Among them were a syringe in its sterile wrapper, bandages, surgical tape, several scalpels of various sizes, scissors, the remaining pairs of gloves, a container of rubbing alcohol.
And a small glass vial containing a clear liquid.
The Russian stepped closer to examine the items. Haley started to rise, but he told her to stay as she was. She lowered back into a crouch.
He was standing just feet from her now, his groin level with her face.
Haley knew this was no accident.
He lingered for a moment — long past the time it took him to examine the contents of the bag — then stepped back and told Haley to stand.
“Remove the jacket.”
“You really should let me treat you.”
“Remove the jacket.”
Haley took it off. The only thing hiding her distinctive tattoo now was the long sleeve of her dark cotton blouse.
She remembered suddenly what had been said to Johnny in the Bangkok guest room.
By one of the men who had come to harm her.
I will take her arm as a trophy.
“Toss the jacket to me,” the Russian said.
Haley did, and he caught it with his free hand.
But this simple maneuver caused him obvious pain.
Feeling the garment with one hand — squeezing it, then tossing and catching it again so he could squeeze another section — the Russian was, Haley knew, searching for some kind of listening device.
She thought of the cell phone in her jeans pocket.
Satisfied the jacket contained no such device, he dropped it to the floor.
“Unbutton the shirt and open the jeans.”
Haley‘s heart froze.
“I‘m here to help. You should just let me do my job.”
“Do what I tell you to do or I will kill you right now.”
Haley didn‘t move at first. The Russian stared at her.
But his stare, as terrifying as it was, had nothing on Richter McVicker‘s.
Finally, Haley began to unbutton her blouse. When she was done, she opened it, revealing the borrowed bra.
The Russian‘s eyes shifted to her breasts.
“Now the jeans,” he said.
Haley unfastened and unzipped her jeans.
She stood there, waiting.
The Russian stepped closer. “Pull the pants down.”
She slipped her thumbs into the waistband and worked her jeans past her hips, stopping when they reached her thighs. She was careful to keep the borrowed panties in place.
Not all her hair had been dyed black.
Would he see her red pubic hair and make the connection to the redhead in the surveillance photos he‘d been provided?
A shot of her and Johnny walking to work together, Kirkland had said.
The Russian continued forward till he was just inches from her.
“Hold still,” he said.
With his free hand he felt the outside of her bra, skimming one breast, then the other. After that he slid the tips of his thick fingers under the fabric and felt the inside of each cup, the back of his fingers brushing each nipple.
Finally he searched her panties, running his hand over her crotch and buttocks before slipping his fingers inside.
She felt him touch her, felt him follow her pubic hair down to her sex, felt him part her labia and find her clitoris.
She looked him in the eye the entire time, thinking for some reason of the porn actress she had seen at Dickey‘s bar the night she and Johnny had closed up early.
Naked, listening to her director, her two male costars stroking themselves erect.
The Russian‘s hand lingered, and Haley said, “Are we done?”
“Not yet.”
She knew what was pending and closed her eyes.
His finger entered her, roughly.
She bore it without a sound.
The full length of his thick finger penetrated her. The Russian held it there for a moment, then withdrew it and took a step back.
Haley quickly pulled up her jeans, zipped them closed, then began buttoning up her blouse.
“Empty your pockets,” the Russian said.
Haley did as she was told. All she had on her was the cell phone Kirkland had given her.
“Place it on the bed.”
Haley stepped to the bed and laid the phone on it. The Russian waited till she had backed away before approaching it. He studied it for a moment.
Finally, he said, “I want you to call him. I want to hear his voice.”
“That won‘t be possible.”
“Why not?”
“Because he was wounded at the farmhouse. Shot through the throat. They left him to die, but he didn‘t. He‘s conscious but unable to speak.”
The Russian looked at her. It was obvious he was trying to decide whether or not to believe what she was telling him.
His boot prints went straight from the back of the house to the driveway, Richter‘s men had reported.
The Russian hadn‘t entered the farmhouse, and therefore didn‘t know what it contained.
“We‘re hoping he‘ll be able to speak in a few days,” Haley said.
“What hospital is he at? I will call, confirm that he is there.”
“He‘s not in a hospital. By law gunshot wounds have to be reported to the police. Luckily, his private doctor‘s home wasn‘t very far away.”
“Take me there.”
“No. Those aren‘t my orders.”
The Russian clearly didn‘t like being disagreed with by a woman.
“What are your orders?”
“Treat you, so you‘re able to move.”
“Move where?”
“To a different hotel.”
The Russian shook his head. Stubbornly, defiantly. “No, I want you to take me to where he is. His doctor will treat me.”
“First of all, I don‘t know where his doctor lives. And second, I do what I‘m told to do. Do you want me to treat you or not?”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No.”
“He sends me a nurse?”
“I‘m a medic. And right now, I‘m all you have.”
He hesitated, sizing her up. She decided to do the same — for his benefit.
I know his weakness, Kirkland had said while coaching her.
She scanned the Russian‘s near-naked body.
Olive skin. Thick, bulky muscles — massive capped shoulders and a broad chest, which was covered with several bruises. Strong but short arms and legs. Big hands, even bigger feet.
And the bath towel around his waist did little to hide the size of his manhood.
Again, for his benefit, she allowed — forced — her eyes linger there.
He took the bait.
“You will take me to the new hotel?” the Russian said.
“I need to treat you first. But yes.”
“And then what?”
She knew what he meant and told him what he wanted to hear.
“I‘m to stay with you. Your wounds must be kept clean. Dressings should be changed, and you‘ll need regular shots of antibiotics. When the time is right, I‘ll be told to take you to him.”
Haley could almost see the thought process at work behind his dark eyes. The weighing of the risks against the appeal of the scenario she was laying out.
That Kirkland had told her to lay out.
A few days in a hotel room with a beautiful woman.
He could not resist that.
And in his current condition, he could not afford to refuse medical treatment.
“Are you alone?” the Russian said.
“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 ti
ll 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.
The Betrayer Page 47