Black operator complete.., p.23
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 23
She still remembered the lessons and was thankful she wasn't dealing with a spring lock. That would require tension to hold each lever after she'd picked it, a job for two hands. This was a simple, crude lever lock, and she could release each pin in turn. She started work, and three hours later, almost gave up. Three hours, and all she'd managed was a single pin. Working in such an awkward position, her wrist was almost numb, and she took a break for a short time to get the circulation moving. She felt better and started again. After another half-hour, she felt another pin slide back.
How many pins in this lock? If I'm lucky, it won't be more than three or four. If it's six or seven, a precision, high security lock, I may never be able to open it.
She started working again, and a third pin clicked open after another ten minutes. She was getting the hang of it, and she felt a surge of hope. Probed with the wire, found a single remaining pin, and she started work on it. This one was difficult, the mechanism corroded with rust and dirt, but after another half-hour, the lock clicked open. She pulled her hand free, and immediately started on the handcuff on her left hand. Then each ankle, and when she looked out the window, the grey light of dawn was starting to show through.
She had such little time. She had to move fast. With no sign of her clothes, she wrapped the blanket around her and peered outside the door. No one around, no sound of movement inside the building, and she went to the next door. Pushed it open, and found another bare room just like the one she’d left. This one didn't even have a bed, but more important, it didn't have any bars on the window. She opened it and looked out. Discovered she was on the second floor, with a ten-foot drop to the ground. She climbed over the sill and dropped, falling into thick snow.
But as she let go, the blanket snagged on a loose nail, and hung suspended above her, out of reach. She was naked, in the snowy wastes of some unknown place. Outside Moscow, in the depths of winter, yet she was free. She started running and reached the trees. Kept on running, knowing there was something she should think of, but she wasn't sure what it was. She would keep going, in the hopes of finding somewhere she could shelter, and maybe even something to hide her nakedness. She was already shivering, and she doubted she’d last for long unless she found clothing and shelter fast. But she was free. She ran.
* * *
He waited in the shadows of the lobby, unsure which apartment they gone to. And then he heard the noise of the elevator descending, and he froze in the darkness. The doors opened. The man who’d driven the girl emerged and went through the entrance. Cris watched him go out to the car. He reached inside to retrieve something, and then came back. He carried a bottle of vodka, and Cris smiled. Whatever gains the Russians managed to achieve, somehow they always undid the good work with their overindulgence and passion for the strong, clear liquor.
He re-entered the elevator, and the indicator stopped at the eighth floor. At least he knew which floor they were on. He took the stairs, running up to the eighth floor, and emerged on the soft-carpeted hallway. Eight apartment doors lined the wall on either side.
Which one?
He went from door to door, listening at each for a few seconds, and stopped. He heard voices, a man and a woman talking. He couldn't be sure, but he'd heard them speak to each other when they from the cab office, and it sounded the same. He had to assume they were inside, and he worked out his next move. There’d probably be three of them, the whore, the minder, and the john. Three people, and he couldn’t allow them to shout a warning or try anything stupid. The cop’s 9mm Grach would be enough. Forget the Skorpion, he couldn't go in there spraying bullets like it was a rainstorm. This would be a job for the big automatic, a clear and visible threat. Accurate enough if he needed to do any shooting. He knocked on the door.
* * *
They were coming after her, the sound of boots stampeding through the snow. A voice shouted, "Maria Tereshkova, don't be stupid. You know you can't escape. Stay where you are, and we will come for you.”
She ran on, her bare feet numbed with cold. Her hands had lost all feeling, and her body spasmed with violent shivers. She ran faster, trying to get warm, and wrapped her arms around her body, anything to shut out the awful, killer cold. Nothing worked. She was slowing, heard the sound of her footsteps come closer, and her stride was reduced to a feeble jog. They were nearer, almost on her.
"Maria Tereshkova, we know where you are. We know where you’re going. Come back with us now, and get warm. You will die out here."
