by Ciana Stone
Smith led them through the maze of cubicles to a doorway at the far end of the room. Without knocking, he entered ahead of them and pushed the door open against the wall. At a gesture from Smith, Morgan took a seat on the sofa directly across from the open doorway. Tom took a seat in a chair beside the couch, out of sight of the door. Smith remained standing just inside the room beside a large wooden desk.
After only a few moments, two other men joined them: one who introduced himself as department head Johnson, and another, Agent Porter. Johnson took his seat behind the desk while Porter sat on the opposite end of the couch from Morgan, leaving Smith the wing chair to the left of the sofa.
Johnson opened a file lying on his desk, scanned it, and then looked at Tom. "Mr. McGuire, thank you for getting in touch with us. As you are aware, this situation of missing waste is of utmost importance. It is vital that we get to the bottom of this as expediently as possible. Now sir, when is the last time you spoke with Mr. Alexander?"
“As I told Agent Smith –” Tom began to explain.
“Wait a minute!” Morgan cut him off. “I thought Cord was here?”
“Mrs. Alexander, if you will be patient for a few minutes –”
“No, I won't be patient! I want to know where my husband is, and I want to know right this minute!”
“As I was about to explain, Mrs. Alexander, before you interrupted, your husband is not currently here. However, if you will be so good as to let us finish this interview, I assure you everything will be taken care of.”
Morgan had the sudden feeling that the FBI didn't know where Cord was. She tried to put together the puzzle with what few pieces she had. She was so caught up in her own thoughts, she paid little attention to the events Tom was relating.
Nothing made sense, and she couldn’t think of any clue as to where Cord might be. Tom's narrative was still in progress. Morgan looked around at the FBI agents. Their attention was focused on Tom, so she let her eyes travel around the room and out the still-opened door. She saw a tall athletically built man walk up to one of the cubicles and stop outside its entrance to talk to the cubbyhole's occupant. She struggled to stifle a smile.
The man was an absolute mess. His short blond hair was plastered to his head in spots with what looked like slimy brownish muck and standing up in spikes in other areas. His handsome features were marred by streaks and splotches of the same foul substance and his clothes were ruined. A once white shirt clung wetly to his body, and his pants had numerous rips and tears along with no telling how many kinds of grizzly grime. He looked like he’d just crawled out of a garbage truck, yet she noticed that beneath all the odious filth, he was an attractive man, probably in his early thirties.
He must have pulled the rankest detail they had. Without warning, the young man turned and looked directly at her. She quickly diverted her eyes, embarrassed to have been caught staring. Flustered, she spoke without thinking, interrupting Tom in the middle of his story.
“Does the CIA ever drive Mercedes?”
At once, every head in the room turned in her direction. “What?” Tom, Johnson, and Porter all blurted out in unison.
She immediately realized her blunder. “Oh, never mind. Sorry, Tom. Please continue.”
Smith looked in the direction of the door and interrupted the meeting before it could go any further. “If you'll excuse me, sir,” he said to Johnson. “I need to speak with Samuels.”
“All right,” Johnson closed the file on the desk. “Mrs. Alexander, Mr. McGuire, may I offer you something to drink while we wait for Agent Smith to return?”
Tom shook his head. “Nothing for me.”
“A soft drink would be nice,” Morgan said. “Something without caffeine, if possible.”
Johnson nodded to Porter, who got up and left the room. Johnson followed him out. Morgan looked over at Tom. He was literally squirming in his seat.
“Are you okay, Tom?”
“Yeah, fine.” He grimaced and added, “Excuse me a minute, I've got to find the men's room.”
Once she was alone in the room, Morgan felt fatigue settle over her like a heavy wool blanket. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Somehow, she had to find out where Cord was.
The feeling she was being watched caused her eyes to fly open. The handsome blond man stood in the doorway.
“Mrs. Alexander?” He asked as he took a step into the room.
“Yes.” She sat up straight. “And you are?”
