He licked his lips causing her to almost gag in disgust as he drew a knife out from under his robes. He straddled her hips, leaning in with the knife, playing it over her forehead, then down her nose to the gag. He slid the knife under the cloth then jerked back, slicing it apart.
She yelped.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “You don’t want more of the household joining us, now do you?” he grinned as his tongue flicked at her now exposed mouth. “Or maybe you do?” He pressed his lips against hers as she squeezed her mouth shut, closing her eyes, refusing to let the humiliation overwhelm her. She knew she had to keep her wits about her if she were going to survive.
He placed his full weight on her, his arousal obvious, his hands beginning to explore her body. She kept twisting her head away from his, her eye on the knife as often as possible, until finally his overwhelming lust got the better of him.
He put the knife on the nightstand so he could begin to undress her with both hands.
She flipped her hands palm upward and moved them to her sides. He began to reposition himself, his lewd grin angering her even more. Her hands darted out from the sides, swinging up, the man’s startled expression bringing her the first bit of pleasure since the experience started. She boxed his ears hard, causing him to yelp, then with her left hand grabbed the knife while he was disoriented, burying it in his neck up to the hilt, cutting off any chance of his calling for help.
She twisted.
His eyes bulged, his hands flailing for the knife as she used it to push him off of her and onto the other side of the bed. A pool of crimson quickly stained the white sheets, spreading rapidly as his life fluid drained from him. She yanked the knife from his throat then jumped out of the bed. Wiping the blood off the blade and onto the sheets, she placed the knife on the nightstand, grabbed the pillow and tried to wipe all sense of his saliva off of her, then straightened her clothes so she could feel human again.
She was tired of being the victim.
Grabbing the knife, she searched him and found a single key on his person, a key she had to assume was a master key that opened everything. And a cellphone. Her heart skipped a beat as she gripped it in her hand. It was an iPhone 5S, so new it probably hadn’t even made it out of its first week. She pressed the button and the screen demanded a thumbprint.
She looked at the now dead man she had taken it off of, wondering if a dead thumb print would work.
He’s still warm.
She grabbed his thumb and pressed it against the sensor.
The phone unlocked and her mind flipped through everybody she could think of that she could call, and realized she knew almost no one’s phone number, almost all of her calls being done from her contacts list in her own phone.
Suddenly a number popped in her head only because it had an easy to remember sequence, and it had been recently mentioned by James.
Footsteps walked by the door and she froze, cursing herself for not locking it. They faded away and she tiptoed to the door, locking it with the key she had found, then turned her attention back to the phone.
And it too was now locked.
She pressed her assailant’s thumb against the sensor again then sent a quick text message so she wouldn’t be heard. She sent several more with as many details as she could provide, then found the setting to disable the thumb scanning. She slipped the phone into her pocket then went to the window to see if it was clear.
And the only person she saw was her beloved James, racing toward the vineyards.
Outside Gendarmerie Bourg-de-Four, Geneva, Switzerland
Dawson resisted the urge to look at his watch. He hated waiting. He was a man of action, or movement at least. Sitting in the driver’s seat of an SUV waiting made him antsy. He was used to it, somewhat, a major part of his job spent just waiting, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.
And it usually ended with him getting to blow something up or shoot at someone.
Today they hoped none of that would be necessary.
He looked at his watch.
“They’re late.”
“Certainly not operating like a fine Swiss watch,” agreed Niner, who Dawson was sure was equally on edge, his partner Jimmy one of the two of his team locked up.
Dawson activated his comm.
“Bravo Seven, report.”
Atlas’ voice boomed over the earpiece.
“Our hacked transfer order has been accepted and actioned,” he said as Spock climbed in the back of the SUV giving a thumbs up. “It looks like they’ve got some sort of mechanical failure on one of the vehicles that’s delaying things, over.”
“Gee, I wonder how that could’ve happened,” asked Niner as he eyeballed Spock.
Spock’s eyebrow climbed his forehead.
“Why look at me? It’s not my fault I only got through the first two pages of Oil Changes for Dummies.”
“BD, looks like they’re going to proceed with only two vehicles,” said Atlas, tapped into the security camera feeds from the other side of the Atlantic. “You should see them exiting the rear now.”
Dawson looked in his rearview mirror and saw the gates open and two paddy wagons pull out and turn toward their position, the gates slowly closing behind them.
“Which one has our guys?” he asked.
“Locater has them in the lead vehicle. A review of the footage confirms two inside with them plus a driver and shotgun. Rear vehicle has six in the back, two in the front.”
“Roger that,” replied Dawson as he pulled out into traffic, several vehicles behind the mini-convoy. “Bravo Two, report, over?”
Red’s voice came through on the comm loud and clear.
“We’re in position, over.”
Dawson glanced in the rearview mirror at his team, relaying his message to all listening.
“Remember, we want to keep casualties to a minimum.” He paused as they made a turn, the convoy still following the expected route. “Bravo Two, proceed when ready, over.”
“Roger that, out.”
