The Death Dealer

by Nick Carter

  "Never," came the answer. "And. to save us both time. Morals: none. Involvements: none. Limitations: few, if any. Training: the streets, mercenary service, and the terrorist underground. Any other questions?"

  "Price?" Nick said.

  "Seventy-five thousand marks directly payable to a Swiss account."

  "Dependability?"

  "Infallible," came the reply.

  Nick looked over to Anatole. His answer was merely a shrug that hinted at "your choice." Nick returned his concentration to the blonde killer.

  "Are you familiar with a man called the Dealer?" he asked.

  For the briefest of moments, the eyes seemed to waver and the granite features broke ever so slightly. But the voice when it came was ice cold and even.

  "I have heard the name. I appreciate the skills involved. The man is a genius."

  Nick waited. "And?"

  "It would be quite a challenge."

  "Are you equal to that challenge?" Nick asked, carefully reading the response.

  The blonde man leaned forward, his hands resting on the tabletop, his fingers toying with the wineglass before him. The glass suddenly shattered into fragments, wine dribbling onto the table — all from the force of the man's grasp. And then he turned his hands, palms up, on the table.

  Both Nick and Anatole stared at the palms. They were coated in red, but at no point was the coloration due to anything but the Burgundy wine the glass had contained.

  Shattered crystal, and not even a nick of torn flesh.

  "Does that answer your question?" the blonde said, a slow smile creasing his features.

  Nick looked from the tabletop to the slate gray eyes staring back at him. "Seventy-five thousand marks will suit you?"

  The smile broadened. "Plus expenses. The Dealer is a very special — problem. Research will have to be carefully done. Execution, the state of the art. You agree?"

  Nick resented the arrogance, the confidence, and the leverage. But he had seen the fulcrum. The man was stone, an iron automaton of death and effectiveness. But, in that one moment when the Dealer had first been mentioned, the man had let the human parts take charge. He had hesitated. That showed respect, and that implied caution. The man could do the job, and Nick felt the price a small hurdle to overcome.

  "How much?"

  "A hundred thousand."

  "Is this a final figure or will there be adjustments in the future?"

  "A hundred thousand. Alpha. Period. Even though you will see that I am well worth twice that. Do we have a bargain?"

  Nick's answer was succinct and more than face-saving. The tumbler before him lifted and shattered, the remaining Scotch joining the Burgundy on the table. His palm lifted, presented itself, and then arched its way toward the blonde man's side of the table.

  "We have a bargain," Nick said.

  The man took the outstretched hand firmly in his grasp, a grin of reluctant admiration displaying his white, even teeth.

  "We have much work to do," Nick growled.

  The blonde nodded. "Give me the general plan you have in mind."

  "Briefly the situation is this. It's a hit-and-run operation. The Dealer is the goat. We move quickly, and then we're gone. You can work out the details with my red-bearded friend here. In the meantime, we need you to set it up. We'll appear the day of the strike, and we'll disappear right after. Any qualms?"

  "None," came the reply.

  "Then excuse me," Nick said, rising from the table. The man did not bother to rise himself, nor did Nick expect him to. "You will have four days."

  "It's a shame you can't stay longer," the blonde grinned. "Berlin is beautiful this time of year."

  "Maybe the next time," Nick replied. "Until later, auf Wiedersehen, Omega."

  Chapter Seven

  PARIS

  Nick stepped out from the elevator and onto the carpet runner that ran along the third-floor hallway. He felt satisfied with the Omega interview. For the moment, he allowed the lift in his spirits to erase any thought of disease and death.

  He moved down the hall, eyeing the room numbers, coming at last to the door marked three twenty-two. He paused a moment, preparing his opening line. A smile crept over his face as the idea came, and his hand rose to twist at the metal knob of the doorbell.

  Then he froze.

  From within came a sound, a rough sound, a gasping of human effort. For one second Nick considered the possibility that Tori had company, but the thought fled as quickly as it came. Again the sound, a hoarse rasping, almost a cry.

