by DV Berkom
He wiped at the blood on her abdomen and proceeded to fill the cuts with blue ink from the plastic cup in his hand.
“When I was a child, my father used to beat my mother in front of me. He told me it was the way of men and that I should learn from his actions.” He paused to study his handiwork before continuing. “And I did learn, but it wasn’t what he’d intended. One night, after a particularly vicious beating that left my mother unable to talk, I waited until he’d fallen asleep in his chair from too much drink and slit his throat. Then I chopped off his head with a cleaver. It was very sharp, a blade like a guillotine.” He slid his finger across his throat and smiled. Robicheaux put the cup of ink back on the table and admired his work.
“As you see, I have given you your own tattoo, letting all who see your body know your failure as an assassin. It says Emile. My name. Now everyone will know I vanquished the Léopard. Not that it was difficult,” he added.
Leine’s anger rose, allowing her to blot out the pain. She ground her teeth and imagined her legs wrapped around his head, snapping his neck.
Robicheaux closed one eye, again studying his handiwork. Then he reached behind him for a plastic bottle on the console. He opened the top and poured its contents over the cuts, allowing the liquid to spill down her body. As the burning registered, Leine chewed her lip to keep from crying out. The Frenchman smiled.
“We mustn’t let it get infected.” He set the bottle of rubbing alcohol back on the table and rose from his chair.
A percussive thud sounded on the other side of the trawler, and the ship bucked violently. Thrown to the floor, Robicheaux landed on his hands and knees. Oscar lost his grip on Leine’s legs and barreled toward the console. Flailing his arms, he careened past the table, which skidded across the floor after him. The wires connecting Leine to the console grew taut, and the alligator clips tore away from her nipples, ripping her shirt. She cried out as white-hot pain speared through her. The table smashed into the giant, pinning him against the wall, and he slumped sideways. Leine swung back and forth with the hook, slowing as the vessel settled.
A deafening silence followed the explosion. Robicheaux climbed to his feet and staggered toward the door.
“Fuck,” he shrieked. He’d made it to the corridor when the trawler creaked loudly and pitched to one side, groaning as she tipped. The Frenchman disappeared as the door slammed closed behind him.
Summoning every last bit of strength, Leine lifted her legs and slipped the rope binding her ankles onto the hook. She worked her wrists side to side and tried to loosen the ties enough to free her hands.
The door banged open. Leine stepped up her attempts to get free. Had the Frenchman come back for her, or did Oscar regain consciousness?
She twisted to look over her shoulder. Eyes wide, Ilya scrambled on all fours toward her across the tilting deck.
“Ilya,” Leine shouted, nodding toward the console. Oscar looked like he was still unconscious. “Over there. They had a knife. See if you can find it.”
With difficulty, Ilya changed direction and moved to where the giant lay.
The rope around her wrists started to give, but only a little. The ship listed further. Ilya flattened himself against the wall, his face ghostly pale.
“Hurry, Ilya,” Leine urged.
Using the wall for balance, he staggered to the console and rummaged through the wreckage. He looked up, shaking his head.
“There is nothing,” he yelled.
“Check again,” Leine said. “I know they had a knife.” Ilya moved to the other side of the table.
“Yes! I found it.”
“Bring it here.”
Ilya scrambled toward her. She lowered her legs.
He stared at her abdomen and his eyes traveled to her breasts. “You’re bleeding.”
“Cut me down first. Don’t worry about the wounds.”
Ilya nodded and sawed through the ropes around her ankles. He glanced behind him at the rolling table wedged against Oscar.
“There’s no time. With the floor tilted like this the table won’t stay still long enough. You need to climb up my back.”
She wrapped her hands firmly around the metal hook and crossed her legs. Ilya slid the knife into his back pocket and grabbed her shoulders. Using her legs as a step, he wrapped his knees around her waist and shimmied up her body until he could reach her wrists. Leine stifled a groan having to hold both his weight and hers while he sawed at the bindings.
