Page 55 of Denied Access
Stan shifted, allowed his suit jacket to drift open. The Walther PPK holstered under his left armpit already had a suppressor screwed onto its modified barrel. The additional length would slow his draw, but in this case, quiet was more important than fast. Herr Volkov was definitely not expecting him, and Stan intended to keep it that way.
“I understand. Please give Herr Volkov my best.”
Hurley nodded, pressed the call button for the elevator, and stepped inside. The trip up to the seventh floor seemed to take an eternity. Each second was another opportunity for the doorman to hedge his bets and ring the KGB officer.
If that happened, Hurley was done.
The elevator shuddered to a halt and the doors slid open.
The landing was empty.
With a thundering heart, Hurley strode down the hallway as quickly as he could move without giving the appearance of running. Last night, when he’d still been high on bloodlust and the adrenaline spike that came with getting the drop on Ivanov, this had seemed like a great idea. Now, in the ominous silence, he had a different take.
This was stupid.
Incredibly stupid.
Hurley clenched and unclenched his shooting hand to get the blood flowing as he checked the numbers stenciled on the apartment doors.
711.
712.
713.
This was it.
Easing the pistol from his holster, Hurley held the weapon with the muzzle pointing downward. Then he took a step backward, and before the rational portion of his mind could regain control, he kicked the door just below the handle.
It swung open.
Hurley allowed his momentum to carry him across the threshold. The PPK was already at eye level, and the extra length added by the cigar-shaped suppressor made the weapon feel even more stable. With ease he tracked the tip to the forehead of the man seated on the couch in the apartment’s small living area.
“Don’t move,” Hurley said. “I’m here to save your life.”
Dmitri Volkov did not look particularly physically imposing. Though he was of an age with Stan, the Russian already had the beginnings of a beer belly. His eyes were bloodshot and his face veined, probably from too much vodka. He looked like a man who had just finished a night of debauchery with a winsome German girl young enough to be his daughter.
He did not move like one.
In a blur that Stan would not have believed had he not witnessed it, the KGB officer reached behind the couch’s cushion.
Volkov was incredibly fast.
Hurley was faster.
The PPK spat a single round, and a tuft of fabric jumped an inch from the Russian’s outstretched fingers.
“The next one’s in your forehead,” Hurley said. “I just want to talk. Give me five minutes. Then I’m gone.”
For a long moment, Hurley wasn’t sure which way this was going to go. Then Volkov slowly moved his hand back into his lap. “I often have people who wish to speak with me. They usually make an appointment with my secretary. She’s quite good.”
“Do you know who I am?” Hurley said as he eased the apartment door closed with one hand while keeping the pistol trained on the Russian with the other.
“Of course.”
“Then you know why I couldn’t call your office.”
Volkov shrugged. “There are ways in which these things are done. Kicking down a man’s door and sticking a pistol in his face is not one of them.”