  His hand flew into his coat, withdrawing Wilhelmina, even as his body two-stepped its way backward in the hall. Then he reversed and launched his body at the door, his foot slamming at the woodwork. There was a groan as the aged lockwork fought to hold, and the door cracked into streamers of raw lumber. A second kick, quickly delivered, destroyed what little resistance remained. The door flew open, small fragments of wood and iron scattering onto the suite's carpet.

  Nick followed the door, his back slamming against it, Wilhelmina trained on the small cubicle of the bathroom. It appeared empty, at least from what was visible to Nick.

  He dropped to his haunches and swept Wilhelmina in an arc, pointing her down the narrow hall. The sitting room also appeared empty. Nick moved. He ran down the hall, leaping as he neared the opening into the room. He flew, hitting the carpet and rolling back up to his haunches.

  His eyes fell on a second doorway, the one that led to the bedroom. A dark figure in a leather flight jacket was moving toward the opening, his hand reaching to slam the door. Even as he steadied Wilhelmina on the target, Nick's mind was clicking off a description: North African, Arabic: Moroccan, by all appearances.

  Not that it mattered all that much. Nick was prepared to squeeze the trigger on any form that was not Tori's. The finger tensed even as the door began to close. But suddenly there was a movement from beside him. The huge wing chair to his right gave a quick jerk up, and the back crashed down on him just at the instant the gun exploded.

  His shot drifted to the left, chewing a hole in the door itself, but leaving the black jacket behind it clean of any damage. Nick rolled with the chair, letting it settle over him. curling his legs up and twisting his back onto the floor. He counted two quick beats, and then shot his legs out.

  The chair flew up into space. From over the top, Nick could make out another dark Moroccan face. Then the chair slammed into the man's chest. From the side of it appeared the gleaming blade of a knife. The man took the impact, grunting, and then, with the sweep of his hand, he shoved the chair aside. His other hand came up ready to toss its pointed missile, but the battle "was rigged from the start. You just don't try to outrace a Luger.

  Wilhelmina barked only once, and the Moroccan's chest exploded into a red blossom. He sailed backward with the impact, pounding into the room's corner, his back sliding down the wall. Nick rolled, leaped to his feet, and took the bedroom door with only one violent slam of his foot.

  Again the black-jacketed figure was visible, this time half in, half out of the open bedroom window. Behind him, already safe on the balcony, was another man. Behind him, his body shimmying down the balcony rail ironwork, was a third. Nick took aim again, his sights settling on the man about to drop from the balcony's view. He fired, but again the shot ran far from course.

  This time it was not furniture that threw him off; it was the impact of a well-trained foot on the underside of his outstretched arms. It came from his right.

  Jesus, another one? Nick thought. It's a damn army!

  This one had plastered himself against the wall, his sole function to give his compatriots time to depart.

  The foot landed solidly, driving Nick's arms up into the air and jarring Wilhelmina from his grasp. Nick could hear the gun as it careened off the wall and thudded onto the carpet.

  But what consumed the majority of his attention was the second blow from the man's foot. With lightning speed the foot withdrew from its first contact, recoiled, and
flew back out to catch Nick in the ribs. The blow drove Nick into the door. It was only the quick, athletic spin of his torso that saved him from breaking his shoulder on the doorjamb. Instead, he twisted and took the shock over the breadth of his back, neutralizing the impact.

  Nick's eyes flew up to evaluate his situation. The man was huge for a North African. Not tall, but incredibly wide and sturdy. There was no gun and no knife, just the hard gleam of the eyes and the stiff curl of a sneer that said this man was confident and capable with just his hands. The man moved toward Nick, his scarred face a living record of just how many others had fallen beneath his skills.

  Nick sidestepped, faked a kick to the man's groin, and arched his arm out and up. The hard edge of his hand chopped with brutal force across the man's throat. The head lolled and the eyes glazed as the pupils rolled up into his skull.

  But somehow he stayed upright and came on again, his huge arms flailing.

  Nick was ready.

  He bent swiftly and came back up under one of the loglike swinging arms. In the same movement he brought his knee up. This time it was no fake. Bone met genitals with crunching force.

