Full Black - Brad Thor [114]
Moving the corpse out of the way, he removed one of the cans of gasoline and shut the lid of the trunk. Walking around the edge of the clearing, he played his light over the ground. There were empty beer cans and wine bottles, but that wasn’t what Ralston was hoping to find. Then, several feet away, he saw it.
Returning to Yatsko, he dropped the tire on the ground next to him and opened the gas can. “I wish I could tell you that I was a patient guy, Yaroslav, but I’m not.”
The mobster looked at him, trying to figure out what he was doing.
“I’ll bet you’ve done a lot of bad things in your time, haven’t you?”
Yatsko didn’t reply.
“Have you ever necklaced anybody?”
Ralston waited for the man to respond, but he remained quiet.
“It’s a terrible way to die,” he said, standing the tire up on its side and filling it with gasoline. He then rolled it forward several feet and back again in order to evenly coat the inside.
Yatsko looked away.
“Legend has it that it began in Africa, but there are some who say it started in Haiti. The Brazilians also lay claim to it—they call it microondas—a play on the word microwave. Apparently, it gets pretty hot. But not so hot that you die right away. They say it can take up to twenty minutes.”
“Go to hell,” said Yatsko.
“I’ll let you go first and do some reconnaissance for me,” replied Ralston as he lifted the tire.
The Russian squirmed and tried to avoid being ringed, but sitting on his ass with two broken knees in front of him and his arms lashed behind his back, there wasn’t much he could do.
The pungent odor of the gasoline filled his nostrils as his captor forced the tire down over his shoulders.
“You sent a team to kill my friend, Yaroslav. Now we’re alone in the desert. No one’s coming to rescue you. This is going to end very badly. It’s up to you.”
“I told you to go to hell,” he repeated.
Fucking Russians, Ralston thought to himself. “It’s certainly not the way I’d want to go,” he said, producing a book of matches he’d found back at Yatsko’s house. Removing one from the pack, he struck it and leaned forward.
Yatsko turned to face the match and with a puff, blew it out.
Ralston grinned. “You’re a funny guy. Last chance,” he said as he struck another match and used it to light the entire pack on fire.
He held the flaming pack just above the tire. The Russian could huff and puff all he wanted, but he wouldn’t be able to blow them all out. What’s more, they were soon going to be too hot to hold on to and Ralston would drop them right onto the gasoline-soaked tire.
The former FSB agent seemed to realize he had no choice. “His name is Ashford,” he offered suddenly. “Robert Ashford. He’s a British Intelligence officer for MI5.”
“MI5?”
“Yes.”
It didn’t make any sense. Ralston figured the Russian was making it up to save his own skin. He wanted to make sure the man was telling the truth.
He dropped the flaming matchbook into the sand and crushed out the flames with his shoe. “Who were you hired to kill?”
Yatsko looked right at him and without hesitating said, “Larry Salomon, the movie producer, and two other men he was working with.”
“Why were you hired?”
“They don’t tell me and I don’t ask.”
“How many men did you send?”
“Four,” said the Russian. “One of my men was the driver. He was supposed to wait outside. Three others were brought in from Russia to do the job.”
“Brought in by you.”
“Yes. Brought in by me.”
“And you were hired by someone named Robert Ashford who works for MI5?” said Ralston.
“That’s what I told you.”
“Why would MI5 want to kill Larry Salomon and a couple of documentary filmmakers?”
“I told you, they don’t tell me and I don’t ask.”
Ralston found the man awfully flip for someone who still might very well get roasted alive. “You didn’t think the job was a little strange?”
“You could never do what I do,” stated the Russian.
Ralston looked at him.
“You ask too many questions.”
Yatsko was really pissing him off. “I believe that you sent that team to Salomon’s house,” said Ralston. “But I don’t believe this has anything to do with MI5.”
“I can