Lena kept a firm grip on the wheel. “Are you going to tell me why they wanted to castrate you?”
Gil shivered involuntarily, flashing back to the pinking shears. “Thank you for saving my ass.”
“It wasn’t your ass that I saved — and you’re evading my question.”
“I killed a bunch of their friends in Istanbul awhile back — freed some girls who’d been sold into prostitution.”
She cut him a surprised glance. “The Russian rescue that was in the news? That was you?”
He still had his eye on the side-view mirror, a bad feeling rising up in his gut. “Me and a grumpy Spetsnaz guy, yeah.”
“No wonder,” she said. “You’ve brought them international attention, and it’s hurting their business. They won’t rest until you’re dead.”
He shrugged. “It might not have been the smartest thing I ever did, but it needed doin’.”
“The Russian mob is everywhere. Aren’t you afraid they’ll go after your wife in the US?”
He looked at her. “Somebody else already tried that. No. I’m not worried.”
They were approaching a tight curve bearing to the left, and Lena downshifted to slow the car. “Sabastian will help them find you — because of me.”
“Well, he hasn’t wasted any time,” Gil said, seeing a black sedan appear in the mirror. “This is them. Keep driving!”
He opened the door and bailed out as they went through the curve, rolling into a snowbank and springing to his feet. He pulled the Springfield .45 from his jacket and charged the approaching the car.
Shocked to see the American suddenly coming at them, the driver braked hard, putting the vehicle into a slide on the snowy road as Gil planted his feet, thrusting the pistol forward.
“Hoo-yah!” he growled, emptying the pistol rapidly into the windshield of the oncoming car. The bodies danced around in their seats. One man bailed out the back door, and Gil shot him through the neck as he rolled to a stop. The sedan plowed into a snowbank and stalled.
The only one still alive was in the guy in the passenger seat — the same guy who had intended to remove Gil’s private parts. He was bleeding from two holes in his chest and one through his cheek. Most of his teeth were shot out, and it was obvious that he was paralyzed, probably due to a bullet nicking his spinal cord.
Gil opened the door, reaching inside to snatch the Russian’s pistol from his lap. “Watch close now.” He shot the Russian in the face and jerked his body from the car, dragging it to the guardrail and throwing it over the cliff. He did the same with the other three bodies. Then Gil got into the car and took off after Lena, who, to his surprise, had pulled to the side of the road to wait less than a mile beyond the curve.
He pulled up beside her, his adrenaline still pumping but glad she’d waited. “Thought I told you to keep driving.”
She grinned, her blue eyes shining. “If this is going to work, you’ll have to get used to me not doing what I’m told.”
“Roger that. Can you hide me in Switzerland?”
“Absolutely.”
He put the car in motion toward the cliff and stepped out, watching it drop over the edge and go careening downhill into the tall mountain pines. The sky was dark, threatening snow, and he knew that no one would likely spot the vehicle before spring.
The second he got back into Lena’s car, she leaned across the seat and planted her mouth on his, pulling at his belt.
“Lena, we gotta go.”
“Why?” she said, aggressively yanking at the buckle. “Didn’t you get rid of the evidence?”
“What about Sabastian?”
“Halfway to Stuttgart by now.” She was openly wanton, biting at his lips. “I’m not kidding, Gil. Take your pants down!”
16
Paolina practically threw Vaught’s breakfast at him as she brought it from the stove, shoving the plate across the table to smack against his glass of orange juice. Crosswhite had left before sunrise without telling Vaught where he was going, and Paolina hadn’t said more than two words since he’d gotten out of bed. He didn’t bother to thank her for cooking, knowing she’d only spit his words back at him. He was afraid of her and didn’t want to antagonize her, particularly when Crosswhite wasn’t there to protect him. Her resentment was palpable now, and he felt it was probably best to leave as small a footprint in her world as possible.
If Crosswhite didn’t return before he finished eating, he would wash his own dishes, and then go back to the guest room and shut the door. There was a television back there to pass the time. He was curious where Crosswhite had gone, believing it must have something to do with the operation, but he knew that Paolina was too loyal to tell him anything Crosswhite didn’t want him to know. Oddly enough, this didn’t really worry him. Crosswhite was so straightforward about everything that Vaught couldn’t help trusting him. What you saw was what you got with Crosswhite.
He drew a breath and stood up from the chair, making his way to the sink.
“Leave them,” she said without turning around.
“Thank you for breakfast.” The words slipped out before he could pull them back, and, of course, she didn’t answer.
He went back to his room and closed the door, switching on the television. The news came on shortly, and within fifteen minutes, Chance Vaught learned that he’d been reported dead to the entire world. He knew it was coming, but the report still hit him hard, and he panicked for a minute, feeling unexpectedly trapped and alone. The news ended a few minutes later, and he switched off the television, getting up from the bed and stepping out into the living room, where Paolina sat on the sofa reading to Valencia.
“I’m sorry,” he said, putting his hands into his pockets. “I apologize for jeopardizing what you and Crosswhite have here.”
She looked up at him, holding his gaze for a moment, and then went back to reading.
He shrugged and went back into the room, closing the door.
A half hour later, Paolina heard someone rap on the steel gate to the carport. Assuming that it was a neighbor, she set aside the book, telling Valencia to wait for her on the couch, and stepped outside into the carport, calling, “Quién es?” Who is it?
“I’m with the Institute of Health, señorita,” a young man answered in Spanish. “There’s been a case of dengue fever in the neighborhood, and we have to speak to everyone to make sure they know the symptoms and how to prevent mosquitoes from breeding in and around their homes.”
This was common in Latin America. Dengue fever was caused by a virus spread by mosquitoes, and this was the government’s usual response to an instance of the disease in any neighborhood. Paolina crossed the carport and peeked out the slot in the door to see a young man in his early twenties wearing the Institute of Health uniform and the proper ID tag around his neck. She knew that if she didn’t open the gate to take his literature and listen to his little spiel about the disease, either he or someone else would keep coming back until someone had heard them out. She pulled the latch to unlock the gate, and it burst violently inward, hitting her in the face and knocking her backward.
The young man clamped his hand over her mouth and kicked the gate shut. He had a gooey wet cloth in his hand that stunk of something medicinal. She felt herself beginning to go unconscious and stopped trying to breathe, pulling a razor-sharp stiletto from the small of her back beneath her shirt and swiping viciously at his groin.
She got him pretty good, just missing his penis and cutting deep into the thigh muscle. He let go of her instantly, seizing his crotch in both hands and shouting for help. Paolina stumbled dizzily backward and fell to the concrete, the effect of the chloroform too strong to resist. Two more men rushed in as she struggled to get up. They fell on her and slapped her unconscious, taping her mouth, and quickly securing her hands and feet with duct tape.