Sarah Nieminen smoothed her blue floral sundress, composed herself and walked up to room 1408. She took a deep breath, then knocked on the door.
Chapter Thirty
Sarah Nieminen stood with her weight on her back leg and her hands on her hips. She played with her hair and waited.
Her trained ears could hear movement from inside the hotel room. She pictured the exchange happening inside in her mind's eye.
“Who is that?” The perky redhead would squeal, perhaps clutching white linen sheets to her chest. She pictured the well-muscled Brit asking her if she had somehow ordered room service without him knowing. He would answer the door, she knew.
He would feel the need to be in control of the situation. Sarah had to play to that, let him believe that he had all the power.
Sarah adopted an innocent smile. The type that the men went crazy for every time she used it in some bar half a world away.
Finally, after what seemed to her like an eternity, the door swung open.
“What?” Adrian Vandervoort said. He had on a pair of white cotton slacks and nothing else. Sarah could see old scars on his trim torso – undoubtedly battle wounds from the past telling stories on his body.
Sarah faltered, and the hastily written script in her mind disappeared before it got to her tongue. The tall Brit caught her looking at his scars, flitting back and forth with an impetuous gaze.
“Well? I’m bloody busy here.”
“I’m from the hotel, sir,” she stammered, feeling awkward and out of place. The warm metal of her silenced pistol caressed her thigh, though, and reassured her that she was the one with the power.
What would Dick do?
“I’m sorry sir, we had a report of a broken minibar fridge in this room. Since the temperature of your beverages is the of the utmost importance to us, we figured that we would come to ensure that everything is up to your standards.”
Adrian looked at her with his brow furrowed in annoyance.
“May I come inside and check things out?” She asked with a wink and a giggle. Adrian looked at her for a moment, his brow furrowed with thought.
It’s not working, she thought. Her hand snaked back to the holster concealed under her dress. It stayed hovering over the thin fabric of her dress.
Was she fast enough? Something told Sarah she was about to find out.
But Adrian stepped aside wordlessly and swept his arm in a welcoming gesture. Sarah told herself to stay calm and forced her hand away from the hidden holster.
“Thank you, sir, it won’t take but a minute.”
Sarah stepped into the clean room with the white linoleum tiles and heard the door click behind her. And then the deadbolt slide into place.
Shit, she thought, reaching for the syringes concealed in her clutch. But before she could turn around, Adrian was on her, pinning her arms in a bear-like embrace. The small purse skittered across the room, finally stopping in the corner.
“You think I didn’t see you staring, sweetheart?” Vandervoort rasped. She felt the power in his wiry arms, and suddenly she was afraid.
Try as she might Sarah could not escape his grasp. She could feel his erection on her lower back eliciting a feeling that both terrified and disgusted her.
“I’m just here to… to.”
“To check on the fridge, yes? To stalk me around the cabana, yes? Or perhaps, love, it was to ensure that I was having a splendid time at the party!”
Sarah’s blood froze.
He remembers me from the party. How?
It had been so long ago. Adrian couldn’t have seen Sarah above and beyond in passing. And yet still, he remembers.
“Who the hell is this?” A voice from the doorway shouted. The redhead had decided to get out of bed and was standing in the doorframe to the bedroom wearing Adrian’s shirt, and nothing else.
At first, she was angry – stomping her feet. But after a moment the redhead realized that something was off.
“Wait, stop! You’re hurting her.”
“This is your fault, you know,” Adrian whispered in Sarah’s ear with hot and humid breath.
Christ, he’s getting off on this shit.
Adrian reached back into an open safe by the entrance and pulled out a gun with a large silencer attached to the barrel, aimed and pulled the trigger.
The flirty redhead didn’t even have a moment to react.
Thwoop.
Her body hit the ground slowly, crumpling in on itself like a fighter who got caught with an uppercut on the jaw. Her eyes, green and lifeless, seemed to glower accusingly at Sarah. Her shirt – Adrian’s shirt – flared open.
In death, there was no modesty.
The hole, right in the middle of her forehead, barely bled at all but there was no mistaking it, she was dead as dead can be. And it was all Sarah’s fault.
“You’ve been naughty,” Adrian said. “Now look what I have to do. All of this will need to be cleaned up!” He was talking as though he was scolding a young child who had spilled a glass of water on the floor.
He began to walk towards the bedroom with Sarah still in his vice-like grip. He was much stronger than her, and her struggles and kicks only seemed to excite him more.
“Now, this is how we are going to proceed,” he said, stepping over the redhead’s body. “You are going to answer my questions. You will answer them promptly, and truthfully. Do you understand?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Sarah spat.
“Very well,” Adrian answered. He shifted his weight, pinning on arm against his body while he held the other with his hand.
