Pox stopped thrashing just as Mason’s lungs began to burn.
Apparently, the Ukrainian hadn’t been drownproofed.
&&&
Chapter Fifty-Three
‘Alpha Leader’ slapped Popov on his chest as they reached the top of the porch stairs.
“Stay here. Guard the back so we don’t get flanked. Radio silence. I don’t want them knowing we’re coming.”
Popov nodded and exchanged a glance with Rudenko on his left as he wrinkled his brow. His teammate’s expression telegraphed that he’d had the same thought.
What an idiot.
Popov suppressed his bubbling laughter. How could he ensure they weren’t flanked by guarding the back? And radio silence? The man spoke like a child playing soldier.
Who calls themselves Alpha leader, anyway?
If they hadn’t been hired to attack a hotel, he’d be worried.
Get in, get out, kidnap a woman. Easiest money we’ll ever make.
He’d bet a hundred dollars the woman was the moron’s ex-wife. Rudenko bet the woman was a cheating girlfriend. Alpha Leader told them a bullshit story about her being some ‘bitter slut’ who had tricked him into jail. He warned them the hotel was full of trained assassins. Popov and the team had laughed for days over the crazy rich man’s fantasies.
Ah well. The crazy man paid well.
Popov slapped Rudenko on the back as his buddy and the others entered the hotel.
Alpha Leader had a key to the back door.
That was a new one. Handy.
Strolling from one end of the porch to the other, Popov spun on his heel and then stopped, squinting into the darkness.
Something moved off the side of the hotel.
What the hell is that?
Over by a palm, it looked as though a very tall man beckoned to him.
Very tall.
Popov lifted his rifle and walked to the stairs. He peered into the night sky, cursing the lack of moon.
So damn dark.
Refocusing on the figure, he walked down the stairs to the grass.
No man could be that tall, but the shape...a head, outstretched arms...
He moved in. What looked like sticks protruded from the tall man’s sleeves, and more poked from the neck of his dress shirt.
Popov chuckled, realizing his mistake. He lowered his rifle and released the breath he’d been holding.
A scarecrow.
He rotated to head back to the hotel.
Look at me. Jumpy outside a tourist hotel—
Movement flashed in his peripheral vision as he turned.
The scarecrow’s right hand beckoned.
Popov spun back around, the smile fading from his lips as he slid his revolver from his holster. He turned his face to the left and right, eyes never leaving the scarecrow.
No breeze kissed his cheeks from any direction.
There was no wind.
Why was the scarecrow’s hand moving?
He took a step toward the scarecrow. Clumps of plants gathered around the figure’s feet. It looked like a garden...
This is crazy.
He stood two feet in front of the raggedy figure, staring up at the tilted hooded head. It smiled down at him with its painted U, black triangle eyes staring.
Popov shook his head.
I shouldn’t have had that beer before we left.
He turned again, the gray image of the stuffed man still burned in his memory. Hay poked from its neck and sleeves, his burlap face and gloved hands. The hand that had moved—had it been holding something?
Something hard struck Popov’s back. It felt as if a gorilla had pounced from a tree above him. A sharp pain exploded in his neck as he hit the ground. He tried to catch himself as he fell, felt his wrist snap against the uneven ground.
Grass in his mouth, he flipped to his back and tried to scramble to his feet. His wrist screamed with pain. His arms felt too weak to push up. Collapsing back, he reached up and felt his throat. His gloved hand slid across his skin, lubricated by something.
He blinked and the scarecrow stood over him, pruning shears in his hand. Popov recognized them now. His mother had a pair back in Kurhan, outside of Odessa. She loved to garden.
Popov reached for his gun but couldn’t be sure his arms had even moved.
“Curiosity and the cat and all that nonsense,” said the scarecrow as it wrestled to remove its head. British accent. The idea of a scarecrow with a British accent almost made Popov laugh. He felt giddy.
The burlap hood pulled away, revealing a red-haired man. The Brit grinned down at him, plucking the hay from his neck and sleeves.
“Now time to see your friends.”
The scarecrow took one step toward the hotel before a shot rang out.
The scarecrow crumpled at Popov’s feet.
“Bugger.”
Popov giggled.
Then everything went black.
&&&
Chapter Fifty-Four
Shee reached the front door of the hotel and jerked open the screen. She wrapped her hand around the silver knob of a large wooden door she’d never seen closed before and turned.
It resisted.
Locked.
Shit.
Hands shaking with urgency, Shee studied the keypad lock above the knob. She thought about the postcard her father had sent her, almost two years earlier. The one with the Loggerhead sea turtle on the front.
Stop by anytime, it said. They key’s enclosed.
But, of course, nothing had been enclosed. It was a postcard.
There had been a strip of color blocks along the bottom, trimming the edge like a flattened rainbow.
That was what she pictured now, eyes squeezed tight.
Orange. Blue. Red. Red. Yellow. Purple.
She could see the boxes, colored in with permanent marker. She’d known then what it was. Her father knew about her synesthesia. He knew the colors of her days and the day that began the week in her mental calendar.
Orange. Thursday is orange and the fourth
