Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [59]
Oh, sure, when Senator Palmer spoke, Lev nodded politely, always took the man's suggestions under serious consideration. But he always did what Sherry wanted, when she wanted it done. That's what made Lev a survivor.
"If you will please be seated, Mr. Cohen."
"I really don't have time..."
Jong Lee took his arm, guided Lev to the suite's living room. Though fresh desert air filled the suite, the curtains were drawn on the balcony. The spacious room was lit by a single lamp. A leather case sat, lid open, in the middle of the glass coffee table. Its interior was filled with neat stacks of thousand dollar bills. Cohen slumped down in a straight backed chair. Behind him the curtains stirred with the breeze.
"It is all there, Mr. Cohen," Jong Lee said, sitting in an armchair on the opposite side of the coffee table. "I insist you count it."
"That's really not necessary, Mr. Lee..."
"Indulge me," Lee said, crossing his legs.
Lev shrugged. "All right, if you insist."
He reached for a stack of bills, but his hand never touched the paper. Instead, a sudden burst of wind tickled his neck — then his mind exploded with black jets of agony as sharp blades plunged into his throat. As a red haze clouded his vision, Lev tried to cry out but no sound could possibly emerge from the ravaged larynx. He tried to raise his hands to clutch at his neck, but the tendons in his shoulders had been pierced or severed, his arms paralyzed. Finally, he tried to stand, but his assassin pressed the three-pronged blades farther downward, until they sunk deeper into his abdomen, to pierce arteries, scrape bones. Finally his lungs were punctured and collapsed like deflated balloons. Mouth open, eyes wide but unseeing, Lev Cohen's world ended.
When she was sure Palmer's man was dead, Yizi yanked the twin sai out of his shoulders, stared at the blood staining the long silver prongs. Standing behind the corpse, the woman's eyes narrowed and she trembled like a cold kitten.
Yizi blinked, snapping out of her short trance. Slowly she lifted her chin. She wiped the bloody sai on the dead man's clothing, slipped them into her belt. Unlike traditional sai, which are not sharpened, the prongs of uneven length, Yizi's weapons had three twelve-inch prongs, each as sharp and the point of a diamond.
"You are calm now?" he asked in Chinese, using the metaphor.
"Yes. Thank you for the opportunity to indulge myself."
Jong nodded once. "From now on you must kill with detached precision, quickly and without hesitation. Then move on to the next target. There will be nothing elegant about this operation. This is not wushu, it is slaughter."
"I understand."
* * *
8:17:48 p.m. PDT
Tiki Room
The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas
Jack's phone buzzed. "Jaycee."
"It's Morris. Heard from our girl in Los Angeles, Little Jamey..."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"Our friend Tony, out at Area 51, he uncovered the traitor. A fellow named Dr. Steven Sable."
"What's the proof?"
Morris chuckled. "Tony picked his pocket, stole the man's cell phone and downloaded its contents. What a bunch of secret agents we are. Pickpockets, gambling cheats, loan sharks, torturers..."
"Enough editorializing, Morris. I need real information." Jack's tone was icy.
"Jamey traced the stored phone numbers," a contrite Morris replied. "Turns out that in the past six months, our distinguished researcher made seventy-three calls to one Hugo Bix. The last call Dr. Sable made today, just before Tony grabbed his phone, was traced to a number at Bix Automotive."
"Have you alerted Tony?"
"We sent him the message. Don't know if he's retrieved