42
Gregor Stepanovich checked his watch. One-forty in the morning. Kolenka’s men were to secure the woman in her room, then call him. He and his partner would go to the room he had rented for an outrageous price with the large rolling bag. The bag contained everything he needed and would be used to remove the body from the hotel.
Kolenka’s men were to deliver her to Gregor’s room and leave. That was the agreement. Which was fine with Gregor. He and Josef would have the woman all to themselves. Once they were in the room with the woman and secure, he would tell his driver to leave, call Markov, and the fun could begin.
He waited at the west end of the elevator bank. His man Josef at the east end.
Gregor checked his watch again. What was taking so long? She was probably sleeping. They should be in before she even woke up. Ah, he thought. They have to get her dressed before they take her out of the room. That must be it.
*
The elevator door opened on two men. Both were medium height. Both wore long, dark wool overcoats, dark slacks, and decent tie shoes. One wore a blue button-down shirt. The other a white shirt.
They had the hard-edged look of Slavs. Both grizzled. Thin and sinewy and feral. The good clothes couldn’t hide their predatory air. When the man in the white shirt reached to hold the elevator so his partner could enter, he revealed a tattoo of a Russian Orthodox cross on the back of his right hand.
Shit, thought Beck. Vory-v-Zakone. Definitely Kolenka’s men.
Between the four people already in the elevator and the hotel waiter’s food cart, there wasn’t much room for the Russians, but the hotel waiter said, “Please, come in. I’ll take the next one.”
He wheeled his room service cart out of the elevator, and both men stepped in.
Beck had been standing in front of Olivia. Now he moved to his left so that he seemed even more apart from the two women. Give the hunters the impression that the blonde was with Olivia. Two escorts working as a pair. But would they believe Olivia belonged in the same league as the blonde?
Beck made sure to not even glance at the two women behind him. He was certain Olivia had figured out these two were after her. Could she mask her fear? Would they sense her apprehension, like animals closing in on prey?
The Russians briefly checked out Olivia and the hooker, ignored Beck, turned to face the front of the car. The elevator started its descent. Beck gripped the Browning in the right hand pocket of his shearling coat.
He considered the situation. Maybe they would make it to the lobby. After all, the elevator had come from a different floor. There were two women instead of one. They hadn’t connected Beck to either of the women.
But what would these two do when they reached the lobby? What made sense?
Step out and confer with their partners, Beck supposed. Could they slip out unnoticed while that happened?
Beck made no move to look at the men on his left. He didn’t want to distract them from doing just what they were doing: standing still, facing front, looking at the numbers flashing by on the elevator’s display panel.
And then the Russian farthest from Beck did what men do. He turned to look over the blonde once more. He stared at her, blatantly, without apology, as if she were sitting in a store window. She completely ignored him. She stood in the back of the elevator, staring past him as if he weren’t there. And then he looked over at Olivia.
No, thought Beck. No. He felt the atmosphere shift. The Russian in the white shirt stared at Olivia a beat too long. Then his partner turned. They both stared at her, stared for way too long.
Beck had to move. Now. Hard and fast and now.
In the cramped space, Beck leaned right, raised his left foot, and stomped the side of the Blue Shirt’s right knee, driving the leg down to the floor of the elevator. As he collapsed in Beck’s direction, screaming, Beck rammed his elbow into the man’s right temple, knocking him out, and driving him toward the second Russian.
As Blue Shirt crumpled to the floor, Beck whipped the barrel of the Browning into White Shirt’s face, cracking open his forehead and sending a spray of blood spattering against the rear wall of the elevator.
White Shirt fell back into the blonde, who couldn’t avoid him, but she was tough. She stifled a scream and shoved him away, which kept him on his feet. He lunged for Beck, blood pouring into his eyes, obstructing his vision, trampling his partner still on the floor, managing to get his arms around Beck’s waist.
Beck let the standing attacker drive him into the side of the elevator. Beck knew he wasn’t going down. There was no room to fall. White Shirt was bent over, arms around Beck, his face on Beck’s chest. He reared up and tried to ram the top of his head into Beck’s chin.
Beck turned away, but the man’s head banged into the side of his jaw. Before White Shirt could do any more damage, Beck leaned over him and drove the butt of the Browning down into his spine, liver, kidney—shot after vicious shot, again and again and again with as much leverage and strength as he could muster. His attacker let out guttural grunts of pain. He was paralyzed, but Beck didn’t let up. He kept hitting him until he felt the man’s grip loosen, then he kneed him in the chest, driving him off, and kicked him to the other side of the elevator. White Shirt fell over his comrade on the ground, but still grabbed for Beck’s leg.
Beck rammed his foot into his face, breaking White Shirt’s jaw, and knocking him out. He fell in a heap, half on top of his partner, who screamed at the added weight on his torn knee. The pain revived Blue Shirt. He reached for his gun. Beck backhanded the butt of the heavy Browning into his temple, knocking him unconscious, just as the elevator landed on the ground floor.