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Page 28.

14. Paris Apartment (4th) Savia and Yolo

"Open up in there," called a man's powerful voice without any humor in it. The door rocked with several fist blows, for good measure.

"It's Yolo, the Nigerian," said Hannah. "That means Yoichi and Savia can't be far."

Rick assessed the situation quickly. Yolo was at the only door, and the two windows in the room overlooked a steep drop down mossy, stained stucco of about three stories into a cobblestone courtyard.

Several more pounding noises shook the door. He must be tapping his automatic against it—the very gun that had killed a man less than ten hours ago.

"Hold on," Hannah said. She wrapped herself in a sheet and strode to the door. "We have no choice," she said over her shoulder. "Yes!" she called. "I am coming."

Rick sat on the edge of the bed, unarmed and helpless. He kept his hands in sight and hoped the man would not start shooting.

Yolo crashed through the entry, shoving Hannah and the door out of his way. He was huge, holding the cannon before him with both massive hands wrapped around the grip. He reached with one hand, took Hannah by the scruff, and hurled her so she went flying toward the bed. She landed in a heap at Rick' feet.

"Don't move," Yolo said in a heavy, mellifluous voice. Nigerians generally spoke a good English that sounded a bit Caribbean. "I want the package you stole from Mr. Wan."

At that moment, the Cuban woman entered, also pointing a black automatic before her. "No tricks!"

Rick raised his hands and shook his head. "No tricks. We are unarmed."

Savia stuck her gun under her jacket, into her belt behind her back where it would not be seen. "I'll go tell Yoichi we've got them." Her English was fluent, with a Hispanic accent.

"We don't got nothing until we got the package," Yolo boomed. "Hurry."

Savia paused, as if to tell him not to give her orders. Her eyes blazed briefly. Then she whirled, went back out into the rickety hallway in the cheap hotel, and disappeared clattering down a flight of steps.

Yolo backed up, and shoved the door shut with one heavy black shoe. He almost grinned. Rick saw that his face was shiny-black and scarred around the chin. "We don't want curious neighbors looking in," Yolo said. "Okay, now, let's get the business done. You want to live today, you hand over the package."

Hannah was still sitting half on her knees, awkwardly, on the floor. She looked at Rick with scared, desperate eyes. She'd mailed the package, so there was no way out of this.

Yolo said, "The deal still stands, per orders of Mr. Wan. You hand over the package, we pay you the 200,000 Euros that Fincoff tried to extort, and you go free. If you don't hand over the package, this is your last hour on this earth, right here in this shabby rat hole."

Rick made a face, pretending to agree. Inwardly, he felt cold terror rising up his spine.

Hannah looked at him with a face distorted with fear.

Rick nodded. "It's in the trash can."

"Where?" Yolo demanded, pivoting powerfully while swinging the gun this way and that.

"Kitchen," Rick said. "In the garbage."

Yolo made a face. "You show me." He pointed the gun at Rick' head. "No tricks."

Rick rose slowly, keeping his hands elevated in submission.

Yolo tracked Rick, who walked in small, submissive steps, crouching slightly with his hands up, toward the kitchen. Rick felt his knees shaking—partly with fear, partly with adrenaline energy. He didn't care what happened to him. He desperately wanted Hannah to get out of here alive and in one piece so she could make it home.

Rick and Yolo moved in one unit, step by careful step, toward the small kitchen off to one side. The kitchen contained a ratty-looking sink with fifty-year-old linoleum for a counter, and Fincoff's last several meals' worth of dirty, crusty dishes piled amid circling flies. There was a smell of decay in the air. Yolo made a face, but never took the gun off Rick's temple.

"Slow now. Go slow," Yolo intoned.

Rick studied the powerful purplish hand, the massive fingers curled around the stock, the other hand sailing slowly in free motion as if Yolo were doing slow ballet in mid-air.

The plastic trash can stood where Rick had seen it before, next to the sink, almost under the one narrow window with its flaking, grimy wooden architecture the color of rotting bananas.

"It's in there," Rick said, pointing.

"Get it out for me," Yolo said.

Rick leaned forward over the trash can. He felt the gun boring into his back. He squirmed with pain as the muzzle lay rough on his vertebrae. "Take it easy."

The gun eased off. "No tricks."

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