The Rock by Chris Ryan Read Free Book Online

hands flapped wildly in mid-air. His legs kicked back and forth. Gardner stayed firm. The bowl water reddened.
    After a minute, Gill shit his pants.
    Gardner was getting impatient.
    ‘Fucking die,’ he shouted.
    Gill gargled furiously.
    Two minutes and his arms flopped by his side. His legs slowed.
    At the three-minute mark, Gill was dead.
    Gardner hoisted his leg clear from the toilet. Hit the flush button. His foot was drenched with piss and bloodied water, and the air stank of shit and citrus. For a moment he stood numb in the bathroom, staring at the corpse as a torrent of water splashed over the back of his head. By now the stinging pain in Gardner’s ribcage was sounding a high-pitched note that drilled holes in the sides of his skull.
    No time to waste. You’ve got to follow John. He’s got – what? – four minutes’ head start on you? Maybe more. Got to find him.
    Then something caught his eye. Across his right shoulder he noticed the shower cubicle for the first time. The frosted-glass door was closed, but a pink blotch lingered behind, like a cut of stained glass.
    Gardner opened the door. Fought the urge to vomit.
    He’d seen his fair share of dead bodies in his time. The Wren in the cubicle, however, was worse than anything the Taliban or insurgents did to their women. A cavity existed where her face was supposed to be. A gorge of bones, torn lips and eyeballs sunk in the middle. Her neck, chest and arms were branded with purple bruises. Dried blood on her wrists like wax seals. The woman squatted in an inch of her own blood; the plughole blocked with clumps of hair ripped from her scalp.
    Fucking hell, John.
What have you done?
    He had no time to be shocked. Police sirens carried through the open balcony. You need to bug out, and fast.
    Bald must have jumped, he figured. That meant he was out in the streets. Exposed. And what, another voice said, if Bald
hadn’t
survived? They were on the third floor, a good sixty metres off the ground on a steep slope.
    Get downstairs now. If you’re quick, you might be able to trace him.
    He scooped up the Sig, nabbed Gill’s Glock for good measure and tucked it into his jeans, then made a beeline for the emergency exit.
    No time to lose.
    The door opened before he got to it.
    A figure thrust out from the stairwell.

8
     
    2300 hours.
     
    Gardner reckoned the guy was the hotel manager. Well over six foot tall, blue-suited and with carefully managed stubble and rimless glasses, he looked every inch the officious thirtysomething with a corporate pension plan shoved up his arse.
    Then Gardner’s eyes scrolled down from the single-breasted black jacket and clocked the crowbar in his right hand.
    The bar was on a one-way trip to his face.
    His fighting instincts took control as he jerked his left arm up to protect his face. The crowbar connected with prosthetic tissue and, though he had no sensation in the myoelectric limb, Gardner felt a sort of shudder in his elbow on impact.
    Shudder – but no pain. Mr Crowbar’s face lit up like a distress flare at the sight of Gardner remaining upright. No agonized cry. No recoil.
    No second chance. With his fake hand Gardner swept the crowbar aside. He shaped to give the guy a Glasgow Kiss, arched his head back, tensing his neck muscles, tucking his chin into his neck – and flicked his head forward and up. The forehead nearest his hairline presented the thickest bone on his skull and made for a fearsome weapon. He directed it up towards the tip of the guy’s nose, a prime spot to land a knockout blow.
    He heard the
snap
of a branch being wrenched from a tree. The guy’s nose looked as if he’d snorted a spark plug. He stumbled sideways, backwards.
    But Mr Crowbar returned with a vengeance, nailing Gardner with a flat-handed strike to his face. It felt like someone had clipped a couple of jump leads to his cheeks as he stumbled backwards with the force of the punch and crashed into room 36. The door shrieked as it swung