Leverage (34 page)

“Oh God, Ty, no. I’m so sorry, but…that wasn’t me. It was Katy. He tortured Katy.”

Ty drew back, stunned. “
What!
” He shook his head, hard. “No. Uh-uh. I…I heard you, Hannah. I recognized
your
voice.”

I nodded and stepped closer, though I didn’t dare touch him. “Because I was there. He forced me to watch, and I screamed for him to stop. God, Ty, I’m so sorry.”

He put his hands atop his head and started to pace, all panicked at first, but then he stopped and dropped his hands to his sides. He looked up at the ceiling and actually chuckled. Then he started to laugh. And I was afraid all over again. Had Ty completely cracked?

He turned and looked at me, a wild-eyed expression on his face. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t you see? The reason? Why I did it? It doesn’t matter.” He shrugged. “I did it. In the end, that’s all that matters. I did it.” He continued laughing.

“That’s not true. It does matter,” I said and reached for him.

But he pulled away, his crazy grin instantly fading. “I can’t do this, Hannah, be two different men, the man you want and need me to be and the man I have to be to make you safe. I have to choose, just like I did with that animal that killed Nick. I have to choose. And I choose my family. That’s my job, to protect you, to make sure you’re all safe. That’s what I choose. So this is it, Hannah. This is the end, the end of us.”

“What? What are you talking about? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, you have to let go, Hannah.”

I shook my head as tears began to pool. “No, Ty. Never.”

“I have to do my duty, Hannah. I have to protect you. I can’t do what that requires and remain who I used to be. I’ll go fucking mad.”

“You’re still that man, Tyler. Greg can
not
take him away. He’s still inside you.”

“No, he’s not. He’s dead. He died the moment I killed that bastard. I’m reborn now, Hannah, a new man. I have to let go of the old me. And so do you. You have to let me go.”

I put my hands together in prayer and pleaded with him. “Please, Ty, don’t do this. I came here to tell you it didn’t matter. I already knew you’d killed someone. Greg made sure of it. That’s why I asked permission to see you, so I could tell you it was all right, that I still love you. Please, Tyler…”

He rushed up to me and grabbed my hands in his. “Don’t hold onto the past, Hannah. Move on. Live for our daughter. Tell Nicole about me, who I
used
to be, the man I once was. I want her to remember me
that
way, not like this. I am nobody’s father, Hannah. I can’t be. Not now. Not like this. You
have
to let me go. Please.” He wound his arms around my shoulders, and, weeping harder than I’d ever known him to before, he whispered in my ear, “I love you, Hannah, and if you love me, you’ll do as I ask. I can’t do what I have to if you don’t. Please, Hannah,
please
, I
need
you to let go.”

With a loud sniffle, he pulled back and looked me in the eye. He pushed the hair from my damp face and kissed my forehead first, then each cheek, then my mouth, so tender, so broken, so absolutely destroyed.

“Goodbye, love,” he said, and with that, he turned, walked to the French doors, and knocked.

It wasn’t a moment later, the doors opened, and Ty disappeared from my life.

Again.

After bidding Hannah a final goodbye, I was returned to Greg’s warehouse and my cot in the dank shipping container. Fraught with nightmares about Katy and the torture she’d endured, I managed only a few fitful hours of exhausted sleep. I’d been so stunned then relieved to learn it wasn’t Hannah who’d been waterboarded, it slipped my mind to even ask how Katy had faired. Hannah’s eyes had seemed so tormented, I’d just assumed the worst. And if that were the case, then Conner’s world was about to be crushed.

I woke the next morning to the heaving bang of the door as it was shoved open without consideration to my nerves. Bright light surged into the dismal space, and, pushed up on one elbow, I squinted with my hand in front of my eyes to determine the owner of the stark silhouette before me.

“Good morning, cousin,” Greg’s voice greeted as he approached. “You must be famished.” He switched on the crude pendant light above the metal drum then held up a brown paper sack and a steaming disposable cup before he placed them both on the table. “Tea and scones. Sorry, no cream or jam, but I’m sure you’ll make do.”

I sat along the edge of the cot and dragged my hands over my face. “What time is it?”

“Time for class,” Greg replied excitedly. “Grab your breakfast and follow me.”

I heaved a tired sigh as I stood, then grabbed my meal and trudged after him, devouring the scone and washing it down with the tea, though I hardly tasted either. We passed into yet another warehouse, a third and much larger one, with a divided vestibule that ran the width of the building along the front.

The clear half-partition that separated the front bay from the rest of the space was divided into a row of shallow open cubicles, each with tall, narrow dividing panels with thin ledges set between about three-and-a-half feet above the floor. A set of headphones and safety glasses laid on the shelf in one of the stalls, and in the corner, leaning up against the dividing panel, stood the sniper rifle Greg had shown me yesterday. It was a firing range.

I glanced into the open space beyond the partition and examined the mechanisms that moved the paper targets back and forth, closer or farther away from the shooting booths. At the midway point, perhaps five hundred meters away, hung a target in the shape of a full-sized man, with bull’s-eyes on the head and chest.