He didn’t mention she would die anyway, just not yet. She’d almost slowed to a walk, a shambling struggle to plod through the deepening snow. When she looked around, they were fifty yards behind. She urged herself to increase speed, but minutes later the first man was on her. A stunning blow to the back of the head knocked her to the ground, and she didn't feel anything for several seconds. Then voices above her, and they picked up. One man positioned himself on either side, and they half-carried, half-dragged her back to the dacha. A long walk, and when she arrived inside, her feet were white from lack of circulation. Stolypin stared at her like she was a laboratory specimen, standing with his back to a warm log fire.
"That was stupid. You could lose both feet to frostbite."
"Better that than allowing you to take me out into the woods and put a bullet in my head."
He was shaking his head. "Maria, Maria. You have the wrong idea. We don't plan to put a bullet in your head. We're going to let you live."
"You are?"
"Of course. For at least another week," he roared with laughter, “No, we plan to drop you into the lake outside Borodino. A frozen lake, and your body will lie undiscovered for all time." They were all grinning, enjoying the joke. He rapped out orders to the man called Dmitry. "She managed to pick the lock of the handcuffs. Find something more secure. If she escapes again, I'll hold you responsible. Take her away."
The two men dragged her back up the staircase to the same room, and she flexed her hands and feet, trying to restore circulation. When they brought in the new set of restraints, she knew she wouldn't escape again. A wide leather belt fastened around the waist, and a wrist fastened at each side. Her ankles were locked back into the cuffs at the end of the bed, and a steel collar around her neck, chained to the head of the bed with a tubular padlock. She was helpless, and all she could do was glare at them as they finished securing her.
"This time you don't get a blanket, whore," Dmitry snarled, "But don't worry, you'll soon get warm. The men plan to take it in turns, and by the time they’ve finished, you’ll be hotter than hell itself."
They left then, and she lay in misery. The steel band almost choked her, and her wrists had no free movement. Picking the locks was out of the question. She was so cold it was painful, and she felt her despair rise. Knowing she had one short week left to live, a week lying on this stinking bed in the bitter cold. Her sole respite when one of these animals entered the room to rape her. For the first time since they'd kidnapped her, she wept, thinking of the people she’d left behind. Alex, her son, but at least he was safe in Brighton Beach. Cris Rhodes, waiting in the apartment in Manhattan, and he'd be worrying himself crazy, yet powerless to act. It was all her fault. This was Russia. Her native country, and she'd made the biggest miscalculation of her life. She reflected drily it would also be the last miscalculation of her life.
* * *
He knocked on the door, and heard voices inside. The door opened a few inches.
"Da?"
He was working it out on the spur of the moment, and had expected the girl to answer the door. Not the brute who’d driven her from the dispatcher's office. He had the cop’s gun held at his side, shouldered the door open, and thrust the gun forward, pushing it into the man's face. At least, that was his intention, but the guy opened his mouth in surprise, and the barrel went inside. Perfect, and as Cris pushed him back, he didn't try to wriggle free.
Didn’t even try, because the man who'd rammed the gun in his mouth need only pull the trigger, and splash his brains all over the sumptuous imitation leather couches and reproduction antique coffee tables. Elegant artworks lined the walls, all of them prints. A few modern looking religious icons were displayed at intervals. The place was more like a high-class brothel than an apartment. The girl was staring at him, and another man who had to be the john was sitting on the bed, with his pants around his ankles. Cris was still holding the thug with his gun inside his mouth, and it wasn’t enough to control the one man. He needed to get command of all three. He kicked the minder in the groin, and he doubled over. Put a fist in his face, and pushed him to the floor. The gun barrel was free, and he waved it around.
"Nobody move. You," he spat at the john, "Find some rope, something to tie this guy's hands." He gestured at the man on the floor, who was struggling to get up.
"I… Don't have any rope."
