The first option would be no help. The second could work out OK. But I was hoping for the third. I was hoping that one guy would stay back, and one would approach. He’d open the door. The one on my left, judging by the way they fitted together. He would pull it back into the corridor. Then either his gun would appear, or his head. I didn’t care which. I would grab whatever I saw. Yank the guy through. Break his neck. And I’d do it quickly, before the door swung closed again. I’d take the guy’s Uzi and fire it through the gap. When the clip was empty I would follow up with a pistol. If that was still necessary. If the guy who’d stayed back didn’t resemble Swiss cheese. After that it would be a question of taking his key or his transponder or whatever was needed to open the other pair of doors. Then I could find out what the guys were guarding. Or who. Probably Dendoncker. And hopefully Fenton.
There was no response to my first knock so I tried again. After a moment I heard footsteps. They were heavy. Deliberate. The door opened. The left one, as I’d thought. Then Mansour appeared. Not as I’d thought. He didn’t pause. He didn’t peer out. He just came striding through.
I straightened up. The door was already closing, but that was the least of my worries. Mansour spun around to face me. He was grinning. His left cheek was blue and bruised and swollen. A souvenir from my elbow, that morning. I threw a swift jab, looking to add to the damage, but he read it. He dodged sideways and right away he came back at me. He was fast. Crazy fast, given his size. He raised his knee. High. Almost instantly his massive foot flicked out. He was going for my stomach. It would have been like getting hit by a bowling ball if he’d connected. My organs would have been mashed. I’d have been thrown against the door. Maybe through the door.
It would have been game over, right there. No way was I going to let that happen so I danced to the side. Slipped around his kick and launched myself forward. I grabbed his thigh. Pinned it to my side and drove the heel of my hand up and into his chin. His head rocked back. It was a solid hit. Not the best ever, but it would have knocked most guys on their ass. I had no doubt about that. I felt him begin to topple backward. I thought the job was halfway done. Loosened my grip on his leg. Shaped up to kick him as soon as he was down. Which was a mistake. The guy was falling. But deliberately. He threw both his arms around me. Locked his hands behind my back and pulled me over with him. There was no way I could resist. He had at least a hundred pounds on me. And momentum was on his side.
We landed in a tangle, face-to-face, with me on top. But the moment his back hit the ground the guy levered with his legs. He twisted at the waist. My arms were trapped. I had nothing to brace against. Just empty air. A moment later our positions were reversed. I was under him. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I was in serious trouble. I knew it. He could sense it. All he had to do was hold on. Let his bulk do the work. But he was impatient. Or he wanted to show off. He pulled his arms out from beneath me. Slid his knees forward and raised his chest off mine. I sucked in air. He leaned forward. Grabbed my head, one hand either side. I felt his thumbs moving around. Homing in on my eyes. I didn’t know if he was just aiming to blind me. Or if he had something else in mind, like trying to crush my skull or lift my head and slam it into the floor.
I didn’t wait to find out. I gripped his wrists and whipped my arms down toward my waist. The same time I pushed down into the floor with my feet, driving my hips up into the air. A normal opponent would have been catapulted right over my head. He’d have landed winded and surprised on his back. This guy barely rose at all. Six inches at the most. But that was enough.
I rolled out, got onto all fours, and sprang up onto my feet. Mansour was already halfway up so I kicked him in the gut. The kind of kick that would send a football out of a stadium and clear across the parking lot. It flipped him onto his back. He sat right up so I kicked him again in the side of the head. He went over. Rolled away. I followed. He tried to get back on his feet. No way was he going to succeed. It was the first rule. When you get your opponent down, you finish him. No hesitation. No second chances. No mistakes. One more kick was all it would take. I pulled my foot back. Picked my spot. And heard the door open behind me.
“Stop.” It was a man’s voice. Raspy. Whispery.
It was Dendoncker.
The voice came closer. “Move, and she dies. Then you do.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Dendoncker was there, and he wasn’t alone. The guy in the pale suit was at his side, with his Uzi. Fenton was on Dendoncker’s other side. She was using an old-school wooden crutch to keep her balance. The cuff of her right pant leg was hanging loose and empty. She had a rope around her neck. The other end was in Dendoncker’s right hand. He was pinching it with his remaining finger and thumb. And holding a knife in his left. It had a long, narrow blade. Like the kind British commandos used in WWII. Designed for one thing. Killing. With maximum efficiency. He was pressing its tip into Fenton’s throat.
“Don’t listen to him.” Fenton’s voice was hoarse. “Kill the bastard.”
“He won’t.” Dendoncker’s eyes were glistening. “He went to a lot of trouble to find you. He wants you alive. And even if he changed his mind and decided you’re not worth it, he’s not a fool. He knows he’s quick with his feet and his fists. But he knows he’s not as quick as a 9mm bullet. And anyway, there’s no need for anyone to get killed. I have a proposition. Something very simple. Very straightforward. Agree, and we all get to walk away without a scratch. No one else will get hurt, either. So what do you say, Mr. Reacher? Would you like to hear my terms?”
Chapter 40
The truth was I had no interest in hearing Dendoncker’s terms. None at all. But I had negative interest in getting shot by his stooge. And I didn’t like seeing Fenton trussed up and held at knifepoint. I didn’t like that at all.
“Lose the rope,” I said. “Lose the knife. Then you can say your piece. Beyond that, I’m making no promises.”
Dendoncker wanted to talk in what he called his office. Getting there involved going through the double doors, along the glass corridor, and through the doors at the far end. The guy in the dark suit unlocked them. He held his keys up to a white square attached to the frame. I guess he had a transponder hooked onto his keyring. Probably like the one Mansour had when I searched him at the morgue, but I was too far away to be certain.
The guy didn’t go through. He stood to the side and Dendoncker stepped past him and pushed the right-hand door open. He went first. I followed, with the guy in the pale suit behind me. He was close, but not so close I could easily grab him. Or the Uzi. We stepped into another corridor. This one ran at ninety degrees. It stretched away, left and right, running the whole width of this half of the building. There was an exit door at each end. Their handles were missing. I guess they had to be. To allow for the steel plates that covered them on the exterior. One side of the corridor was floor-to-ceiling glass, facing the dining hall. There was a wall on the other side. It was plain white, with four doors. Two to the left of the junction with the glass corridor. And two to the right. Each door had a window. The glass was laced with steel wires and covered on the other side with newspaper. It was turning yellow with age. All the text I could see was in Spanish.
Dendoncker led the way to the right. Behind me I heard footsteps peeling off in the opposite direction. I looked over my shoulder and saw Mansour with his hand wrapped around Fenton’s elbow, guiding her away. It made her arm look like a tiny stick. She was moving freely enough, though. There was no sign that they’d hurt her. Which was fortunate. For them.