No Way Out (20 page)

31

D
eSantos looked out at the cavernous room. It featured a central spiral staircase that corkscrewed five stories toward a transparent ceiling, with two glass elevator cars running along a track in the middle of the curving stairway.

To his left by the service counter was a security station staffed by three guards. How many others there were, he didn’t know, but there had to be enough to make their rounds at the appointed times. It was impossible to determine what weapons, if any, they possessed. The safe assumption was that they did not carry handguns. But batons or Tasers could not be ruled out.

Two of the men were chatting along the back wall and the third was studying his computer monitor, which sat adjacent to a series of turnstiles that required keycard access to enter the library; the one at the far left was a short glass door that, according to the posted sign, was an entrance for people with disabilities. DeSantos saw a young woman in a wheelchair approaching it; he quickly made his way over to her and grabbed the handlebars as the door swung open.

“I got it,” he said as he gave her a gentle push.

The woman glanced over her shoulder. “Thanks.”

“No, no,” DeSantos said with a laugh. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

He stepped aside and kept moving forward, his objective being to create space and distance between him and his assailant. An elevator would not accomplish that—he would be rendered imprisoned once he stepped inside—so he jogged to the blue-carpeted ramp leading to the staircase and started climbing.

Below, and all around him on all sides of the trapezoidal room that stretched as far as he could see, students occupied every available seat, staring at their computer screens or chatting with one another. Apparently talking was tolerated on these lower floors of the library.

After he reached the third level, he found the student body thinned out. It also became noticeably quieter. This was the area for serious study.

DeSantos glanced over the metal railing at the entrance but did not see his pursuer; a disadvantage of being the one chased was that unless you constantly checked behind you, there was no way to keep track of your adversary. Had he watched DeSantos enter the library? Worse, was he familiar with the building and did he know a shortcut that would have beaten DeSantos to his current location? As he moved along the circular path, he pulled his eyes away from the library entrance and did a quick survey. All clear.

He scouted the general layout of the interior and formulated a plan—but it required the assassin to see him. He glanced back at the ground floor and saw the man looking left, right—and up. He locked eyes with DeSantos, then DeSantos backed out of his line of sight.

DeSantos left the twisting staircase and stepped onto the third floor, where rows of tall bookshelves formed a maze of hiding places. With his UK body count already too high, he preferred not to add to it—if possible. But left alive, this man would keep coming after them. No. He had to dispose of him—without noise and blood. The more time that elapsed before the corpse was discovered, the better.

DeSantos moved about the reserve periodical stacks, using them like a running back uses his offensive line, keeping the shelving between himself and the staircase—and the hitman.

The assassin came onto the floor still jogging, but stopped abruptly and scanned the vicinity. DeSantos noticed that his breathing was not labored, meaning that he was fit; about what he had expected from a professional.

That begged the question of who this guy was and, more importantly, who he was working for. The logical assumption was that his boss was Hussein Rudenko, but little was known of his organization. It had long been posited that Rudenko worked with foreign nationals from a variety of countries, either men who belonged to his network or support personnel supplied by a colleague. If the latter were true, Rudenko’s group might be one with many supplementary tentacles. It was crucial to identify those players as well.

If he could get a good look at this mercenary, he could potentially determine nationality, and that might give him a clue as to who he was dealing with. DeSantos inched around the bookshelf and spied his adversary: something about him said Chechen.

The man passed the printers and was moving alongside the computer workstation desk, occupied by a couple of students. He then turned right, down the aisle adjacent to the one where DeSantos was standing.

DeSantos moved to the end, then prepared to engage him as he rounded the corner.

But after counting off the seconds it should have taken for the assassin to reach his location, DeSantos realized something was wrong. He waited another five and—nothing.

As he inched forward, taking care to remain concealed, a wire snapped around his neck from behind and he was jerked back against a taut body.

DeSantos did not make the common error of trying to dislodge the garrote; instead, he focused his energies and remaining seconds of life on defeating—or at least disabling—the man attempting to kill him.

He swung, writhed, grabbed—but he was unable to make any headway.

This guy knew what he was doing.

DeSantos felt the first effects of diminished oxygen to the brain—lightheadedness and dizziness—and knew he had to do something.

He planted both feet firmly on the dense industrial carpet and drove his legs backward, into the Chechen’s body, throwing them both into the bookcase behind them, boxes of periodicals raining down on their heads and shoulders. DeSantos kept driving, pushing, until the rack gave way and tipped over. It slammed into the one behind it, and it went toppling as well, like dominoes on a board.