“When the rope looks like it’s about to break, throw the knife as far as you can so we don’t land on it,” she instructed. The ship creaked again.
“Okay. Almost—” Ilya hurled the knife across the room and let go of the hook. Their combined weight broke the remaining strands of rope, and they plunged to the floor. Leine’s legs buckled, and she lurched sideways onto her hip, catching herself with her hands. Ilya grimaced as he landed on his arm.
“Are you all right?” Leine asked. Ilya nodded. She climbed to her feet and started for her clothes. Ilya scrambled past her and grabbed her coat and pants.
“My shoes.”
He handed her the clothing and turned back for the shoes. She shrugged on her pants and jacket and checked the pockets. Her fingers closed around a wad of tissue. She pulled it free and stuffed it against her abdomen to stem the bleeding.
Ilya had almost reached her shoes when the ship shuddered and the floor shifted. Leine threw herself backward to maintain her balance. Ilya did the same. Both lost the fight and slid toward the exit, coming to rest at the base of a wall.
Her shoes rolled to a stop near the door. She crab-walked to them, and the two of them staggered to the exit.
Pausing at the door to catch her breath and pull her shoes on, she glanced back at Oscar. It was obvious from this angle that the impact had smashed the back of his head open. Streaks of blood ran down the wall, pooling on the floor.
Ilya looked at Leine, a triumphant expression on his face.
“See? The C-4 came in handy.”
Chapter 15
Using the handrails along the corridor, Leine and Ilya worked their way toward the ship’s high side.
“Did you see Robicheaux leave the boat?” Leine asked.
Ilya shook his head. “I set the explosives on the outside of the ship’s bow, near the waterline. It is possible he died in the explosion.”
“He was in the room with me when your bomb went off. Disappeared out the door before you showed up.”
A frown creased Ilya’s forehead. “But I did not see him leave the boat with the rest of his men.”
“He probably escaped when you were cutting me free.”
“Then we must find him.”
“First we need to get topside to see what kind of time we have until this boat sinks.”
Several minutes later, they made it to the port side stairwell. The door at the head of the stairs was wide open. Leine motioned for Ilya to keep going.
“Watch your back, and make sure you’re not seen. Robicheaux and his men may still be nearby.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
Leine shook her head. “I need to find those passports.” And make sure the Frenchman isn’t onboard.
She half expected him to insist on joining her, but clearly his sense of self-preservation won out. He stepped onto the bottom stair and grabbed hold of the handrail.
“Take the car to the outskirts of Amsterdam and get on a train. I’ll find another way back.” Leine handed him the keys to the BMW. “Be sure to grab the equipment I hid in the trees. Ditch the car as soon as you can and remove everything. The police may have found Spartacus’s body and reported his vehicle as stolen. Wipe your prints. Don’t forget the door handles and inside the trunk.”
“But how will I know if the Frenchman is alive or dead?”
“If he’s alive, it won’t be long before you hear of him again.”
Ilya paused for a moment, clearly conflicted.
“Go. It’s too dangerous. St
ay alive and you’ll get another chance at Robicheaux.”
That seemed to mollify him, and he turned back to the stairwell. She followed him to the upper deck and, after ensuring no one was visible on the ship or the dock, they parted ways. Ilya headed toward the partially submerged bow. He slid into the dark water and disappeared.
There was still time to do what she needed.
The door leading into the wheelhouse was unlocked. She peered through the window to make sure no one was inside before she entered and began to search for the passports. If they weren’t there, then she’d have to find Robicheaux’s quarters. She doubted he’d thought to grab them on his exit from the trawler. He didn’t strike her as the type to remain long on a sinking ship. The trawler appeared stable at the moment, its lower compartments likely filling with seawater. It would only be a matter of time until the boat would list yet again, and the next shift might signal the vessel’s last breath.
