Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(93)
“Gora is Keyre’s Russian arms supplier.”
“Correct. Until a week ago, that is. Suspecting that Keyre was skimming profits, Gora sent a team in to infiltrate Keyre’s cadre. Keyre found out and executed them all. Alyosha was the facilitator linking them, but now that they’re the bitterest of enemies, they no longer require her services. I don’t know where Alyosha is or what she’s up to.”
—
Crouched in the clothes closet in Fran?oise’s hotel room, Morgana lay the compact 9mm Beretta Nano across her thigh. According to plan, Fran?oise had left the door ajar so Morgana could see a sliver of the bed, but more importantly hear how the plan was progressing and when to emerge.
Morgana had to hand it to the bitch—she’d come up with an excellent plan. As she had said, very few moving parts. The question was whether everything would go according to the plan; there was no trust left inside Morgana when it came to Fran?oise. She had snapped on latex gloves, had already checked the ammo in the Beretta’s magazine to make sure she wouldn’t be firing blanks. But what if both Fran?oise and Larry London were waiting for her to emerge to shoot her to death? But why wait for her to emerge? Which is why she tensed when she heard voices, the door swinging open. Fran?oise’s high laugh. Only now it occurred to her that she was a sitting duck. If they were going to kill her it would be now; stuck in the darkness, amid Fran?oise’s scent and her clothes, there was no escape for her. She lifted the spare pillow she had been clutching, stupidly using it as a shield. Of course it wouldn’t stop a bullet, but the gesture was automatic, a very human response to imminent danger.
A line of sweat popped out at her hairline, and the back of her neck felt hot, as if she had come down with a sudden fever. She licked her lips; her mouth was dry, with an unpleasant taste she identified as bile. At any moment she was afraid she might piss herself.
“No you don’t,” Fran?oise was saying. “There isn’t a man in the world capable of that!”
“Why don’t we find out?” Larry’s voice was in a deeper register, furred with sexual desire. A good sign; at least the bitch had told the truth about seducing him.
Another high laugh from Fran?oise, followed by a squeal of delight as the two of them passed through the narrow view afforded Morgana. The bedsprings reacted as the pair launched themselves onto it.
Several moments passed while Morgana heard the rustle and slither of clothes being stripped off, then an excited “Oh!” from Fran?oise and an answering “Mmmm” from Larry.
The sounds of lovemaking, so much a part of the experience for the participants, vacillated between frightening and ludicrous when heard by an outsider, like Morgana, who cringed as the pace increased.
When she heard Fran?oise cry out, “Oh, please!” which was their agreed-upon signal, she pushed the closet door open and slowly stood up. As Fran?oise had promised, Larry was on top, humping away in that animalistic manner endemic to certain men for whom their own pleasure was paramount.
She crossed the pile carpet, silent as a cat, carefully stepping over strewn clothes or sidestepping them altogether. Close up, the grunts and groans seemed even more absurd, the rising and falling of Larry’s body, the hard thrust of his pelvis seeming to her a kind of violence that made her shudder.
She was almost close enough now, and she lifted the Beretta, her right arm straight, her left hand clutching the pillow. As she advanced, she felt her heart rate exceeding normal levels. To counteract it, she slowed her breathing. While she had extensive training with guns, she had never killed or even shot at a human being. Now, at the last minute, she felt as if her resolve might fail her. True, she had seen with her own eyes that Larry London had orders from Russia’s spetsnaz to terminate her, but still the taking of a life, even in self-defense, was no small matter. It was not an act to take easily, or without regret. But she also knew that regret was a shooter’s worst enemy—her father had told her as much the first time he had taken her deer hunting and she had missed the clear shot. “You hesitated,” he’d said. “Your hesitation was a manifestation of remorse. You weren’t sure you wanted to kill that buck. Morgana, you cannot fire your weapon unless you’re sure. When you pull the trigger your mind must be clear, your intent certain. Otherwise you may as well put your weapon away.”
And so now, the Beretta a hand’s-span away from the back of Larry London’s head, she put aside her qualms, she refused remorse, kicked it into the metaphorical gutter. Leaning forward from the waist, she pressed the muzzle of the Beretta into the pillow, then lowered the pillow against her target’s head—for that was how she thought of him now: no name, simply her target.
Nearing orgasm, her target didn’t even notice the slight pressure. Taking a breath, she let it out slowly and evenly. Then, with clear eye and mind, she squeezed the trigger.
Larry London’s head and, in fact, his entire frame rocketed downward, then rose again like a fish to the hook. There was surprisingly little blood, but a lot of feathers floating like a halo around London’s head and shoulders. Morgana felt numb, as chilled as if she had just climbed out of a meat locker. For a moment, she remained still as a statue while her mind caught up with the actions of her body.
Fran?oise, struggling to shove London’s body off her, fixed one eye on Morgana.
“Give me a hand,” she said, her voice muffled.