Page 117 of Denied Access
The Russian’s testicles.
With a ripping twist, Rapp tried to separate flesh from bone. The assassin’s face contorted as something between a screech and a wail emanated from his lips. Rapp yanked downward on the man’s distended ball sack like he was pulling a lawn mower’s starter cord. Then he fired a vicious hook into Lebedev’s throat. The assassin’s head whiplashed to the right and his mouth opened into a silent O. Rapp slipped a hand up the man’s body, grabbed a handful of hair, and jerked down while scything his elbow up.
The first blow ruptured the assassin’s nose.
The second cratered his temple.
Lebedev went limp.
Releasing the body, Rapp took a deep, shuddering breath.
Then another.
By the third, the world had regained its focus. Grabbing the assassin by the shoulders, Rapp dragged him to the still-open elevator doors and draped him across the threshold. The compartment beyond looked as advertised—small, dark, and dingy. Perhaps half again as big as the elevator itself. Rapp patted down the assassin and removed the Makarov pistol holstered at Lebedev’s waist as well as a cylindrical suppressorthat he screwed onto the muzzle. He looked at the body, considering. He’d never fired the weapon and didn’t know how much the suppressor would attenuate the pistol’s report, but he was probably safe.
Probably wasn’t good enough.
Rapp placed the pistol on the ground, picked up Lebedev’s knife, and slit the Russian’s throat. Then he rolled the assassin into the compartment. After wiping his fingerprints and blood from the knife on the Russian’s pant leg, he tossed the blade after the man. Then he used his knuckle to push the button that had opened the compartment what seemed like a lifetime ago.
The doors slid shut with a tired sigh.
After a prolonged shudder, the elevator began tracking upward.
Rapp removed his coat, draped it over the pistol, and retrieved the bundle from the floor. One of the men who’d killed Greta’s grandparents was dead.
The other awaited.
CHAPTER 69
AREyou okay?”
The questioner’s expertly tailored suit, predatory smile, and perfectly coiffed salt-and-pepper hair all suggested that he was a high-ranking member of the Russian counterintelligence service. But there was one detail that didn’t fit—the purple bruise spreading across the man’s cheek. Had he not known better, Rapp would have thought the speaker had taken a haymaker to the jaw. Still, the time for subtlety was well past. The clock was ticking and he needed answers.
“Are you Colonel Zhikin?” Rapp said.
The man nodded.
Rapp breathed a sigh of relief. He’d arrived at the correct floor. After his elevator ride with Lebedev, perhaps he was due a bit of luck.
“You were supposed to meet me downstairs,” Rapp said.
“I sent someone else. Did he find you?”
“Did you see anyone else get out of the elevator?”
Zhikin’s dazzling smile dimmed. FSK colonels were not accustomed to enduring the rough side of someone’s tongue. “What happened to your face?”
“I tripped. Where is Lieutenant General Petrov?”
Zhikin pointed to the corner office at the end of the hall.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Positive.”
Rapp was not okay, but neither was he dying. The remainder of his elevator ride, while short, had been long enough to perform a quick triage of his injuries. The cuts to his leg and ribs hurt and would need stitches, but they were shallow and non-life-threatening. Lebedev’s headbutt had thankfully missed his nose, but his forehead was hot and swollen to the touch. An injury that, while painful, was not cause for immediate concern.
The same couldn’t be said of his wig.
