Their lips were still touching when the blackjack in Abdul’s hand came from the right side and smashed across Boris’s temple. The blow landed with more of a clunk than a crack. It split open the skin and bounced off.
With exquisite timing, Alex released her prey and pulled her hands back. Tony, crouched low behind the door, came from the left with a small iron club that went straight at Boris’s knee from the left side. The club smashed into the side of the kneecap with a resounding crunch. A second harder blow to the same spot staggered Boris more than the first.
At the same time, two of Voltaire’s other local people rose like phantoms from behind a sitting-room sofa. They rushed toward Boris, who was now screaming profanely in Russian. Alex ducked out of the way. Her four backup men tried unsuccessfully to drag Boris to the floor.
Alex kicked the door shut as the men wrestled violently. Voltaire’s men hit Boris hard and shoved him forward until he crashed onto the carpet, knocking over a table and a lamp.
Alex moved too close and caught an elbow to the side of the face. She staggered from it. In the melee, other fists flew wildly. One of them grazed her under the chin. Half of her face stung, and Alex realized that she was right in the midst of the brawl herself. She had lost a shoe and a shoulder strap had ripped.
Boris fought like a wild man. He threw his powerful elbows at the men on top of him. He caught one in the jaw and one in the gut. The room was alive with crashes, thumps, and profanity. Boris clenched one of his huge fists, threw a massive backward punch at one of Voltaire’s men and caught him in the testicles.
The man howled profanely and loosened his grip.
Boris lunged for his right ankle, and Alex realized she had been correct. That’s where his gun was. “Pin his leg! Pin his leg!” she yelled.
Abdul sat on the leg, and the other men managed to yank Boris’s hands upward behind his back as Alex knelt and lunged into the fray, grasped at Boris’s ankle, and struggled to take the gun from him. Abdul shoved a Taser to the base of Boris’s neck and let fly with several seconds of current. The electric charge shot out of the Taser with a cracking, zapping sound.
Boris’s body jumped like a great fish on a line. He howled again. His body convulsed, then the howl ceased, and a guttural near-choking sound followed. At the same time, Tony and Abdul continued to work his hands upward behind him. Finally they succeeded in handcuffing him.
Alex accessed the gun on Boris’s ankle. She pulled it out.
Voltaire stood nearby, arms folded, surveying calmly. A few seconds later, it was over.
Boris lay stunned but not unconscious on the crumpled and torn Iranian carpet that covered the floor. Tony grabbed him by the hair, lifted his head, and slammed it down again.
He was still breathing hard, clinging to consciousness, blood flowing from his brow and skull. He was probably wondering how he could have been so stupid as to follow a woman into a hotel trap.
“Very nice,” Voltaire said. “Dare I say, this is almost an art form.”
Abdul and Tony unleashed a strand of duct tape. They wrapped tape firmly across Boris’s mouth and looked to their boss for further instruction.
“Give him a lot more,” Voltaire said with more feeling than was necessary. “He’ll need it.”
The assailants stood him up. Tony caught him again with a fist to the midsection, then another. They Tasered him again and watched his body convulse. Then they picked him up and shoved him awkwardly down onto the sofa, his wrists still manacled behind him.
The sofa was bolted to the floor and from somewhere someone produced a chain. They wrapped the chain around the captive, locked it to the sofa, and then stood back.
“Nicely done,” Voltaire said again.
Boris came out of his stupor slowly. His eyes were wide and delirious, like a beached shark. But he was a prisoner and he knew it. Alex stepped back, her hand to her face where she had been hit twice.
“Are you all right?” Voltaire said evenly. “I’m fine. I got grazed. No big deal.”
“I’m so glad,” Voltaire said. “At least you don’t have to undress and go to bed with him. That might have been even worse.”
“Very funny,” Alex said. It wasn’t.
“Ouch,” Voltaire said. “But I assure you I’ve done worse in the call of duty.”
Voltaire reached beneath a jacket and pulled out a Glock. He stepped forward until he stood five feet away from Boris, with his arm extended and the business end of the Glock trained at Boris’s head.
“Okay,” he said to Alex. “Talk to our guest.”
Alex pulled a chair into a position a few feet from Boris. She sat down and crossed her legs to get comfortable.
She spoke in Russian.
“We’re very sorry to inconvenience you, Boris,” she said. “But we need some cooperation from you.”
Boris looked at her with surprise and then hatred. But her Russian was so sharp that night that it corralled Boris’s attention immediately. He stopped struggling and was very still.
“Cooperate with us, and we will make it worth your time. Cooperate and you’ll be out of here in twenty-four hours. No one will ever know what happened. You’ll be free to go, and my employer will even reward you with a few thousand Euros for your trouble. Fail to cooperate, and I’m afraid my friend here will grow impatient and shoot you.”
She let it sink in.
“Unfortunately,” she continued, “time is very short. So you have only ten seconds to decide.”
Boris searched the room. Voltaire removed the clip from his weapon so Boris could see it was full, then slapped it back in. He whirled it in his hand with a sadistic flourish and moved the weapon closer to its mark. He squinted with one eye as if to bring the aim to the center of Boris’s head.
“Such a beautiful carpet in this room too,” Voltaire said. “It would be a shame to stain it. Let’s see what our boy has to say now.”
Abdul reached to the duct tape and ripped it off Boris’s face.
Boris responded with a torrent of obscenities in Russian, Putinstyle. Then he spit at Voltaire.
“Oh, dear,” Voltaire said. “Insubordination.”
Boris turned back to Alex.
“Who are you?” Boris asked. “Americans?”
“It doesn’t matter, Boris. You’re our prisoner until we get what we want.”
The hostage continued in Russian. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Cooperation,” she said. “Now. What will it be? Please make the wise decision.”
Boris spit again. This time the expectoration contained parts of a tooth. But at least it was the beginning of a dialogue.
FORTY-FIVE