Toxic Blonde

by David Stever

  Nothing, no sounds, only the occasional creak of an old house. I listened for voices, a television, snoring—anything to tell me someone else was here.

  What if I am alone? What if they tied me up here and are not coming back? Three days without water, I’m dead.

  I had to calm myself and think. I took in some deep breaths, scanned around the basement, hoping to spot something…anything.

  A movement on the floor across from me. A mouse.

  Are you serious, God?

  I watched him duck between several cartons. A minute later, he came back out, sniffed the air, scurried toward the furnace. Did he pick up my scent yet? The hair stood on the back of my neck.

  C’mon, Delarosa, a mouse?

  I decided to slowly remember any and everything in the room. An old bow saw, the kind for cutting small tree branches, hung on a pegboard on the wall behind the workbench. The taut ropes held my legs apart; the only option was to pull on the ropes around my wrists. The house was old and I might be able to work the eye screw loose. I began with my right hand and it hurt like hell, but I got up a rhythm and yanked and pulled, the rope cutting deeper into my wrist with each effort. My heart pounded; my chest heaved; sweat rolled down my back, my face, off my forehead and into my eyes. I blinked it out and looked back up to the eye bolt. Nothing.

  I switched to my left arm and jerked on the rope as hard as I could, straining, clenched teeth grinding through the pain in my wrist, determined not to quit until the goddam bolt pulled from the wood.

  I stopped.

  Footsteps on the floor above me. Did I miss someone come in because of the noise I was making?

  Then, a voice.

  Keira.

  44

  The footsteps traveled back and forth across the wooden floor above me while she spoke, in Russian, or some Eastern European language. It was not English, and in my current predicament, it didn’t matter whether it was Martian. I only heard her voice so I figured it was a phone call, and from what I could determine, she was not happy. Regardless the language, a man could always tell when a woman was upset.

  The call ended, and then silence. No movement. What was she doing? Sending a text? After what seemed like an eternity passed, the footfalls resumed, moving to my left. A door creaked and a light clicked on in the stairwell. Black boots came down the steps.

  She dressed for the part, black everything. Boots, jeans, and T-shirt. She stopped a few feet in front of me, crossed her arms over her chest and smiled. “Mr. Rhodes. You are certainly in a bit of a situation.”

  “You want to cut me down and explain what this is about?”

  “You lied to me. Imagine my surprise when I find out your name is Delarosa and you’re a private investigator.”

  “No idea what you are talking about. Cut these ropes.”

  “An amateur try at best. You were convincing, but way out of your league. You stepped out of your safe, cozy world of background checks and cheating husbands, and decided to swim in the deep end and look what happened. You’re hooked like a mackerel ready to be gutted.” She came closer and put her hand on my chest. “Handsome man, though.” She traced her hand from my chest to my stomach, took a step back and studied everything below my navel. “Not bad, for an American.”

  “What do you want, Nadia?” No sense in keeping up the Rhodes fiasco.

  “Nadia? Well, your friends did some digging.”

  “They’re on their way.”

  “Johnny—can I call you Johnny?—that’s cute. We both know they’re not coming. They’ll never find you—hell, even I got lost finding this place. The rats will get to your carcass before the FBI does.”

  “What do you want?”

  She walked to the workbench and picked up a screwdriver and pointed it at me. “It is not what I want, it’s what I need. Can you help me with what I need? Huh, Johnny?”

  “Sure. Cut me down and we’ll work it out. Whatever you need.”

  “A desperate plea from a man a precarious position.”

  “Let me help you. I’ll tell the FBI you want a deal.”

  “A deal? You talk like I committed a crime.”

  “Where’s Mary Ann Bellamy, and Ainsley? And my assistant, Katie?”

  “Are you serious? First, I don’t know any Katie. Second, I would not waste my time on the little twit Mary Ann. And poor Mr. Ainsley, the crazy old coot. Time for the old folk’s home before he embarrasses himself.”

  “Are you holding them in this house?”

