Page 83 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

“IT’S GETTING DARK,” TOM noted.

He turned from the balcony and walked inside, where Serrano was playing a game of solitaire.

Sweat trickled down his back, dampening the back of his beige button-up shirt with epaulettes.

It was untucked to cover the custom Browning Hi-Power holstered behind his hip and the EK knife mounted horizontally on the back of his belt.

Two extra magazines were on his left side, and the Hackman Puukko latch-knife was in his right pocket.

“She’ll be down shortly,” Serrano said.

“And if not?”

“Listen, when chloral hydrate is combined with alcohol it will act quickly. For someone of Dvornikov’s age and size, after a couple sips, I give him ten to twenty minutes. He’ll be out cold.”

“What if he doesn’t have a drink, or she didn’t have time to spike it?”

“Ella made a point of telling us that they had a routine. Drinks in the room are always a part of it. Be patient. Let it play out.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it; you’ve just got to do it.”

Tom went back to the balcony, put his hands on the railing, and looked out over the river still teeming with boat traffic, illuminated by the lights of the city beyond.

Ella stepped from the bathtub and toweled herself dry. She had not heard a sound from the bedroom.

The powder must have worked.

She wrapped the towel around her head in a makeshift turban and slipped into a hotel bathrobe.

Go out and confirm that Gabriel is unconscious. Get dressed and get to the lobby. Then forget this ever happened.

She steadied her shaking hand on the doorknob, her other hand clutching the front of the robe at her chest. She took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out into the main room.

The bright lights of the bathroom contrasted sharply with the dim glow of the bedroom, causing her to squint her eyes.

She expected to see Gabriel lying unresponsive, perhaps the glass of Mekhong next to him.

Instead, he was sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his thighs.

He was wearing the suit pants he had on earlier.

His blue shirt was on but unbuttoned. He was sweating profusely and struggling to breathe. He was not alone.

A man was with him. The same security man who had accompanied him on his last trip.

The imposing figure was dressed in tan slacks and a black polo shirt.

He was holding two glasses up to the light, comparing them.

One was the drink she had poured for Gabriel.

He set them down and shook his head. A leather satchel was over his shoulder, from which he extracted an odd-looking pistol that resembled a derringer.

They knew.

Gabriel forced his head toward her. Even in the dimly lit room she could see the revulsion in his eyes.

“Why?” he asked, his voice weak and raspy.

Ella stood trembling.

“Gabriel,” she said.

“My name is Kirill Dvornikov.”

The tall man looked at his boss, who nodded.

Ella swallowed. Then she dropped her hands to her sides and straightened her shoulders, gazing defiantly into the dead, dark eyes of the tall man.

As he raised the pistol and fired, she had but one peculiar final thought.

She found it odd that the pistol did not make a sound.