Dawson was still several vehicles back of the convoy, Red’s not yet in sight.
“Coming up on your left,” came Red’s voice over the comm. Dawson looked and saw the silver BMW 335is convertible with Red and Mickey swing into view, top down, gunning it in the left lane then cutting in front of them. Dawson honked his horn and shook his fist. Mickey flipped him the bird as did Red who then looked at each other and laughed, darting back out in the left lane and jumping ahead of the two police vehicles. They suddenly braked, cutting in front, causing them all to jerk to a halt.
Dawson pulled up directly behind the second paddy wagon and threw open his door, marching past the two blocked vehicles toward the silver BMW and its two belligerent occupants.
“What’s the bloody idea!” he yelled with his near perfect Aussie accent. “Where’d you learn to drive, mate?”
“Oh piss off you limey bastard! Don’t you have a new baby or something to coo over?”
Somebody yelled something in French and they all turned to see the driver of the lead vehicle standing on the running board, half out of the vehicle, yelling at them to get out of the way.
Dawson dropped his head, raising his hands, apologizing as he made his way back to his SUV, the BMW’s tires lighting up behind him as Red peeled away. As Dawson passed the rear of the second vehicle he took a glance at the rear doors and smiled. Spock had had enough time to do his job, which was to exit from the passenger side of the vehicle at the same time Dawson did, but while all eyes were on the altercation at the front, he instead sprayed the seams of the rear doors of the second vehicle with an incredibly strong adhesive that would bind the two doors together long enough that the six armed officers in the back would be useless.
Now they were only dealing with six instead of twelve.
Unknown Location
James Acton’s feet shoved against the grass, his arms pumping at his sides as he sprinted as hard as his sore body could manage toward the vineyard and
possible freedom. As he approached he spotted an opening in the thick vines and made for it, bursting through to the other side. He dodged to the right then hit the ground, peering through the intertwined branches and at the house he had just left.
As he caught his breath he waited to see if anyone had spotted him. He could see no activity from the house and began to relax slightly, continuing to watch. Still nothing. He looked down the row of grapevines and saw another opening just a few feet down. He scrambled over and pushed through, again pausing. He couldn’t see the house through the two rows of vines so he assumed they wouldn’t be able to see him. Climbing to his feet, still crouching, he peered over the top of the row he was in and nearly choked.
Somebody was climbing out of the side window that had been opened. The slight frame suggested a woman, but the clothes had him crying out for joy, slapping his palms over his mouth as he did so.
Laura!
There was no doubt. He would recognize her across an ocean. He rushed back to the first row of grapevines and hit the dirt, crawling forward so his head was sticking out just enough to see her progress. She had made it to the ground and ducked behind some bushes, obscuring her from sight, but her bright white blouse still stood out, noticeable even from here.
And definitely noticeable to the two robed figures approaching the back corner of the house.
Milton Residence, St. Paul, Maryland
Gregory Milton dragged one foot forward, almost dropping it on the treadmill, then the other, repeating this tortuous routine over and over as the machine droned on at an impossibly slow pace. His recovery would be long and painful, but the doctors were shocked at his progress. When he had been shot in the back they had said he’d most likely never walk again, but they had been wrong.
He was supposed to have died that day, but he had survived, fate placing a doctor at the same gas station at the time of the shooting. Then the spinal surgeons had said he’d probably regain some feeling, but not mobility. Now they were all changing their stories and the possibility was now dangling out there that he might stage a full recovery.
He’d never forget the day those Delta Force men had arrived at his house to collect his best friend, James Acton. He had stood up in a rage, stunning everyone in the room, including himself.
His progress had been rapid since, his young daughter telling everyone her daddy was walking all the time now and was better.
And she was the reason he was putting himself through all this torture.
Her naïve observations were way off the mark, but that optimism and blind faith in her father the superhero gave him the strength to forge ahead. He didn’t know how long it would take, but he figured he had at least fifteen years before his daughter might marry, and he was determined to dance at her wedding.
He just hoped it didn’t take fifteen years.
The renewed optimism was what kept him going, what kept them all going. Plans to retrofit the house for a permanently disabled person were cancelled. They already had the ramp out front and the master bedroom had been moved to the main floor, the bathroom downstairs retrofitted to his needs, the second floor a distant memory. But the rest of the plans to make the entire house accessible had been cancelled after he had stood up.
Now there was hope, and despite the pain, the frustration, the aggravation, he did his physical therapy every day, without fail, no matter how rotten he felt.
And every day, there was a hint of progress.
He was a numbers man, so he recorded everything, and he could tell from week to week he was improving, even if it sometimes didn’t necessarily feel like it. His sense of feeling in his legs and feet continued to improve dramatically, he could go longer and farther every week on the treadmill, and he was starting to lose the gut that had started and regain the muscle mass in his legs, already a full three inches on each thigh.
He no longer cried when he saw himself naked in the mirror, his tiny legs getting skinnier with each month of inactivity, his stomach gaining an inch a month as he slowly gave up, silently suffering on his own, his family only seeing the brave face he put on when others were in the room.
