Unallocated Space: A Thriller (Sam Flatt Book 1) (27 page)

S
PACE

I
touched
my bracelet to a pad on the concierge desk. The attendant looked at her computer, disappeared into a room behind the desk, and moments later returned with a manila envelope. I took the envelope, thanked her, and walked away.

Alone in an elevator, I looked at the envelope. No label, no markings of any kind. Not sealed with the adhesive, just the flimsy metal clasp. I bent the prongs up, opened the flap, and upended the envelope. A compact LG phone dropped into my hand. I pressed the power button and the screen lit up with a standard set of Android icons. The MAIL icon had a tiny "1" in a red circle.

The elevator doors whooshed open and I walked down the corridor to my workroom. Nichols sat in his usual spot, reading a paperback. I didn't trust the integrity of the SPACE surveillance system, and from this point forward I would behave as if the enemy was watching. There was a camera in the corner of this room, so I spoke to Nichols like normal, sat down, scribbled a note on a Post-it, and casually dropped it between him and his book as I walked by on my way back out of the room. It said: SAY NOTHING. ACT NORMAL. GO GET MEYER. NOW.

I stood in the little foyer and as he passed, I whispered, "Give her the note. Don't say anything out loud." He gave the tiniest of nods and kept walking. When he was gone, I pulled out the message phone and touched the MAIL icon. The email was short and sweet. It said, STOP INVESTIGATING NOW. Below that single line of text was a picture of Ally, sitting in a chair with duct tape across her mouth, her hands behind the chair. She looked terrified.

A
fter Nichols was gone
, I left the room and walked down the corridor toward the elevators. I had made this walk enough to know that the only surveillance camera on the route was directly outside the elevator. As I approached the elevator area, I checked the camera's orientation to be sure it was aimed as I thought it was. After verifying that, I turned around and walked back in the direction of my workroom until I reached the restrooms, which were about halfway along the route.

The men's room was on the left, the women's on the right. I went left and stepped into the men's. Even if there happened to be some kind of surveillance in the hallway that I was unaware of, there definitely wouldn't be any inside the restroom. How else might they be able to track or watch me? My phone. I thought it was secure, but couldn't take a chance. I popped the back off, and removed the battery.

For damn sure, I didn't trust the new phone they had given me, but if they were tracking it, I didn't want to tip them off, or piss them off, by pulling the battery. I slipped my hand into the pocket that held that phone and, being careful to keep my thumb and index finger over where I thought the front and rear camera lenses would be, pulled it out and looked at it. It looked stock. Being as gentle and quiet as possible, I found the tiny hole for the microphone. It was built into the glass on the front of the phone. After pondering a moment, I slipped the phone back into my pocket; if they were able to use its cameras, they'd see only black. In fact, having the phone in my pocket should provide enough masking for the microphone too, but again, I couldn't take that chance. I walked around the restroom, looking for something I could use.

There. Above the urinal. An automatic deodorizer labeled HEAVENLY SCENT was affixed to the tile wall. I pulled on it, increasing pressure until it came free with the sound of glue tearing free. It had been held in place by a double-sided adhesive strip on the back of the plastic device. Perfect. I worked a fingernail under the end of the strip and got separation from the unit, then pulled the sticky strip off. Again keeping the camera lenses covered, I slid the phone from my pocket and stuck the sticky strip over its microphone. Next I removed the phone's back cover and checked to be sure they hadn't installed any secondary electronics. Like the outside, the interior of the phone looked stock. I dropped it back into my pocket.

Now I positioned myself just inside the restroom's door, and held the door open a couple inches with my foot. I had a good view of the elevator doors, so I waited and watched.

L
AS VEGAS

M
ax Sultanovich

T
he driver pushed
a button on a remote control that was clipped to his visor, and Max saw a garage door sliding open on a house just ahead on the right. The driver turned into the driveway and pulled the car inside the garage, then hit the button again and the garage door closed behind them.

As Max exited the car, he said to the driver,
"Prismotri za devochkoi. Pust' posidit v tihom meste."
You take care of the little girl. Keep her somewhere quiet. The driver nodded and Max walked to the door and into the house.

The American cow named Randle met him in the kitchen, grinning like an idiot. "You must be Max," she said, as if she were about to seat him at a restaurant. On second thought, no restaurant would ever hire this cow because she was ugly enough to kill the appetite. She could not, however, kill the appetite Max had right now. He was frustrated and angry and sick to death of this stinking country and its pathetic people, and these things made this particular appetite bloom.

"Show me the women," he said.

