The Espionage Effect(88)
I gripped the wood, thighs tensing, preparing to bolt if he leaned even an inch in my direction. But to where? My gaze darted to the bed. Not there. A sudden floorplan of the room exploded into a grid in my mind, potential escape points flaring brighter: door, sure to be barred with at least one guard; portal window, with no visible latch and likely fortified with no ordinary breakable glass; balcony beyond sliding glass, but a possible plunge to my death; the bathroom, with a slim door. The last surfaced as the best possibility.
His deep bellowing laugh rang out in the room, echoing off the hard surfaces. But he didn’t come closer. “I enjoy the fight in you, my lovely. That will make our aligning together much more adventurous.”
Great. Staring at him, holding the definite predator solidly in my sights, I rescanned my mental blueprint for potential weapons as I heaved air into my lungs, pulse hammering a frenetic pace.
He held my stare while he slipped his tongue out, then sucked in his bleeding lower lip for a brief moment before releasing it. “Make yourself comfortable, Devin. There are matters that require my immediate attention.” His gaze roved down my body, before shooting up to meet mine. “I promise not to keep you waiting long.”
An instant later, he spun around, opened the door, and vanished.
I didn’t move. Could hardly breathe. The ship barely rocked beneath my feet, but my whole world had tilted off its axis. My legs began to shake uncontrollably as I gripped the edge of the table, willing myself to stay upright and not break down.
A shut-down agent is a dead agent. Alec’s astute commentary broke through the muddy haze of my mind.
Focus. Use your smarts, Devin. I added.
I’d been training my whole life for this moment, preparing for the chance to step from the shadows, to no longer be victimized by the darkness but strengthened from it.
My gag reflex kicked in with the bloody taste of Escobar still in my mouth. I spun toward the stocked bar, grabbed a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid, and rushed to the bathroom. With both hands, I tipped the heavy glass up until warmth touched my lips. I winced as the burning alcohol, probably some thirty-year-old scotch, filled my mouth, then tipped it back and swooshed the mouthful around from one cheek to another. I spat it out, repeated the process, then spat again, hoping whatever germs and other diabolical contagions the man carried were dead, at least on the surface.
Returning into the generously appointed cabin, I took a more detailed note of every item as I crossed the room and replaced the decanter onto the bar. My combat boots made no sound, but the loose fabric of my cargo pants made a muffled scraping noise.
My breaths calmed over the next minute until a natural rhythm resumed. Clarity followed, and I assessed my surroundings, taking stock of the immediate situation. Even if Alec still remained on my side—if he ever had been—no doubt lingered in my mind about the state of affairs. Thanks to Escobar’s meticulous planning, I was outgunned and outmanned—at least at the present moment. That last qualifying bit was the only thing holding me back from slipping over the edge into hysteria.
Alec’s training and my father’s words superimposed in my mind as a single mantra: Always look for a way to escape. I embellished it further, making it my own: If a clear path doesn’t exist, make one.
Yet the ship’s decorator hadn’t made the job easy by any stretch of the imagination. By design, everything that was heavy enough to do any damage on a moving ship had been bolted down. When I tore back the edge of the carpet, I confirmed the metal table legs had been riveted to the floor. Likewise, so had the artwork been permanently affixed onto the walls, the 32-inch flat-screen TV to the entertainment center, and the delicate stained-glass Tiffany lamps to each nightstand.
Only the barware and pillows hadn’t been secured. With serious consideration, I eyed the decanter I’d just replaced. Could I empty it and heft it like a rock? Sure. But how close would I have to be? And what were the odds I’d nail him on the first try with a fatal blow? Low.
And did I want to kill him? I hadn’t given the option any thought. His testimonial rang in my head. But I rebelled against it. We were nothing alike. Similar situations of deception and betrayal? Fine. I’d give him that. But what about the dozens of people he’d stolen from their families and infected with his hybrid virus? And what was his endgame smuggling them into the United States? Infect the population? Cripple the country?
Yeah. Escobar and I were nothing alike.
The bastard needed to die.
And I had no qualms about his ultimate demise being at my hands.
I turned my attention away from the leaded crystal decanter, however. I wasn’t an idiot. If Escobar had hired Alec, and Alec could kick my ass in martial arts, and Escobar harbored the same deep-seated fury born of betrayal that I’d kept at bay for so many years, I held no illusions about his level of training. Escobar would likely be able to hold his own against me, at the very least.
“Think, Devin. Find what was missed,” I muttered and glanced toward the ceiling, emptying my mind as I stared at the smooth white surface like it was dry-erase board.
Then I closed my eyes, imagining each furnishing broken down into its parts to be utilized as a weapon. Bed? No. Dining chair? I opened my eyes and examined the forest-green upholstered barrel chairs. Nope, not unless I hefted the entire thing at him.
My gaze fell on the drapery rod. Custom designed, it appeared to be hammered steel with a two-inch square-shaped circumference. And because the window was only a three-foot wide portal, the steel rod, just a bit wider, was about the length of a baseball bat.