Bait (23 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-Six

“W
AKEY
-­
WAKEY
.”

Pain exploded in her skull as Stas Noskov slapped her. She pried her eyes open. Shay and Stas had apparently switched places. Shay now controlled the rheostat dial. Stas stared at her breasts.

It was Shay who had spoken. Christina coughed. She must have bitten her tongue during the last round with the picana, because she was bleeding from her mouth. It was a struggle to lift her head.

“Let's start over,” Fedyenka said. “What did you tell the CIA about my operation?”

He kept asking variations of the same question. He didn't care about the answers. This was about punishing her, exacting revenge for the death of his brother. When he grew tired of it, he would kill her.

“I told them what an asshole you were.”

It didn't matter if she told him the truth or lied. His reaction was always the same.

He nodded to Shay, who turned the dial to the right a few clicks. Stas pressed the tip of the wand to her temple. She shrieked as fast as she could draw breath, one after another until her voice was hoarse. Even when he took the wand away, her head throbbed and pounded and threatened to explode.

“The picana is a peculiar tool,” Fedyenka told her, as casually as if he'd said he'd like coffee with his lunch. “Did you know it was developed just for situations like this? Fucking imagine that. A product designed specifically for one human being to torture another.”

“Fas . . . fascinating.” Her eyes refused to stay focused. Her head dropped forward onto her chest and stayed there.

“The high voltage makes the shocks hurt more, but it's got a low current, so you're less likely to die while we're talking. Pretty damned cool, huh?”

“Why don't you just kill me and get it over with?”

The rage simmering behind his eyes abruptly burst forth. He nearly threw himself out of the chair and stalked to her, grabbing her hair and forcing her head back. “Not until you've suffered as much as I have,” he screamed into her face, spittle landing on her skin. “Not until you're begging me to kill you. Or maybe I will kill you now.”

He yanked a revolver from the back of his belt and pointed it at her. “Are you ready to die? Do you want to die?”

It was hard to push the words past the dread clogging her throat. “Go to hell.”

Fedyenka raised the revolver over her head and pulled the trigger.

The roar of discharge so close to her head caused her entire body to flinch, the sound physically painful. She took in huge gulps of air, eyes squeezed shut, as agony lanced through her skull. “Son of a
bitch
.”

“So you live awhile longer. A pity.”

Fedyenka intended to terrorize her, torture her. It was working. Christina started hiccupping gulps of air, trying to suppress the sobs clawing their way up her throat.

“Who do you work for at Langley?”

“A man.”

“Did you work for him when you lied your way into my business in Baghdad?”

“Yes.”

“What is his name?”

“Boss.”

Shay stopped flipping his knife and put the tip of the blade on her knee, over the top of her T-­shirt. He pressed down slowly, letting her feel the blade penetrate through the cotton to her skin below. She grit her teeth. When he'd made a hole in the shirt, he canted the blade sideways and sliced through the material, baring her upper leg.

Finally, he slammed the knife back into the sheath at his hip. Christina was close enough to grab it, if only her hands were free.

“You're a coward,” she hissed. Maybe she could get him to lose his temper and . . . and what? Cut her loose? Kill her? “Only a coward tortures a woman who's tied up and can't even defend herself. A real man wouldn't do that. Only a sick, twisted one.”

“Was that insult meant for me, or for Fedyenka?” Shay chuckled. “Neither of us cares what you think, though.”

But Fedyenka cared what she felt. He wanted her in agony before he ended her life.

“Where are we?” she asked. Keep them talking. Keep them away from the picana.

“Concordia. Didn't we tell you that already?” Shay frowned, annoyed.

“Why should it fucking hell matter to you? You're going to die here,” Fedyenka growled.

“Call it morbid curiosity.”

“We're at a farmhouse on the outskirts of Brodeur. Far from civilization.” Shay shrugged. “No one to hear you scream, Chris.”

Fedyenka threw him an annoyed look. “Shut your fucking hole.”

“What difference does it make? She's not leaving here—­”

Alive.
It didn't need to be said.

