The Fifth Profession by David Morrell Read Free Book Online Page A

Though the man tried desperately to aim his pistol, his eyes rolled upward. He toppled.
    The thick carpet had muffled the noise of the falling bodies. Or so Savage prayed. Pulse hammering, he hurried to the right, toward the door to what Joyce Stone had told him was her sister's room. He tested the knob; it was locked. He suspected that the bolt could not be freed from inside but only from
this
side. After picking the lock, he scanned the doorframe with his metal detector but found no sign of an intruder alarm, urgently entered, and shut the door.
    12
    The bedroom was luxurious, but Savage barely noticed its expensive furnishings as he scanned them in search of Rachel Stone. A bedside lamp was on. The bed had been slept in; its rumpled covers had been thrown aside. But the room was deserted.
    Savage checked beneath the bed. He peered behind closed draperies, finding bars on a window, then searched behind a settee and a chair.
    Where the hell
was
she?
    He opened a door, found a bathroom, and turned on the light. The shower door was closed. When he looked inside, the stall was empty.
    Where … ?
    He tried another door. A closet. Dresses. Rachel Stone lunged through the dresses. Scissors glinted. Savage clutched her wrist an instant before she'd have stabbed his left eye.
    “Bastard!”
    Her anger-contorted features suddenly changed to a frown of surprise. Noticing Savage's black camouflage-greased face, she struggled backward.
    “Who—?”
    Savage clamped a hand across her mouth and shook his head. As he yanked the scissors from her grasp, his lips formed silent words.
Don't talk.
He pulled a card from his pocket. The card was sealed in transparent, waterproof plastic.
    She stared at its dark hand-printed message.
    YOUR SISTER SENT ME TO GET YOU OUT OF HERE.
    He turned the card, revealing a further message.
    THIS ROOM MIGHT HAVE HIDDEN MICROPHONES. WE MUSTN'T TALK.
    She studied the card … and him … subdued her suspicion, and finally nodded.
    He showed her another card.
    GET DRESSED. WE'RE LEAVING.
NOW.
    But Rachel Stone didn't move.
    Savage flipped the second card.
    YOUR SISTER TOLD ME TO SHOW YOU THIS.
    TO PROVE SHE SENT ME.
    He held up a wedding ring, its diamond enormous.
    This time when Rachel Stone nodded, she did so with recognition and conviction.
    She grabbed for a dress in the closet.
    But Savage squeezed her arm to stop her. Shaking his head, he pointed toward jeans, a sweater, and jogging shoes.
    She understood. With no hint of embarrassment, she removed her nightgown.
    Savage tried to ignore her nakedness, directing his attention toward the door through which guards might any moment charge.
    Hurry,
he silently pleaded. His pulse hammered faster.
    Glancing again in her direction, he was too preoccupied to dwell on the jeans she tugged up over smooth, sensual thighs and silken bikini panties that revealed her pubic hair.
    No, Savage's attention was directed solely toward two other—the most significant—aspects of her appearance.
    One: Rachel Stone, though ten years younger than her sister, looked like Joyce Stone's twin. Tall, thin, angular. Intense blue eyes. A superb oval face, its magnificent curves framed by spectacular shoulder-length hair. There
was
one difference. Joyce Stone's hair was blond whereas Rachel's was auburn. The difference didn't matter. The resemblance between older and younger sister remained uncanny.
    Two: while Joyce Stone's face was smooth and tanned, Rachel's was swollen and bruised. In addition to repeatedly raping his wife, Papadropolis had beaten her, making sure his fists left marks that couldn't be concealed. Humiliate— that was the tyrant's weapon. Subdue and dominate.
    Not any longer, Savage thought. For the first time, he felt committed not just professionally but morally to this assignment. Rachel Stone might be—probably had been—spoiled by luxury. But nothing gave anyone the right to brutalize her.
    Okay, Papadropolis, Savage thought. I started this for me, to prove