Read Online Don't Blink by James Patterson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Patterson
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worth looking an NYPD detective in the eye and explaining, “I just got swindled by a prostitute and her two partners.”
And all it had taken was an ad in the back of
212 Magazine
promising the highest-quality escort for the discerning gentleman. “From Russia with Love” read the headline.
It was good enough to entice somewhere around twelve men to date—not that Viktor and Dmitry were keeping track. They were too busy counting the laptops, gold Rolexes, Kiton suits, and cold hard cash.
The brothers traded quick nods. Everything was good. Anastasia had placed the swath of tape over the lock chamber, same as always. All they had to do was turn the handle and they could stroll right in—no muss, no fuss.
But where was the fun in that?
Instead, the two of them burst into the room like a couple of class 5 hurricanes. They immediately spotted Bruno Torenzi lying buck naked above the covers.
“Don’t move, motherfucker!” barked Viktor, taking advantage of one of the design features of New York’s better hotels: thick walls.
Torenzi’s confusion lasted only a second. He eyed Anastasia standing at the end of the bed. She confirmed what he already knew. It was a setup; she was the bait and he was today’s sucker.
Sure enough, she started to put her dress back on. “Duffel bag,” she announced. “Jackpot.”
Dmitry’s eyes moved off Torenzi and he walked over to the black duffel bag on the table in the corner. His smile grew as wide as Red Square at the sight of the cash inside.
Then the smile disappeared. It was gone. Totally gone.
“What the hell is this?”
Chapter 26
DMITRY REACHED DOWN into the duffel bag. He removed a gray rectangular block of C-4 explosive. A detonator wire was hanging from one end like a mouse’s tail. Next he pulled out an absolute beast of a handgun, the Model 500 Smith & Wesson Magnum. A box of .50-caliber cartridges followed.
This was one serious duffel bag.
Dmitry’s eyes narrowed to a suspicious squint as he looked back over at Torenzi. It was as if he’d just seen the second image in one of those optical illusion drawings.
This guy was naked, with the shiny barrels of two guns aimed directly at him. But he was completely calm and under control. Not a trace of fear.
Who is this guy? Is he connected? And why is it suddenly fucking hot in this room?
Dmitry pulled at the baby-blue silk shirt now sticking to his chest. “Do you work for somebody?” he asked.
Torenzi stared straight back, taking his time to answer. “Not your business.”
Dmitry jerked his head at the duffel bag. “What are you doing with this stuff?”
“Not your business.”
“I’m making it my business!” he snapped. “I say again, what are you doing with this stuff? You better talk to me.”
Torenzi continued to stare at Dmitry, only now he was silent. Then he actually smiled and scratched his balls.
Suddenly Viktor lunged forward, jamming the barrel of his Yarygin into the john’s cheek.
“YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY? SOME KIND OF JOKE? MY BROTHER ASKED YOU A QUESTION!” he yelled.
But Torenzi didn’t even look at Viktor. His eyes remained focused on Dmitry, over by the table. There was something else in the duffel bag—a box the Russian hadn’t discovered yet.
Viktor pulled back the hammer on his Yarygin. “HEY, I’M TALKING TO YOU. YOU DEAF?”
“For Christ’s sake, answer him!” chimed in Anastasia. She was practically pleading with the Italian. “These guys aren’t fucking around.”
Neither was Bruno Torenzi.
Faster than Viktor’s trigger finger, Torenzi swung his hand and knocked away the barrel of the Yarygin pressed against his face. With his other hand he reached underneath the goose-down pillow behind him. He pulled out a Bersa Thunder .380 pistol.
The other box in the duffel bag was the extra ammo for it. Not that it was needed right now.
Bruno Torenzi’s first shot caught Dmitry Belova high inthe chest. The second split his forehead between the eyes. Only
And all it had taken was an ad in the back of
212 Magazine
promising the highest-quality escort for the discerning gentleman. “From Russia with Love” read the headline.
It was good enough to entice somewhere around twelve men to date—not that Viktor and Dmitry were keeping track. They were too busy counting the laptops, gold Rolexes, Kiton suits, and cold hard cash.
The brothers traded quick nods. Everything was good. Anastasia had placed the swath of tape over the lock chamber, same as always. All they had to do was turn the handle and they could stroll right in—no muss, no fuss.
But where was the fun in that?
Instead, the two of them burst into the room like a couple of class 5 hurricanes. They immediately spotted Bruno Torenzi lying buck naked above the covers.
“Don’t move, motherfucker!” barked Viktor, taking advantage of one of the design features of New York’s better hotels: thick walls.
Torenzi’s confusion lasted only a second. He eyed Anastasia standing at the end of the bed. She confirmed what he already knew. It was a setup; she was the bait and he was today’s sucker.
Sure enough, she started to put her dress back on. “Duffel bag,” she announced. “Jackpot.”
Dmitry’s eyes moved off Torenzi and he walked over to the black duffel bag on the table in the corner. His smile grew as wide as Red Square at the sight of the cash inside.
Then the smile disappeared. It was gone. Totally gone.
“What the hell is this?”
Chapter 26
DMITRY REACHED DOWN into the duffel bag. He removed a gray rectangular block of C-4 explosive. A detonator wire was hanging from one end like a mouse’s tail. Next he pulled out an absolute beast of a handgun, the Model 500 Smith & Wesson Magnum. A box of .50-caliber cartridges followed.
This was one serious duffel bag.
Dmitry’s eyes narrowed to a suspicious squint as he looked back over at Torenzi. It was as if he’d just seen the second image in one of those optical illusion drawings.
This guy was naked, with the shiny barrels of two guns aimed directly at him. But he was completely calm and under control. Not a trace of fear.
Who is this guy? Is he connected? And why is it suddenly fucking hot in this room?
Dmitry pulled at the baby-blue silk shirt now sticking to his chest. “Do you work for somebody?” he asked.
Torenzi stared straight back, taking his time to answer. “Not your business.”
Dmitry jerked his head at the duffel bag. “What are you doing with this stuff?”
“Not your business.”
“I’m making it my business!” he snapped. “I say again, what are you doing with this stuff? You better talk to me.”
Torenzi continued to stare at Dmitry, only now he was silent. Then he actually smiled and scratched his balls.
Suddenly Viktor lunged forward, jamming the barrel of his Yarygin into the john’s cheek.
“YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY? SOME KIND OF JOKE? MY BROTHER ASKED YOU A QUESTION!” he yelled.
But Torenzi didn’t even look at Viktor. His eyes remained focused on Dmitry, over by the table. There was something else in the duffel bag—a box the Russian hadn’t discovered yet.
Viktor pulled back the hammer on his Yarygin. “HEY, I’M TALKING TO YOU. YOU DEAF?”
“For Christ’s sake, answer him!” chimed in Anastasia. She was practically pleading with the Italian. “These guys aren’t fucking around.”
Neither was Bruno Torenzi.
Faster than Viktor’s trigger finger, Torenzi swung his hand and knocked away the barrel of the Yarygin pressed against his face. With his other hand he reached underneath the goose-down pillow behind him. He pulled out a Bersa Thunder .380 pistol.
The other box in the duffel bag was the extra ammo for it. Not that it was needed right now.
Bruno Torenzi’s first shot caught Dmitry Belova high inthe chest. The second split his forehead between the eyes. Only
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