Color of Blood(66)

Dennis tried not to listen but was intrigued.

“I go to the New York Times—the goddamn New York Times—with the same story, and guess what? The New York Times owns the Boston Globe! They check with editors at the Globe, who say the guy is a flake! How was I to know the Times owns the Globe?”

Dennis’s cell phone rang. Staring intently at Garder and pointing the gun at the center of his chest, he answered.

“Cunningham, this is Massey. Do I understand you have Garder?”

“Sitting in front of me.”

“Goddamn it, Cunningham, you are good! This is the best news I’ve had in months. You are one hot shit. Is the extraction team there yet?”

“Negative.”

“After they leave, call me, OK?”

“Roger,” he said and hung up.

“You know they’re going to kill me?” Garder said.

Dennis just shook his head in disgust and kept silent.

Garder looked at his watch for the third time, and afterward Dennis cursed himself for not understanding why he kept looking at his watch.





Chapter 26


The sound of a key entering the lock of the hotel room startled Dennis, and he reflexively turned part way to look behind him.

By the time he caught himself and turned back to face his prisoner, Garder had launched himself across the table.

Dennis fell backward in his chair with Garder on top of him. Dennis’s head clipped the bottom of the bed frame, and it sent a bright light streaking across his field of vision.

Garder grabbed Dennis’s pistol hand at the wrist, and with his free hand, he stabbed his fingers into Dennis’s eyes. Vaguely, in the midst of the tumble and rolling, Dennis thought he heard a woman scream.

Garder had clearly been trained in the dark arts of close-in combat; Dennis was overwhelmed with pain in one eye as he twisted his head to avoid the horrible scratching and poking. Still, he continued to hold the weapon, and he even managed to grab hold of Garder’s slashing hand. Using his leg that was squeezed against the wall, Dennis thrust upward, rolled over, and eventually got on top of Garder, straddling his stomach.

Dennis heard a woman crying behind him, and Garder began to yell something in French. Dennis let go of Garder’s wrist with his left and took a vicious downward shot with his fist, catching the young man squarely on the side of his jaw.

Before Dennis could hit him again, Garder slammed his open right hand underneath Dennis’s chin, pushing it upward. Garder spread his thumb and forefinger so that he could squeeze both sides of neck underneath the hinges of his jaw.

Garder kept yelling furiously in French, and Dennis found himself strangely immobilized by the pressure underneath his neck. Even though he held a dominant position on top, his head was forced upward toward the ceiling. Dennis tried to take several swings at Garder with his left fist, but Garder’s stiff right arm blocked every clean shot.

After several moments struggling in this odd position, Dennis began to feel faint. He realized, too late, that Garder was skillfully constricting his carotid arteries, slowing blood to his brain. Dennis twisted his head and neck from side to side, trying to break the grip.

Just as suddenly, Garder released his grip on Dennis’s neck but kept a death grip on the wrist of his pistol hand.

Breathing heavily, Garder said huskily, “She’ll kill you if you don’t stop.”

Dennis was confused and panted heavily, trying to regain his breath.

“She doesn’t want to shoot, but I’m telling you she’ll do it,” Garder continued. “Look.”

Slowly Dennis turned to see a young woman holding a small revolver in two shaking hands about twenty-four inches from the back of his skull. She was sobbing quietly, and mascara ran down her cheeks.

“Last chance,” Garder said.

Dennis closed his eyes, released the pistol in his right hand, and slumped onto the floor. He lay there with his eyes closed, exhausted, his arms spread out on the carpet as Garder jumped up and scurried around the room yelling to the woman.

“Roll onto your stomach, hands behind your back,” Garder yelled. Dennis complied, feeling a sickening wave of self-loathing sweep over him. How could he have screwed this thing up so badly? From hero to goat in about 120 seconds.

With Garder sitting hard on his back, Dennis felt his wrists being bound together with some kind of tape; he could hear the ripping sound as it came off the roll. Garder grabbed his two ankles and bound them together with the same tape, then quickly ran the tape several times between his bound wrists and his bound ankles, so that his legs were bent up behind him.

Standing up over Dennis, Garder kicked him onto his side. Holding up the plastic pistol, he laughed derisively.

“These things are a piece of shit, didn’t they tell you?” He threw the pistol onto the bed.

At ground level Dennis watched the two sets of shoes fly around the room; the woman would not stop crying, and Garder seemed to have trouble calming her. He lay with his cheek pressed into the carpet, his wrists and ankles beginning to ache as the tape cut into the skin. The smell of the dusty carpet against his nostrils made him gag, and he turned his head.

The next thing he saw was Garder’s face twelve inches from his.

“If I ever see you again, I’m going to have to kill you,” he said. “They’re playing you, too, but I don’t give a shit. I can’t afford to have idiots like you chasing me, so for your own good, stay away from me.”