The Paris Betrayal James Hannibal (free ereaders TXT) 📖

to shove the electric prongs into his chest. “Someone wants to talk to you. Alive. I’m not sure you’ll make it.”

Feeling was coming back—a million stabbing needles—but not enough to give him control. Ben took a swing with his left and connected with the baton. It flew across the room. He grabbed his opponent’s leather jacket and jerked him close, head-butting the bridge of his nose, then shoved him away. Hagen fell against the doorframe, bleeding.

Ben tried to transfer his gun to his good hand, but fumbled the exchange. The Glock bounced on the carpet. Hagen bull-rushed him.

They hit the floor next to the bed with Hagen’s head caught under Ben’s left arm. He tried to cinch the choke, but Hagen wriggled free and straddled him, raining punches. With only one and a half arms, Ben mounted a feeble defense. He caught a left across the chin and let out a pained grunt.

Every spy stashes weapons and other key items around the house in hidden compartments known as slicks, because you never know when a crazy Dutchman might sneak in and try to kill you. And because, when you’re bored on a weekend or locked down for months during a pandemic, what else are you going to do?

Ben bucked and rolled, inching backward on his shoulder blades toward the midpoint of his bed frame, and sacrificed his defense to reach under the mattress for salvation. He found a KA-BAR knife secured in the stuffing, yanked it free, and stabbed at Hagen’s side.

The knife sank into yielding but impenetrable material. Body armor, probably the same vest that saved Hagen in Rome. Hagen grinned, blood staining his teeth from a split lip. “Sorry, friend.”

They fought for control. In the flurry of movement, Ben slashed his opponent’s shoulder. Hagen let out a cry and pulled back—enough for Ben to push him off. He slashed back and forth, making space to gather his legs and press up to his feet. Hagen might want to take him alive, but Ben had no obligation to reciprocate the effort.

Apparently Hagen hadn’t committed to the idea either. He drew a SIG and aimed.

Ben sliced his forearm with the blade and the gun fell. He kicked it under the bed. “Who sent you? Who do you work for? Jupiter?”

“What do you know of Jupiter?”

“Not enough, it seems.” Ben had backed Hagen past a standing mirror. He punched the glass, shattering it, and ripped a strip of duct tape with three scalpels off the backing. “Who is he?” He threw the first, burying it deep into Hagen’s thigh. The second one landed next to it.

Hagen let out an angry growl. “He’s someone who’ll be disappointed when I hand him your head instead of walking you through the door. But he’ll have to get over it.”

“And the shooter? It couldn’t have been you.” Ben threatened him with the third scalpel. “How did he know where I’d go?”

Hagen charged.

Ben chucked the last scalpel, and Hagen raised a hand to defend himself. The blade went straight through. He howled.

The Glock lay across the room. Ben took advantage of the pain distracting Hagen and clutched the round hilt of his KA-BAR like a bare-knuckle boxer gripping a roll of quarters. He dodged a wild punch and landed a left hook, following with a slash at Hagen’s bicep.

The blade cut through the leather and found flesh. Ben gave Hagen a right to the gut, then locked a hand behind his head and tried to pull his neck to the knife. Hagen wedged in an arm, holding back. They turned as they grappled for control. Ben cast a glance at the gun, almost in reach.

Hagen had other plans.

The Dutchman kicked the inside of Ben’s knee, and both stumbled across the small flat into the bathroom, far away from the Glock. The impact of Ben’s lower spine against the porcelain sink robbed him of any control. He dropped the knife. Hagen pushed a bloodied palm heel up under his chin, with the scalpel still sticking through his hand. With a burst of power, he smashed the back of Ben’s head against the cabinet mirror. A pill bottle and a toothbrush fell into the sink amid shards of glass.

A gray fog invaded Ben’s vision, threatening to end the fight. He felt a growing wetness at the crown of his head, and his breath came short and labored.

This guy was strong. How had Giselle bested him so easily in Rome?

“It does not have to be this way, my friend.” Hagen shook his head, as if sorry for him. “I’m supposed to take you quietly. Relax, let me inject you with a sleep agent, and you’ll wake up in our medical facility. Jupiter’s physicians will treat your wounds.”

“Why?” Ben said, wheezing against the pressure on his neck and fighting to keep both of Hagen’s hands busy so he couldn’t go for the promised syringe. “What does he want with me? Information? Torture?”

“I don’t really care. My job is to bring you in alive, but if you’re a vegetable, that’s on you, not me.” Long fingers found Ben’s carotid arteries and squeezed. “There’s a narrow space between coma and death when cutting off the blood flow to the brain. I’m not that precise. Good night, Calix.”

Bleach washes.

Fire purges.

The gray fog closed over his vision, and Ben’s duty to activate the cleaning kit became his final focus. He did not intend to be taken and tortured. With his final ounce of consciousness, he’d destroy the flat, protecting the Company. His kit had two manual switches—one near the front door to be activated during escape, the other in the bathroom as either a backup or a suicide switch. With the last of his fading consciousness, Ben abandoned all resistance, tore the scalpel from Hagen’s hand, and jammed the blade into the bathroom socket.

The fake socket caved in, and the scalpel stuck into the rubber switch behind it.

A series of pops rippled through the walls and ceiling.

Hagen loosened his grip, looking up.

Ben rolled free,