Sleep Tight Read Free

saw a tall, rail-thin male, standing at the far end of the hall, on the other side of the maze of blue rope lines. The man had a semiautomatic pistol jammed into the soft tissue under his chin.
    A security guard, bleeding from his hip, crawled slowly away. The rest of the tourists and passengers huddled against the booths and examination tables.
    Viktor’s eyes were closed. His shoulders quivered, as if low, vicious jolts of electricity shot along his backbone every few seconds.
    It was clear that he had disarmed the guard and fired a few rounds. But that didn’t explain why the tall man was bleeding too. Ed and Sam got closer. He appeared to have ragged slashes across his face and neck. Blood collected in the crotch of his jeans.
    The detectives got close enough to see the blood seeping into the industrial carpet as it spilled down his shoe.
    Sam said, “Put that fucking gun down.”
    A sob burst out of Viktor. A low, guttural cry.
    Sam tried again. “Put—”
    Underneath the fresh blood, muscles under Viktor’s arm twitched. The pistol started to come down, and the darkness of the muzzle grew larger every second as the detectives came within range.
    Ed fired.
    Viktor’s left eye disappeared and his head flopped to one shoulder. His long frame sagged and collapsed. One of the passengers uttered a short, sharp scream, but that was all.
    Silence bloomed as gun smoke drifted toward the ceiling.
     
     
    Sam held up his star and addressed the witnesses. “Chicago PD. Everybody relax. It’s over. Now, is anyone else hurt?” He bent to examine the bullet wound in the guard and winced. It looked like the bullet had gone through the bone, only an inch away from the outside of his hip. The man’s face was knotted in pain. Sam patted his shoulder. “Hang in there. Must hurt like a sonofabitch. Didn’t hit any arteries or anything though. You’ll live.”
    Ed flipped open his cell phone and began to speak, giving the dispatcher a quick summary of dry, emotionless facts.
    Sam stood. “Any doctors in here?”
    An older woman raised her hand. “I am nurse,” she said with a heavy Russian accent.
    “Great,” Sam said. “Can you help him out? You employees, does anybody have a first aid kit around here?”
    Somebody brought out a kit and Sam gave it to the nurse. He stepped back, letting the nurse get to work. He waited until Ed got off the phone, and they approached the body together.
    Viktor looked like he was still in as much agony in death as in life. His mouth was open, upper lip curled up, baring his teeth. He had landed on his back, one leg curled awkwardly under the other. There was a fist-sized hole in the back of his skull.
    “Shit,” Ed said.
    Sam nodded, looking around at customs. “That’s exactly what we just stepped in, brother. You got any ideas?”
    “Not right now.”
    “Me, neither.”
    Sam squatted next to the corpse, pulled out a pen, and used it to gently lift Viktor’s leather jacket. He couldn’t see any passport inside, and guessed that the ID must be in his back pocket. But he didn’t want to turn the body over. No point in messing up the evidence any more than necessary. He understood only too well they were facing a serious political shitstorm and blizzard of paperwork. The realization made him very, very tired.
    He peered closely at Viktor’s fingernails. They were full of crinkled strips of skin and clotted blood. “Lacerations,” he said quietly, indicating the slashes across the corpse’s face, neck, and arms.
    Something moved under Viktor’s shirt.
    Sam dropped the pen and stood quickly. Ed already had his gun back out. “Fuck is that?” Sam asked.
    Under the shirt, a small lump wriggled along Viktor’s stomach. It paused, as if resting a moment, then continued, heading for his waist.
    “Goddamnit. I don’t want to put another hole in this sonofabitch,” Ed said.
    Sam retrieved his pen and used it to lift the shirttail, revealing more deep gouges sliced across