As they fell, the assassin’s grip loosened. DeSantos grabbed the wire and tugged it off his head, as if he were removing a tight sweater.

Knowing he had only a small window with strategic leverage, DeSantos twisted his body and swung hard with a left hook, catching the man in the eye. The Chechen landed his own blow, but it glanced off DeSantos’s cheek.

DeSantos grabbed him by the neck and put his weight behind it, cutting off the hitman’s airway. The assailant brought his knees up and struck DeSantos in the back, but that only increased the weight on his own windpipe.

In his peripheral vision, DeSantos became aware of a number of students who had gathered nearby—as well as three security guards, who were approaching on the run. They were blowing their whistles, headed in his direction from one of the fire escape stairwells located at the building’s corners.

“WHO ARE YOU and what do you want?” Vail yelled, mustering as much authority as she could with her heart thumping against her chest, her breath suddenly short.

The man advanced a step—and Vail took the advice of dozens of perps she had encountered over the years. She turned and ran.

Her eyes rolled left and right, looking for a way out—but there was none.
C’mon, Karen. Outrun this guy
.

But the moment she had that thought, a thick hand clamped around her mouth.

As he pulled her closer to the mouth of the alley, she drew her knees up, forcing the man to bear her full weight as he simultaneously yanked her backward.

But he was strong, and he repositioned his grip around her body and swung her onto his side like a potato sack.

He’s gonna kill me—

gotta get away

before he gets me in there

He flung her weight through the opening in the fence—but she hooked her foot on the metal post. It threw him off kilter and he stumbled back into the opposing pole of the gate’s entry.

Vail managed to free one of her arms and she swung it wildly, striking flesh.

The man pulled her closer, squeezing the air from her lungs—

Constricting

Can’t breathe

Need air
—

He gave a final yank and pulled her into the alley.

The gate swung closed with an echoing clank.

DESANTOS NEEDED TO FINISH this guy off, to make sure he did not have an opportunity to come after him again. But he could not risk getting arrested. He had seen three guards, but there could be more—and they could be carrying Tasers. They were also likely required to alert the Met, so the police would be on the way, as well.

With no choice, and with his task incomplete, DeSantos released his grip on the man’s neck and fled, pushing through the line of students who had gathered in the study area to watch the melee.

He passed the Russian Collection stacks and circled around and through another computer workstation area in the corner of the room. As the guards went after the assassin, who had gotten up and fled in the opposite direction, DeSantos slipped into the fire escape stairwell and hurried down the steps. He hit the ground floor quickly, but when he yanked open the door, he realized that he was in the lobby, right near the security desk. He gambled that all the guards were deployed, chasing the man they had seen fleeing.

DeSantos took a deep breath, gave a quick survey of himself, and adjusted his disheveled clothing. The red mark that was undoubtedly—and for the foreseeable future, indelibly—encircling his neck was unfortunately going to be visible.

He pulled open the door and walked out of the stairwell.

THE MAN KEPT HIS HAND clamped over Vail’s mouth as she attempted to dislodge her left arm while swinging her right elbow in his direction. He fended off her attempts and then brought his free hand forward.

A garrote dangled from his fist.

Vail’s eyes widened.
I’ve been kidnapped by serial killers and lived to tell about it, but some goddamn assassin in London is gonna be the one to end my life? How ironic is that?

Vail twisted her torso, tucked her chin, and tried to keep him from getting the wire around her neck. He head-butted her, then slipped the cold metal cable against her trachea.

Vail slammed her boot heel onto his foot, then swung her elbow down toward his abdomen and landed a solid blow, driving him back. She spun and kicked him, her shoe slapping against his cheek and slamming him against the brick facing.

He struck the wall hard but scowled and came at her, slapping away her punch and landing a blow to her chin.

It straightened Vail and stunned her, and she hung in the air a second before her knees buckled and everything started spinning. She reached out, trying to regain her balance—

But another blow to her face sent her to the pavement.

Off in the distance, a gunshot.

The suited man dropped in a heap by her side. She struggled to focus her eyes, and a moment later was able to clear her head and sit up.

Walking toward her was Clive Reid. He extended a hand but she shook it off, rolling onto her knees and slowly pushing herself off the pavement, avoiding the puddle of blood that was spreading outward from the assailant’s chest.

