indicated that he was still alive. Dalton touched the end of the plastic handle, held it for a time, feeling the pulse of the man’s brain in the handle.
“Mi a neved?” said Veronika. “I ask him what his name is.”
The bloody mouth opened.
“Kurva. Tisztatalan.”
“He says I am whore. And unclean. I think he is Muslim.”
Dalton picked up one end of the electric cord, handed it to Veronika.
“Plug it in.”
Veronika, realizing what Dalton was proposing, shook her head, her eyes widening. Dalton got up and did it for her. After a few moments, a wisp of smoke began to curl up around the handle of the rod protruding from the man’s bloody eye socket.
The smoke was acrid and reeked of scorching flesh, burning brains, human fat cooking off. His chest began to shudder, and his mouth opened in a rictus of pain, but no sound came out other than a dry croak. Dalton leaned down and spoke into the man’s ear, words that Veronika could not hear, a silky whisper. The man began to shake uncontrollably. Dalton sat back on his heels and watched the man for a time, his face set and cold.
“What’s your name?” he barked at the man. “Tell me, and it stops.”
The man found his voice.
“Yusef. Akhmediar, Yusef.”
Dalton looked at Veronika, pointed to the cable. Veronika unplugged it, her face paper white, her expression full of horror.
“Who sent you?”
Yusef shook his head, his jaw tightening.
Dalton reached for the plug again. Yusef must have sensed the motion because he tried to speak.
“Ut . . . a . . . zók. Uta . . . zók.”
“What is he saying?”
“I don’t know. The Wanderer? The Traveler? The Tramp?”
Yusef’s chest shuddered twice, and then he stopped breathing. Dalton reached out and touched the handle. The man was dead.
Dalton stood up, his legs shaking a little. A row of bullet wounds that looked like cigarette burns rode up the left side of his chest. He had a surgical scar on the lower part of his abdomen, about sixteen inches long, and still a little red-looking. Veronika looked at Dalton, taking him in. He was, in a way, terrible to look at, just as he had said, his flesh was like a cave pictograph telling of ancient battles.
“You said something I couldn’t hear. And then he starts to talk. What did you say?”
“I said that that he was Muslim, that he was dying, and that if he did not speak I’d soak his corpse in pig’s blood and bury him with a dead dog to keep him company. It would mean he’d be defiled and could not enter Paradise.”
“God. Such people, the Muslims. Are you all right?”
“There were two. That’s why I couldn’t help you.”
“I know. I could hear.”
He didn’t say what was in growing his mind, that the point of the attack was to kill her . Yusef had waited until the bigger man, the fighter, had drawn Dalton out of the bedroom. The fighter had held back, even when Dalton was dazed and vulnerable. It was a fight Dalton could easily have lost. The man was good, maybe better than Dalton. But he suspected that Veronika was the real target.
“Where is the other one? Is he dead?”
“No. He jumped. From your balcony.”
“I’m on the fifth floor. Maybe he died.”
Dalton doubted it. Fighting him had been like getting caught in a printing press. The guy was six feet at least, much heavier than Dalton, and one hell of a lot stronger. Frighteningly fit. At the end of the fight, Smoke hadn’t even been breathing hard.
Broad and squat, but he moved like a duelist, on the balls of his feet. Stunningly quick. As elusive as smoke and water. And tough as a steel-toed boot. Dalton might as well have been punching an engine block.
Smoke.
A pit fighter, perhaps, but very well trained. Special Forces training? His style was mixed, some Thai, some Spetsnaz handiwork, and a few Delta Force tricks that Dalton had almost forgotten.
And that face.
That ruined face, literally featureless, two slit eyes and an ugly stump of a nose, bald, blue-veined
“Mi a neved?” said Veronika. “I ask him what his name is.”
The bloody mouth opened.
“Kurva. Tisztatalan.”
“He says I am whore. And unclean. I think he is Muslim.”
Dalton picked up one end of the electric cord, handed it to Veronika.
“Plug it in.”
Veronika, realizing what Dalton was proposing, shook her head, her eyes widening. Dalton got up and did it for her. After a few moments, a wisp of smoke began to curl up around the handle of the rod protruding from the man’s bloody eye socket.
The smoke was acrid and reeked of scorching flesh, burning brains, human fat cooking off. His chest began to shudder, and his mouth opened in a rictus of pain, but no sound came out other than a dry croak. Dalton leaned down and spoke into the man’s ear, words that Veronika could not hear, a silky whisper. The man began to shake uncontrollably. Dalton sat back on his heels and watched the man for a time, his face set and cold.
“What’s your name?” he barked at the man. “Tell me, and it stops.”
The man found his voice.
“Yusef. Akhmediar, Yusef.”
Dalton looked at Veronika, pointed to the cable. Veronika unplugged it, her face paper white, her expression full of horror.
“Who sent you?”
Yusef shook his head, his jaw tightening.
Dalton reached for the plug again. Yusef must have sensed the motion because he tried to speak.
“Ut . . . a . . . zók. Uta . . . zók.”
“What is he saying?”
“I don’t know. The Wanderer? The Traveler? The Tramp?”
Yusef’s chest shuddered twice, and then he stopped breathing. Dalton reached out and touched the handle. The man was dead.
Dalton stood up, his legs shaking a little. A row of bullet wounds that looked like cigarette burns rode up the left side of his chest. He had a surgical scar on the lower part of his abdomen, about sixteen inches long, and still a little red-looking. Veronika looked at Dalton, taking him in. He was, in a way, terrible to look at, just as he had said, his flesh was like a cave pictograph telling of ancient battles.
“You said something I couldn’t hear. And then he starts to talk. What did you say?”
“I said that that he was Muslim, that he was dying, and that if he did not speak I’d soak his corpse in pig’s blood and bury him with a dead dog to keep him company. It would mean he’d be defiled and could not enter Paradise.”
“God. Such people, the Muslims. Are you all right?”
“There were two. That’s why I couldn’t help you.”
“I know. I could hear.”
He didn’t say what was in growing his mind, that the point of the attack was to kill her . Yusef had waited until the bigger man, the fighter, had drawn Dalton out of the bedroom. The fighter had held back, even when Dalton was dazed and vulnerable. It was a fight Dalton could easily have lost. The man was good, maybe better than Dalton. But he suspected that Veronika was the real target.
“Where is the other one? Is he dead?”
“No. He jumped. From your balcony.”
“I’m on the fifth floor. Maybe he died.”
Dalton doubted it. Fighting him had been like getting caught in a printing press. The guy was six feet at least, much heavier than Dalton, and one hell of a lot stronger. Frighteningly fit. At the end of the fight, Smoke hadn’t even been breathing hard.
Broad and squat, but he moved like a duelist, on the balls of his feet. Stunningly quick. As elusive as smoke and water. And tough as a steel-toed boot. Dalton might as well have been punching an engine block.
Smoke.
A pit fighter, perhaps, but very well trained. Special Forces training? His style was mixed, some Thai, some Spetsnaz handiwork, and a few Delta Force tricks that Dalton had almost forgotten.
And that face.
That ruined face, literally featureless, two slit eyes and an ugly stump of a nose, bald, blue-veined
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