The cow bobbed her head and motioned for him to follow. They went through a short hallway and into a large open room lined with sofas on every wall. Sofas filled with women, nicely dressed, makeup applied, just as he had directed. Perhaps some could be more accurately referred to as girls instead of women. Even better. He walked over to the nearest sofa for a closer look, and worked his way around the room. Every one of the bitches looked scared. He felt his manhood swell in his trousers.

L
AS VEGAS

A
nya Bodrova

A
nya knew
who the old man was. She had seen him on a true-crime program on television and she had even seen him once on Khreshchatyk Street. Whatever she had imagined was coming, this was worse. She sat on the sofa and looked straight ahead while he stood in front of her and sized her up like a side of beef in the Bessarabska Market. She didn't want to look him in the eye, but after he stared and stared, she looked up. His eyes were bright blue, sharp, young looking in an ancient head. A purple vein throbbed above one eye. And his mouth, oh, the mouth. It hung open in a leer, his pale old lips not quite covering the yellow teeth that seemed too small for his mouth, sized like the teeth of a child. A child from hell.

He finally moved on to leer at the girl beside her, Elena. She had been one of the stupid girls who were excited about putting on fancy clothes, thinking they were really going to be models. Elena did not seem so excited anymore. He didn't look at Elena as long as he had ogled her. Anya watched him as he moved around the room, making his way from girl to girl. When he had completed the room, he walked to the woman. Then to Anya's horror, he pointed at her. She was sure the terror covered her face, because the old man smiled with those yellow teeth, then winked at her. She felt tears fill her eyes and spill down her face.

The woman opened her mouth as if she were going to say something, then closed it. She stood for a moment, looking like she was working out a problem. Then she spoke quietly to the old Sultanovich man. At first the old man's face lit up with what looked to Anya like something you would see in the face of a wild animal. After a few moments, however, his face changed to…what was that…disappointment? He shot the hand back out, pointing a desiccated finger at Elena.

This time the woman just nodded with a little smile and did a "come here" gesture to Elena with her finger. Elena started whimpering, shaking her head and saying,
"Nyet, nyet, nyet…"
No, no, no…

Anya felt relieved that Elena was the one chosen, then felt guilty about that relief. She thought back to the day the woman had asked all of them if they had ever had sex, and the horror of the woman sticking her fingers inside the ones who claimed to be virgins, including Anya, feeling around. Elena was not a virgin. Anya was, and she had a feeling that was why the old monster had changed his selection. They were saving her for…something. Tears filled her eyes.

Sultanovich walked to their sofa with more speed than his old body looked capable of. Now his face was fierce. The purple vein had doubled in size and his mouth was drawn back in a tight sneer. Without a word, he reached down and grabbed Elena by the hair on top of her head and yanked her to her feet with such fierceness that Anya was surprised the hair wasn't pulled from Elena's scalp.

Elena yelped. The old man bent down and put his face right up to hers, the tip of his nose touching hers. He said something, more like hissed something, and Elena went silent. He released her hair, then took her by the wrist and pulled her away, following the woman as she led the way down the hallway to where all the bedrooms were located.

S
PACE

O
f all the
times for the cleaning crew to arrive on this floor, they couldn't have chosen more poorly. They lumbered out of the elevator, four guys who looked Hispanic, wheeling mop buckets, vacuum cleaners, and big plastic garbage cans filled with supplies. Talking among themselves in loud Spanish, laughing as they spread out. The bank of elevators was situated on the outer wall of the hotel tower. When leaving the elevator, you could go left, right, or straight ahead. One guy headed left, the direction away from me, and one went straight. The other two took a right and headed my way.

As they drew closer, my spidey sense started tickling. When was the last time I had seen an all-male cleaning crew? These weren't SPACE employees, either. They were dressed in street clothes. Why would a company hire an outside cleaning crew when they had a massive housekeeping staff on the payroll? But if they weren't legit, how the hell had they gotten up here? Dobo needed to tweak some of his security procedures.

The two guys coming toward me were about fifteen feet away now. Left Guy had a large tattoo that wrapped around the side of his neck. Right Guy had something crudely inked on the tops of the fingers of his left hand, just below the knuckles. Their gait was off, too. They were trying to look casual, nonchalant, but they were too wired to pull it off.

The final confirmation came when Right Guy glanced my way. The slight openness of the restroom door had caught his eye and he looked. A microsecond after making eye contact with me, he looked away, pretending he hadn't seen me. Bullshit. When you're walking down a corridor and see someone peeking out a restroom door at you, you don't just pretend it didn't happen. It's a weird enough occurrence that you at least spend a few seconds looking. They weren't here to clean. Whatever the details were, they were here for me. I was getting too close to the bad guys and they intended to negate that risk.