“I could’ve taken him.”

Reid raised an eyebrow. “Unless you have some kind of levitation weapon, I don’t think so. You were flat on the pavement. It didn’t look very promising.”

Vail straightened her clothing. “Think what you want. I didn’t need your help.”

“Strange way of saying thank-you.”

She felt her face, which she was sure had a couple of sizable welts—and said, “That’s because I didn’t.”

Feeling more steady, she knelt in front of the man’s body and patted down his pockets. Other than some cash and a credit card, there was nothing. She turned the Visa over and snorted: “Kevin Smith. Yeah, I’m sure that’s his real name.”

“Not much chance of that, I fancy.”

Vail gathered up the garrote and pocketed it. “I was sure he had a gun.” She slapped at the man’s torso again but did not find it.

Reid swung his body around, checking the dim alley. “Forget it. We have to get out of here before the Met shows. The camera.” He gestured above her at a grimy, white CCTV device.

Vail canted her head to look but felt a pinch in her neck.
Lovely. I need this like a pain in the neck. Can I slap myself for a bad joke?
No. Two shots to the jaw were quite enough.

“And you’ve to get to your rendezvous point. Let’s go.” Reid shoved his pistol in the back of his waistband, and they walked out of the alley. There was still no one on the street—or they took cover once they heard the gunshot.

“I thought you had a meeting with Grouze,” she said as they headed up Surrey.

“I did. But then I realized that Grouze can wait, that you two might need my help.”

“Very intuitive.”

“Not really. I didn’t want to screw up twice in one day. Once was bad enough.”

She glanced at Reid as they crossed Strand; she had parked their car ahead on Melbourne Place. “I’ve had my doubts about you.”

“I’ve gotten to know you a bit, Karen. And I’d say you still have doubts.”

Vail couldn’t help but smile. She rubbed her sore jaw. “Keep saving my life, and I may have to reevaluate.”

Reid lifted his brow. “You admit that I saved your life?”

“Of course I admit it. I’m not an idiot.”

“But you said—”

“I thought you said you were getting to know me.”

A siren wailed in the distance—and seemed to be getting closer.

They shared a look.

“We’ve got a problem, don’t we?” she asked.

Reid swung his head around, surveying the area. “Yep. But I know a place where we might be able to get some help.”

32

D
eSantos stood on John Watkins Plaza, approximately thirty yards from the library entrance. He had walked down the ramp and parked himself behind the brick wall along Saint Clement’s Lane, an alley-wide pedestrian walkway that, at the moment, was clear of foot traffic.

If his assailant exited, DeSantos would follow him and finish the job, assuming the man managed to escape the guards. He would give him five minutes; more than that, and either he had been taken into custody—which DeSantos could not fathom happening to a professional assassin with his demonstrated skill-set—or he had gotten out of the building via a doorway DeSantos was not aware of, or he had found a safe place to hide. Either way, DeSantos did not have time to wait.

But a minute later, the Chechen left the building. He could turn right to Portugal Street or go down the ramp, straight ahead, toward DeSantos. Regardless of which way he chose, DeSantos had formulated a plan of engagement.

When the man decided on the ramp, DeSantos headed down Saint Clement’s to a recessed cement staircase with a small wrought iron fence. It was hardly the perfect hiding place, but it would have to suffice. Worst case scenario, the man would see him and they would have to fight for control.

Seconds later, with DeSantos coiled and hidden, the man strolled past, more concerned about being spotted by police than suspecting that his target was poised to turn the tables on him.

As he passed, DeSantos lunged forward and cracked the man across the back of his neck with the knife edge of his hand.

His legs buckled but he regained his balance and started to turn. DeSantos was ready with a blitz-quick attack, grabbing his wrist and breaking it with a sharp downward twist. In nearly the same motion, he spun the killer around and delivered a blow to the man’s nose with the palm of his hand.

The impact drove the stunned mercenary into the brick building—but he did not go down. DeSantos finished him off by driving his thumb web into his Adam’s apple. The man’s eyes opened wide as the air left his lungs and he dropped to his knees, unable to breathe.

To leave no doubt, DeSantos drove his shoe repeatedly into the man’s skull until he stopped moving.

Sirens wailed. Whistles blew. And several Metro bobbies approached on the run.

A larger problem, however, was that the cops were backed up by CO19, the elite firearms unit of the Metropolitan Police—the British equivalent of SWAT—which was coming at him from the opposite direction.