m anxious to hear you scream.”
Perry’s eyes darted around the kitchen. There had to be something he could use as a weapon: a cast iron pot, a rolling pin. Hell, he’d even take the cutting strip from a box of goddamn aluminum foil. As he looked around, his mind racing, his eyes lighted on a strip of darkness along the bottom of the stove—a shadow. And a shadow meant there was empty space. His gun...it had to be under the stove. There was nowhere else it could be. It must have skittered under during the struggle.
Perry glanced up and saw Flick almost within striking distance. With a single fluid motion, Perry threw the spreader at Flick’s head and dove onto the floor. He stuck his arm as far under the stove as he could and felt around madly.
His hand gripped cold steel.
The gun came out, around, and up. Flick’s expression change immediately when he saw the gun, going from brutal, animalistic anticipation to shock, anger, and...was that a flash of fear?
Perry pulled the trigger and the gun went off, but Flick had reacted with the speed of a cat and was already diving sideways into the back room. Perry scrambled to his feet and surged forward, but as he entered the back room, he saw Flick disappear out the door. Perry followed, pistol at the ready.
As he burst into the open, he heard a motorcycle roar to life around the far side of the house. Perry ran toward the noise, but arrived just in time to watch Flick speed onto the road, the bike’s tires still spewing dirt from the shallow trough they’d dug into the yard. Perry raised his gun to shoot, then slowly lowered it again. The shot was too difficult and another row of houses was directly in the line of fire. He couldn’t risk injuring a civilian with a round from an impossible shot.
Perry unleashed a string of highly creative profanity that petered out as he became gradually aware he was being watched. From several windows, wide-eyed faces peered out at this crazy, gun-toting blasphemer. Perry gave the onlookers a snappy salute, reached into his jacket for his wallet, flashed it at them, and then turned and walked briskly back inside the house. Hopefully, they would assume he was the police and so would not feel the need to report the incident they’d witnessed.
Police or no, Perry knew it was imperative to leave the house as soon as possible. Flick might have associates, hence the extra tea glasses, or someone in law enforcement might be summoned. On the other hand, there was no telling what might be discovered by searching Flick’s residence, even if it was merely rented. Documents, plans, passports, contacts...any or all might be available and it would be foolish to pass up the opportunity. And what if Flick had not been staying here after all? Suppose he had simply walked into a random house to throw off Timo’s man? In that case, there might be victims in the house and they might still be alive. As murderous as he was, Flick had been known to spare random innocents, as he had once in Paris. If there were people being held in the house, Perry might very well condemn them to death by leaving. As risky as it was, he had to search the house.
“Ten minutes,” he whispered. “You have ten minutes, Perry, and then you get the hell out.”
10
“Adabelle. To what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Zeki as he opened the door, once more via remote control from his bed, and saw the agent enter, trailed by Burke and Lyndsey.
Assignment- Adventure A SpyCo Collection 1-3 Page 20