Read Online Ultimate Weapon by Shannon McKenna - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shannon McKenna
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stayed away from Budapest, you wouldn’t be in this position right now. There’s a flight for London that leaves in three hours, with a tight connection back to Seattle. Be on it. I want that uppity bitch fucking Georg’s perverted little brains out within forty-eight hours. If you have to stick pins under the baby’s fingernails to make her do it, that’s your problem.”
Val stared after Hegel’s broad, blocky back as he stumped out of the restaurant. He was unable to move for several minutes.
Finally, he lurched to his feet and left the place. He turned his face up to the sky. Snow brushed his face, caught in his hair. The car was gone, of course. There were no taxis to be seen anywhere. Snow was piling up. Cars were crawling, skidding in the slush.
He tried to think it through on the long, cold walk back to Józsefváros. He and Imre were leaving the country tonight, if he had to club the old man over the head and carry him over his shoulder.
And when they were safe, he just might discreetly contact Tamara Steele and warn her about whoever Hegel might send next. Why not?
It was strange. He had never even physically met the woman, but he had begun to feel almost responsible for her. And her child.
Then his neck began to crawl, as he approached his rented car. His stomach sank. He looked around himself, wishing he’d called a cab.
A mistake. His last mistake. A culmination of an infinite series of mistakes, false moves, errors in judgment that stretched back over generations. To his stupid mother, who should have stayed with the boring pig farmer from the country she’d married after she got pregnant with Val. Who should have been grateful to live a life of hardworking respectability in Romania rather than coming to the big city with nothing but her beauty and her young son, to meet men, drugs, ruin. And her son’s ruin.
That and other irrelevant details flashed through his mind as the flickering shadows converged upon him in the deserted street. He pulled his knife. He should have brought a gun. Another mistake, he thought.
Time to stop thinking. He spun to meet them, staying in constant twirling motion as they came at him. Four men. Five. More.
Lunge, spin, duck, kick. The heel of his boot crunched through the bridge of someone’s nose. Blood spattered the dirty snow. A high parry blocked a blade that slashed through the thick wool of his sleeve. He lunged low, a stabbing blow, blade punching through cloth, piercing flesh, grating on bone. He saw blue eyes widen, stringy blond hair swirl and flap as the man spiraled back, shrieking. Val lost his center of balance as he followed through on the blow, lunging too far forward to jerk back and evade the blackjack that whipped down—
An explosion, all white, all black, and pain blotted out everything.
Chapter
4
V al had been drawing reluctantly nearer to consciousness for a pain-blurred eternity. The bucket of ice water clinched the job.
He gasped, choked. The realization was a hammer blow. He tried a slit-eyed peek, gasped at the searing pain in his head.
There was no need to see. He knew the nightmare smell of the place. Bleach, disinfectant, humidity, mold. Beneath all that, a deathlier smell. Old blood, shit, worse. Novak’s secret torture chamber. Designated for executions, interrogations. No need for luxury here, just privacy, soundproof walls, and a drain in the floor for easy cleanup.
His past had caught up with him altogether. Its fanged jaws clamped down, crunching his bones.
He braced himself against the pain and nausea, and forced himself to look up at the blazing fluorescent lights. Eight men stared down at him. Seven held guns. All were pointed at him.
It had been eleven years since he had seen Daddy Novak. He’d been hideous then. He was a death’s head now: bulging eyes, jaundiced skin, long teeth. An old, pitted skull dipped in yellow wax.
Novak dug an ungentle toe in Val’s kidney. He flinched. Someone had already found the
Val stared after Hegel’s broad, blocky back as he stumped out of the restaurant. He was unable to move for several minutes.
Finally, he lurched to his feet and left the place. He turned his face up to the sky. Snow brushed his face, caught in his hair. The car was gone, of course. There were no taxis to be seen anywhere. Snow was piling up. Cars were crawling, skidding in the slush.
He tried to think it through on the long, cold walk back to Józsefváros. He and Imre were leaving the country tonight, if he had to club the old man over the head and carry him over his shoulder.
And when they were safe, he just might discreetly contact Tamara Steele and warn her about whoever Hegel might send next. Why not?
It was strange. He had never even physically met the woman, but he had begun to feel almost responsible for her. And her child.
Then his neck began to crawl, as he approached his rented car. His stomach sank. He looked around himself, wishing he’d called a cab.
A mistake. His last mistake. A culmination of an infinite series of mistakes, false moves, errors in judgment that stretched back over generations. To his stupid mother, who should have stayed with the boring pig farmer from the country she’d married after she got pregnant with Val. Who should have been grateful to live a life of hardworking respectability in Romania rather than coming to the big city with nothing but her beauty and her young son, to meet men, drugs, ruin. And her son’s ruin.
That and other irrelevant details flashed through his mind as the flickering shadows converged upon him in the deserted street. He pulled his knife. He should have brought a gun. Another mistake, he thought.
Time to stop thinking. He spun to meet them, staying in constant twirling motion as they came at him. Four men. Five. More.
Lunge, spin, duck, kick. The heel of his boot crunched through the bridge of someone’s nose. Blood spattered the dirty snow. A high parry blocked a blade that slashed through the thick wool of his sleeve. He lunged low, a stabbing blow, blade punching through cloth, piercing flesh, grating on bone. He saw blue eyes widen, stringy blond hair swirl and flap as the man spiraled back, shrieking. Val lost his center of balance as he followed through on the blow, lunging too far forward to jerk back and evade the blackjack that whipped down—
An explosion, all white, all black, and pain blotted out everything.
Chapter
4
V al had been drawing reluctantly nearer to consciousness for a pain-blurred eternity. The bucket of ice water clinched the job.
He gasped, choked. The realization was a hammer blow. He tried a slit-eyed peek, gasped at the searing pain in his head.
There was no need to see. He knew the nightmare smell of the place. Bleach, disinfectant, humidity, mold. Beneath all that, a deathlier smell. Old blood, shit, worse. Novak’s secret torture chamber. Designated for executions, interrogations. No need for luxury here, just privacy, soundproof walls, and a drain in the floor for easy cleanup.
His past had caught up with him altogether. Its fanged jaws clamped down, crunching his bones.
He braced himself against the pain and nausea, and forced himself to look up at the blazing fluorescent lights. Eight men stared down at him. Seven held guns. All were pointed at him.
It had been eleven years since he had seen Daddy Novak. He’d been hideous then. He was a death’s head now: bulging eyes, jaundiced skin, long teeth. An old, pitted skull dipped in yellow wax.
Novak dug an ungentle toe in Val’s kidney. He flinched. Someone had already found the
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