  There was a gurgled scream of pain and the man slumped against Nick. He steadied the gasping form, took aim, and repeated the chopping blow to the man's neck.

  This time he connected perfectly with the windpipe. Slowly the man's knees bent and he fell, facedown. Bending quickly, Nick retrieved Wilhelmina and raced to the window.

  A quick sweep with his eyes gave him the picture. Number one was on the balcony to his left. Two was careening down the fire escape to join three, who was already in the alley.

  Nick's appearance at the window drew two quick shots from number one on the balcony.

  Their plan was obvious. The one on the balcony would hold Nick off until his two buddies found cover in the alley. Then they would do the same for him.

  Nick moved to the corpse. Sliding his left arm under the man's coat clear to the neck, he hoisted the body up in front of him. Without a second's hesitation, Nick charged the window, using the body as a ram and a shield.

  Gunfire shattered the air the instant they appeared. Nick could feel the slugs from the side and below pound into his shield. When he felt the windowsill strike his thighs, he heaved the body through and rolled behind it. He hit on his side, rolled, and came up firing.

  Wilhelmina's first slug caught the guy to his left dead center in the chest. The second slug tore away part of his face, but it made no difference. He was already dead and falling in a perfect spiral to the alley below.

  A slug whined near Nick's ear and raised hell with the bricks behind him. A second hit the steel grating near his feet and careened off into the air.

  Nick moved like synchronized lightning down the fire escape. For half a floor he slid on his heels and butt. For another he rolled. To further spoil their aim, he crossed up his movements by actually taking a whole section of the iron stairs in one bound.

  Twice Nick returned their fire during his descent. He wasn't sure, but he thought he had nailed one of them in the leg. This was confirmed when he hit the cement of the alley and rolled to his knee.

  One was helping the other who had a limp leg dragging behind him. Both had had enough and were fleeing the scene as fast as they could.

  When the one with good legs saw Nick raise Wilhelmina, his comradeship disappeared. He dropped his buddy and took off. Nick sighted on the man's left thigh and squeezed off a shot. Just as he fired, the man's feet hit something slick on the alley concrete.

  Nick's slug hit him on the way down — dead center in the base of his spine. Nick knew the man was dead before he hit the ground.

  At least one is left alive, Nick thought, racing to the groaning figure across the alley.

  To Nick's surprise, the man had more life left than he had thought.

  Nick had barely reached him when his good leg came up in a well-timed kick. A stiletto-toed boot connected perfectly with Nick's wrist, sending Wilhelmina flying from his hand. At the same time, the man got a hold on one of Nick's ankles and twisted.

  The man was wounded, but he was still quick. Nick's back had barely touched the concrete when the man was over him. A dagger glinted in his hand.

  Easy, Nick thought, watching the arm arch too high before its downward swing. Nothing to it.

  True to his thought, Nick caught the man's wrist in his own left fist without any trouble. He was about to put him to sleep with his right, when the alley exploded.

  The result of the explosion was a very large hole in the man's chest. Nick rolled him away and came to his own feet, his head jerking toward the direction of the explosion.

  Twenty feet away stood the tall blonde, a Walther still smoking in his hand, an enigmatic, toothy smile on his face.

  Bastard, Nick thought. Stupid bastard!

  Nick stared at the body kicking out its last breath at his feet, then turned and moved down the alley. His eyes were flaming as he approached the blonde killer. The man was coolly slipping out the clip of his Walther, holding it up and counting the shells that remained.

  Nick's hand gripped Omega at the wrist, clamping down with viselike pressure, jerking the arm down and twisting the man's face into his own.

  "Why?" he spat. "He might have talked."

  "It was your life or his," the tall blonde shrugged. "He had the dagger."

  "Bullshit," Nick hissed back at him. "Not good enough. I had him all but disarmed, and you know it."

  Omega wrenched his wrist from Nick's grip. He spoke as he pocketed the Walther.