"Use stockings, whatever. Do it now, or I'll ram the gun up your ass."
The girl stared back at him, cold and hostile. She bent over and pulled down her hose. Gave the two stockings to the john, and he fastened the minder’s wrists.
Cris checked the knots, and then ordered the john to lie on the floor. "Hands outstretched, and stay down until I tell you different."
He obeyed, and now he faced the girl. "The purse, where did you get it?"
"Purse?"
"Yeah, you had it earlier, the Gucci. Where did you get it?"
Her stare was defiant. "I bought it in Moscow. The Gucci shop, what's it to you?"
She was lying. It was just possible she’d bought it, but the purse was rare and expensive. She’d be loath to spend that kind of money.
"I gave that purse to Maria Tereshkova the day before she flew to Moscow. Tell me where you got it, or I'll make sure you never work again as a prostitute."
"I am no prostitute," she spat, "I work as an escort."
"Not with a broken nose, a broken jaw, and split lips. By the time I’m finished, it would take an army of cosmetic surgeons to fix you up. Is that what you want?"
"You wouldn't dare."
She was right. He wouldn't do it, but he needed the threat to be so enormous, she couldn't ignore it. She was an attractive girl, and her face would be her main asset. Ruin it, and she'd be reduced to beggary.
"Try me.”
He’d said enough. “She gave me the bag. That is all."
The minder started to recover, and he slammed the butt of the Grach into his head. His eyes rolled back, and he was out again. He stared at the girl.
“You’re lying.”
"No, she gave me the purse."
"When was that?"
She glanced at the unconscious body of the minder and looked away. No help there, and she was terrified. He could see her working it out in her mind. If she didn't give him what he wanted, she thought it possible he'd carry out his threat and damage her face so badly she'd never work again. On the other hand, if she told him, and the Reed Square thugs found out, it could be even worse. Except the thug was unconscious, and his Red Square chums weren’t around.
She made the right decision. "It was yesterday. I saw her when they took her to the dacha."
"The dacha?"
“Yes, it's on the outskirts of Moscow. Two men took her there in a BMW. Before she left she offered me the bag. Said she wouldn't need it where she was going."
She knew she was going to her death. Maria, what have they done to you?
"Where is the dacha?"
She shook her head. "Mister, even if I knew, they’d beat me to death for telling you. But I don't know. They always took us in a limo with the window blinds closed. Please, don't hurt me. I’m telling you the truth."
"Would this guy know where it is?" He gestured at the thug lying unconscious on the floor.
She nodded. "Yes, he would know the way."
"What goes on there?"
"Goes on?" She gave him a surprised look, "The same as in places like that all over the world. They fuck. Do what they want, it’s tucked out of the way.”
He felt an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. They could kill her at any time. But in the meantime they'd decided to use her for her obvious advantages. He could hardly imagine the mental and physical agonies she was going through, suffering the rapes and the assaults. Knowing when they stopped, all that awaited her was death. The john was still lying face down on the floor, and he ignored him. His leads were fast running out, and all he had was an unconscious brute who was unlikely to tell him anything. Unless…
He gave him a hard kick to bring him round. The man groaned, but he was still out. He looked at the girl. "Bring some cold water and throw it over his head. I want him conscious."
She nodded and went into the bathroom. Came out a minute later with the garbage bin filled to the brim with water, and she threw it over his head. She looked as if she enjoyed it. The man groaned, and his eyes opened. He spluttered as some of the water went into his mouth and down his throat, and then spat out a stream of expletives in Russian. Cris waited until he'd come to his senses. The man looked at the gun, around the room, and knew the score. "What you want?”
"Where is Maria Tereshkova?"
"Tereshkova? I’ve never heard of her."
He nodded and went to the tiny kitchenette in one corner of the room. He opened the cutlery drawer and took out the sharpest knife he could find, a long, slim filleting knife, wickedly sharp. He returned to the thug.
"Where is Maria Tereshkova?"