“Agent Mark Samuels.” He walked across the room, extending his hand, which was considerably cleaner than the rest of him.
She looked down at the offered hand. Samuels' eyes moved in the same direction. An embarrassed smile accompanied by a gentle flush crossed his features. “Uh, sorry.”
“That's okay, Agent Samuels. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I was with your husband this morning when the shooting occurred –”
Morgan sprang from the sofa. “Shooting? What shooting?”
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you.” It dawned on him that she didn't know about the events that had taken place earlier in the day. He assumed she'd been told.
She folded her arms across her chest, dropped her chin a little, and looked up out of the top of her narrowed eyes. “Suppose you tell me what the hell is going on, Mr. Samuels. I'm quickly losing my temper and believe me when I tell you, you wouldn't like me when I'm mad.”
Samuels looked at the small woman standing before him with the top of her head barely reaching the middle of his chest and was tempted to laugh. But the look in her eyes and sudden electricity in the air around her made him change his mind. He motioned to the couch.
They took a seat, and he quickly told her the story. Her eyes never left his face as she listened to every word without interruption. Once he had finished, she remained silent, impaling him with a stare that felt almost tangible.
“Thank you.” She turned away abruptly. Moments passed, and her eyes assumed a glazed appearance, her expression was blank.
Samuels started to think that maybe she had gone into shock, or had totally freaked out when she suddenly jerked as if coming out of a daze.
“Are you okay?” He reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder.
“Sure.” She said absently as if she had something on her mind.
Just then, Johnson returned to the room. He nodded to Samuels and sat down behind the desk. Smith walked in, nodded to Samuels, and closed the door.
Morgan was surprised that Tom wasn’t with them. Johnson directed his statement to her. “Mrs. Alexander, if you will please bear with me a little while longer, we’ll finish up here. Now, would you mind telling me how you came to be in Washington?”
Morgan decided to answer their questions honestly, without adding details. “I received a message from my husband requesting that I come.”
“Why did your husband want you to come to Washington?”
“I don't know, the message didn't say.”
“He gave you no indication whatsoever as to why he wanted you to come? Are you sure about that, Mrs. Alexander?”
“Yes, I’m positive. All I know is that he left a message with my secretary asking me to come here.”
“All right. What happened when you got here?”
“I caught a cab, went to the Hilton and when I got to Cord's room he wasn't there. There were two CIA men there, and they asked me to go with them.”
Agent Smith abruptly excused himself. Johnson jumped up from the desk and followed. Samuels frowned but remained seated. Morgan had more important things on her mind than their behavior. She was worried that something dreadful had happened to Cord.
A few minutes passed before the door opened with Smith and Johnson's return.
“Your husband will be arriving here shortly, Mrs. Alexander,” Johnson announced.
“Is he all right? He's not hurt, is he?”
“He’s fine, I assure you.” Johnson held up his hands. "He’s currently at C
IA headquarters. He should be here very soon. Now, if we could please continue. You claim that you were taken to CIA earlier today?”
“No, I said that two CIA men were in Cord's room and asked me to go with them.”
“But you didn't go with them?” Johnson sounded confused.
“No, I did go with them.”
“To CIA headquarters?” Interjected Smith.
“Well, no.” She wondered how much to say about her little adventure.
Damn! What if they really were CIA? I can't exactly say I decked them and left them in the car.
“So where did you go, Mrs. Alexander?” Johnson asked, his confusion evident at this point.
“Well, we really didn't go much of anywhere. There was an accident, and so…”
“An accident? What kind of accident?”
“Well, it was just an accident, you know? I mean one minute we were driving along and the next thing I know I’m on the street. I don't know how to tell you what happened. I just know that I took the subway, went to Tom’s office, and you know the rest of the story.”
“Mrs. Alexander, perhaps you could just clear up a few details,” Johnson was saying when she decided that she didn't want to say anymore. She slumped against Samuels on the sofa, pretending to be suddenly overcome with anxiety and fatigue.
