“You sure that's a good idea?” Alex asked.
“I doubt anyone's there,” Ben said. But sooner or later, he knew, someone would be. Either at Alex's car, or at the office, or back at his house. Or at the girl's car. Or at her house. And every one of these ambush points was therefore also a place for a counterambush.
Alex and Sarah drove off. Ben pulled the hat low and walked back into the hotel parking lot. He walked past the hotel entrance, his head swiveling, checking all the places he would have used himself.
He cut through the parking garage so he could come out closer to Alex's car. If anyone was there, the shortcut would give them less time to react. He turned the corner and bingo, there was a burly white guy with a shaved head leaning against the parking garage just ten feet past Alex's car. The guy was wearing shades and smoking a cigarette, and wore a black, waist-length leather jacket.
Although his mind grasped it all in a kind of instant shorthand rather than in conscious thoughts, Ben understood all the things that were wrong with this picture. This was the western side of the garage, and this early in the morning it was all in shadow, so no need for the shades. It was too early for an office worker to be taking a nicotine break, too, and anyway why would the guy walk all the way down here for a smoke? And the waist-length jacket would be perfect to conceal a shoulder, waist, or hip carry.
Ben walked casually toward him, his heart rate beginning to accelerate. He glanced around and didn't notice anyone else, but there were some cars parked in a row and he couldn't see into all of them. He couldn't be sure the guy was alone. He didn't think about what he was about to do. He'd learned at the Farm that you can't just play a role; you have to live it, you have to believe your cover. So in his mind, he was just another business traveler, heading out early to his car. Deep down, walled off in such a way that it wouldn't surface and show itself in his expression or behavior, he was aware of the bald guy's hands, and would have his own weapon out, the usual Glock 17 in a waistband holster, if the hands went anywhere Ben couldn't see them.
“Excuse me,” Ben said as he approached. He pinched his thumb and forefinger together and cupped his hand as though he were holding a cigarette behind it. “Do you have a light?”
The bald guy looked at him but didn't respond. Ben was glad he'd gone through the garage and come in from below where Alex had parked. The fact that the guy was still leaning against the wall indicated he ‘d been surprised. An operator would never keep a posture like that in the face of a possible threat. Now, if the guy tried to attack, he'd first have to kick off from the wall. It would take him a long time. The rest of his life, in fact.
“Haven't seen you here before,” Ben said, stopping a couple of yards short of him. “And I know most of the smokers in the complex because in the People's Republic of Palo Alto you can't even smoke near a building entrance. Can you beat that?”
Still no answer. Maybe the guy didn't speak English. Maybe he did, and didn't want anyone to hear or remember an accent.
For a lot of reasons, noise and potential witnesses not the least of them, Ben didn't want gunplay. But just a little closer and he could drop the guy quietly with his hands.
“Is there a problem?” Ben said. “Do you not speak English?”
There was a pause, and then the guy said in a deep, gravelly voice, “I speak English.”
The accent was heavy. The accent was Russian.
The submerged part of Ben's mind that was in tactical mode served up a loud helping of Oh shit, not again.
They looked at each other for a long, suspended second. The world was suddenly silent, everything slipping away but the tension between them. Ben could feel himself decloaking, emerging from under the gauzy, innocent façade he had hidden inside to get this close. He knew the bald guy was seeing it happen. The guy remained perfectly still, but Ben recognized something coiling in his body now, a readiness to move, a hyperalertness that hadn't been there a moment earlier.
Ben braced to rush in and at the same instant the guy kicked off from the wall, his right arm blurring toward the left side of his jacket. Ben leaped forward, simultaneously body-slamming the guy and jamming up his right arm. He groped for the guy's wrist and whipped his left elbow around into the guy's right temple. The shot connected with a satisfying thwack and the cigarette went tumbling through the air. Ben found the wrist and shot in another hard elbow and the guy staggered. The guy was trying to get his wrist free now, either because he'd accessed a weapon or just to protect his exposed right side, Ben didn't know which and he wasn't going to let go to find out. They twisted around and the guy was now between Ben and the wall. Ben took a half step back and head-butted the guy in the face, then braced and slammed his left shoulder into the guy's sternum, getting his entire hundred and ninety behind it, hitting him the way he'd once hit blocking dummies and backpedaling quarterbacks, nailing him into the wall, driving the breath out of him. He hit him with another elbow, then another. Suddenly the guy was heavy, and Ben realized there was nothing holding him up but Ben and the wall behind. Blood was gushing out of the guy's nose and his eyes were rolled up in his head.
Ben yanked the guy's right arm away from his body just in case and took a cautious step back. The guy went straight down like one of those imploding Las Vegas hotels. Everything was still utterly quiet-an effect, Ben knew, called auditory exclusion, caused by adrenaline. Adrenaline caused another kind of exclusion, too, this one visual, brought on in part by a hyperfocus on the threat at hand. The trained reflex was to scan, and Ben did so now. Which is when he saw another guy in a dark jacket getting out of a brown sedan two up from Alex's car. This guy was in sunglasses, too, and at least as big as the first. The guy's arm was already inside his jacket, already coming out, and Ben thought, Shit, shit, shit…
The second guy's gun came out. Ben lunged left and dropped to a crouch, accessing the Glock as he went down. The guy's shot went high. Ben put three rounds into his chest before the guy could get off another shot. The guy went down. Ben detected movement to his right- the first guy. He spun and put two rounds into the guy's head. He snapped left again and saw the second guy on his back, still moving, the gun on the ground inches from his hand. Ben put the Glock's sights on him and walked over. So much for not making noise. He figured he had a half minute before he had to beat feet.
“Kto vy?” he asked, in Russian. Who are you?
The guy didn't answer. His sunglasses had gotten knocked off and he was watching Ben with an expression of pained surprise, as though he couldn't quite figure out how all this had happened.
Ben kicked the gun away. “Kto vy?” he said again.
Still no answer. Blood was spreading on the concrete sidewalk underneath the guy's torso. Ben heard an odd slurping sound and realized the guy had a sucking chest wound.
“Tell me who you are and I'll call you an ambulance,” Ben said.
The guy gave a weak chuckle that dissolved into a gurgling cough.
Yeah, well. He had never been a good liar in these situations. He glanced around. No one was coming.
“Do svidaniya,” Ben whispered, and put a last round into the guy's forehead. The guy's body shuddered once as though he'd been shocked, and then the rigidity, the human cohesion and coherence, was just gone, leaving an inert mound where a moment ago had been a man.
Ben squatted and checked the guy's pockets. Son of a bitch, a wallet. He grabbed it, thinking, Hallelujah. He checked the other guy and he had one, too. Come on, man, gotta boogie…