Chapter 30
“What the devil is taking so long?” Grafton demanded of Charles who’d come out to give him a situation report.
His men had been inside the building for over an hour and so far…nothing. It was beyond the pale. Unacceptable.
“It’s a large space, sir. Very dark.”
“That’s why you’re wearing night-vision goggles, yeah?”
“There’s loads of nooks and crannies for the two of ’em to hide in,” Charles continued, ignoring Grafton’s jibe. “We gotta go slowly and methodically. The Prince of Shadows is armed.”
“I’d think six men against one would be more than enough to get the job done.” Then again, Grafton had thought three armed bodyguards against one unarmed Angel would be enough too. Look how that had turned out.
“We did find this.” Charles handed Grafton the ribbon bookmark Benton had been brilliant enough to have Lou give to Sonya. Grafton really must see about getting Benton that raise.
“And this.” Charles lifted Sonya’s purse. The top zipper was undone, and Grafton could see his copy of Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms inside.
Usually he was thankful for the sorry turn of events that brought people into his employ, but he’d begun to rue the day Benton had come across that information on Sonya Butler. And he hadn’t begun to rue the day Benton had come across the information on Angel Agassi a.k.a. the Prince of Shadows; he’d been ruing it since about three o’clock that afternoon.
“We found her shoes too.” Charles had to raise his voice above the chorus of night insects.
“But you haven’t found her.” Grafton was unable to keep the impatience from his tone. “Is it possible they’ve escaped? Slipped by you?”
“No. There are only two doors in and outta the place. They’re in there. We just haven’t found ’em. Yet.”
“Well, carry on then.” Grafton shooed Charles back toward the abandoned circus building.
After the man turned on his heel, Richie spoke up from beside him. “You want me to go help, sir? Smack ’em ’round a bit and get their arses in gear?”
Good ol’ Richie. Gangster to the core. Unfortunately, in this case Grafton didn’t need a gangster. He needed exactly what he had, a group of highly trained military men. “No, Richie. I think it’s best you stay with me.”
Richie nodded, then asked curiously, “Why do you think they chose this spot? So far off the beaten path?”
“I suppose Angel assumed I’d have Benton keep an eye on the train stations, airports, and rental car agencies, not to mention the border crossings. Probably thought to lay low for a bit, maybe wait for someone to come to their rescue. Plus, this is as good a place as any to hide from the local authorities.”
In the hours since the bloodbath and fire at the Graffiti Café, the Chisinau police had been scouring the city in search of the blond woman and the tall, black-haired gent a couple of bystanders had managed to catch on cell-phone video. The manhunt was all over the airwaves.
“That smell is getting worse.” Richie waved a hand in front of his face.
Wherever the carcass was, its decomposition had hastened. The sickly sweet aroma of rot was stronger now.
“‘The dead body of an enemy always smells sweet,’” Grafton said, thinking…hoping…that his men would soon be planting Angel and Sonya’s carcasses in a deep, dark hole somewhere in the surrounding woods.
“More Oppenheimer?”
“Vespasian. A Roman emperor.”
“Ah.” Richie nodded. “Et tu, Brute?”
Grafton chuckled. “Something like that.”
“You know, I’ve always thought you were a bit like a Roman emperor.”
“Me?” Grafton turned to Richie. “How so?”
“You’re powerful and ruthless, and you’re always looking to expand your empire.”
