It was mentally wrestling with this decision that had distracted him from efficiently grappling with his opponent, leading to his current situation. He pushed the thought from his mind and concentrated. Adjusting his timing, he trapped one of the fists as it came down, tucking his chin and eating several blows from the other hand. Trapping the hand against his body, he was able to entwine his foot behind his opponent’s ankle and then thrust upward and in the opposite direction, causing his opponent’s weight to shift as he regained balance. With the weight off the side where the limbs were locked down tight, he thrusted in that direction with his hips, using momentum to his advantage, and his opponent went sailing over him.
Nate rolled with him and quickly reversed the situation so that he was now on top, but he was still in his opponent’s closed guard with the man’s legs wrapped around his waist. His opponent reached up and clutched him behind the neck with both hands, pulling Nate’s head down to his chest. Nate threw some side punches into the man’s ribs while setting up to break free of the guard and stand back up. He felt the tension in the man’s arms slacken. He was losing his grip. Nate managed to raise his head slightly and knew he would be free in seconds.
His opponent knew it too and so he made a desperate move. He pulled back down with all his might while simultaneously smashing his head into Nate’s face. Nate saw stars as his eyes teared up from the cheap shot, and he felt a trickle of blood from his nostrils. He saw red. Getting his feet under him, he stood up slightly and slammed his opponent back down onto the mat. It stunned the man long enough for Nate to take advantage and escape from his legs. Once free, he started raining hate down on the man’s face.
Nate was pissed. He was pissed that the man had taken such a cheap shot in a training match. He was pissed that he had put years into an effort that those who considered themselves his betters scoffed at. He was pissed that he had spent a decade in service to his country and had nothing to show for it, save sleepless nights and broken relationships. He was flat-out pissed.
So much so that he failed to react when one of the punches caught his opponent on the chin, instantly rendering him unconscious. It registered, but Nate didn’t consciously acknowledge it. Instead, he brought several more fists down on the man’s face before the voices in the background manifested into a pair of strong arms yanking him off his victim. He quickly hopped to his feet ready to lash out at a new opponent and was instantly pinned against the wall.
“Hey, chill out, man! What the fuck has gotten into you?” It was Brock, the owner of the gym. He looked angry, but also somewhat concerned.
The red began to fade, and Nate slowly came out of his fog. He looked down at the mat. The man he had been sparring with was coming to, blood pouring from his nose and a large cut on his temple. He immediately felt guilty. He had never been the type to victimize another person, and the second his opponent went unconscious that was exactly what he had become, a victim. Nate had never lost control like that before. Even during combat, he had always been in control; cool, calm, and collected. He wasn’t sure why the cheap shot had set him off the way it had, but observing his work now, he felt only shame.
“You’ve never gone overboard like that before, man,” Brock said, as if reading his thoughts. “You need to get a grip.”
Nate just nodded.
“First offense. You know I have to ban you from the gym for a week, right?”
He nodded again. “Yeah, I know.” Nate wiped his nose with the back of his hand, blood streaking across the black glove.
“Alright.” Brock released him. “Get your shit together, man.” He turned and left.
Nate walked straight into the locker room and grabbed his bag. He didn’t bother showering or changing. He didn’t want to wait around for his sparring partner to fully regain consciousness. Though he knew he should apologize, he just didn’t have it in him right now. He shook his head, disappointed in himself, and walked out of the gym.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Manama, Bahrain
Aleksandr Novikov looked down at the wilted form of Youssef Metry. He was lying helpless on the floor but was not dead yet. That was fine. At least he wasn’t bleeding onto the wood.That was going to make cleanup considerably easier, he thought as he pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and put them on.
He stepped over Metry, who was breathing erratically and twitching like an overdosed drug addict, and headed to the closet. Novikov pulled out a large canvas bag and unzipped it. Inside was a roll of thick plastic wrap, the kind contractors used when they didn’t want to make a mess painting or plastering. He unrolled a twelve-by-six-foot section and cut off the excess, wiping down the tire iron he had used to subdue his victim and dropping it onto the sheet. Next, he walked over to his quarry and dragged him by his shoulders onto the makeshift tarp.
It was difficult to tell if Metry was conscious. His eyes were half-open, but there wasn’t a lot of life in them. It didn’t matter, as what happened next was inevitable. He picked up the tire iron that he hadtaken from a random vehicle in town, and smacked Metry in the temple for good measure. He didn’t want him to fight back during the next part.
Satisfied that he would receive little resistance, Novikov placed the cross section of the bar against his victim’s windpipe and pressed down with all his might. There was a feeble struggle from Metry, the body’s natural reaction as his windpipe was completely crushed with a sickening crunch. He held it for approximately three minutes, wanting to be thorough. When he was certain Metry was dead, he checked for a pulse to confirm.
