Troy decides to be merciful. Rather than sealing Morotski’s mouth with a fresh strip of duct tape, Troy opts for a hand towel from the kitchen, but first placing a clean gauze over his lips and chin, before wrapping the cloth around it. Finally, he slides earplugs into his ears to keep him from listening to any conversation we might have.
I help Troy drag the traitor into the bathroom beyond the small bedroom where Rem Vlachko is still in la-la land while Rachel and Karen follow us.
As I turn on the lights in the bathroom, I’m momentarily taken aback by the sight of another man similarly strapped to an oak chair.
“Who in the hell is that, Troy? Are you collecting them?”
Rachel, who is standing right behind us, crosses her arms and sighs, before saying, “That’s Brad Austin. He was part of my team.”
Troy shrugs. “Yep. He’s the one who led us to Morotski’s hideout. And Morotski led us to Mr. Vlachko.”
The ash-blond man blinks in recognition just as I too remember him. He had been aboard that yacht in El Salvador. In fact, he had been one of the two spooks who drove the personal watercraft to the beach to pick up Rachel and me after I had agreed to listen to what the CIA had to say.
“I remember him,” I finally say to Rachel. “He was one of your buddies accompanying you in El Salvador.”
Troy shoves a perplexed Morotski next to his bound compadre, who looks just as surprised.
Rachel lets go another heavy sigh. “I can’t believe I let this man and the rest of his gang use me that way.”
“Small world,” I say.
“Small indeed,” Rachel replies.
“But not nearly as small as you think,” my former superior says.
It’s definitely been a day of surprises, and apparently Troy isn’t through with them yet.
“What about Vlachko?” I ask.
Troy smiles. “I have something very special in mind for him. But not yet. There is something else we must do first. Come; follow me.”
As we turn off the lights and leave our three hostages in darkness, I ask, “Is it true about your deal with Bane, or were you just feeding Morotski a line?”
In typical Troy fashion, he just gives me one of his you’re-soon-to-find-out grins while scratching that goatee and winking.
“C’mon, Troy. I need to know, man. You set up Singapore and then left me holding your bag of shit. Why?”
“Come, Tommy,” he finally says, checking his watch. “Let’s go upstairs. You too, ladies. I have a little surprise waiting for you.”