  She smiled, pulled the bow saw off the wall and held it up. “I could untie you, but what I planned is so much more fun.”

  “Not too late. Let’s talk about the options before you’re in too deep.”

  “Options?” She rummaged around on the workbench and came back to me with the saw in one hand and a pair of pliers in the other. “The options are whether to crush your balls or cut them off. Any preference?”

  The muscles in my arms ached. Sweat dripped off my face, and rolled down my back. “Decision I prefer to avoid. What do you want from me?”

  She tossed the saw into a corner, then wiped the sweat off my brow with one finger, stuck it in her mouth and sucked, and then wrapped her arms around my neck and whispered into my ear. “Tell me that wasn’t sexy.” She slapped my butt with the pliers. “The problem is, they say I have a sadistic streak.” She stepped back to face me again. “Maybe I do, but I think of it as a way to create respect. Keep your enemies off-balance, right?” She opened the pliers and put them around Little Johnny and gave a slight squeeze. A shiver ran up my spine. “Oh, that would hurt, huh?”

  “You don’t want to do this.”

  “You’re not having fun?” She removed the pliers, but cupped my balls in her hand and squeezed. “I like a man who has balls. You weren’t afraid to take a chance.” I gasped, my chest heaved, my heart pounded. “But you deceived me, and I do not appreciate being played.”

  Think, man. Think.

  She squeezed harder.

  Oh God…please…

  “Ainsley,” I said. “It was all about Ainsley. The FBI wanted to separate you from Bellamy and offer you a deal. I can explain.”

  She let go. “Funny what motivates a person. Go ahead, explain.”

  “Mary Ann hired me to get proof of your affair. Then Ainsley showed up in my office wanting me to investigate you. He had complained to Washington about you and Bellamy and the DOD was concerned he was a loose cannon with important technology on the line. So the feds wanted you and the technology, but didn’t want Bellamy and Ainsley. So they enlisted me to gain your trust and make a deal.”

  “Sounds far-fetched to me.”

  “The last thing they wanted was for Nadia Ivanovich to escape with the technology, so the offer was witness protection, keep you in the country, and continue your work here.”

  She threw back her head and laughed; clapped her hands in applause. “Isn’t it amazing how creative the human mind can be when placed under extreme duress?”

  “All true. Not in my best interest to lie right now.”

  “Here’s the problem: I don’t believe you. If the FBI finds me now, I’ll be arrested for what, espionage? Why? I haven’t stolen any technology, haven’t revealed any secrets.”

  “I’m your only way out.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but you deceived me once, and you won’t deceive me again. So now I need to punish you. I will leave you here to die of thirst and starvation, but I first have to punch back. Personality flaw of mine.”

  “The goal was to protect you, but you abducted three people—four, including me. Now the feds don’t know what to think.” She leaned against the workbench with her arms folded across her chest. “Keira. This is not going to end well for either of us. Get out of this while you can,” I said.

  “I’m tired of talking. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

  She went upstairs and made another phone call.

  Eric, please. Triangulate. Do we have her number?
r />   I never dreamed I’d go out like this. I always thought a bullet would drop me in the street. Some random punk in a stakeout gone bad, or a routine investigation that goes sideways. Never tied up, naked, in the basement of some house, at the hands of a deranged woman.

  She would not believe anything I said, so I only had one choice and that was to attack: go on the offensive—thanks, Eric.

  The call ended and she came back downstairs with her black bag over her shoulder.

  I’m in trouble.

  “Did you miss me?” she said. “You’re almost right about one thing, though. This will not end well for you, because, unfortunately, you became a loose end.” She took a .32 Beretta from her bag and held it up. “Nah, no fun in that.” She put the pistol back in the bag and pulled out her stun gun and held it in front of my face. “Much more fun. It also feeds my addiction.”

  “They abandoned you. Forsaken by your own people. They should have exfiltrated you long ago with the technology, but you screwed up. Your handlers were unhappy with your affair with Bellamy and they turned their back. You have no way out. You became the loose end.”

  “Quite an imagination, Mr. Delarosa.”

