Some people said crime didn't pay... but they'd obviously never found the right crime. As the old saying went, good things came to those who waited.
The Viper securely fastened nylon ropes around the wrists of his captive and stood back to study his handiwork.
Capturing Nigel Bailey, the earnest assistant of Sydney Fox, had been a mild challenge at best. The boy had predictably gone to the hospital, trailing after his wounded mentor... And if that fool Blount had done his job at the ballroom, he never would have gotten that far. The fat man had been a rank amateur, hired cheap and ultimately killed cheaper. Society certainly wouldn't mourn the loss for long.
On the other hand, society might well mourn the loss of the young man lying before him on a thin, narrow cot. The Viper had been in the business a long time, longer than the unconscious *boy* had even been alive. It was his job to know something valuable when he found it, and Bailey had much more value alive than dead.
Research was the Viper's best tool, having always made it his business to know his prey. Sydney Fox was, of course, a well-known relic hunter. She was admired, trusted, respected... it turned his stomach to think of the valuable relics she'd happily *given* away to worthless museums over the years. Her family was nothing exceptional. She was an only child, her father was an engineer... globetrotting in his work and well off, but not fantastically wealthy. No money there.
Her assistant though was another story, and a much more appealing one.
He was the youngest son of a distinguished British family, his parents had been killed in a freak car accident, and on his thirtieth birthday in several more years, he was heir to half of a very impressive fortune. Even if Nigel Bailey knew nothing about Ichriem, he was still worth millions to his older brother in ransom.
He'd snagged the proverbial golden goose, and that incompetent Blount had gotten trigger-happy and almost killed it before it laid a single egg.
The Viper took a seat on the edge of the cot, pressing two fingers on the side of the young man's throat... the pulse was still slow; he'd probably be unconscious a while longer. The mercenary smiled to himself. Half the fun of kidnapping Bailey would be the unflappable Sydney Fox's reaction to it.
The look on her face at the hotel when he'd originally threatened her assistant's life had been priceless. He could only imagine her reaction at learning the young man was actually missing.
He could see it all now... there she'd be, lying prone in her hospital bed, then suddenly the police would burst in and tell her the news. She'd be furious of course, shocked, scared... he nearly laughed. She'd probably try to jump out of bed right then and there to join the search effort. But then, that was why rattlesnake was his favorite poison.
By the time Fox was well enough to start looking, he'd be long gone, taking her faithful sidekick with him.
Yes, the operation had been smooth so far, the only two snags being Blount's bungling and the rather unfortunate involvement of the FBI. Experience had taught him the local police were blithering idiots, more eager to examine a jelly donut than a smoking gun, but the feds were always a bit trickier.
He knew they had a file on him, but then, so did the CIA, SVR, MI-6, and any other national security agency worth its salt. No matter how good he was, it was impossible to spend half his life stealing antiquities, assassinating politicians, kidnapping billionaires, and poisoning any rival that crossed his path without attracting a little notice.
But files alone were nothing... meager lists of a few scattered activities. They had no grainy photograph, no smudged fingerprints, no abandoned scrap of clothing, nothing to know him except his trademark poisons. He was still a rumor, and still just as anonymous as the day he'd begun.
He slid his hand from checking Nigel's pulse and stood, glancing around the room. The décor of the office in the airplane hanger left much to be desired... a worn desk, the thin cot, and a telephone so antiquated it was nearly a relic itself... but it didn't matter. Within an hour his private jet would be gassed and ready and he'd be in the air, far from the filthy streets of New York and closer than ever to Ichriem.
The Viper smiled. Sydney Fox may have outsmarted him eight years before, but now he had the upper hand, and the prayers of a hundred Muslim prayer books wouldn't help her.
End of Part Eight
Go to Part Nine.