One of Greg’s minions, a man of more normal proportion, stood just off to the side, at attention with his hands clasped in front of him. He was near my own age and dressed all in black with a matching baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. His mouth was set in a grim line, all business and ready to proceed. He nodded curtly when Greg waved him over.

“This is Pavel,” Greg introduced. “He’s an expert marksman here to instruct you on how to use your weapon.” Greg lowered his chin and leaned closer. “He’s also a triple black belt and can snap your neck in the blink of an eye, so I wouldn’t test him if I were you.” Greg turned to Pavel. “You have your instructions. See that he’s ready. I’ll return to check on your progress. Good day, gentlemen,” he added then spun on his heel and left the range.

After sizing me up, Pavel proved he was indeed all business. In lightly accented English, he began his lesson by introducing me to my weapon as he put it. He disassembled and reassembled it two dozen times, and with each pass, he named every part until I could recite and replicate the procedure exactly. From there, it was nothing but shooting at targets at every conceivable distance. He taught by example, at first, then with hands-on instruction until I could shoot accurately at each fifty-meter increment, both head and body shots.

Strangely enough, I found I was actually quite a good shot. Once my nerves had settled and I eradicated everything else from my mind, I was able to zone in on exactly where I was told to shoot. I was rewarded with “good job” and “excellent shot” along with sturdy pats to my back, and, after a full day of instruction, Pavel even cracked a smile when I consistently made every shot at the full thousand meters. A strange sense of camaraderie began to unexpectedly blossom between us. I had to keep reminding myself who and where I was and why I was there. That was usually all it took to blacken my spirit back to where it belonged.

Late that night, with eighteen hours of practice behind me, Greg joined us at the range. “I hear you’re doing remarkably well,” he commented to me. “I believe it’s time for a performance test.”

His words made my heart stutter. I feared I would be ordered to perform as I was last time, when I killed the hanging man. I froze and held my breath.

Greg glanced at me and chuckled. “Oh relax, will you? Targets only,” he said, pointing down the long warehouse gallery. “I want targets set up at each station at various distances. Then I want Ty to work down the line and execute each one,” he ordered Pavel who saluted then went to work. While waiting for the targets to be set up, Greg moved closer and spoke in a hushed tone. “I want you to know I appreciate your…surprising dedication to the task at hand.”

I reacted with a sneer. “Like I have a choice.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps not, but…your cooperation does come with some…reward.”

I raised one brow. “And what would that be?”

“If you pass this test and submit to…well, you might call it a ritual of sorts…then I shall free your wife and child. Does that sound like an acceptable remuneration to you?”

I eyed Greg with skepticism. “With strings attached, no doubt?”

“Nope,” he said. “No strings; just your submission, without question, of course.”

I took a moment then nodded, willing to do whatever it took to see Hannah and Nicole free. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t concerned over whatever Greg was referring to. “Okay,” I accepted. “I’ll submit, but may I ask to what?”

Greg tapped a finger to his lips. “Without question,” he reiterated.

I reluctantly bowed my head in deference.

He grinned and clasped his hands together. “Excellent! I’ll see to the details, but first, your exam.” He swept his arm toward the shooting cubicles.

I spun around and took in the virtual obstacle course of targets arranged before me. Greg and Pavel obviously had way more confidence in my abilities than I did, but now was not the time for self-doubt. This was my opportunity to earn freedom for my family. With that in mind, I centered my thoughts and concentrated on everything Pavel had taught me.

“A red light will indicate which target you’re to shoot. You are free to move about to acquire each one. Just keep in mind…” Greg warned as he directed my attention toward Pavel, who was holding a frighteningly large sidearm in his hand, “…should you decide to turn your weapon on anything other than our paper friends here, Pavel has orders to kill without hesitation. After that, your family will suffer a similar fate, without mercy. Are we clear?”

With my mouth set in a hard line, I acquiesced with a single nod, though it burned my gut to do so.
Whatever it takes
, I kept telling myself. And with that, the lights sprang to life.

The first targets were stationary and relatively close, all easy shots, but soon my marks began to move, some forward, but most backwards away from me. Though I repositioned myself quickly, once there, I took my time to line up each kill. I chose not to shoot indiscriminately, but rather held back, conserving each bullet like it was my last. Taking that time allowed me to hone in on the best sightline and most effective area for a clean kill, because, when I had to ultimately perform for real, I didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention, put others at risk, or create a disastrous mess.

As I moved through my course, everything else around me faded away. All I could hear was my breathing and heartbeat in concert with the action of the gun—
slide, click, fwop
as the bullet sailed through the hybrid flash suppressor and muzzle break, designed, as Pavel explained, to reduce the weapon’s flash signature, recoil, and muzzle rise, all things I’d want to avoid in the field. It was surprisingly quiet and hardly moved a centimeter, allowing me to maneuver more efficiently to acquire each subsequent target. One by one, they went down, the red light above turning green once the kill was verified. Only twice did I have to take a second shot, and only because they had changed direction unexpectedly. Once I realized the targets could also move laterally, I took that extra beat to confirm its path before taking the shot.