“I was followed in D.C.,” she said, trying to gulp back her terror. “I thought it was a training exercise, but it was you, wasn't it?”

“Yeah,” Stas answered. “You don't got a clue, do you? You got no fucking idea what's going on.”

“Why don't you enlighten me?”

Shay laughed. “It's all about you, Christina Madison of the CIA. It's always been all about you.”

That brought her head up. “What are you talking about?”

Fedyenka rose and went to the table, where he picked up a metal pipe, maybe three feet long. He idly twirled it as he came over to her. “You're thinking too much about the past. I want you to think about now. What I'm going to do to you for killing my brother.” He tapped the pipe against her knee. “What do you think I'm going to do with this? Or would you prefer the picana again? I'll let you choose.”

She'd be damned if she'd choose her own pain. He'd just pick the other to torment her anyway. When she didn't answer, Shay tore a strip off a roll of duct tape, and pressed cruelly against her mouth as he stretched it taut. She glared her disgust. He grinned at her, dropped a kiss on top of the tape, and walked away. Fedyenka took his place.

He tapped the pipe against her knee again. “How would it affect your career as a cheating, whoring liar if I broke both your knees?” he asked. “They used to do that in Chinese POW camps, you know, during the Korean war. My father had both his knees broken by the camp commander. That fucking bastard was determined to break my father, but he never did. My father hobbled out of that camp using two sticks, and he spat in the commander's face as he left.”

Give me a chance, Christina thought. I'll spit in your face, too.

 

Chapter Twenty-Seven

G
ABE
PACED
THE
parking lot like a caged tiger. The inactivity drove him insane.

He waited. Waited for Stephanie to send him the layout around Brodeur. Waited for Trevor to meet him with supplies. Waited for Aart Jansens to get back to him about recently rented properties around Brodeur.

And he prayed.

His phone rang. Even before the first sound died away, it was up at his ear. “Morgan.”

“It's Jay Spicer,” came the voice on the other end of the line. “I hear you lost my operative.”

It threw him for a moment. “How did you . . . ?”

“Private Tams from your unit called me,” Spicer said. “She brought me up to speed. It's a good thing she did, too. I remember reading a report about a week ago from my guys in Parvenière. They make it a point to have good relations with local police. So this guy calls the police, right? He says he's the farm manager for some remote farm outside of a tiny town in the middle of fucking Nowhere, Concordia, right? He says he rented the place sight unseen to a foreigner—­that's what he said, apparently—­talked funny, right? So he goes to give him the keys, and there's like eight guys there, and the main guy, speaks funny, tells him to get lost and not come around again. So this guy, this farm manager, he thinks this is odd, so he kind of drives by every now and again, and it's all quiet, but there are always guards outside, right, walking around with machine guns. That's what this guy says. Doubt he'd recognize a machine gun versus a machete, but whatever. So I'm thinking, where better to take someone . . .”

His phone beeped. “That's Stephanie,” he said. “Anything else?”

“Nawp. That's the gist of it. Call me with an update. Madison's my operative, right?”

Gabe switched over to Stephanie Tams. “What'd you find out?” he asked. He didn't have time for hellos and goodbyes. Each moment wasted was one moment more that Christina might die.

“I'm sending you an aerial layout of the farmhouse Jay Spicer thinks Christina might be being held at. You know, don't you, that we might be off base here?”

He didn't want to hear that.

“It's the best I've got,” he said, frustration leaking through his control. He thumbed open the JPEG Stephanie had emailed him. Aw, hell. It was farmland, all right. A single house and what looked like a ­couple of outbuildings in the middle of at least a mile of planted fields. The nearest tree line was at least half a mile away.

He called Trevor back. “Where are you?”

“Fifteen minutes. I stopped at a sporting goods store to pick up some stuff.”

“Good. I'll send you the layout. It's bad. No cover, no concealment.”

“We might have to wait until dark to go in.”

“Not an option,” Gabe clipped. “Every moment I waste here is one step closer . . .” He couldn't say it. Couldn't even think it. She had to be alive. She just had to be.