I eased the door shut and backed into the restroom. If they were here to take me out or snatch me, I wouldn't have to wait long. If nothing happened within a couple minutes, they were probably dispatched to keep an eye on me. Both scenarios were unacceptable. I checked my watch and waited four minutes. Nothing. Time to force this thing and get it over with. I left the restroom and looked left, where both guys were pretending to be cleaning in the general vicinity of my workroom. One was vacuuming, while the other wiped at the glass wall that separated the anteroom of my work area from the corridor. I whistled. When they looked my way, I flipped them off with both hands and stepped back into the restroom.

Professionals at this point would call their handler or their client and report the subject acting freaky, get instructions. These weren't professionals. They were street thugs, probably gang-bangers, hired on short notice. That told me the adversary either didn't have a great deal of manpower in Vegas, or that manpower was occupied with something deemed more important than yours truly. No matter. I closed my eyes and let the black fog rise. These assholes were a part of the machine that had my daughter. That was their misfortune. I opened my eyes and backed around the corner, where a couple sinks were built on the outer wall. Beyond them, three urinals. Across from the urinals, two stalls.

The door opened and one of them said, "Hey, cabron! You need to learn some manners, you know?"

I said nothing, just listened. The electric crimson edges of the black fog were thickening, spreading through my soul. Ally flashed on the screen of my mind, just a microsecond or two, a flash of the fastest strobe. My senses were jacked, time slowing. I heard the minute squeak of rubber on tile, one person inhaling, another exhaling a split-second later. Two men. Three steps. They turned the corner abreast of each other, same order as they had been in the corridor earlier. Left Guy on the left. Right Guy on the right. Good. Right guy was the one with the tattooed knuckles, the one who looked dumber than a barrel of hair. He would be useless.

The instant Right Guy cleared the corner, I drove the heel of my hand up and into the base of his nose at a forty-five-degree angle. Heavy emphasis on the up. He was melting to the floor before my hand was fully withdrawn. The only noise was the faint rustling of his clothes. Never knew what hit him. If the piece of shit ever understood the concept of a sharp piece of bone being driven into his brain and turning him off like a light, it would be because somebody in hell explained it to him.

Left Guy would not be so fortunate. He was the smarter one. It showed in his eyes, and it showed in the fact that he was the one who took the real responsibility of watching me when he left the elevator. He was the one who came toward my workroom with his muscle, while the others were sent into corridors in the other directions. As Right Guy's brain-dead corpse was falling to the cold tile floor, Left Guy was reflexively trying to back away. Thank you, asshole. The way you're leaning back, tipping your head back, could not be more perfect.

The opportunity was irresistible; I fist-punched him at about a quarter-strength right in the Adam's apple. The result was exactly as it always is: His hands flew to his throat as he simultaneously tried to breathe and make sense of what happened. His brown eyes bugged out, locked on me as he staggered back against the opposite wall and gasped in panic, fighting the inevitable sensation that convinced him he was suffocating, dying. He would soon wish he was dying. I'd like to say I sympathized with him, but it's against my nature to lie.

I advanced on him as he gasped and slid down the wall. Crouching to match his slide, I said, "Who sent you?"

He kept grasping and rasping, but didn't give me the answer I needed. I looked at him and asked the question again: "Who sent you?"

When he didn't answer, I reached down with my right hand and grabbed his nuts. I applied pressure, maybe a half-strength grip. His eyes flared even wider and his head cocked to the side as the intense combination of pain and nausea and incapacitation hit him. He was on the floor now. I reached into my left pocket and withdrew a lockback knife. Holding the lock to the side while I flipped it with my wrist, the blade whipped out and locked in place. As soon as I felt the snap of the blade locking into place, I stuck it through his jeans, just under the gonads in my right hand. I pressed it in far enough to pierce that tender skin between nuts and asshole and dig ever so slightly into the erector muscle.

"Who. Sent. You?" I said.

His eyes were now the size of half dollars. He said something I couldn't quite make out. I stuck the blade a quarter-inch deeper into his flesh. He made a sound halfway between a groan and a word. Another quarter-inch, and he screamed, "Russians! Russians hired us!"

"Where are these Russians?"

"Don't know, they text us."

"Where's your phone?"

"Pocket, my vest."

I released his nuts but held the tip of the knife where it was while I retrieved his phone. It was one of those with a walkie-talkie function. I said, "You talk to your two buddies on this?" I gestured with my head toward the elevators.

He nodded.

"I'm gonna push the button. You're gonna tell them to come to this restroom. Got it?"

More nodding. I held the phone to his mouth and squeezed the push-to-talk button on the side.

He rattled off the instruction in Spanish and I released the button. I said, "Thank you." Then I rammed the knife in as far as I could. With it fully driven, I ripped upward while staring into his eyes. Then I waited for his friends.