Morgan put her hands over her face and allowed Samuels to put his arm around her shoulder as she made small whimpering sounds into her hands. “I…” She sobbed as she spoke. “…I'm sorry.” That was followed by more sniveling.
Samuels patted Morgan's shoulder compassionately, “Sir,” he spoke to Johnson. “Perhaps we should call it a day. Mrs. Alexander is obviously exhausted.”
Johnson agreed and stomped out of the room and Smith followed. Behind her hands, Morgan released a sigh of relief.
Chapter Six
Washington, D. C.
“You know I do not tolerate failure.”
The man tied to the straight-backed wooden chair started to babble incoherently due to swollen and split lips. He was silenced with a punch to the face that had blood spraying and his head whipping to one side.
The man delivering the blow stepped back as a tall man approached, the same man who had spoken of failure, Victor Vinsetti. He held a Sig Sauer P227 Tactical with a suppressor in his right hand. Victor had selected that particular handgun from his arsenal, not because of performance but simply because he liked the look of it.
With tears flowing from his swollen eyes, the helpless man looked up beseechingly. This part of the game was of particular appeal to Victor, seeing the terror in his victim’s eyes and knowing that the man would promise anything to earn a reprieve.
The fear of others filled Victor with pleasure almost as powerful as sex. This was the most intoxicating form of foreplay imaginable, and he reveled in it.
“Do you know how many bullets this weapon holds? Ten rounds. With that, I could shoot both your knees, your feet, hands, and shoulders. That’s eight rounds. That leaves two. Two more bullets. Let’s see. Where is best to use them? An abdominal shot perhaps? Yes, that would work. But that leaves one more round.
“Let’s consider. What would a man fear the most? Being shot in the penis? Yes, that’s particularly horrifying, isn’t it? To have your dick shot off. I imagine by then you’d have little voice to scream, but you would want to.
“Then I could stand here and watch you bleed out. Or, I could spare you that agony and simply put a bullet in your brain. Perhaps I should leave the choice to you. Ten shots or one? If you choose one, then simply open your mouth.”
He waited, watching the man’s eyes. It didn’t take a psychic to know what was going on in the man’s head. He’d be clinging to any shred of hope that he could survive this, that Victor would change his mind. Terror would have him ready to soil his pants, to scream and beg and plead for his life.
And in the end, when he looked at Victor, he’d see in Victor’s eyes that all hope was gone. He had two options, and both led to death. It was merely a matter of how much he wanted to suffer before he took that final breath.
Victor smiled as the man’s split lips parted. “There, that’s it. Wider.”
With an erection rising in his pants, he pressed the barrel of the suppressor into the man’s mouth. “Look at me,” he ordered. “Into my eyes.”
When the man complied, two things happened. Victor fired the weapon, and as the back of the man’s head exploded in a shower of blood, brains, and bone, he ejaculated.
For a few moments, he stood there, allowing the aftermath of the orgasm to fade. Then he handed the weapon to the man standing by his side and gestured toward the body. “Dispose of that.”
He gave no thought to how the disposal would be carried out or whether the mess would be cleaned adequately. His money and ruthlessness insured that it would be handled in such a fashion as to leave no trace and no path back to him.
Victor gave his victim one final smile, turned and left the room. He went to his private suite and disrobed, leaving his clothes where they fell on the floor. After a leisurely shower, he took his time getting redressed.
He hummed and watched his own image in the mirror. With a smile of satisfaction at what the mirror reflected, he smoothed back his sleek dark hair and brushed absently at a speck of lint on the lapel of his Italian silk suit.
He gave his reflection a parting smile then the suite and descended a large curving staircase of polished mahogany. Nothing disturbed the quiet. The thick pile of the carpet absorbed whatever sound his footfall might have yielded. At the base of the staircase, he deferred his entrance into the room that lay just a few feet ahead. A murmur of voices came from within the room, and he could pick up bits of conversation that flowed among the occupants.
