He tried another tactic. “If I do as you ask, will you let them go?”
“Considering what you just tried to do, I believe I will keep them. They may prove to be useful again.”
Monk remembered Jason warning of this exact same scenario.
I’m sorry, Harriet.
He knew the odds were against a favorable outcome, but he had to try.
Resigned that Valya would never keep her word, he stepped over to Mara’s laptop. Still, holding the e-tablet with the smug countenance of that pale bitch on it, he reached out with one hand, but instead of typing, he spoke a simple command.
Two words.
“Now, Eve.”
4:33 P.M.
On this signal, Mara snatched the tablet from Monk and dropped to the floor. She curled into a ball as a transformer blew outside the boarded-up window. It sounded like a grenade had been tossed against the building. Glass shattered into the room, one of the boards cracked, and the room went dark.
Even her Xénese device dimmed to stand-down mode as its power was cut.
But Eve had done her job.
Monk reacted at the same time as her. Mara never imagined the stocky man could move so quickly. In that single stunned moment, he lunged to Nikolaev, grabbed the man’s wrist, and crushed the bones with one squeeze of his prosthesis.
The Russian screamed and dropped the pistol.
Monk caught it in midair with his free hand and swung it around to face Kalinin. “Move, you die.”
Pain drove Nikolaev to his knees. Monk let go of his wrist, punched him in the nose, then latched on to his neck with his bone-crushing prosthesis. He forced the gasping Russian onto his back, then dropped a knee onto his chest, holding him there.
Kalinin used this opportunity to rush for the door, either in a panic to escape or to summon the reinforcements waiting outside. Either way, he took two steps and his head exploded.
Mara gasped.
She hadn’t even heard a shot.
His body crumpled to the floor near Monk, who still held his confiscated pistol. But it was pointed at the door and remained unfired. She glanced to the window, noting a pane of glass still in its frame topple to the floor. A crisp bullet hole penetrated it.
A sniper must have shot through a gap in the boards.
Out in the hall, an ear-shattering bang made her jump, followed by a flash of light so bright it outlined the door frame.
Then a spate of gunfire.
She smelled something stinging in the air.
Another brief burst of rifle fire.
Then silence.
“Stay down,” Monk warned. “They’re cleaning up out there.”
“Who—?”
“Cavalry.” Monk returned his attention to the Russian still gripped by the throat. Monk lowered his face until he was nose-to-nose, spittle flecking his lips. “Now, comrade, you’re going to tell me where your boss is holed up.”
4:35 P.M.
Monk released his grip enough for Nikolaev to shake his head. The Russian’s eyes bugged out from the pressure, his face purpling.
“Don’t know . . .” Nikolaev gasped out.
Let’s see how truthful you’re being.
Monk tightened his hold, synthetic fingers digging deep into his prisoner’s neck. The sensitive prosthesis felt the panicked beat of the man’s carotid.
“Once again, comrade. Same question.”
He forced the man’s head to the side, to stare toward Kalinin’s shattered face. The sniper had tapped him cleanly in the back of the head. The exit wound out the front was grisly.
“Do you want to end up like him?”
Nikolaev squirmed as Monk faced him again. The Russian’s eyes were huge, panicked. As Monk watched, capillaries in the whites of his eyes burst from blood pressure pounding into the man’s skull, trapped there by the crush of prosthetic fingers.
“Do you know where Valya Mikhailov is?” He loosened his hold slightly. “Or anything that can help us find her.”
Tears rolled from the man’s eyes, snot from his nose.
“Ny . . . nyet. Nothing. I . . . I swear.”
Monk squeezed again, even harder, too hard. He accidentally clamped the man’s carotids closed. The Russian’s eyes rolled back into his head, his lids drooping as he passed out.
Monk had not meant that to happen.
In fact, he believed the man.
Nikolaev clearly didn’t know anything. Likely no one here did. Valya was too cautious, paranoid. She would never give away her position unless absolutely necessary.
