Merrick's Eleventh Hour

The smell of vomit and diarrhea was caustic. It had turned the small apartment into a war zone. Cyrus Krizova leaned back in the wheelchair and studied his old comrade on the narrow bed. The SIG in his lap, he said, “You look like hell, Briggs. Rough week?”

“The worst of my life.”

Cyrus’s dark eyes shifted to the lower half of the bed where Peter’s legs should have been. “I doubt that. I imagine you’ve had plenty of dark days.”

Peter rubbed his eyes, rheumy from lack of sleep. “You haven’t left Greece in years. What brings you to Washington?”

“Merrick has uncovered our little secret.”

“That’s impossible. There’s no data to prove it. I’ve been careful.”

“That’s good to hear. But he’s looking for that nonexistent data. I suppose I’m going to have to take credit for that. Still, I believe I only confirmed what he suspected. Onyxx has been looking for a mole inside the Agency for some time.”

“You told him it’s me?”

“He’s been leaving you out of the loop for months. That’s why you weren’t able to warn me when he arrived in Greece and stole my prisoners from Vouno weeks ago. Not to mention his untimely arrival at Lesvago days later.”

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“My point. You’ve been isolated. Merrick’s unscheduled raid cost me billions, as well as my daughter. Melita has defected to the enemy’s camp.”

Beads of perspiration popped out on Peter’s forehead. “I had no idea Merrick had left Washington until he’d returned. If you need someone to blame, blame that bastard Sully Paxton. You should have killed him a long time ago.”

“What I should have done is irrelevant now. You really don’t understand this little parody you’ve been living this past week, do you?”

“I contracted the flu. I—”

“The flu is it?” Cyrus smiled. “The infection running through your body is no flu strain. It’s a manufactured virus. Think, Briggs. Where were you the night you took ill?”

“I was at Chadwick’s. Merrick took me to dinner.”

“Go to dinner with him often?”

“No.”

“You’re a fool, Briggs.” Cyrus sighed. “And Chadwick’s of all places. Where Ames sold out the CIA and gave up the names of twenty agents to the Russians. Where moles and traitors hand off government secrets and stab their comrades in the back.”

The look on Peter’s face was priceless. “Merrick poisoned me at Chadwick’s?”

“Must I remind you that, before Onyxx, Merrick was a class-A government assassin? His bag of tricks far exceeds a simple bullet between the eyes. As much as it pains me to admit, Icis is still the best in the business. I would have died at Lesvago if I hadn’t been wearing a bulletproof vest.”

“I’m going to die?”

“If he wanted you dead, you would be. No, Merrick believes you’ll join him in the hunt for me to save your own skin once he’s found proof you’ve been filching information.”

“He won’t find anything, and I’d never give you up. Haven’t I proven my loyalty?”

“Loyalty that served your own revenge. You begged Merrick for your life in Prague and he gave it to you. Had he chosen to save me instead, I would never have betrayed him.”

“Why do you care why I agreed to be your mole? My reasons still served your purpose.”

“Treason is a tricky business.” Cyrus stood and checked the SIG’s ammunition clip. The weapon showed a full eight rounds.

“What are you doing?”

“I considered making this look like a suicide. A man chained to a wheelchair must have contemplated it over the years, but you know how much I enjoy tormenting Merrick.”

“I can still be of use to you.”

“Come now, Briggs, you had to know your days were numbered.”

“Not like this, Cyrus. At least let me get dressed and give me my chair. Let me die with some dignity.”

“A traitor has no dignity. Good-bye, Briggs.”

Cyrus raised the SIG and fired. The first two bullets plowed through Peter’s skull, out the back of his head and into the wall. The third went into his heart and stayed there.

Traitor, mole, comrade…None of it mattered now. Peter Briggs was dead before his head hit the pillow.

Hours later, Cyrus Krizova, aka the Chameleon, boarded a plane back to Greece. Like a soldier heading home from the war, a little victory celebration was definitely in order.

Da, the spoils of war.

For two decades Adolf Merrick had coveted the dream.

Johanna’s image came first. Long raven-black hair surrounding a delicate oval face. Perfectly arched eyebrows framing hazel-green eyes. The body of a temptress that moved with the regal grace of a cat.

Merrick flattened out his hand and stroked the white satin sheet, remembering the way she liked to curl up next to him. The exotic scent of Medallion roses had steeped the air, their peach petals exploiting the memories. The crackle and pop of wood burning slow and luminous in the brick fireplace fueling another timeless image.

Eyes closed, drunk on recall, he beckoned for her to come to him. And like a whisper riding a gentle breeze, Johanna came for a visit.

The bed moved against her fragile weight. Her moist breath teasing his neck, she whispered, However you want me, I’m here.

Merrick moaned deep into the vortex of the dream—a dream he would live in 24/7 if that were possible. He arched his hips in silent solicitation. Rewarded with a naked thigh sliding over his hips.

Then she leaned forward and kissed him.

The kiss of life.

The kiss of death.

Stay focused.

Don’t wake up.

However you want me, I’m here.

He wanted her hot and mind-blowing. He wanted her all night. Every night. He wanted time to stand still. No, he wanted to rewind time and go back to the beginning.