He'd broken all land speed records getting from Parvenière down the E46 toward Brodeur. The Q8 petrol station was nestled between an empty lot and a row of townhome apartments. He'd pulled as far into the back as he could and killed the engine.

Now what? It was suicide to go rushing to the farmhouse in broad daylight. He had his Glock and an extra magazine—­thirty-­one rounds—­and his boot knives. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

A nondescript blue Audi pulled into a pump. A man emerged, capturing Gabe's attention immediately. Despite the warm day, he wore a light jacket concealing a holster under his arm. His short hair had a prominent window's peak, his features broad and Slavic. Gabe hunched down a little in his seat, keeping his face turned away and watching in his mirrors as the man went inside, coming back out about ten minutes later with a bag of burgers, a six-­pack of beer, and cigarettes. He pulled out and started through the tiny town, driving past the old stone church and out onto the two-­lane local throughway. Gabe let him get far ahead before he pulled out and followed.

He hung well back, keeping several cars between himself and the man he was tailing. He punched up the farmhouse's address in Google Maps with one hand. Sure enough, the man was heading toward the farmhouse. He made no attempt to backtrack or hide his destination, nor did he seem to notice his tail. When he turned down a long access road, Gabe drove past, keeping pace with other cars heading out of town.

About fifty yards ahead, he found a place to turn around. Again, he didn't slow at the drive, although he did risk a quick look. Two guards outside. What had the property manager said? There were eight of them. Not impossible odds for a Delta Force operator, but still pretty bad.

He returned to the petrol station because he had nothing better to do, filled his gas tank, and bought food from the burger stand at the end of the convenience store. He chewed, tasting nothing. Just waiting. He hated waiting at the best of times.

Now it was intolerable.

 

Chapter Twenty-Eight

H
ER
STRENGTH
WANED
with every passing minute. Her world narrowed to this place and this man, to her fear and the throbbing pain. She let her head hang, because it hurt to hold it upright.

It displeased him.

He rose abruptly from his chair and was in front of her in two strides, jerking her chin up with cruel fingers. “You will look at me, so you know who is in charge here.”

“Go to hell.” She couldn't think of anything better to say. Her nerves and neurons were scrambled, and it hurt to talk.

One of the guards brought in a bag and a six-­pack. “Food.”

Stas and Shay tore into the burgers at once. Fedyenka turned her face this way and that. She had no clue what he looked for. Finally, he moved to the table and unwrapped a hamburger. He took it to the door and leaned against it while he chewed, turning his face to the breeze.

“Hey,” she called. “I'm hungry.”

Shay snickered. He popped a beer, chugging down half of it before stopping to belch. “How 'bout a beer instead?”

Stas crammed fries into his mouth. “No beer.”

“Moron. I wasn't serious.”

Christina brought the image of Gabe to the forefront of her mind. She had to hold on. For him. He wouldn't stop looking for her. Therefore, she couldn't give up.

“Why wait a year?” she asked Shay. “You obviously knew where I lived in D.C. Why wait until now for this?”

Fedyenka came back, spinning the cylinder on his revolver. “He couldn't find you. Damned international police can't find one stupid bitch. But he finally tracked you down.”

Shay lit a cigarette. “I have contacts everywhere. I knew where she was the whole time.”

Fedyenka looked at him in disbelief. “You fucking took my money to look for her when you knew where she was?” He raised the revolver, thought better of it, and lowered it again.

Shay grinned, scratching through his short beard. “Aren't you glad I did? If you'd've already killed her, she couldn't have come to Concordia to take Princess Ver-­on-­i-­ca's place.”

“What if we lost her? What if she went to Vienna anyway?”

The Interpol agent laughed. “I told you, I have contacts everywhere. One of the Household Guards knew me. It was dead simple to put a tracker on the royal limo as soon as I knew Chris was on her way. I told him it was for her protection. I knew where she was every step of the way. So when you told me to bring her to you, I sent my men to grab her on the road to Grasvlakten.”

“Where you failed,” Fedyenka growled.

Shay scowled, flinging his cigarette down and grinding it with his boot heel. “I underestimated her bodyguards.”