When there were no more targets, the lights in the gallery shut down, and the hum of the target retrieval system ceased. Yet my heart still beat loud and fast in my ears, so fast, in fact, my stomach began to churn with the elevated level of adrenaline coursing through my body. I placed my weapon back in the corner where I’d first found it.

Removing my safety glasses and headphones, I turned to Greg. That was it. I’d passed his test. He stared back, his eyes wide and disbelieving. Then a grin began to spread across his face, but he remained silent. I could almost see the wheels turning in his evil mind, rehashing the plans he’d devised, envisioning them coming to fruition, and the idea that he might actually retrieve the keys to his goddamn kingdom, because that’s all he wanted, to be king.

But his plans meant nothing to me, less than nothing. I was only concerned about my family. I’d finally earned their freedom. At last, they would be safe—
if
Greg kept his promise. I had no guarantee he would, and no way to confirm either. I stepped closer to him, disregarding the click of Pavel’s handgun as he pulled the hammer back and raised it.

“I want proof you’ve set my wife and daughter free,” I insisted, “that they’re safe.”

He nodded, still silent, still assessing. Seemingly in a trance, he walked to the door and opened it, then turned back to me. “You’ll get your proof, once you submit as promised.” He continued to look at me, staring with that shit-grin on his pretty-boy face. “This is a stunning turning point,” he added, “for both of us.” Then he spun away and was gone.

Greg made me wait several hours before one of his men retrieved me from my shabby quarters. I’d spent that time pacing and worrying what I might be in for, what I had promised to submit to. I tried to focus on that voice, the words—
whatever it takes
—but my fear was starting to get the best of me. I knew my life was not in danger. I was a means to an end for Greg. No way would he compromise that. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t torture me in some way, scare me into complete compliance, like I wasn’t there already. I wondered if Greg knew how well he’d conditioned me.
Stupid!
Of course he knew; that was the point.

Leverage.

What a perfect word—
a bargaining chip; the power to influence.
Even in the mechanical sense, it was the action of a lever, pivoting around one point to move an object at a second point. Basic physics really. I was the object, my family the lever, and Greg was the force that moved us. We were little more than an experiment to him. He didn’t care about the collateral damage, just his game and the prize at the end—his fucking empire.

Whatever it takes,
I kept chanting to myself. Then it was time. The door clanged open and my attendant arrived to escort me to my “ritual of submission”, whatever the hell that meant. Visions of Nick and the decree carved into his chest came to mind, making the short trek to wherever we were going feel like walking the plank, the finish a plunge into shark-infested waters of the unknown.

Whatever it takes...

I must admit, though, it felt a bit anti-climactic when I was shown to a small, sparsely furnished exam room. A single chair sat in the middle, like something from a dentist’s office. A stool and table squatted beside it. Overhead glared the bright, sterile light of a buzzing fluorescent fixture. The floor was a tile checkerboard, easily mopped up should the need arise.

Whatever it takes...

I was pushed into the chair and tilted back. I shook my head as Aaron Moody’s face danced before me, his neck under the knife and his mouth contorted in terror and pain. My fingers wrapped around the chair’s arms to keep me from fleeing.

Whatever it takes... Whatever it takes... Breathe, damn it, breathe!

I took exactly ten deep breaths before a tiny, stooped man entered. My guard stepped toward the door and allowed him access to me.
Holy shit!
It was the troll from the Russian bookstore. He carried a small black bag which he set down on the floor and opened. He pulled out a device that looked like an airbrush—until he attached a needle-sharp nib to the end.

Fuck!
A tattoo gun. Greg was having me branded.

“Disrobe above za vaist,” the troll ordered, and I did as commanded, removing the black t-shirt Greg had loaned me. The grizzled old man pulled on a pair of latex gloves then swabbed disinfectant on my chest below my left shoulder. After wiping it clean, he took a seat on the stool and tipped my chair even father back so he had access to his canvas—me.

I gritted my teeth as he went to work. He didn’t apply a transfer decal. He worked like an old pro who’d probably inked the same catalogue of Vory tats a thousand times over. I didn’t know whether it was wise to ask what I was being stamped with, so I bit my tongue and closed my eyes as the old troll swept back and forth between me and the ink on the table. His pen felt like a sharp fingernail scraping across freshly sunburned skin. I focused on the incessant buzzing to keep myself from going stark, raving mad. I told myself not to look. Whatever it was, I didn’t care, and it didn’t matter.

Whatever it takes... You can do this.

After an hour, the troll moved to the top of my left ring finger, where he needled a large square amulet with a black Orthodox cross. And that was it. He was done. He tipped my chair fully upright and motioned for me to get up. He studied his handiwork and nodded in self-approval, then called out, “
Yah-nah-yehl’-syuh,
” to the guard as he put his equipment back into his bag. It wasn’t two minutes later that Greg appeared with an expectant grin on his face.

“Well?” he said, pulling a small handheld mirror from behind his back and holding it up in front of me. “What do you think?”