Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [18]
Selecting one of the plums, he bit into it and tasted the sweet, tart nectar. The near sensual delight of it reminded him again of the Gypsy whore and the realm of the flesh. It seemed strange to him that one pleasure should be accepted and the other considered sinful, but that only reminded him of how little time he had spent in religious study. It was something he promised to rectify when this matter was concluded, inshallah—if it were the will of Allah.
Continuing at his casual pace, Haddad finished the first plum, flicked the seed into the street, then took the second from the bag and consumed it in three quick bites. He could feel the Turk’s presence now, matching his pace, so he picked up speed, widening the distance between them, then took a right onto an intersecting street.
There was less light here. One of the street lamps was broken, a bit of luck in his favor.
Moving even faster now, Haddad found his own alleyway and stepped inside, pressing his back against the brick wall as he quickly tied a knot in the bottom of the plastic bag.
A moment later the Turk came around the corner, his small form barely visible in the dim light. He stopped short when he saw no sign of his prey, swiveling his head to look up and down the street.
Haddad knew he had only seconds to do what needed to be done.
Stepping forward, he slipped through the shadows and moved in behind the Turk, then brought the knotted grocery bag up and over the smaller man’s head, pulling it taut around his neck.
The Turk gasped as Haddad yanked him backward into the alley. The victim began to scratch at the bag but Haddad held fast. Haddad knew, if the man did not, that it took five seconds of breathing exhaled air to reduce a man’s strength by half. The Turk gave up his attack on the bag and used what strength remained to swing his fists back, hitting and then clutching at Haddad’s shoulders and face, trying desperately to break free. But his blows were weak and as the seconds ticked by the struggling Turk was reduced to long, sucking, guttural breaths. By then, there was no air at all to be had. The plastic of the bag formed an ugly mask that clung to his open mouth and flared nostrils.
It was a death mask. After another moment he slumped to the alley floor—limp, listless.
Dead.
Haddad removed the bag, pressed two fingers against the man’s neck and felt no pulse. But something was wrong, here. The Turk’s skin was surprisingly smooth.
Too smooth.
Moving his hand upward, Haddad felt the jawline. There was no beard and the skin was far too soft.
Feminine.
With growing alarm he reached into the pocket of his own jacket, brought out the penlight he always carried with him. He flicked it on and shone it into the smaller man’s face.
It wasn’t the Turk at all.
In fact, it wasn’t even a man.
To Haddad’s surprise and horror he found himself staring into the glazed, lifeless eyes of the woman he had taken into his bed last night.
The Gypsy whore.
* * *
Ten minutes later, Chilikov said in Bulgarian, “You seem a bit out of sorts. Is it something I should be concerned about?”
“Everything is fine,” Haddad assured him. “Let’s get on with this.”
Haddad spoke in Bulgarian as well—he knew six languages fluently—and had he spoken the truth, he would have admitted to being rattled by the night’s events. The Turk had not been working alone as he had thought. The Gypsy whore had been his accomplice. They had obviously tag-teamed him, and because of the Turk’s smaller stature Haddad had mistaken the woman for him.
It was the kind of mistake he shouldn’t make.
But worse, it also meant the Turk was still out there somewhere. And worse than that, it meant Haddad’s instincts had betrayed him. Whoever these people were, he had allowed himself to be fooled by them. He wondered if he had made any more mistakes.
Had he said anything