by Lila Dubois
And time was running out.
Chapter Three
This time Karl heard the door and alerted her, calling out her name loud enough that she could hear it over the sound of the water and her own chattering teeth. She was swaying from exhaustion and cold. Karl had been talking to her for hours. It had helped, at the beginning, but now she couldn’t focus on anything but her physical suffering.
Six was wearing a different shirt—another football jersey, this one white with a red number six on it. He was carrying an IV bag and some tubing. When he’d snatched her, she’d fought him, and had almost gotten away—until he’d jammed a needle into her leg. Whatever drug he’d used had knocked her out. She thought maybe he’d re-dosed her once or twice on their way to this hellhole.
If he drugged her, she wouldn’t be able to stay standing. She’d collapse and strangle herself.
She looked at Karl. It was horrible and selfish, but she was glad he was here. Glad she wouldn’t die alone with only her murderer to witness the end of her life.
Six stopped beside Karl, then looped the IV bag of clear fluid onto a little hook on a piece of wood sticking up from the back of the chair. It was the same board that Karl’s head was strapped to.
Leila choked back a whimper. If Karl died first, she’d be all alone with Six.
She should be formulating an escape plan, but she was just so cold. And so tired. Besides, a tiny voice said, you failed to fight him off when he first took you. Now you’ve been drugged, beaten, chained like an animal. What hope do you have?
Six picked up an IV needle and casually jabbed it into Karl’s chest. Then he connected the needle to the bag with ungloved fingers. Karl winced when the IV started.
“What is that?” she demanded.
Six looked at her, his gaze skimming down her body. “Shut up, bitch.”
That pissed her off, and the anger muted her fear. “What is it? What are you giving him?”
“I told you to shut up. Maybe I will cut out your tongue.” Six patted Karl’s cheek while speaking to Leila. “You were a bitch and made me leave him alone too long. Now he is sick. I need him well.”
Leila tried to read the printed writing on the bag, but the distance and water spraying down over her face made that impossible. Was it medicine or poison?
Six turned to her and she held on to her anger—her shield against the fear.
He walked over, keeping just outside the range of the water, and smirked at her. “A dirty bitch like you needs to get clean.”
Leila locked her knees and tipped her head back, forcing a smile as she let the water fall on her face.
“Watch out!” Karl yelled.
Leila jerked her chin down and dodged to the side as Six kicked at her legs.
She managed to stay on her feet, though her knee screamed in pain where he’d kicked her, and she had to fight the urge to bend that leg. If she did, she might lose her balance.
“You said you would kill us in a way the world hadn’t seen before.” Karl’s voice held a note of desperation. Despite that, his ploy worked.
Six turned away from her to look at Karl. “I will.”
“What does that mean?”
“They will remember me.”
“Is that what’s important to you?”
“To hear your name spoken in fear. That, my friend, is power.”
Leila got her feet back under her. The adrenaline now pumping through her was enough to keep her upright and to help her focus.
“You mentioned a third,” Karl said. “A third what?”
“It is best to kill in threes.”
“Best?”
“The ritual. The symbol. Perhaps they will think I am the devil.” Six laughed, hands on his hips, upper body rocking back and forth.
While Six laughed, Karl and Leila exchanged a glance. He hadn’t mentioned a trinity, or the Masters’ Admiralty, which seemed…odd.
Six abruptly stopped laughing and walked over to the faucet. Leila held her breath, trying not to hope. The valve squeaked and the water pouring over her paused to a trickle, and then stopped. She bit her lip and closed her eyes to hold back a sob of relief.
“Leila,” Karl said sharply.
She looked up, then closed her eyes and turned her head to the side.
She moved just in time to mute the blow when Six slapped her. He grabbed a handful of her soaking-wet hair and yanked on it. Her scalp throbbed, and she wondered if he’d ripped out chunks of her hair. It felt like he had.
“Maybe I strap you up?” Six shook her using the grip on her hair. “Keep you still. Then you won’t fight me.”
“I’ll switch places with her,” Karl said immediately. “Hit me, not her.”
“No. When she is in pieces, I will make you help me carry her.” Six held her head still and mashed his lips to hers. She tried to bite him, but he pulled back before she could.
He released her and turned to Karl. “You are feeling better now? There is food and water in the bag. Not poison. I don’t like the poison. Nothing to see.”
Leila looked at the bag, able to see better now. The writing was in a language she didn’t know.
“Why are you trying to make me feel better?” Karl asked. The site where the needle was jabbed into him was red and swelling, as if the fluid was pooling under the skin. Six apparently didn’t realize it needed to be inserted into a vein.
“So you can help me.” Six walked over, looked at the bag, then patted Karl’s cheek. She saw a muscle in Karl’s jaw clench. The band around his forehead securing him to the post at the back of the chair was pressed so hard into his skin, she could see the indentation from here.
Six walked toward the door. She held her breath, but her luck didn’t hold. He turned on the water before walking out and closing the door.
Leila whimpered as the shower resumed. But it wasn’t as bad as it had been. The water wasn’t on all the way. She sagged in relief, but that was short-lived. She was already shivering again.