He leaned over and placed the hot metal barrel of his gun against her thigh.
“Arrgh,” she screamed in pain. She bit down on her lip. No more screaming, she thought, he likes it when you scream girl, so you can’t.
“Your accent tells me American. CIA, perhaps?”
Sarah gritted her teeth and didn’t say a word. He had pushed her up to the foot of the bed which was messy and unmade and sat her down. She looked up at him, defiant.
The gun was pointed at her face. Move, and you die.
“I’ve seen that look before, you know,” he said matter-of-factly. “Quite a many time.” Adrian grabbed her face and forced her to look into his eyes.
“So pretty,” he said, “such a bloody shame.” He fondled her breast, slipping his hand under the blue floral dress and groped her breast, pinched her nipple until she grimaced in pain.
He withdrew his hand and slapped her across the face with a swinging backhand.
Stars exploded in her vision as she reeled back from the strength of the blow. But he grabbed her with his free hand before she could fall over.
Sarah was horrified. She was overpowered and alone with an unpredictable monster.
“Do you crave death?” He asked. “Look at me!” He thundered. He traced the gun barrel on her chest, toyed with it on her forehead. Though the barrel had cooled the effect was the same and Sarah, despite her years of training, started to shake in fear.
Sarah felt terror deep in her soul as she never had before, and yet she opened her eyes and looked right into Adrian’s terrible face.
“I am going to kill you today,” he told her matter-of-factly. “If you tell me what I want, I’ll make it quick. Please don’t make it quick,” he smiled sadistically.
Sarah felt blood drip down her nose. But inside her now burned a fire which had never before been stoked so high. She thought of her dead partner, Connor Browne. She remembered Mohammad Al-Azhar’s strength. She even thought of Dick Mitey alone in a jail cell somewhere.
Her eyes blazed with anger as she looked up at Adrian, his face contorted in animalistic outrage.
Sarah Nieminen wasn’t ready to die. She’d always pictured going at a venerable age, in her favorite chair with a glass of good whiskey beside her. She grimaced. Things rarely happen as you want them to happen, no matter how hard you try.
Sarah didn’t want to die. But she’d be damned if she
let this monster get the satisfaction of seeing her break first.
“I am with French intelligence,” she said. “My name is Virginia Delaquis.”
“Good,” Adrian said, “I am glad that you took that route.” He grabbed her throat in his vicelike grip and started to squeeze. Sarah grabbed his arm trying to break the hold. She flailed her arms and her legs striking blows at his torso. It was as though he couldn’t even feel the pain.
Nothing was working; the British man was too strong.
Sarah felt herself growing weak. Stars began to explode in her eyes. She tried to claw at his eyes, but his reach was too long. She left long red scratched down his arm.
Finally, just before she passed out, Adrian released his grip. Sarah gasped on the bed, trying hard to suck in oxygen as she massaged her bruised throat with her hands.
“I shall only ask you politely one more time,” he said emotionlessly. “To which organization do you belong?”
“Fuck… you,” she said.
She realized that she had never been in control. She had been played flawlessly in the game of cat and mouse. Adrian was a professional, who worked with professional efficiency. He’d marked her from the time she had arrived at the hotel and had merely been waiting for his moment to strike.
She writhed in pain on the bed. The lack of oxygen flow had made it hard for her to think clearly. Everything was fuzzy. She could feel hot salty tears streaming down her face.
I’m sorry, Connor, she thought. She’d failed him. She thought of her father, away somewhere with his slut second wife.
Sarah knew that she was going to stay mad at her father for the rest of her life.
Adrian grabbed her by her scalp and flung her off the bed. She hit the ground hard, looking up at her attacker. He lifted her up as effortlessly as if she were a child, slamming her against the bed stomach down.
He fondled her breasts roughly, and Sarah realized his intent.
“Please… No,” she gasped.
“Coitus interruptus, my dear,” he laughed.
He laughed! What kind of monster is this?
But at that moment Sarah felt the barrel of the silenced pistol hidden expertly beneath her dress. He felt her helpless beneath him. And he had let his guard down.
Sarah slowly reached down under her dress, feeling the familiar, comfortable grip in her hand. Vandervoort was gloating, savoring the moment.
He had her pinned down with the strength in his terrible arms, but Sarah knew who was in control now. She slowly drew the service revolver from its hidden holster, clicked off the safety, pointed it behind her and pulled the trigger.
Adrian roared behind her in surprise and pain, an animalistic noise of injured fury. She’d hit him somewhere.
I hope I blew your dick off, you sick motherfucker, she thought. Just then her right shoulder exploded in pain as Adrian brought an elbow down on her with as much force as he could manage in his weakened state.