  "Two years, that's why. Two years of mercenary work in the Spanish Sahara. Two years of watching Polisarios butchered by Moroccan scum. Any other questions. Alpha?"

  "One hell of a time to settle old scores," Nick hissed, then spotted Anatole's red-bearded face emerging from the rear of the hotel.

  "Goddamn!" the man cried, seeing the carnage in the alley.

  The words were barely out of his mouth before the nearby streets were filled with the monotonous tones of French police cars.

  It was time to move and move fast.

  "Nick slid past the blonde and stepped directly in front of Anatole.

  "Get rid of him." Nick growled, choking down the anger within him. "I don't want to see his face again until Berlin. Set him up and ship him out fast."

  "Will do," Anatole said, motioning to the blonde, who was already moving down the alley in the opposite direction from the sirens.

  Nick took the fire escape stairs five at a time, a gnawing fear in his gut at what he would find back in Tori's room.

  From the bed he followed a thin trail of blood into the bathroom. She was in the tub. which explained why he hadn't seen her when he had first quick-checked the room.

  Her dress had been partially ripped away. One breast gleamed nakedly. Just at the top of the breast's swell was a single stab wound. From the size of it, the wound had probably been made by a stiletto. It was small, neat, and there had been very little bleeding — which meant she had died quickly.

  Thank God for that, Nick thought, if for nothing else.

  Her hands were still tied, clenched over her abdomen. From one clenched palm Nick spotted two ribbons of a broken gold chain.

  Nick pried open the fingers and tugged the remnants of the gold chain from them. He had expected the jade amulet to be still connected to the chain and held in Tori's clenched fist.

  It wasn't.

  He lightly swung the chain between his own thumb and forefinger. Slowly a stab of pain hit him in the gut, and regret contorted his features.

  It happened — often. It always did and always would. Death came with the territory. But Nick's guts boiled at the reality that it had come to Tori.

  His eyes drifted from the lifeless form in the tub to the chain and back again.

  Words drifted up from his memory. "My father gave it to me a long time ago. I think of it as my good luck charm. I wear it all the time."

  Suddenly his
heavy brows furrowed and lines of intent concentration seamed his forehead. Again he stared down at the silent, white face, now wondering at the priorities of the dying. Why had Tori taken the amulet off just before she was killed? And why such a final death grip on the remnants of the broken chain? Had she been in such a rush to remove it that she hadn't even taken time to unfasten the clasp?

  Immediately Nick bolted through the rooms of the suite. He ripped her purse and suitcases apart. Then he began going after the obvious hiding places that would be overlooked by most.

  Nothing.

  Then he went through the places where something would just be idly thrown, as if it belonged there.

  He found it in a drawer, tossed into a pile of lacy underthings. With bated breath, he opened the carved teak lid.

  The amulet was inside, and directly beneath it was Jacek's letter with the Winchester, Virginia, postmark.

  He left the amulet but retrieved the letter. Turning it over in his hand, he studied it carefully, noting the back flap. The letter had been opened. Flashes of the lobby encounter between Tori and himself ran through his mind.

  She had defied him. She had obviously gone right from the lobby to her room, ripped open the letter and read it. Then, before she could reseal it and go to Borczak and Hela, she had been killed.

  If she had meant to take it to the Polish couple at all.

  She hadn't. She knew she only had moments, so she hid it and then kept the broken chain in her hand to tell Nick, to clue him in that the letter was important and that it was still in the suite.

  He was about to withdraw the stained piece of paper from the envelope, when loud voices from the alley interrupted him.

  Police. Soon they would figure out that the carnage had all started in the very room where he now stood.

  Quickly he glanced over all of Tori's things. Like a good spy, there was nothing to acknowledge her as an agent. This done, he slipped into the hall and took the stairs to his own floor three at a time.

  All the time, the letter burning a hole in his palm.

  Chapter Eight

  Since it was off-season, the big Boeing 747 was barely a third booked when it lifted off the runway at Orly Field. After a sharp bank, the plane turned west and began to climb through the clouds. In minutes it reached its cruising altitude and leveled off to head for England and Heathrow Airport.