She had to focus on something, anything else. A few things Six had said gave her an idea of who he might be.
If she was right, they were in deep, deep trouble.
“He mentioned dogs. Three of us. He’s going to make me help carry you…” Karl looked ill.
And from the sounds of it, he was thinking the same thing she was.
Leila stepped as far to the side as she could and frowned. “What do you know?”
“I know that a married trinity in Rome was murdered, and one was torn apart by dogs. One dismembered while still alive. And one was forced to help carry the bodies to where they were staged.”
“Why do you know that? That information shouldn’t have been released to the public.”
“I’ve been helping with the investigation into the Domino.”
“You think Six is the Domino?” she asked. She didn’t think so, but wanted to know what Karl thought. Oh, Six was definitely connected to the Domino, to everything that had been happening recently, but she was betting he was yet another apprentice.
“It would make sense if he was, but…” Karl shook his head. “It’s almost like Six doesn’t even know about the Masters’ Admiralty. He hasn’t made any references. Even when he mentioned a third, he didn’t talk about a trinity marriage.”
“If he’s not a member, then why did he decide to kidnap us…two members of the Masters’ Admiralty?”
Obviously, Karl had come to the same conclusion she had. “Because someone else is pulling the strings.”
“The Domino,” she whispered.
Antonio stopped at the end of the long driveway and considered his next move. According to the GPS, the house, hidden behind trees, was about half a mile away. Given the dirt road he’d just traversed to get here, along with the lack of houses in the vicinity, his gut told him this was the right place.
The desolate area would appeal to hermits, which Ciril’s uncle appeared to have been, and kidnappers. If Ciril had brought Karl and Leila here, no one would be the wiser.
He considered checking in with his security minister, but dismissed the thought. He was here on a hunch. Lorenzo Ricci required actionable intelligence. Because the security officers were only called to act in the most dire of circumstances, Lorenzo only deployed them when he, or Giovanni, had no reservations about giving the kill order.
The question was…did he leave the car here and approach stealthily on foot, or wait for dark and approach without headlights on the off chance a hasty escape was necessary?
It was still a few hours until dusk, and Antonio couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to act now.
His other option was to simply walk up to the front door under the guise of an appraiser, come to prepare the house for sale. The problem with that was he didn’t know how twitchy Ciril’s trigger finger might be.
Antonio recalled the crime scene photos from the cave. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the mutilated bodies. The person who’d killed Christina, Nazario, and Lorena was calm and calculating, someone who took pleasure from causing pain, not ending life. But he was also canny and patient.
Taking all that into consideration, Antonio erred on the side of caution—or paranoia—and decided to proceed under the assumption that there might be security measures or traps set along the road. That meant he was walking in, which carried its own risks.
Unwilling to wait until dark, he pulled the car off to the side of the road, pointing in the direction that would take him back to the highway in case a pursuit arose. Tucking his Glock in the back of his jeans, he lifted the denim to make certain his Yarborough steel knife was secure in his ankle sheath.
Walking parallel to the drive, but concealed by the trees, he approached slowly, taking in his surroundings. Sure enough, when he was about a hundred meters from the house, he spotted the thin fishing line that crossed the drive. At first glance, it appeared to be an alarm trip wire, used for warning, not harm, the wire probably attached to a sound grenade.
Then he spotted something in the trees.
Antonio blew out a long breath when he was able to make out the rock swing covered with spikes. Had he elected to drive down the dirt road, he would have been greeted by not only an ear-piercing alarm, but his windshield would have been smashed by the booby trap.
Antonio slowed his pace, gingerly testing each step in case he encountered more trip wires or even a snake pit.
Halting just at the edge of the tree cover, he glanced around for the Fiat. Part of him had expected—hoped—to find it parked out front. There were no cars visible. However, there was a semi-detached garage at the back left corner of the very old, ramshackle two-story house. No doubt if the stolen car was still in his possession, Ciril stashed it there to keep it out of sight. An easy task considering the garage—more shed, really—had no windows.
The yard was in a state of serious neglect, only weeds growing up amidst the dark, dry earth. Everything on the property appeared to be painted in a thin layer of red dust. The front porch was sunken in, the second step broken down the middle.
The place was eerily silent.
Antonio scouted the area, using the trees to conceal him as he circled the house, searching for the best place to approach. The detached garage provided the most cover for his approach, but even from his vantage point, he could see the padlock on the door. Ciril had done an excellent job defending his hideout. The only way into the house that Antonio could see was through one of the six first-floor windows or the front door. And given what he’d encountered so far, Antonio wasn’t fool enough to believe those entry points weren’t secured or booby-trapped as well.
There were two small horizontal windows at ground level that seemed to indicate the house had a cellar or basement, but they were covered by something shiny, and far too tiny for Antonio to crawl through. The best offense was a good defense. Ciril had set himself up well.
But not well enough. From his vantage point, he could see an upstairs window was ajar. From its crooked angle, he could only assume the frame was broken and it was shut as far as possible. However, it remained open an inch or so. That inch was all he needed.
