Ultimate Weapon (McClouds & Friends #6)(20)

“That is unfortunate,” he said through gritted teeth.

Novak held up the business card. “It is a reproduction of an ancient Celtic relic that my son gave to a woman in the Seattle area, an antiquities expert. Erin Riggs and her husband were also involved in Kurt’s death. They will pay for their share, too, when they least expect it. But first, I deal with this treacherous slut.”

Val peered at the card in the old man’s shaking yellow claw.

Deadly Beauty. He recognized the name. He had moved some of those pieces before. They were very popular with many of his clients. Clever wearable weaponry with exquisite design and workmanship. They commanded handsome prices, and the mysterious anonymity of the artisan was part of their allure. He had not known that his target was the creator of Deadly Beauty. Interesting.

“Why haven’t you taken her before?” he asked.

“I was told that she was dead,” Novak hissed. “I was lied to.”

Val hesitated. “I have a previous commitment.”

“You wound me, Vajda. But I have the perfect motivation.” Novak’s smile widened. “Bring the man.”

Val went immobile, like a man regarding a snake that was poised to strike. Two of Novak’s men left. Minutes ticked by. The door burst open, and Novak’s men came back in.

Imre dangled between them. He looked terribly small and fragile. He had been beaten again. One of the lenses of his spectacles had been shattered. His head dangled, blood streaming down his chin.

The world receded to an unimaginable distance, leaving Val suspended in a vacuum. No air to breathe. No place to stand.

Imre lifted his head and looked at Val, breathing heavily. His eyes watered, but they were calm. One was swollen almost shut. New cuts and bruises were superimposed over the old.

“You thought we did not know about your pet?” Novak’s voice was a crooning taunt. “Your favorite client? You think no one wondered who taught you English, French, f*cking existentialist philosophy? Cretin. I kept him aside for years for just such a moment, Vajda.”

Yes. He was a cretin, for not moving Imre closer to him. Criminally stupid, for not guarding his weak spot with more care.

“You thought you were too good to serve me?” Novak said. “You are a whining dog begging for scraps, Vajda. And this old pervert gave you scraps, did he not? When he was not buggering you?”

Novak made a sharp gesture. One of the men holding Imre elbowed him viciously in the face. Fresh blood spattered onto Imre’s white shirt, joining the dried spots.

Valery lunged toward them. Several guns swung up, trained on him. Someone wrenched his arms back violently and slammed a metal pipe across his throat. He barely felt it.

He stared at Imre, shaking. Unable to speak, to think.

“So.” Novak caressed Val’s chin with a clawlike hand in a hideous parody of tenderness. “I hope, for your old friend’s sake, that you are not going to tell me you are incapable of undertaking this.”

Blood was filling his mouth again, but Valery could not swallow. The pressure across his throat was strangling him. His ears roared.

“No,” he choked out hoarsely. “I am not saying that.”

“Good.” Novak made a gesture to the men holding Val. The pressure on his throat eased. His arm was released.

“And now, a demonstration of my resolve,” Novak said briskly. “We will remove a piece of your friend—a small piece. A finger, an ear, so we all know where we stand. Keep the piece if you are feeling sentimental. Did I hear your friend plays the piano? A teacher at the conservatory? Once a concert pianist? Charming. A finger, then.”

“No,” Val broke in. “Do not touch him. Or it’s no deal.”

“You do not set the terms of this deal.” Novak’s smile stretched out over his long, discolored teeth. “I set them. All of them. You have forgotten the rules, my boy. A few of his fingers should remind you.”

Val’s mind raced desperately like a rat in an electrified maze. He groped in his shirt pocket with his hand, felt a small, smooth cylinder.

He yanked it out, with a flourish. “The rules just changed.”

The snickering and muttering abruptly stopped. All eyes went to the ampoule in Val’s hand.

“And what is that?” Novak asked.

“Poison gas,” Val said. “If I break this, everyone in this room dies before they can reach the door.”

Novak chewed the inside of his sunken cheek. He shot a look at András. “Whose responsibility was it to search this man before he was brought into my presence?”

One of the younger men’s eyes went wide. He began to back away.

András lifted his gun and shot the man in the face. He hit the wall and slid to the floor, the swath of gore vivid against white cement blocks. Imre made a choked sound. He sagged between his two captors.

“Everyone dies, including yourself?” Novak’s tone was light. “And your friend?”

“Of course,” Val said. “It’s worth it to me. I dislike being bullied. You and I can continue this conversation in hell.”

Novak chuckled softly. “Do you always carry poison gas on your person? What an odd accessory.”

Valery’s eyes locked on Novak’s. “Life is so uncertain,” he said. “Death is much more reliable.”