The Persona Protocol - By Andy McDermott Page 0,77
advanced along the edge of the precipice.
‘Adam’s almost in position,’ Holly Jo told Bianca. ‘He’ll be – uh-oh.’
‘What?’
‘Zykov’s coming!’
She heard the muffled thump of footsteps outside, followed by sharp raps on the bathroom door. ‘Bianca! What are you doing in there?’
‘I’m fine, I’m nearly done,’ she called out, fidgeting in near-panic before forcing herself to calm down. She flushed the lavatory. ‘Just a second . . .’
It took exactly two seconds before he knocked again. ‘Are you coming?’
She took several rapid breaths, trying to recover some facade of composure. ‘Yes, yes.’ Steeling herself, she opened the door.
Zykov was right outside. While he was a long way short of filling the doorway vertically, with his broad shoulders he blocked it widthways. He had a full champagne glass in each hand. ‘I was getting worried,’ he said.
‘It was just . . . you know, foreign food. It takes a little time to adapt.’
He offered her a glass. ‘You will be fine with this, I think!’
‘Thank you.’ She took it. He showed no inclination towards letting her through. ‘So, ah . . .’
He smiled, exposing pointed teeth. ‘What did you think of my bedroom? Nice, hey?’
‘I didn’t get a proper look, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I was in rather a rush to get in here.’
‘So, you prefer the bathroom?’ The smile widened, and he stepped into the room. There was still not enough space for her to get past him.
‘I, ah, wouldn’t say I prefer it,’ she said, desperation behind her own, very tight, smile. He kept advancing. She tried to camouflage her retreat by turning as if to take in her surroundings. ‘But it’s a very nice— Oh!’
Completely unintentionally, she stumbled on her high heels. It was only a small trip, but it was enough to spill some of her champagne. She looked down at the puddle. ‘Oh no, I’m sorry.’
‘No matter.’ Zykov backed her into a corner. He put his own glass down on the counter, then slipped his arms around her waist. ‘So. Here we are. It is time that we—’
Sudden movement behind him – and Adam delivered a single hard chop to the base of his neck.
Zykov staggered, face contorted in pain, then his knees buckled. The American grabbed him under his arms before he fell. ‘Help me get him on the bed,’ he said, voice low.
Bianca was too startled to move. ‘What – what happened? What did you just do to him?’
‘Knife hand strike. Come on, we don’t have long.’ He dragged the woozy Russian towards the door.
‘But – I thought that sort of thing only worked in movies!’
‘You’d be surprised. Hurry up. If he calls for help—’
‘Okay, okay!’ She gingerly took hold of Zykov’s feet and they hauled him into the bedroom. Bianca saw the medical case and a bulky bag on the bed. The exit to the balcony was open.
‘Shut the lounge door,’ said Adam as he dumped Zykov on the mattress. ‘Then work out the Hyperthymexine dose.’
Bianca quickly closed the door, then returned to the bed. ‘How long will you be able to keep him from shouting for his bodyguards?’
Adam produced a silenced gun and pressed the muzzle against the Russian’s forehead. ‘Long enough.’ He thumbed back the hammer with a loud metallic click. Even in his groggy state, Zykov recognised the sound and stiffened in fear.
‘Oh God, oh God . . .’ Flustered, Bianca tried to remember what Albion had taught her. Calculating the dose itself was straightforward enough; the associated theatrics was the hard part. She opened the case. The sight of a penlight torch reminded her of part of the show, but she struggled to recall anything more. ‘Okay. Eyes. Check his eyes.’ She took the torch and performed a quick arm’s-length examination. ‘Yes. Two. They look fine.’
Zykov screwed up his face in response to the bright light. ‘What you doing? What is this?’
‘Shut up,’ Adam said firmly. ‘Make a sound and I’ll kill you.’
The Russian finally focused on his face. ‘You! But—’
‘I said shut up.’ Adam pushed the gun down harder. Zykov fell silent, narrowed eyes burning with anger.
Bianca found a measuring tape in the case and stretched it out beside the prisoner. ‘Okay, sixty-five inches, that’s, ah . . .’
‘Five-five,’ Adam prompted.
‘Five-five, right. Although . . .’ She tugged at one of his shoes, revealing not only a stacked heel but a wedge inside. ‘Jesus, his heels are nearly as high as mine! Okay, more like five-three. So, ah, the dose would be, let me think . . .’