It was a glancing blow. The next one wouldn’t miss. Sarah spun around and pointed her gun directly at his head, but Adrian followed up his strike with a kick to the hand, sending the gun flying away. It landed with a clatter on the luxurious linoleum tiled floor, too far away to reach.
Sarah realized that she only had a moment to spare before he recovered. Turning around, she quickly punched the bullet wound that she saw on his naked torso. His gun clattered under the bed and out of sight.
Good, she thought, I might have hit a kidney. Worst case scenario meant that the bullet hit Vanderfuck’s hipbone but, since he was still standing, that was unlikely. Striking an organ was just as effective in crippling an opponent with pain.
“You goddamn bitch!” he roared, doubling over in pain. Sarah recalled the martial arts training she had gone through for self-defense against opponents who outclassed her in strength and size.
Balling her hand into a pseudo fist, she jammed upwards with as much force as she could generate, connecting with the soft cartilage tissue in Adrian’s nose. Immediately blood began to gush out, turning his blonde mustache an unholy color of red.
He threw wild, deadly haymakers. One blow would knock the wind out of her, even break a bone perhaps. She evaded them, thanking the stars that Mohammad Al-Azhar had forced her to take that class. His eyes were watering from the impact to his nose, obscuring his vision.
She only had a few moments until he recovered. Already he had stopped blinking rapidly, which was a sure sign that his vision was beginning to clear.
Sarah looked around for her service revolver, which was lying on the ground near the patio. She lunged for it, felt her fingers curl around the familiar grip and felt its deadly weight in her hands. Her shoulder ached, but that didn’t matter to her anymore.
Adrenaline flowed through her veins, as she steadied herself and aimed.
But the British operative, sensing the danger, had grabbed a chair and thrown it in her general direction. Sarah protected herself by raising her arms as the wooden chair exploded on impact. The chair hit her arms and her torso and staggered her, knocking her to the ground.
She was up in an instant, but the room was empty.
Adrian had fled.
“Damn it,” Sarah cursed, rubbing her throat. It hurt to swallow, now that the adrenaline wasn’t pumping as freely as before. There would be a giant bruise there, of that she had no doubt. Running into the hallway, she looked left and right, but there was no sign of Vandervoort anywhere.
She holstered her service revolver and went back into the room, stopping at the body of the redheaded girl crumped in the frame of the doorway.
She felt for the jugular on her pale white swan-like neck, mostly as a formality. The girl was dead, her green eyes open towards the heavens, a frown of fear and confusion marring her pretty face.
“I’m sorry,” she said to the corpse, “I’m so, so sorry.” Adrian had been wrong, however. It wasn’t her fault that the girl had died. Not totally, anyway.
It was his. And he would pay for it.
Sarah spotted the dead girl’s purse laying nearby and rummaged through it until she found an ID card.
Sarah looked at the girl a long time, memorizing her features and wondering about her past before she stood up, massaging her shoulder. Another person to add to the list. She would make Adrian pay.
For Connor. For Richard Mitey.
And for Elise.
Chapter Thirty-One
Dick Mitey woke up and stared at the grey ceiling as he had every morning for as long as he could remember.
“I’m bored!” He said, to no one. After a few moments of nothingness, he flipped onto the floor and did his daily pushup routine. He was up to 15 per day now, which he considered pretty impressive if you’d ask him.
Nobody did, though. Dick yearned to speak with someone – anyone. Provided they spoke English, that was.
Heck, he would even accept German, so long as some guard wasn’t yelling at him. Some conversational German would be fantastic in his mind.
Life progressed in the small prison cell exceedingly slowly. It was a life of routine and boredom and loneliness. He had begun to hate the padded six by eight grey cell with the one small window on the…
Door.
It took Dick an embarrassingly long period to notice that the door to his cell was wide open.
“Hello?” He asked, peering outside. No-one was around.
Dick considered all this for a moment. It was not uncommon for no guards to be near his cell, but it was out of the ordinary to have the door wide open. Dick couldn’t remember how long he’d been in prison, but he believed that it had been a long time.
Not once, to his memory, had the cell door been left open.
“Somebody made a mistake,” he announced to himself before promptly closing the door, hearing it shut with a satisfying click and going back to sit on his bed.
But upon waking up the next morning, the cell door was wide open once again. Dick waited for a long time for someone to come. He wa
s wary of this new open-door policy which this prison seemed to be enforcing.
So Dick waited and waited, but nobody came. Finally, sick of the boredom which comes with sitting in a cell every day, Dick ventured outside.
The hallways were cavernous and brightly illuminated. Dick saw many cells like his with the thick padded white doors and small windows. Peering inside, he could even see that some of them were occupied, mainly by scary looking men. Some also had teardrop tattoos on their faces, which Dick knew meant they were in touch with their emotions.
Far From Ordinary Page 18