"Yob tvoy mat.” Fuck your mother.
Cris bent down and slashed the knife across his face, just under the eye. "The next one takes out the left eye. After that, the right eye and you'll be blind. Where is she?"
"I don't know, fuck you."
"Is that so." He didn't want to do it, hated himself thinking it, but her life was at stake. Time was running out, and the sole connection to her was through this man. The minder had his hands on the floor, palms open, palms upward. In a swift motion, Cris stabbed down with the knife, through the palm of the right hand and drove the point into the wooden floor. He screamed, a long howl of agony and outrage, followed by more curses, until Rhodes stuffed the barrel of the Grach into his mouth.
"You’re not leaving this apartment until I get some answers. Not alive. Where is she?"
"I don't know." He moved his head from side to side, sobbing with pain and frustration, and tugging at the hand pinned to the floor. Cris withdrew the barrel of the gun and slammed it over his forehead. He jerked in fresh agony.
“Tell me your name."
“Fuck off.”
He twisted the knife, and the Russian was on a journey through the hot fires of hell.
“Your name?”
He screamed again. “Igor Sokolov, please, no, don’t do that!”
The girl whimpered, horrified by the violence, and he looked at her. "Who are you?"
"Rosa."
"Rosa what?"
A shrug. "Just Rosa."
He turned his attention back to the minder. " Maria Tereshkova, where did you take her?"
"The Red Square."
"Red Square? You mean next to the Kremlin?”
He was shaking in pain and terror. "I cannot say any more. They will kill me."
Before Cris could stop him, he jerked upward, and with a huge effort, ripped his hand from the wood, with the knife still sticking into the flesh. Blood streaming from the wound, he staggered across the room. Shouldered open the double doors that led to the balcony and fire escape, and raced onto the iron balustrade. Cris went after him, gun held ready to shoot, but he was too late. Sokolov had slipped on the thick, ice-covered platform. His legs slid under the guardrail, and he tried to use his hand to grab for support. The wounded hand, and it was useless. He screamed all the way down to the courtyard, eight stories below.
Cris looked over the edge. He'd landed on a wrought iron ornamental fence, and his body was embedded on a spike. He went back into the room, and Rosa had her hand on the doorknob, about to leave. He brought up the gun.
"Don't even think about it. Where is it? This Red Square place?"
She sighed. “Very well, I will give you the address, but please, do not tell them who gave it to you. I may as well slit my throat before they kill me."
"Who will kill you?”
"The man who owns the club, his name is Pavel Stolypin. His men carry out contract killings in return for cash, and they are very good at what they do. Do not think about going there, Mister. You would be wise to go back to America and live out your life. You go to the Red Square, and you will die a terrible death, I promise you."
I can make promises, too.
“Lie on the floor."
He fastened her wrists with a stocking he found on the floor, but left the Gucci purse. What use was a short-range bug in the vast expanses of Russia? It had done its work and enabled him to identify who’d had contact with Maria. The john was still lying on the floor, shaking with terror, but he knew the moment he left, he'd squeal for the cops. He gripped the barrel of the Grach and slammed the butt on his forehead. He went out as if he'd been pole-axed. Cris went to the door and looked back at the girl.
"Don't even think about calling anyone for the next thirty minutes. If I see them, I’ll know you tipped them off. In which case I'll come back and kill you. You get me?"
"I get you." Her voice was filled with bitter resignation, "But you won't come back. You enter the Red Square Club, and you’ll never come out alive."
Chapter Three
He walked down the staircase to the first floor, and if he’d felt tired before, it was much worse. Like a thick, black cloud hanging over him, the long flight from New York, and battling every step to get closer to the men who’d taken her. Each time he got a lead, he lost it, and it was sheer luck he’d discovered the Red Square Club. He keyed the address into the satnav, drove away, and saw his hands were trembling with tension and fatigue. He was nearing the end, but for whom?
