from boredom–he never really knew. He did know that Viktor suffered in tremendous agony for the entire time and that felt exquisite .
During those hours–or perhaps days?–Vain tried to think of a suitable way for Viktor Romolov to die. He knew the man couldn’t take much more punishment and he wanted him to die by his hand and not from shock like Piotre had done when he’d gone slightly overboard. A most disappointing outcome, but at least it had provided the information that had brought him here.
Eventually it came to him. Vain went to the motel’s pool and searched the pump room, finally locating the chlorine he needed beneath a large bucket. Next, the assassin went to Viktor’s car and found a half-full bottle of brake fluid and a funnel. Satisfied, he returned to the room and checked the Russian’s pulse to ensure he was still alive. Finding a weak heartbeat and the man still breathing, Vain satisfied himself that the Russian merely slept and had not died. Slapping him awake, he whispered into his ear, “Wake up, little Russian, or you’ll miss out on all the fun.”
First, he ripped the stitches that had held Viktor’s lips together, leaving them bloody and raw. Before the Russian could yell for help, Vain forced the funnel into his mouth and began to pour cup-fulls of chlorine down his throat. The Russian began to gag and vomit, but enough of the powder still got through. Removing the funnel, Vain made to pour the brake fluid down his victim’s throat.
“Why?” Viktor managed to gasp.
The Dark Man paused momentarily before shrugging. “I don’t know,” he murmured casually, emptying the brake fluid into Viktor’s mouth.
At first there appeared to be no reaction. Suddenly Viktor convulsed into spasms and opened his mouth to scream. Instead of sound, however, a great plume of smoke poured forth and his eyes bulged in pain. Intense heat spewed from the dying man before deep crimson froth dribbled out of his mouth. Several minutes passed before Viktor Romolov died. Once finished, the Dark Man calmly collected his things and vanished into the night.
* * * *
The man on the bed sobbed for the first time in many years. The memories returned to him in a torrent and the pain proved almost too much to bear. His strength had always laid in his immunity to emotions; now he knew he had been wrong.
He adored Angelique. Again he pictured the callous way he had wrenched the knife from her dead body and his spirit wailed with grief. His beloved Catherine, who had died in anguish because of his vanity.
After several moments he managed to regain his composure and glare with undisguised malice at the black man who had rekindled his torments so long locked away.
“Martin–” Priest began, but Vain quickly and maliciously cut him short.
“Wrong, black man, there is no Martin here.”
For the first time since the ordeal had begun, Priest looked flustered. “But, you remember now. There’s no point in denying who you are.”
“Your powers aren’t as strong as you think Priest. If they were, you would have known all along that Martin is gone forever. All you have done is remind me of the pain I erased along with his death. All you have done is fuel my rage.”
Suddenly Priest understood what the Dark Man meant, and he cursed himself for a fool. Tobias had been right; they couldn’t save this one. To save a person something good had to remain within them.
At first, Priest had thought Vain simply a shield Martin Roberts hid behind. Now he realized the Dark Man existed as a completely altered personality, almost a separate person who lacked any memory of the man he used to be. Priest had reminded him, however, and the world’s most lethal assassin was now very, very pissed off.
Priest felt no fear for himself. He worried the Dark Man would become so enraged he wouldn’t listen to his appeal. If Vain refused to help them in their quest, all would be lost. Death at the assassin’s hand would
During those hours–or perhaps days?–Vain tried to think of a suitable way for Viktor Romolov to die. He knew the man couldn’t take much more punishment and he wanted him to die by his hand and not from shock like Piotre had done when he’d gone slightly overboard. A most disappointing outcome, but at least it had provided the information that had brought him here.
Eventually it came to him. Vain went to the motel’s pool and searched the pump room, finally locating the chlorine he needed beneath a large bucket. Next, the assassin went to Viktor’s car and found a half-full bottle of brake fluid and a funnel. Satisfied, he returned to the room and checked the Russian’s pulse to ensure he was still alive. Finding a weak heartbeat and the man still breathing, Vain satisfied himself that the Russian merely slept and had not died. Slapping him awake, he whispered into his ear, “Wake up, little Russian, or you’ll miss out on all the fun.”
First, he ripped the stitches that had held Viktor’s lips together, leaving them bloody and raw. Before the Russian could yell for help, Vain forced the funnel into his mouth and began to pour cup-fulls of chlorine down his throat. The Russian began to gag and vomit, but enough of the powder still got through. Removing the funnel, Vain made to pour the brake fluid down his victim’s throat.
“Why?” Viktor managed to gasp.
The Dark Man paused momentarily before shrugging. “I don’t know,” he murmured casually, emptying the brake fluid into Viktor’s mouth.
At first there appeared to be no reaction. Suddenly Viktor convulsed into spasms and opened his mouth to scream. Instead of sound, however, a great plume of smoke poured forth and his eyes bulged in pain. Intense heat spewed from the dying man before deep crimson froth dribbled out of his mouth. Several minutes passed before Viktor Romolov died. Once finished, the Dark Man calmly collected his things and vanished into the night.
* * * *
The man on the bed sobbed for the first time in many years. The memories returned to him in a torrent and the pain proved almost too much to bear. His strength had always laid in his immunity to emotions; now he knew he had been wrong.
He adored Angelique. Again he pictured the callous way he had wrenched the knife from her dead body and his spirit wailed with grief. His beloved Catherine, who had died in anguish because of his vanity.
After several moments he managed to regain his composure and glare with undisguised malice at the black man who had rekindled his torments so long locked away.
“Martin–” Priest began, but Vain quickly and maliciously cut him short.
“Wrong, black man, there is no Martin here.”
For the first time since the ordeal had begun, Priest looked flustered. “But, you remember now. There’s no point in denying who you are.”
“Your powers aren’t as strong as you think Priest. If they were, you would have known all along that Martin is gone forever. All you have done is remind me of the pain I erased along with his death. All you have done is fuel my rage.”
Suddenly Priest understood what the Dark Man meant, and he cursed himself for a fool. Tobias had been right; they couldn’t save this one. To save a person something good had to remain within them.
At first, Priest had thought Vain simply a shield Martin Roberts hid behind. Now he realized the Dark Man existed as a completely altered personality, almost a separate person who lacked any memory of the man he used to be. Priest had reminded him, however, and the world’s most lethal assassin was now very, very pissed off.
Priest felt no fear for himself. He worried the Dark Man would become so enraged he wouldn’t listen to his appeal. If Vain refused to help them in their quest, all would be lost. Death at the assassin’s hand would
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