Ultimate Weapon (McClouds & Friends #6)(113)

“And now, explain to me how you have been monitoring Janos and Steele,” he said.

Hegel cleared his throat. “Janos has an RF trace implanted in his body.” His voice was thick and hoarse. “He doesn’t know.”

András chuckled. “How despicable of you, Hegel. That’s cheating. Tell me about the frequency, and how the tracking software works.”

Hegel swallowed, licked his lips. “But I can’t—”

Pop, the ball was wedged into his mouth again, and András’s big hand ground the man’s teeth into his lips on top of it. “I do not want to hear those words again,” he said. “First your eyes, and then your ears. Is that turd Luksch worth that kind of loyalty?”

Hegel squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

András lifted his hand, and let the other man push the ball out with his tongue, coughing desperately. András gestured toward the laptop. “Tell me everything,” he said softly.

It took twenty minutes to pry the technical information out of the man: the frequency of the trace, the use of the software, how to access archived data, how to monitor in real time. Relatively simple for András, who had used similar technology many times before.

He stared at the screen, committing to memory the exact spot where the man was lurking this very night. Some obscure point in the mountains, several kilometers from the main coastal highway. Thinking he was safe and hidden. It gave András a pleasurable feeling of power.

Good. It was all good. This was becoming so easy, it might not even be a worthy challenge, he reflected with faint amusement. But he would gladly exchange challenge for speed. It reflected well upon him in any case. And his work here was done.

He took the laptop, stowed it, and stood. He looked down at Hegel, trying to think if there was any reason on earth, any reason at all, not to kill him. The man saw death in his eyes and held up his hand to ward it off. András had seen that classic gesture many times.

“There’s more,” he said hastily.

András fondled the knife in one pocket. “More? What more?”

“Don’t kill me. Help me get away from here, from Georg, and I’ll tell you everything I—”

“Don’t try to bargain with me, fool,” András said. “You will tell me everything you know now, or I will cut off your dick and choke you to death with it. What more do you have?”

Hegel swallowed repeatedly. “The child,” he said hoarsely.

András frowned down at him. “What child?”

“She has a child. Steele. She adopted a girl. Three years old.”

András began to grin. Ah, yes. This would make the old man very happy. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know exactly. She appeared on the airport security cameras in Sea-Tac International three days ago. I had three men following Janos in an attempt to locate Steele and the child. He killed the men, took Steele and the girl, and from that point, all I know is that he climbed on a plane in Portland with Steele alone. Somewhere between Sea-Tac and Portland International Airport, they left the child with someone. I do have some archived footage from the night between those events, and I know he spent them at a luxury resort between Tacoma and Seattle,” Hegel babbled on. “A place called the Huxley. I assume they left the kid with someone during that interval, but I didn’t investigate any further because Luksch just wanted Steele. Nothing else.”

András sat down on the chair, chewing the inside of his lip.

“She has, ah, dark curly hair,” Hegel added, a note of desperation in his voice, the sound of a man with no bargaining chips left. “She’s small, very thin for her age. And she’s extremely—”

Thhtp. The silenced Glock drilled a bullet between Hegel’s eyes. The man flopped back onto his pillow and gazed blankly into the air.

“Thank you,” András said softly.

He gazed at his handiwork for a moment. The slumped body on the bed lacked dramatic impact. He really ought to put a bit more artistry into it. He didn’t have time to get truly creative, but the boss always appreciated that personal touch.

András shrugged off his jacket to save the bloodstains, clicked open his case and took out a small saw and a pair of industrial strength rubber gloves. A few minutes later, he was relatively pleased by the artistic effect of Hegel’s head, nestled in the center of the blood-soaked coverlet, severed hands clasped piously beneath his chin. He snapped a picture on his cell phone, encrypted it, sent it to the boss. The old man needed a pick-me-up. Waiting made him frantic.

András heard an unintelligible sound, turned, found that the man in the other bed was awake and staring at him, eyes bugged out.

Automatically, András aimed the gun at the man’s forehead—and then paused, taking note of the lopsided mouth, the fellow’s garbled attempts at speech. Stroke. András’s grandfather had suffered from a stroke when András was a child. He still remembered the horrified fascination he’d felt at the old man’s distorted face, his helpless frustration. His vain attempts to communicate.

It made him almost nostalgic. Poor old Grandfather.

No need to risk another shot. Each time the silencer was slightly less effective, and this poor old man would never be able to describe him. András tucked the gun into his jacket, leaned over the man’s bed and put his finger to his smiling lips.