Monk gritted his teeth in frustration. He had known from the beginning that this gambit was a long shot. After Valya called him aboard the F-15, he had contacted Painter Crowe, informed him of that bitch’s private offer to him. The director had tried to trace the call, but it led nowhere.
She remained a ghost in the ether.
In order to pin that ghost down, Painter had suggested what could help, what they ultimately needed: a piece of the enemy’s encrypted hardware, specifically something used to contact Valya. If they could acquire such a device, the director believed that with luck and the help of an expert forensics team, they might be able to learn more about her whereabouts.
Monk glanced over to Mara.
She still lay on the floor, clutching the e-tablet.
This gambit was a Hail Mary pass, but one well worth the attempt.
For Harriet, for Seichan, for Gray’s unborn child.
In the end, Painter had given Monk the okay to run this con. For it to work, everyone had to believe Monk had caved under pressure and struck a private deal with Valya to save his daughter. Only Painter and Monk knew the truth. They couldn’t risk a word getting out. All the chatter had to be consistent.
Monk had betrayed Sigma.
His only communication with Painter had been on a quantum-encrypted line. Even the strike team outside didn’t know who they had come to rescue. Knowing the precious cargo in Monk’s possession, Painter had also been tracking him via the GPS built into his prosthetic, which helped the director coordinate this ambush. Back at the hotel, Monk had shared his plan with Mara—and Eve. Needing a distraction, he asked Eve to venture into the city’s power grid, leaning on her knowledge gained from her doppelganger, to overload a transformer, blowing it on his signal. Eve had also pinned down their location via his prosthetic’s GPS signal. For this to happen, Mara had secretly reopened Eve’s online access when setting up shop here.
The only signal that everything was ready was a flickering of the lamp in here.
“Monk,” Mara said, slowly sitting up, her gaze on his prisoner.
His prosthesis was still locked onto Nikolaev’s neck. Even noting this now, he did not loosen his grip. He imagined his little girl as terrified as Nikolaev had been a moment ago. He wanted someone to pay, someone to be punished.
Rather than loosen his hold, he tightened it.
With both carotids crushed, cutting off circulation to the brain, death would come in two to three minutes. He pictured Kat, fighting furiously only to have her skull caved in by one of Valya’s crew. He still could not get the words brain dead out of his head. She deserved better, certainly better than the man in his grip.
Fingers squeezed down to bone.
Monk’s vision darkened with his intent.
In the background, he heard Mara, her voice pleading. “Monk, no.”
Then the word echoed in his head.
No . . .
It didn’t feel like his own thought, but of course, it was. Still, what did it matter if one more scumbag wasn’t taking up space on this planet, breathing its air? He held tight, the seconds ticking down. Nikolaev’s chest began to heave, his lips and face blue.
No . . .
Monk’s fingers snapped wide open. He watched it happen as if from a distance. He lifted his arm, discovering he no longer had control of his fingers. Its sensitive skin no longer registered the cold air. It was as if his prosthesis had gone dead, like a real hand fallen asleep. He shook his arm, believing he had damaged or loosened a circuit.
As he did so, control returned.
Fingers flexed.
He rubbed his prosthetic palm on his leg, feeling the rough texture of his fatigues.
“Monk . . .” Mara pressed.
“I let him go,” he snapped at her. “He’s gonna be fine.”
The Russian was already breathing better, his color improving. His neck still bore an angry red print of his hand and would likely be bruised for weeks.
Monk felt no sympathy.
“No,” Mara said. “Look.”
He twisted around. Mara was on her knees and pointing up at the open laptop on the table. It was still connected to the idling Xénese device, which kept the laptop minimally powered. The screen had dimmed, but Eden was still visible, as was its sole occupant.
Eve stood in the center of the screen, with a hand lifted high, her fingers fixed and splayed open. Recognizing the similarity to a moment ago, Monk looked down at his prosthesis.
What the hell . . .
Before he could ponder it further, someone rapped on the door, then opened it. A slim woman entered, wearing fatigues, her long black hair tied with a black bandana. She carried a sniper rifle over one shoulder. Her skin was the color of cinnamon-mocha, her dark amber eyes flecked with gold, shining with amusement.