  “True, isn’t it? The irony is, I’m giving you a safe exit and you won’t take it.”

  The once sparkling blue eyes turned to cold blue glass, as if her inner demon now came to the surface and transformed her into the monster she was.

  She came close, looked me in the eye, waved the stun gun in front of my face, gave me a wink, and with one quick motion, stuck the gun under my balls…and fired.

  The current of electricity shot through my body in milliseconds. My head jerked back as I screamed and my entire body shook in a violent tremor. Tears streamed down my face, mucus gushed from my nose, and I began an uncontrollable cough that ripped at my lungs and throat.

  “My favorite part is watching the reactions. Most men curl up into a ball and scream. But I usually don’t tie them up, so I rather enjoyed seeing you twitch and shake with no control over your own body.”

  The coughing stopped and my eyes slowly focused. “Katie. Where is she?”

  “Who is Katie?”

  “The girl who works for me, you sadistic bitch.” I screamed and yanked the ropes, straining every muscle in my arms and legs.

  “No idea what you are talking about. Maybe she ran away?”

  “Where the hell is she!” I was out of my mind, livid, panicked, in pain. I pulled so hard the ropes cut into my wrists and blood trickled down my arms.

  “I’ll keep an eye out, and if I see her, I’ll tell her you were asking for her. But, unfortunately, the next thing you’ll see will be the rats waiting to have you for breakfast.”

  She slammed the stun gun into my groin again and fired.

  My head jolted back in a scream.

  Darkness swallowed me.

  45

  I awoke to a tickle on my right foot. The mouse sniffed at my toes. I shook my leg and he scurried off. The good news: I was alive. The bad news: I was still strung up and left for dead. My arms ached, numb, the blood drained; my groin burned and stung, my legs throbbed, the muscles stretched and strained.

  My bladder must have let go. There was a puddle under me on the concrete, and it smelled like the floor of a gas station bathroom. Two mice would run out to the puddle, decide whether it was something they wanted, and then scamper back under the stairwell. Daylight appeared in the small window on the opposite wall. Dawn? Did I hang here all night? Did I sleep or did I black out with the second shock? I could not believe she didn’t kill me, but I realized she was killing me. She hung me out to die and let my body rot. She was right: the rats would devour me before I was found. I figured I had two days left. So thirsty…my throat dry, as if I swallowed a bucket of sand. Two days without water would leave me weak, emaciated, and waiting in line for St. Peter.

  Time to make my final confession? No, I decided. Not yet. As long as I was breathing, I had a chance, and the only thing I could do at the moment was the most important—I prayed.

  My days as an altar boy at St. Anthony’s flashed through my mind. I don’t know why, but I remember it as a happy time. I had an active, healthy childhood in an Italian-American family and serving at Mass was both an honor and a privilege. I’m sure I grumbled plenty at having to serve the 6:30 a.m. daily Mass, but now I recited every long-forgotten prayer filed away in my memory.

  A minute passed, or an hour. I don’t know. I kept telling myself to think through the angles and work on a plan. Stay alert, think. Not the time for my brain to turn to delirious mush.

  The sound of footsteps above me broke me from my ponderings. Two pair. One heavier than the other. They walked through the house, not talking. Were my prayers answered? Were Quade and Ortiz upstairs, or was it the two Russians coming to finish the job? The footfalls stopped at the stairwell, the door opened, and my heart pounded as they came down the stairs.

  “Johnny, holy shit.” It was Mike, with Eric behind him. Mike had his Glock in his hand. “What the hell—”

  My throat so dry the words barely made it out. “Saw by the workbench.” Eric found it and they cut the ropes and lowered me to the floor. “Oh Jesus. My arms.”

  “PI Dude, you okay?” They massaged my arms to bring them back to life. “Where’s your clothes?”

  “Water.” It came out as a whisper.

  “Eric, go up and see if you can find some clothes and water,” Mike said.

  “By myself?”