“You failed me again at Grasvlakten. I had to go get her myself.”

Christina gave her head a quick shake. Surely, she'd heard wrong? “What . . . what do you mean? You said before . . . this was all about me?”

Shay swaggered over to her. “Does that surprise you, princess?”

Her head was whirling, but from residuals of electric shocks or this new information, she didn't know. “I don't understand.”

Fedyenka laughed. The sound grated along her nerve endings. “Story of your life. Princess. Har-­har-­har.”

Shay shot him an annoyed look. “I knew where you were and I knew what you looked like,” he said, with the exaggerated patience of someone talking to a dim child. “When Fedyenka here told me to get rid of Princess Ver-­on-­i-­ca, I knew the perfect way to do it. I contacted Émile Bonnet. He's hot to protect his retirement. See, there's these rare sheared minks. Very expensive. He has men who trap them and sell them to Fedyenka. I told him the entire supply would dry up if he didn't get the princess out of the way. So Bonnet contacted a guy he knows to fake a shooting. Just enough to drive the princess out of the castle and into a safe house.”

“But how did you know about the safe house?”

“I have contacts . . .”

“Everywhere. I know.” Christina rolled her eyes. “But how did you find it?”

Shay chortled. “Dead easy. I'm law enforcement, remember? A cop. I told Interpol in Parvenière that I had a high-­profile case—­classified, of course—­that might require a safe house. He gave me the run-­down on the three the government keeps. Addresses and everything. And then told me one was in use. Imbecile. Then I just waited for your bodyguards to catch Bonnet's fake assassin. Véronique goes back to her life. And I take her out for real. Boo-­hoo. So sad. But she doesn't show up at the Vienna summit, and Fedyenka gets his sheared minks.”

“And I went to the safe house,” Christina said, realization dawning. “You followed me there?”

“Nope. We were already there. Watched you go in and her come out. When your boyfriend left, we snatched you. Dead simple.”

The way he emphasized
dead
caused a shiver to make its way down her spine.
Keep him talking
, she chanted to herself.
Give Gabe time to find me
.

“What if . . . what if he hadn't left? Or we'd gone together?”

“He'd be dead,” Shay said matter-­of-­factly. “Two birds with one stone. Fedyenka gets both his mink supply and you. A win-­win.”

Fedyenka added, “Really rare mink. Women pay a fortune for them. Men, too. Problem is, their primary breeding grounds are smack dab in the middle of where they want to drill for oil. I'd lose too much money if my supply dried up. Bonnet told me the princess would never change her mind. Worse, she's pushing to get the damned things regulated and monitored to make sure nothing happens to them because of the oil drilling. Do you know what regulation means in my business? Lost revenue.”

“This was only ever about money,” she said. “You disgust me.”

Rage crawled across Fedyenka's face. “You're a mouthy bitch. You need to learn respect. And it's not just about money. It's about my fucking brother!”

Shay wandered outside, lighting a cigarette.

Christina could think of only one way to stop the torment. She raked him with a look of contempt.

“Yuri was weak,” she said. “But better than you. You're weak and stupid. You can't hold on to the business now, can you? Yuri was the brains, tiny as they were.”

And then she did it.

“He was easy to kill. I'm glad I did it.”

Fedyenka's face purpled and veins popped out in his face and neck. He dropped the revolver as his big hands rose, clamped around her throat, and squeezed. Christina closed her eyes, waiting for the blessed darkness to take her, though her body twisted and fought for air. Just as spots began to dance behind her eyes and she felt herself begin to fade, the pressure around her neck disappeared. Her eyes snapped open and she gasped as life-­giving oxygen rushed back into her lungs.

“No,” Fedyenka said. “I won't make it easy for you. I'll kill you when I'm ready, not when you want to die.”

He picked up the revolver and set it on the table, returning with the metal rod. He hefted it a few times, then ran the metal edge across her cheek. “You need a lesson, though. Respect.”

Before she could register his intent, he swung the pipe and smashed it into her knee with all his strength. She screamed, and passed out.