But now there was a future in front of him, and he was fighting to reach that light at the end of the tunnel sooner rather than later.
And nothing would stop him from accomplishing his goal.
Milton looked up as his wife entered the room, holding up his cellphone. He frowned, not liking anyone to see him like this.
“You need to see this,” she said, holding up the phone.
“Not now,” he gasped as he kept plodding forward to nowhere.
She stepped forward and hit the big red Stop button in the center of the treadmill’s console.
“No, you need to see this, now.”
He gave her his “I’m not happy with you” glare then looked at the phone, a text message displayed on its screen. His eyebrows shot up as his jaw dropped.
“Help me to my chair,” he said, and Sarah came to his side. He draped his arm over her shoulder, she holding his back and he stepped off the treadmill and dropped unceremoniously into his wheelchair. He took the phone and quickly began to read.
Greg help us. James and I have been kidnapped. Trace this message.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered as he rolled himself to the kitchen. “Get me the phone,” he said and Sarah immediately grabbed it, placing it on the table in front of him. She also found a pad and pen for him before he had a chance to ask. He smiled at her gratefully.
“Have you read all these?” he asked.
“No, just the first one,” she said, sitting down.
“Here’s the second one,” he said, reading, “We went to Geneva to help Bravo Team then James and I were kidnapped. He thinks I’m dead so isn’t looking for me. If I don’t make it out of here, tell him I love him and was thinking of him.”
Tears rolled down Sarah’s cheeks as he fought his own. Jim was his best friend since college, and though he was Dean and Jim’s boss, they had remained incredibly close. This closeness meant they had also become very close with Laura as well. They were family and they were in trouble.
“There were three?” prompted his wife.
He nodded. “I just killed my captor. This is his phone. They are the Rosicrucians and are very dangerous. They killed Stucco and his family plus some people here including children. The main man seems to be Martin Lacroix from the World Bank. Don’t risk yourself just get in touch with Delta. They will know what to do. Love you guys.”
Sarah wiped her tears away with the back of her hand, then reached across the table and grabbed a tissue, blowing her nose.
“What are you going to do?”
“Make the same damned phone call I did last time this happened.”
“That took a long time if I remember.”
“Yes, but this time I know who to ask for by name.”
Mike “Red” Belme’s Residence, West Luzon Drive, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
Atlas grabbed the ringing phone off the table in front of him. At the moment it was just him and Donald “Sweets” Peters, Marco’s replacement after he had been killed during the Triarii business, manning their temporary Ops Center, Casey getting some rack time so they could be manned 24/7. Since the arrest of Jimmy and Jagger things had been tense as they tried to gather intel. Several of their “go to” guys had hacked the Swiss police system and as far as they could tell there had been an anonymous tip phoned in on men with weapons, and somehow the two professors had been “lost”. There was no record of them arriving at the police station, or being booked. And camera footage confirmed this. Internal reports had no explanation, but Atlas had no doubt they were taken by the Rosicrucians.
The question was why.
The professors had nothing to do with the incident in Geneva, and their abduction suggested anyone getting involved was now forfeit, there was some other reason the Rosicrucians wanted them specifically, or the Rosicrucians didn’t know who they had.
“Spe
ak,” his voice boomed.
“Hello, umm, this is Dean Gregory Milton. I was put through to this number so I’m not sure if I have the right person.”
Atlas’ eyebrows narrowed. He knew the name from somewhere, and it didn’t take a rocket surgeon to figure out it had to do with one of the two professors since this man had identified himself as a Dean.
“Let’s assume they got it right,” said Atlas. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m hesitant to speak over the phone, however I just received several emergency texts from the fiancée of one of my professors—”
“Professor Palmer?”
“Yes! Good, so I am talking to the right person, thank God! It sounds like they’ve been kidnapped.”
“They have. Do you have any information for me?”
“I have the phone number from where the texts were sent. With it maybe you’ll be able to trace where they were sent from?”
Atlas put the phone on speaker so Sweets could hear.
“You’re on speaker, sir. Please relay the information to my colleague.”
Milton quickly provided the phone number, along with the time of the texts then the actual contents. There was nothing really earthshattering, the intel merely confirming their hypothesis. But the phone number could prove invaluable in rescuing the professors, and finding where Lacroix might be at this moment.
“Got it,” said Sweets between chews of a trademark chocolate bar, his sweet tooth already legendary in The Unit. “The phone was in San Marino and as far as I can tell, is still pinging off the same tower.”
“Relay the coordinates to BD,” ordered Atlas. “Sir, thank you for the information. We’ll take it from here and have the professors contact you when we have them.”
“Thank you very much.”
Atlas ended the call and listened while Sweets passed the intel on to BD, their rescue op still underway.
“Good work,” came Dawson’s voice through the comm. “Relay the intel to Special Agent Reading. He’s on his way there now.”
The Circle of Eight (A James Acton Thriller, Book #7) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 19
