The Prince of Risk A Novel(129)

Washburn dropped his phone and stood, struggling to free his gun. The Asian launched a flying roundhouse that snapped Washburn’s jaw and sent him sprawling. The pistol fell to the floor. Washburn reached for it, but the Asian scooped it up, stepping on Washburn’s wrist and breaking it with an audible snap.



Grillo rose to a knee. He had a glimpse of Tiernan turning and wheeling himself down the hall before a heel struck him flush across the face, slamming his head into the floor. Grillo lay on his back, stunned and hurting. His nose was broken, and he suspected that his sternum was bruised. Worse, his pistol was missing. There came the sound of a scuffle, of furniture being violently rearranged. Then a truncated scream. The Asian dragged Tiernan into the room by a dislocated arm.

“You’re Grillo?” the tall man asked the corporate investigator.

“That’s me.”

“Well done. Or perhaps I should say thank you. Paul Lawrence Tiernan. Pal-an-tir. Clever.”

“I thought you guys were the ones listening in on everyone,” said Grillo.

“We found you, didn’t we? Just a little late.”

“Where’s Mr. Astor?”

“Safe and cooperating with us.”

“I’m not buying that.”

“At this point, I don’t care what you buy.” The tall man addressed Tiernan, who despite his injured arm had pushed himself up against the couch. “The report, please.”

“On the desk,” said Grillo.

“I’d like all the copies.”

“That’s the only hard copy,” said Tiernan. “The original is on my computer.”

“Really. I thought you of all people would know better than to store it in such a vulnerable location, so easy for people like…well, like you and me to find. I’m guessing you store your research somewhere safer, say on a flash drive.”

“Don’t give it to him,” said Washburn.

“And you are?”

“None of your damned business.”

“If you’re not Grillo and you’re not Mr. Tiernan, then I really don’t care who you are.” The tall man looked at the Asian. “Daniel.”

Washburn tried to get to his feet, but the Asian was ungodly fast. A curled fist struck Washburn’s throat, crushing his larynx. The CIA agent dropped to his knees, clutching at his fractured windpipe. The Asian locked his arms around his neck and snapped his spine.



“Okay,” said Tiernan. “You can have it. It’s on the flash on the desk next to my computer. I swear that’s the only copy.”

“Show me.”

“Can you get me my chair…please.”

The Asian retrieved the wheelchair and lifted Tiernan into it. The tall man rolled him to his office. Grillo busied himself with his nose, groaning, making it appear that he was in too much agony to be aware of what was going on around him. There was quite a bit of blood. The Asian lost interest and walked around the apartment.

The tall, pale man returned with Tiernan five minutes later. He held a flash drive in his palm. “I believe we’re done. Of course, there is one other place you have the report.” He tapped his forehead. “I’m afraid I can’t take you with me. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

The tall man left.

The Asian looked at Grillo, who was still recumbent, then picked up a pillow from the couch and approached Tiernan.

“No, man…no,” said Palantir, doing his best to wheel himself backward with his one functioning arm. “Please!”

The Asian put the pillow to Tiernan’s face, buried the pistol in its folds, and fired three times. The muffled gunshots sounded no louder than heavy footsteps.

By then Grillo was up off the floor. All this time he had been marshaling his resources, gathering his strength for one charge. He knew a little about martial arts, too. He’d earned black belts in Brazilian jujitsu and full-contact karate. He’d also spent six months learning Krav Maga with the Israeli Defense Force. The sum of his experience, aided by the vicious blows he’d received, told him that the Asian was a superior fighter. In a prolonged bout, Grillo didn’t stand a chance. It would have to be fast, ugly, and with deadly force.

As the Asian turned, Grillo was on him, landing a frontal kick. His foot struck the intruder’s chest, sending him sprawling over Tiernan’s body and upending the wheelchair. The Asian turned his fall into a back somersault and rose unhurt, hands in a fighting position, eyes seeking advantage.

The pistol lay on the floor between them.

Grillo launched a roundhouse kick to the jaw. He was slow. The Asian saw it coming and dropped to the floor, sweeping his foot and knocking his opponent’s legs out from under him. Grillo hit the floor hard. The Asian lunged for the pistol. Grillo locked his legs around the Asian’s neck and twisted his torso, and then brought his knees together to crush the man’s larynx. The Asian was strong. Inch by inch, he pulled himself toward the pistol. And then he had it. He threw his arm behind him and fired wildly, the shots bracketing Grillo’s head. The third shot struck Grillo’s shoulder. He bucked, trying to create a whiplash to snap the Asian’s neck. The gun dropped from the Asian’s hand and slid across the floor, stopping inches from Grillo. Close, but not close enough. The Asian arched his back and pried Grillo’s legs apart. He was pulling free. Grillo stretched an arm toward the weapon. His fingers brushed the grip. His assailant turned on his side, and Grillo knew he was losing him.