  “Fine, here.” Mike took a second gun from his ankle holster and handed it to Eric. “Anyone comes down those stairs and it’s not me, shoot them. Try to find something to cover him up.”

  Mike went up the stairs. Eric rummaged through several of the boxes, finally finding a few bath towels. He knelt down and covered me with one and rolled another into a pillow. “You all right?” I shook my head.

  A door opened and closed above us. Footsteps padded across the floor, lighter than Mike’s. Eric looked at me, I looked at the gun in his hand, and tried to nod my head. He swiveled around beside me and faced the stairwell with the gun held in front of him.

  The footsteps crossed the floor several times. All went quiet for a minute, then water ran through the pipes. Someone was in the kitchen or a bathroom. The steps resumed.

  The heavy pistol shook in Eric’s hands. I reached out with a numb arm and lowered his hands to the ground. If someone other than Mike came down to the basement, he had plenty of time to aim and fire.

  “Hey…” A male voice upstairs…a loud grunt and a hard thud. Sounds of a scuffle…voices went back and forth…another crash. Then all went silent.

  Eric inched backward until his body touched mine. If what happened upstairs went against us, he needed as much reassurance as possible.

  The door at the top of the stairwell opened and Mike hurried down the stairs. “We got to get out of here.” He had clothes with him and a bottle of water. He sat me up and put the water to my lips. “Sip it.”

  They pulled a pair of sweatpants on me and a T-shirt and squeezed my feet into sneakers a size too small. The water began to bring me back to life and they slowly helped me up. “How did you find me?” My voice was raspy, but it worked.

  “The boy wonder here found Victor Mackey’s name on a company that owns this farm.”

  “We’re on a farm?”

  “Thirty miles west of Port City. We took a chance, parked about a quarter mile down the road and walked up. We watched the blonde go into a big garage behind this house.”

  “She took a stun gun to my balls.” Both men recoiled back as though I were contagious. “I need to kill her.”

  “First things first, partner.”

  “She has a weapon, too,” I said. “Katie and Mary Ann got to be here somewhere.”

  “My guess is the garage,” Mike said. “Here.” He handed me a 9mm Ruger. My arm was so weak I could hardly hold it. “Courtesy of my friend upstairs. We go out the front and around to the left
. It will put the house between us and the garage until we figure out an approach.”

  I nodded. “Quade?”

  “Thirty minutes behind us. We called him after we saw the blonde. He was none too happy but he’ll live. Enough talk. We got to move before they come looking for their man.”

  “Wait,” Eric said. “I...I’m not sure about this. I never shot a gun before.”

  “Let’s hope you won’t have to, but if you do, aim for the chest and squeeze. Just don’t shoot either one of us.”

  Eric’s skin went pale, his hands trembled, and his eyes wet. “It…this is real shit…and—”

  “Hey.” I put a hand on his arm. “Stay beside me, do what we say, and do not make a sound. You’ll be fine.”

  He nodded. I didn’t know whether he would be fine or not, but we had no choice.

  Mike led the way up the stairs. I was slow, one step at a time, my legs sore but moving. I stopped and glanced back at my torture chamber.

  Yeah, I needed to hurt her real bad.

  46

  We huddled against the right side of the house—if looking in from the road. It was surrounded by a lawn and had a driveway that came in on the left side and wrapped around to the back. The garage was actually a modern cinder block barn with a corrugated metal roof, a roll-up door in the center, large enough for tractors and harvesters, and a standard door off to the side. Forty yards of open space separated the house and the barn, which would leave us exposed and vulnerable if we decided to approach.

  Keira’s Mercedes sat beside the barn and we could only assume she was in there with—I hoped—Katie, Mary Ann, and George. Mike incapacitated one Russian; where was the other—standing guard over the hostages? How many other comrades did she have with her?

  “Now what?” Eric asked.

  “Do not talk. We need to think,” I said.

  Mike was always the voice of authority in a crisis, with a command presence many of the men in blue learned to respect. I had been side-by-side with him many times in situations just as dangerous and he was a natural leader: bold, fearless, and rarely betrayed by his instincts.