The passports were inside a middle drawer in the center console. She pulled them out and rifled through them. They were all there, hers included. She shoved them inside her coat pocket and started for the door. Halfway onto the deck the door slammed into her, shoving her sideways against the frame. At first she thought the ship had shifted, but a hand gripped the edge of the door. The hinges groaned and the door flew open revealing Robicheaux with a gun. Without thinking, Leine dropped to a crouch and barreled into him. The gun fired and he hit the railing with a grunt. He lost his grip and his weapon fell to the deck, skittering out of sight.
Adrenaline fueling her, she pummeled him against the railing, hitting him wherever she could find an opening. Robicheaux countered the blows and pushed her back into the wheelhouse. She shifted her stance and delivered a kick to his crotch. The Frenchman doubled over with a wheeze, and Leine brought her knee up. His head snapped back and hit the door frame. Blood streamed from his nose.
Leine advanced, but Robicheaux dodged right and she overshot her mark. Exhausted but still feeling the effects of the adrenaline rush, her vision tunneled. She didn’t see the gaff in the Frenchman’s hand. Too late, she raised her arm to fend off the blow. There was a loud crack followed by excruciating pain.
The Frenchman pushed the gaff hard against her neck. She slid her good hand under the bar in an attempt to keep him from crushing her windpipe. Fatigue dogged her and spots appeared before her eyes as she gasped for air.
“Even your own government wants you dead,” Robichueax snarled, his breath hot against her cheek.
Her left arm now useless, she let go of the gaff with her right hand and jabbed him in the throat, but misjudged the distance and only delivered a fraction of the force she’d intended. Robicheaux’s expression darkened as he bore down harder.
Darkness clouded her periphery, and she thrashed her head from side to side, trying to suck air into her lungs. A flash of orange on the wall to her right caught her attention and she stretched her fingers toward it.
With her last breath, Leine ripped the flare gun off its mount, aimed it at Robicheaux and pulled the trigger. The projectile burrowed into his eye socket, his screams cut short as the chemicals ignited and seared through his brain. Blue smoke billowed from the gaping, bloody hole in his head, filling the wheelhouse.
Coughing and gasping, Leine turned away and staggered onto the deck as the Frenchman fell to the floor. She paused to fill her lungs with crisp, briny air and waited for the dizziness to abate.
The trawler’s deck was dark, cloaking her in shadow. Holding her left arm close to her body, she lurched toward the bow, which was now completely submerged, along with most of the starboard side. Illuminated by starlight, amorphous shapes hurried along the dock as shouts filled the air.
She took a deep breath and slipped off the boat into the icy, dark water. The North Sea buoyed her to the surface and she kicked toward shore.
Chapter 16
Moving fast to stay warm, Leine had covered some distance when a pair of headlights lit the road ahead of her. She waited out of sight in the ditch and ducked down further as the vehicle rolled past. It was the BMW. The passenger side window was open, showing Ilya behind the wheel.
Leine brought her good hand to her mouth and whistled. The brake lights came on, and the car slowed. She climbed out of the ditch, hurried to the car, and slid into the passenger seat.
“Good to see you,” she said, leaning toward the warm air flowing from the vents. “Is that how they got in?” She gestured toward the wide open window.
“Yes. They broke the glass.” Ilya accelerated and they sped forward.
“What the hell are you still doing here? Not that I’m unhappy about it.”
“I could not leave you, not with Robicheaux’s men still on the dock. What happened?” he asked, nodding at her arm.
“I found him.”
Ilya’s eyes widened. “Is he—”
“Dead? Yes.” Leine stared through the windshield. Pink streaks were beginning to fill the pre-dawn sky.
“How did you do it?” Ilya leaned forward, his excitement and curiosity obvious.
“Flare gun.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “I’m going to need a doctor. I think my arm is broken. We can ditch the car then. Before that, though, I need the first aid kit for Robicheaux’s little tattoo.” She slid her hand over her abdomen.
