Lee Child - MatchUp

The man on the bed sat up.

Fadiman opened the door. “I’ve got an old friend to see you.”

Demidov shook his head, seeming not to understand the words Fadiman used.

“Hi, Nick. Surely you remember me from London,” Simon said.

Again, Demidov shook his head, this time in what seemed genuine confusion.

“Yes, you and I and your sister had a long talk in London,” Simon continued. “If you want to see her anytime soon, you need to do what I tell you. Do you understand? Do you want to see her? Say it in English so I know we’re communicating.”

There was a flash in Demidov’s eyes. Anger? No, more disgust.

“My sister?” the prisoner asked.

“Damn,” Fadiman said. “That’s what I call fast results.”

The agent suddenly groaned as Simon thrust an arm around his throat, pulled the man’s pistol from beneath his jacket and pushed him into the room. Not knowing if Fadiman had a round in the chamber, Simon racked back the slide. Now, for sure, the weapon was ready to fire.

Fadiman held up his hands. “Are you fucking crazy?”

Standing inside the doorway where he could keep his pistol aimed at both Fadiman and Demidov, Simon ordered the Russian out.

Demidov moved smoothly past him and Simon followed, closing the door, making sure it locked. Through the glass wall he saw Fadiman charge toward the door and yank at the handle.

“Where’s my bitch sister?” Demidov asked angrily.

“Waiting.”

Simon whipped the pistol across his face.

LIZ’S EARLOBE FELT ON FIRE.

Her shoulders and wrists throbbed.

But more than anything, she was filled with rage. Adrenaline pulsing through her, she’d heard Simon talk with someone named Fadiman about Nick Demidov, the man Simon had been asking about at the FBI. The sound of a scuffle was followed by someone groaning.

Rudy and Max listened intently.

From the room’s speaker came Simon’s voice. “Let’s go, asshole. Your sister’s waiting for you.”

Max cheered. “He must’ve decked the FBI agent.”

The transmission crackled, garbling what Simon and Demidov were saying.

“Cell phone must’ve gone out of range. Simon Childs isn’t Rambo,” Rudy said. “But he busted out our Rambo!”

“Yeah, Demidov’s a hotshot,” Max said. “But that’s what it takes to run this outfit. Once he’s back, things’ll get normal again.”

“Drugs and whores,” Rudy whooped.

Max shook his head and laughed. “You’re so lame.”

Now Liz understood. Nick Demidov wasn’t a mere courier. He was the head of their Mafia clan. That’s why they’d gone to so much trouble to kidnap her and force Simon to help them.

Max set his coffee mug down on the security console. “I’m gonna celebrate the boss’s escape by taking a leak.” He hefted himself up and marched across the room toward the door on Liz’s left.

“No prob. I’ve got lots of entertainment here.”

Rudy cocked his head at Liz.

She looked away and made her voice small, frightened. “You’re not going to slam my wrists up and down again, are you?”

“That’s an idea.” Setting the big knife on the floor beside the multigym, Rudy returned to the chest press. “You’re a mess. Even if we let you live, your boyfriend would never marry you now.” He gripped the handles and pushed his arms out and away from his body.

The weights lifted.

Her wrists jolted up.

Tears slid down her cheeks from the pain, but what Rudy didn’t know was that while he’d been torturing her, the mechanism had been pounding her zip-tie cuffs. Earlier, she’d centered the tie. Since then she’d pulled her wrists wide apart to make the plastic taut every time Rudy used the machine.

Her wrists oozed blood.

Again Rudy slammed the chest press.

Clenching her jaw, Liz pulled, stretching the cuff. She thought of the Rambo movie that Rudy had described, Rambo tied to upright bedsprings, electricity making him shudder and writhe with pain and rage, furiously twisting at the rope that held him.

With a snap, the zip-tie broke, freeing her hands.

She lunged for Rudy’s knife on the floor.

Her fingers were numb from lack of circulation. She needed both hands to grab the knife and keep from dropping it. Furious, she spun upward, slashing the blade across Rudy’s throat. A deep cartilage split.

Blood spurted over her.

She stepped back. Fuck you.

Rudy fell off the Nautilus machine. She quickly knelt, preparing to turn him and retrieve the .40 S&W from his shoulder holster.

Somewhere in the distance, a toilet flushed.

Liz’s numb right hand pulled Rudy onto his side. Her fingers seemed not to belong to her as she tugged at the pistol in his holster.

The pistol didn’t move.

“Rudy, is something wrong?” Max said.

She pulled harder with her senseless fingers, but the pistol was snagged on Rudy’s coat.

Heavy footsteps approached on the other side of the door.

No time.

Pressing the knife to her side to keep from dropping it, she rushed toward the iPhone on the desk and swept it into the pocket of her jogging jacket.

As if the dogs of hell were on her heels, she dashed up the stairs and through a huge room with an immense stone fireplace and antlered deer heads on the walls. Fumbling, she unbolted the front door and rushed outside. The van in which they’d brought her was still parked in front. But when she reached it, she saw that the keys weren’t in the ignition switch.

A thick mountain mist drifted around her.

Chilled, she raced into it.

“LET’S GO, ASSHOLE,” SIMON SAID. “Your sister’s waiting for you.”

Demidov clutched the gash in his cheek, as blood dripped past his fingers.

Simon tore a sheet of paper from a notepad, crumpled it, and shoved it into the pocket that held the nosy cell phone. Whenever he moved, the crumpled paper would scrape against the phone, sounding like bad reception, making it difficult for anyone to hear what he and Demidov said.

“Yeah, I can’t wait,” Demidov rumbled. “Lead me to her.”

He whipped the gun barrel against Demidov’s other cheek. “First we need to have an understanding.”

“Goddamn you.” Demidov lurched back against the wall. “If you didn’t have that gun—”

“But I do.” Simon grabbed the ring of keys that he’d noticed next to the cell phone earlier. “Move.”

Demidov walked ahead, passing the sofa and coffee table, and opened a far door. A black sedan occupied half of a garage. Simon touched the button on the key fob that unlatched the trunk. Seeing the trunk lid rise, Demidov stiffened, whirled, and lunged hard and fast, his shoulder slamming into Simon’s chest, throwing both of them back against a workbench. Simon grabbed Demidov around the neck and shoved the muzzle of the pistol into his ear.

“You know what you have to do,” he told him. “Get in the trunk.”

“Bite my—”

He screwed the muzzle into Demidov’s ear. “Maybe you’d like to bite this. If you get in the damned trunk, I’ll let you talk to your sister.”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “Oh, I definitely want to talk to her.”

“Move slowly,” Simon ordered.

He relaxed his grip around Demidov’s neck and eased the gun away from his ear. Without taking his eyes off Simon, Demidov stepped back, then crawled into the trunk. Simon saw a roll of duct tape on a bench and threw it to him. “Wrap this around your ankles.”

“Why don’t you wrap it around your—”

He picked up a length of pipe and whacked the Russian.