A smile slashed across his face as he listened to what was uppermost on their minds. They speculated on what would happen to the man upstairs, each venturing to guess what Victor's reaction would be. Victor, he mused, as he heard his name uttered more than once. No one would dare take such liberty to his face.
Bored with eavesdropping, he stepped into the open doorway. Like rabbits catching the scent of a wolf, the people in the room abruptly fell silent. Heads turned almost as if controlled by one mind. All eyes regarded him in fear.
Victor made his way across the room. He made a mental note of those who quickly stepped out of his way with eyes downcast in servility. The smell of terror rose, and he inhaled it with the same appreciation he would sniff a rose.
He made himself comfortable upon a large ornate chair that stood alone on the far side of the room. From his coat pocket, he removed a slim case. All eyes moved to the case in his hand as he opened it. More than one exhale of relief could be heard as he extracted a slim cigarette and lit it.
"Be seated.” He commanded lazily in effortless French, the one language everyone assembled spoke.
Those present quickly took a seat in the nearest available chair. Once everyone was in place, thirteen in all, Victor looked out over the crowd and seized a young dark-complexioned man with his gaze. "Your assigned partner has been terminated.”
He saw the young man's olive skin pale. "He has been under my authority far longer than you, Carlo. He knew well the price of failure. However, you, you are younger, less experienced. As a demonstration of benevolence, I give you the opportunity to explain to me, sparing no detail, however small, on the events of today. Your explanation will decide your fate."
Carlo stammered in his speech, fear breaking his voice. "I, I mean we," he began. He reverted to his native vernacular and continued in Italian. "That is Nick and me, we… “ He tried again but failed.
At a complete loss of composure, he trembled violently. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. Sweat poured in rivulets down his ashen face.
Victor smiled. So much for the cocky young man he had sent out this morning. "No problem, Mr. Vinsetti!” Carlo had jauntily replied to Victor's orders. "You want the lady snatched, you got it. Piece of cake.�
��
A recent addition to his American staff, Victor had taken Carlo as a favor to one of the members of Victor's organization. It was understood that a debt was now due to Victor, one he would claim when the need presented itself.
Carlo was young and handsome in a Latin manner. Aware of his own good looks, he fancied himself something of a ladies' man. He also had the misdirected notion that he was good with his fists. Therefore, the job of grabbing Morgan Alexander was right up his alley. At least that's what he thought.
“Carlo, relax. Tell me what happened.”
Carlo pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped his dripping face. He took a quick look around the room. Victor was pleased that no expressions of compassion, no smiles of assurance met Carlo’s searching eyes. Averted faces and downcast eyes carried a clear message. No one there would trade places with him. Not for all the riches in the world.
“Carlo,” Victor prompted softly. “I am not a patient man.”
“Yes. Yes, sir, Mr. Vinsetti!” Carlo hastily recounted the events. "We were in the hotel room when she got there. Boy was she surprised to find us there. Mad, too. She started yelling at us about who we were and where her husband was. She was boiling! But Nick convinced her that we were with the CIA and that she was in danger, so she should come with us. Those fake ID’s Cassie had made for us really did the trick. Then we left. No, wait a minute; first, she went to the bathroom, then we left. She was really upset. Just kept asking us over and over, ‘Is he okay’ or ‘Are you sure he's all right?’ and we did a real good job, real professional like. Nick saying stuff like, ‘Everything is under control,’ and ‘We'll explain everything when we get to headquarters.’
“So anyway, we were riding along, and everything was just fine. Then just when we got to Washington Circle, she leans up and asks real nice like if either one of us had any cigarettes. So, I pull out my smokes and offer her one. She takes the smoke and sticks it in her mouth, and I heard this pop, and suddenly Nick's falling over limp as a noodle. I turn my head to look at her and the next thing I know two cops are pulling me outta the car, telling me they’re taking us in for drunk driving. That's what happened, all of it. God as my witness, Mr. Vinsetti.”
