Act of Treason

12

R app moved halfway up the next flight until he was eye to eye with the dead body lying across the top landing. In the poor light, Rapp couldn’t be sure, but he thought it was one of the Russians. The way the guy was positioned, Rapp figured he’d been shot in the right side of his head, spun ninety degrees, and then crumpled to the floor. Literally dead before his mass settled against the worn, dirty linoleum. His eyes were wide open, his left hand pinned under his body, one leg bent and the other straight. Rapp doubted the guy even had the time to register the pain of a piece of lead slamming into the side of his head. Not a bad way to go, all things considered.

Rapp paused to take a closer look at the body. It was definitely the second Russian, the one who had stopped in the middle of the street to yell at his friend. Gazich would have been hiding in the hallway to the right. He would have let the first guy pass. Let him open the door and then he would have shot them one two. Subsonic rounds from ten, maybe twenty feet max. First shot to the head of the second guy, second shot probably right into the first guy’s right hip or maybe the knee if he was an exceptionally good marksman. The big Russian would have gone down hard. Gazich would have been moving after the first shot. He would have closed the distance for the most difficult shot of all. He wanted at least one of these guys alive, which meant he might have to shoot the gun out of the first Russian’s hand if he didn’t drop it after he’d been winged.
Rapp was practically lying on the steps now. His right hand was out in front of him, flat on the tread. His left hand held his gun. It was angles and inches now. He’d maximized his position of cover. Three quarters of the frosted glass office door lay in plain view. Shadows floated back and forth and at least two distinct voices could be heard, one much louder than the other. Rapp figured that had to be Gazich. He would be the one asking the questions. Staying on the stairs was not a good option. The position offered minimal cover, and left him vulnerable should someone wander up from the café. Tactically, that left two choices. Either rush the office, or move to the relative cover of the hallway.
Rapp made a mental picture of what the office was probably like on the inside. They were all pretty much the same. A desk, a few chairs, maybe a couch and some bookcases or a credenza. A guy like Gazich would never sit with his back to the door. That was for sure. It was also likely that his main work area would put him in a spot where he could not be seen directly from either window. Snipers were like that. They were always thinking angles and trajectory. Not just their own, but that of their most feared enemy—another sniper. With two windows facing the street that left pretty much one place for the desk. There was still the old man to consider, though. There was no way of telling where he might be when the door flew open. If he was directly between Rapp and Gazich he might have to be put down. The thought of having to kill a potentially innocent bystander pushed Rapp away from one tactic and toward another.
Hovering in no-man’s-land was untenable, so Rapp made his decision. He moved to the top step staying as low as possible, and stepped over the dead Russian. Hugging the wall he moved down the corridor a few steps and settled against the outside wall of Gazich’s office. The hallway was like a sewer culvert. The farther he went the darker it became. Rapp looked to the end. He could barely make out the dark wood frame of a door against the yellowed plaster walls. If the third floor was set up the same as the second floor, that was where the bathroom would be and maybe the access to the roof. There was one more door directly across the hall from him. That was the other office suite. Rapp had no idea who it belonged to. All he cared about was that the place was empty.
He was thinking of Coleman and was about to ask for an ETA when Gazich’s office door opened, throwing a splash of light into the dark corridor. Rapp’s pistol was up and aimed in the flash of a half second. He took three silent steps back, retreating farther into the darkness, both hands gripping the weapon. A solid immovable base. Three neon green dots lined up in a perfect row, the pad of his left forefinger resting gently on the trigger.
The old man appeared. He stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him. He stood there for a five count, his left hand still holding the doorknob, his chin slowly sinking until it rested on his chest. It was a posture of contemplation. He was a man trying to gather his thoughts before he decided what to do. He held the pose for just a second longer and then with a shake of his head, he bent over and grabbed the feet of the dead Russian. The first tug did nothing. The second tug moved the body maybe a few inches. The third tug was more of an all-out yank. The old man really leaned into it and the body started sliding across the worn linoleum floor.
Rapp matched him step for step, with little worry that he would be detected. The old man was preoccupied in thought and deed and probably mostly deaf from working an espresso machine his entire life. They retreated almost to the end of the hallway, where the old man gave up and dropped the Russian’s lifeless feet. They thudded against the floor, one of the shoes falling partially off. The old man swore and bent over, placing his hands on his knees. He made no effort to put the shoe back on. He was too exhausted. He stayed where he was breathing heavily and cursing to himself.
Rapp silently slid the pistol into the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted a folding knife from his belt. With one hand, he opened the knife and took a step forward. He hovered for a second, waiting for the old man to make his next predictable move. When he finally stood, Rapp lunged forward, clamping his right hand around the man’s mouth while pulling him up and nearly off his feet. The knife hand came around and Rapp pressed the flat edge of the blade against the man’s throat.
“Don’t make a sound,” Rapp whispered, his mouth only inches from the man’s left ear, “or I’ll slit your throat.”