Antonio quickly retraced his steps, returning to his car with due haste, all while checking for any trip wires or booby traps he may have been lucky to skirt by the first time.
Opening his trunk, he pulled out the compact foldable ladder he kept there. It would extend to fifteen feet, more than enough to get him onto the roof of the garage. He kept the boot of his vehicle fully stocked with anything he might need to do his job—several lengths and types of rope, bolt cutters, crowbar, knives, guns, some more guns, extra rounds of ammunition, and the ladder.
Returning to the house, he moved slowly, taking advantage of the shadows produced by the late-afternoon sun as it dropped beneath the trees. Shielded by the garage, he slowly extended the ladder, then started to climb. Peering over the eaves, he was able to see directly into the window of what appeared to be a back bedroom.
Staying low, he crawled across the roof of the first floor toward the wall under the second-story window. Using his knife and a great deal of sheer brute strength, he was able to silently cut away paint and decades’ worth of buildup and pry the window open enough that he could crawl through. The act had taken longer than he’d have preferred, but moving slowly and methodically was the only way he could work quietly. Without knowing what he was up against in the house, Antonio knew surprise would work in his favor much better than storming in with guns blazing.
The room was bare except for a mattress on the floor and a beat-up dresser that had seen better days. The door to the room was closed.
There was the slightest creak when Antonio took his first step across the room.
Hardwood floors.
He hated hardwood floors.
Slowing his advance, it was a game of inches as he moved toward the door, using the perimeter of the room where the boards would squeak less, testing his weight on each step to minimize any sound he might make.
When he reached the door, he released a long breath, then listened. The inside of the house was as quiet as the outside.
Turning the knob, he drew the door open just enough that he could peer out into the hallway. Empty.
The room he was in was positioned at the back of the house and only about five feet from the top of the stairs. The house was silent enough that Antonio began to question whether Ciril was here. The upstairs was coated with its own layer of dust, this a pale white compared to the darker, richer red of the dust outside the house.
Continuing his slow, steady pace, he made it to the top of the stairs without incident. And that was when he heard it.
A door on the first floor, directly under him, opened and closed. Heavy, plodding footsteps. Water running, and then the clanging of glass, indicated the house’s occupant was in the kitchen.
Mercifully, whoever was in the house then turned on a television set. The sound of a news program—Antonio knew enough Croatian to pick out pieces of what the broadcaster was saying—offered some forgiveness as he made his way down the stairs. Apparently, the recent heatwave would continue throughout the week.
At the foot of the stairs, he took a quick scan of the first floor. It was a pretty standard-looking farmhouse. Two front rooms with large openings, no doors. The one to his right was serving as a pretty poor excuse for a dining room, containing three rickety-looking chairs he wouldn’t consider sitting on and a large roughhewn table that looked handmade by someone who’d never wielded a saw…or a hammer. It was covered with what appeared to be at least a decade’s worth of newspapers and magazines, and an even thicker layer of dust than what was coating the furniture upstairs.
The other room, the living room, certainly looked more lived in, dimly lit by one lamp on an end table. There were dirty dishes on every surface, a couple pairs of shoes scattered about, and the old TV, sitting on a spindly tray that appeared to be defying gravity as it held its heavy load. The couch was some faded olive green and gold reject fr
om the seventies, with stuffing falling out of both arms. The only halfway decent piece of furniture was a dark brown, much-used recliner.
Dishes rattled in the kitchen and it sounded like someone was making dinner.
Antonio pulled the Glock from the back waistband of his jeans and silently slipped the safety off. Proceeding as quietly as he could, he traversed the short hallway to the kitchen with his weapon pointed up.
The kitchen was brightly lit, allowing him to see a man’s back as he scrubbed something in the sink. The build and bald head were a match for Ciril Novak, and he was wearing a Croatian World Cup jersey with the number six on it.
Antonio’s luck gave out, and with the next step, a floorboard under his foot creaked, loud enough to be heard even over the sound of the TV.
Ciril spun, a large, sharp knife in his hand.
Chapter Four
Antonio straightened his arm, pointing the gun at the other man’s chest.
“Put the knife down.” He spoke first in Italian—as his native language, he always used it first—and then in halting Croatian. Antonio recognized Ciril from his photo.
He’d been told by family and friends alike that his deep, powerful voice could stop a grown man in his tracks. However, all he saw in Ciril’s eyes was a brief flash of surprise before it morphed into something that would have had a sane man running for the hills.
His eyes were both empty and full of…something. Madness? Evil?
Ciril’s features had appeared unremarkable in the images Antonio had pulled from the internet. He looked like any other football hoodlum who drank too much and got into bar fights. Even now he was unremarkable, except for the eyes.
That’s where the madness shone through.
Ciril smiled as he placed the knife on the counter and started to lower his hands.
Antonio was relatively sure he could fire off at least three shots before Ciril could reach anything that he could use against him.
“Keep them up. Where I can see them.” Antonio waved his gun, indicating Ciril should move away from the knife.