Now that the easy part was over, the hard part came next. Novikov turned on the television to create background noise then returned to the bag and withdrew a full painter’s suit, which he donned after removing his suit coat. He pulled plastic booties on over his shoes and put on plastic gloves, then donned the painter’s hood to complete the set. Pulling out a hammer and handsaw from the bag, he began systematically breaking every major joint in the body with the hammer, ensuring separation. When that was done, he started on the larger bones. First the femur and the tibia and fibula of the legs, then the humerus, ulna, and radius of the arms. The pelvis needed to be cracked, the ribs separated, and the spine severed in multiple places.
Satisfied that the body’s rigidity had been compromised, he picked up the small handsaw. Electric would have been preferred, but it was noisy and tended to splatter and create a mess. With a handsaw he could control the rate of cutting and avoid any unwanted spurts of blood and bone that might risk contaminating the suite. It took nearly thirty minutes to remove the arms, legs, and head, and twenty more to chop the torso into a more manageable size. Lastly, he removed all the fingertips and teeth. When he was finished, Novikov wrapped each body part inits own individual plastic and taped it closed. The tools, painter’s suit, and excess plastic went in a separate bundle. Then they were all combined into a tight package, wrapped in yet more plastic.
The size seemed to be just right. He went into the bedroom and rolled out a large hard-shell piece of Samsonite luggage. Opening it and laying it flat, he was able to pick up the macabre package and place it inside. It fit with room to spare. Content with his work, he wrapped the canvas bag in plastic and shoved the remainder of the plastic roll into the case before clamping it shut.
There was now no evidence of the man who used to be Youssef Metry. From this point, Novikov would wait until night before rolling his victim out under the noses of the hotel staff. He would place him in his car and drive to the Amwaj Marina, where he had a yacht chartered. He was confident he wouldn’t run into any checkpoints, having done several dry runs. If he did, it would be an unfortunate circumstance for the police who stopped him, as he had contingencies planned for that. From the marina, he would hop on the yacht, bringing the suitcase with him, and travel far out into the Persian Gulf. At a suitable spot at the proper depth, the case would be sufficiently weighted down and the remnants of the late Mr. Metry would be lost to the sea forever.
If the body were ever found it would be under uncertain circumstances. The teeth and fingers were wrapped separately, and he would scatter them on his way to the drop-off point. If the remains were able to be identified, it would likely be in Iranian waters. Either way, it would never trace back to him. He had called Metry from a burner phone bought by a third party. Additionally, he had confiscated his victim’s phone along with his laptop. There would be no digital trail.
As far as the infrastructure for this job was concerned, that would also be a dead end. Novikov had smuggled himself into the country, and the only documentation he carried was fake. The hotel was bookedunder a false name with a real credit card that led back to a fake company. He had taken every effort to hide his appearance from the cameras not only in and around the hotel, but in the country in general. Even the car he drove was stolen, and the yacht was registered out of Oman, by a third party, under a fake name.
The only point of vulnerability was Metry’s entrance into the hotel. He didn’t have a vehicle so Novikov knew he would have taken a cab, but sincerely doubted the driver would recollect yet another Arab passenger. The hotel security feeds would record Metry, but there was a solution to that as well.
Donning a full disguise, Novikov had followed one of the hotel security staff to a bar where he approached him. While initially reluctant to speak about his work, the guard opened up considerably when the first stack of five thousand euros was placed in front of him. Novikov learned that all security footage was stored locally for seven days, but migrated to the cloud for permanent storage every twenty-four hours. That meant there was time for the security guard to delete the day’s footage before it was saved forever. He paid the security guard fifteen thousand euros total, and promised another fifteen thousand after the job was done. Novikov was confident the guard would come through, though even if he didn’t it would still be nearly impossible to draw any conclusions from the feed, as Novikov was always wearing a disguise outside the suite. While Metry disappearing without a trace was the ideal scenario, as long as no evidence led to Novikov or his employers, that was good enough. And the lack of a body would make an investigation that much more difficult.
That left the last loose end of the security guard. Novikov had already learned his address. Like many of the immigrant working class, he lived in slums compared to the opulent lifestyles of the citizens, the expats, and the rich. There were no cameras in those parts of town, andoften very little police presence. And crime was high. Novikov would confirm that the guard had done his job first thing in the morning, and then he would kill him, robbing the place to give the appearance of a burglary gone wrong. Afterward, he would swiftly leave the country as anonymously as he had entered, leaving no trace of the true intention behind his crime spree.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Boston
