Ultimate Weapon (McClouds & Friends #6)(101)

It barely missed him. The windshield crumbled. Val wrenched the car into reverse, accelerating hard toward the deep, rocky ditch behind them. Time dilated. Hegel bellowed. Val flinched as the gun blasted again. A hole appeared in the dashboard. Stuffing exploded out of the seat next to Val’s shoulder. They rattled, bumped, sped backward—

They tipped. Crash, the car landed on its ass in the gully. It toppled onto its side, bouncing, tipping. Glass blew out, metal shrieked. The bones in Val’s skeleton tried to shake loose of each other.

As soon as he was sure he was still alive, Val shoved open the warped driver’s side door and scrambled out, vaulting over rocks. His legs were weak and shaking. He dropped behind a large boulder, braced for the bullets to start flying from the broken, crumpled car windows. Hot blood trickled down his face.

Silence.

The laptop. The footage. Imre. Ah, f*ck, no.

Val crept closer to the car. No movement, no sound. He peered inside. Hegel was crumpled up inside, unconscious. Blood streamed down his face and neck from an impact wound on his temple.

Val sagged. Pure relief surged through him for a bare second, before he kicked himself into action again. Tamar. He had to save Tamar.

He climbed on top of the car and lowered himself down into the open door. He collected the laptop first. It looked intact, thank God. Then he slithered into the backseat and groped around for Hegel’s H&K and cell phone. Both were slippery with Hegel’s blood. He fished in the man’s pockets until he found a full ammo cartridge. He stuck the H&K into the back of his pants, and flipped the phone open, looking for the text message.

348. A room number, unless it was a code. In which case, he would rip each door of the hotel off its hinges until he found them.

He looked at Hegel’s bleeding face, and pressed his finger to the man’s thick throat. His pulse was strong. He would have killed Hegel without a qualm in a straight fight, but he balked at the idea of executing an unconscious man.

Fuck it. He would just leave it up to chance. Imre would say he was digging his conscience out from under the two-ton rock where he had hidden it. He levered himself up, vaulted out of the ruined car. It wobbled and swayed. He stared at it, panting. Clutching the laptop.

He needed clean transportation.

As if in answer to the thought, a pimpled youth on a scooter came buzzing around the corner. He took in the crumpled car, blood-streaked Val staggering in the road, and skidded to a stop.

“Hai bisogno di aiuto?” he gasped, eyes huge.

He sure as hell did need help. “Sì. Your scooter,” Val told him. “Get off.”

The kid blinked at him stupidly. “Come? Scusa?”

“The Vespino. Here.” Val yanked a wad of cash out of his pocket, easily five times the value of the thing. “Take this, call it a rental fee. Wait ’til tomorrow, and report it stolen. You’ll get it back.”

“But I—but—”

Val shoved the money into the breast pocket of the boy’s shirt, and briskly knocked him off the scooter and onto his ass. He shoved his laptop into the battered portapacchi strapped to the back, and took off.

The boy ran after him, yelling. The tiny motor groaned in protest. He gunned it as much as he could. Which was not much.

That dickhead Georg needed an audience to perform? Excellent.

He was about to get a spectator that he would never forget.





Chapter


19




Georg hung his shoulder holster over the antique mirror, and approached her. “Turn around. Slowly,” he directed.

Tam affixed a seductive smile on her face and did so, spinning sensually in a graceful pirouette.

Georg reached for her. His clammy hands fastened on her bare skin, groping her breasts, squeezing her ass. They made her nauseous.

“Change your hair back,” Georg said, frowning. “I liked it better before. Shorter, and curlier, and red. I liked the red.”

“Of course,” she murmurmed. “Anything you like.”

Georg whipped off his shirt, displaying a wiry, muscled chest, milk white and mottled with twisting scars. “Touch me,” he ordered.

She moved closer, sliding her fingers over his ribs. She tried to make the gesture sensual, but her shaking fingers stuck to his damp skin. Think metal, stone, gems, she told herself. Cold and hard. Think of needles, poisons. Earrings.

As always, it was split second timing that would make or break the success of her plan. He clutched her naked body to his sweaty chest, his breath smothering against her face. A streak of foamy spittle hung on his tight, quivering lips. She tried not to focus on it. And to think this man had once been considered handsome.

He kicked off his shoes, undid his belt, shoved down his pants.

He was half hard, his pink penis twitching. He reached down, massaged it almost to three-quarters, but it soon dropped back to its previous state.

Interesting. That could save her maidenly virtue, such as it was, or it could get her killed, depending on how the wind blew. She swallowed, hardened her belly muscles and faced reality. She knew exactly what a good whore was expected to do in these circumstances.

She began to sink to her knees, smiling seductively even as her gorge rose. “Shall I…?”

“No.” He yanked her back up. “No, it’s always like this with me. I need someone to watch. So we’ll just wait until he gets back.”