“Okay.”
“Did you get the equipment I stashed in the trees?”
Ilya nodded. “Yes. It’s all in the back seat.”
“Good. We should probably get rid of everything except the most essential items, in case we’re pulled over.”
Ilya parked the car on the side of the road near the waterway, and they went through the items. Leine kept the 9mm and talked Ilya out of the MP5, suggesting he also take a pistol.
“The MP5 is impossible to hide. This way you can easily dispose of your weapon if you need to.”
Disappointment obvious on his face, Ilya wiped the submachine gun down. They disassembled the weapons and Ilya chucked them into the water, taking care to toss the components in different directions. Leine retrieved Spartacus’s first aid kit from the trunk and returned to the passenger seat. Gingerly, she unzipped her pants and smeared ointment onto the bloody cuts, grimacing as she did. Then she opened several self-adhesive bandages and placed them over the jagged tattoo. She did the same to her nipples. Ilya got back in the car and they headed for Amsterdam.
Even with the dull ache throbbing in her forearm and open window blowing cold air in her face, the warmth from the heater and subtle rocking of the car soon coaxed Leine into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
* * *
Sometime later, there was a tap on her shoulder. Disoriented, Leine opened her eyes.
“We’re here.” Ilya took the keys from the ignition, wiped them with his shirt to remove his fingerprints, and placed them on the visor.
Still groggy from the short nap, Leine glanced out the window. They were in central Amsterdam, a block down from a 24-hour emergency room. Gray shadows stretched across the street from the early morning sun.
“I owe you one.” Relieved to find both phones and the stash of euros where she’d left them, she opened the door and got out, tensing at the blast of cold air on her wet clothes. A story involving a bicycle accident and a canal formed in her mind—in case the doctor was curious.
Ilya got out and stood by the car, his concern obvious. “I will stay until the doctor has seen you. You may need my help.”
“Thanks, but I think it best if we part ways. You should call your uncle’s friend and tell him about the Frenchman’s death. Remember, you used an orange flare gun.” Leine stepped onto the sidewalk. “Don’t mention my involvement. If for some reason my name comes up, tell him I didn’t make it. And you should probably wipe down the rest of the car for prints.” She started for the hospital.
Ilya called after her. “I will not forget what you did.”
Without turning around, Leine raised her good arm and waved.
* * *
Several hours later, Leine walked out of the hospital with a new cast. The gaff had fractured her ulna, but the bone hadn’t broken through and she was still able to use her fingers, although her hand was far too weak for much of anything. The doctor and nurse had both been interested in her cover story, and she found herself embellishing things to a ridiculous degree, eliciting laughter from them both. It felt good to be around normal people who weren’t out to kill her. Maybe if the whole assassin gig didn’t work out she’d try stand-up.
Then again, probably not.
She caught a nearby tram and rode it to her hotel, stopping at the front desk for the key.
“Your husband was just here,” the hotel clerk said.
Husband? “Did he leave a message?” Leine asked. Other than Eric and Mindy, who the hell knows I’m here?
The clerk shook her head. “I’m sorry, no. He did settle your bill, though.”
“He what?”
“Paid your bill. But only through last night. I’m afraid I’ll need a deposit if you’re going to stay longer.”
“Oh. No, I won’t be staying. Would you mind if I went up to get the rest of my things?”
“There’s no need. Housekeeping has already cleaned the room. There was nothing.”
“Okay. Thank you. My husband must have gotten it all, then.”
The clerk gave her a quizzical look. “Is everything all right?”
Leine plastered on a reassuring smile. “Everything’s fine, really. Thank you for the information. If I could just get my passport, I’ll be on my way.”
A look of panic crossed the clerk’s face. “I’m sorry. Your husband said you were in an accident and that he was to pick up your passport for you.” She glanced at the cast on Leine’s arm. “He had a letter with your signature giving him permission.” The words trailed off, and her face grew red.