Garin shuffled to where the torch was melting the plastic covering on the floor and awkwardly flipped himself onto his left side. For the next minute he wriggled and squirmed to slide closer to the torch and align his left wrist with the flame. He paused upon drawing to within a few inches of the torch and steeled himself. The only way to free himself was to make one final thrust to within an inch or two of the flame and burn the duct tape from his wrist. No sense hesitating. Pain was unavoidable. Get it over with.
He bit his lower lip and kicked and thrust himself to within centimeters of the flame, but he was misaligned. The acrid smell of the flesh burning his forearm arrived only milliseconds after the searing heat blistered much of the area around the brachialis.
He kept biting his lip as he kicked and swiveled to position the duct-taped wrist next to the flame. The flame caused the polyethylene to bubble and boil, exposing the rayon fabric, which flashed and quickly separated, but not before also burning a gash into the top of Garin’s wrist. His lungs emitted a low, feral growl of agony as he tore his wrist from the arm of the chair and shunted himself away from the flame. He growled once more as he tore the duct tape from his right wrist, then from his torso and each ankle.
Garin stood slowly and conducted an inventory. The skin along the top of his left forearm to his wrist was a gash of scarlet and black, deformed like melted plastic. The Butcher lay dead on top of his chair, next to the metal table. The metal box, needles, razor, and torch were scattered across the plastic, a section of which had been liquefied by the propane torch.
Garin spotted a roll of duct tape still inside the metal toolbox. He tore a strip of cloth from the Butcher’s shirt, wrapped it around the wound. Then, with his right hand, he placed the roll over his left wrist and wound the tape around his forearm from wrist to elbow. The pain produced yet another growl, and his eyes watered. In a perfect world, he would be either loaded with painkillers or—preferably—sedated when the tape was removed.
He picked up the torch and turned it off. Then he walked to the metal door, and even though the Butcher had told him the room was soundproof, he put his ear to it. He heard nothing.
He briefly considered picking up the razor as a weapon but decided it wasn’t worth it. His hands were good enough.
Garin visualized the layout of the house. It was a modest ranch-style affair. From his surveillance, he estimated that it had seven rooms, probably consisting of a standard three bedrooms, bath, kitchen, living room, and dining room. There was an attached garage. He hadn’t seen any signs the house was occupied, but, of course, the curtains had been drawn.
According to the Butcher, the entrance to the room Garin was in was undetectable. He surmised it was hidden behind a wall in the basement.
Garin opened the door slowly. The short passageway immediately outside was illuminated by a single low-wattage light bulb hanging from a low ceiling. There was a metal ladder at the far end leading to a trapdoor. He climbed up a few rungs until he was hunched under the door, paused, and listened. Nothing. He burst upward through the trapdoor onto a concrete floor and spun around in a crouch, prepared to engage the Butcher’s associates.
There was no one to engage. He’d emerged into an empty two-car garage.
The door leading into the house was at his left. He lowered the trapdoor slowly and quietly until it was flush with the concrete garage floor. The Butcher was right. No one would’ve found the torture room, at least not right away.
Garin crossed to the door and listened. He heard nothing. He turned the knob and opened the door slowly. Standing a few feet away at a breakfast nook in the kitchen was a fit, military-age male about Garin’s size with a look of astonishment on his face. Clearly, he’d been expecting the Butcher, not Garin.
Garin closed the space between the two in a blur and jammed the three middle fingers of his right hand into the man’s throat. The man dropped to the floor retching, gagging, and reaching behind him for the handgun in a holster at the small of his back. Garin reached it first. The man continued to gag and his face turned from red to purple to blue. His windpipe was crushed.
A second man appeared in the doorway separating the kitchen from a small dining room. Garin shot him in the forehead just above the bridge of his nose. Then Garin did the same to the man gasping for air on the floor.
Garin released the magazine on the weapon and checked the ammunition. He had several rounds left. He reseated it and listened for movement in the house. Nothing. After a few seconds he moved to the dining room, weapon at the ready. He scanned it quickly before moving to the living room and then clearing each of the bedrooms and the bathroom. He then opened the doorway in the hall leading from the dining room to the bedrooms. Stairs led to a dark basement. He flipped the switch at the top of the stairs and waited. He saw and heard nothing. He began a quick cost-benefit analysis of descending the stairs, but the pain in his forearm and ear made him too angry and incautious not to proceed. If any of the Butcher’s associates were down there, he was going to kill them.
Any associates in the basement had a tactical advantage. They could simply train their weapons at the bottom of the stairs, wait for Garin to come down, and open fire.
So Garin sprinted down the stairs, rolled onto the basement floor, and came up on one knee, scanning about a small rec room. No associates. He emitted another growl, having struck the burnt forearm during the fall. He took several deep breaths while he tried to mentally suppress the pain.
Other than Garin and the corpses he’d left, the house was empty. He looked about the basement for anything related to Bor, then went back upstairs and did the same, beginning with the bedrooms, followed by the bathroom, living room, dining room, and kitchen. The house was clear. No evidence, no clues about what Bor was up to. Except…
Garin rifled through the pockets of the dead man in the dining room. No wallet, no identification, not a shred of pocket litter.
The pockets of the dead man in the kitchen also contained no wallet, no identification, nor any other items. Except his right front pocket held one five-by-seven-inch piece of paper with ten lines of handwritten letters and numbers.
Garin studied the paper for several seconds before putting it in his pocket. He couldn’t discern the meaning or import of the lines, but he planned to have Dwyer’s people analyze them.
Assuming it wasn’t too late.
CHAPTER 61
MOSCOW,
AUGUST 17, 7:27 P.M. MSK
Egorshin answered the knock on the door of Tatiana Palinieva’s apartment immediately. It was Sergei Morosov.
“Come in.”
Egorshin led Morosov to the living room, where they sat in opposing chairs.
“Tatiana is at a production meeting. She will be gone for some time,” Egorshin said, rubbing his hands nervously. “Stetchkin is going to kill me. I can feel it. His behavior toward me is incomprehensible. He hates me for no reason.”
“I have spoken to Vasiliev, Piotr.”
“You have? Thank you. Has he spoken to Mikhailov?”
“Yes.” Morosov crossed his legs. “Piotr, what do you know of Tatiana’s past relationships?”
Egorshin looked befuddled. “Why do you ask?”
“I should be more direct. I suspect you have absolutely no idea that a few years ago Tatiana spurned the advances of one Aleksandr Stetchkin?”