by Nick Thacker
He wasn’t in a position to fight back.
“Get the hell off me, man,” Reggie said. “I’m not going to ask you —”
He stopped, abruptly. Sarah saw the larger man leaning in over Reggie from behind him, standing behind the booth.
He was holding a gun to the back of Reggie’s head.
40
Sarah
“DO NOT TALK,” THE FIRST man said. “Or I will have Ivan blow a hole through your head.”
Reggie swallowed, his bulging eyes staring straight ahead.
Staring at her.
Sarah felt tears welling in her eyes. Everything she had been worried about, everything she had feared, was real.
It was real, and it was even worse than she could have imagined.
“Your father is fine,” the man said again, this time addressing Sarah directly. “Here is a picture.”
He tossed down a Polaroid image, the faint smack as it landed on the tabletop hitting Sarah’s ears at the same time the image came into focus.
Daddy.
It was her father, the same slightly bent, scrappy old guy that she’d known her entire life, sitting in a chair.
But his arms were slack, his hands sitting on his lap, and he was staring up and over the camera, toward something she couldn’t see.
“You see?” the man said. “He is not dead, or harmed.”
“What — who are you?” Sarah stammered.
“We are interested in uncovering what your father has been searching for,” the man said. “Do you have the artifact?”
Sarah started to respond, but Reggie spoke first. “Listen, asshole,” Reggie began, “you didn’t answer her —”
The guy with the gun smacked the butt of it against Reggie’s head. He shook, faltering, but then recovered and held a hand to his temple.
“We are not murderers,” the first man sad. “We only wish to expedite matters. It is in everyone’s best interest if you would simply allow us to continue our work without interference. Please, we need the artifact.”
“I’m not helping you,” Sarah said. She could feel the bulge in her pocket where the stone object waited. She wasn’t sure what she should do. Give it to them? It’s obviously more important than I understand. Perhaps it will help my father —
“Give us the artifact and your father doesn’t get hurt.”
She glared up at them. “No.”
“Your father warned us of that,” the man said. He kept his voice smooth, calm, as if they were two long-lost friends that had somehow found each other among the hustle and bustle inside the Santorini tourist trap and were catching up on old business. “He told us you would not cooperate. But I assured him that while we are hesitant — though prepared — to actually kill either one of you, we are more than happy to do whatever it takes to get the job done.”
Sarah looked around. There was a bartender behind the bar, a tall Greek man with curly black hair, dressed in an all-black suit and tie, helping two patrons at the far end of the bar. Two more, a couple on a date, sat near the entrance.
None of them so much as looked their direction.
“I am going to ask that you stand up slowly, follow me outside, and then get into our vehicle. It is not a difficult task, Ms. Lindgren. If your friend here gets in our way, we will shoot him. If he continues to interfere, we will kill you and just continue with only your father to help us.
“And then, when we finish our job, my employer will have your father killed anyway. So I suggest you cooperate.”
Sarah clenched her jaw. She fidgeted, staring back at Reggie.
His face was calm, but his eyes were in torment.
She wondered what he might be thinking. Was he armed? Had he been thinking about a situation like this, and had he prepared for it? What will he do after —
“Get up, Ms. Lindgren.”
Sarah felt the first tear roll slowly down her cheek as she rose from the booth. She noticed her leg swinging outward, onto the floor of the main bar area, and her arm reaching out to push herself up. She felt the cold, hard table, the unforgiving strength of it.
Strength she had no way to use.
She started walking, pulling herself forward with some sort of deep, hidden well of courage, her brain screaming the entire time. The man felt her sides, then reached into her pocket and withdrew the object. He smiled, then handed it to his partner. He then took her phone from her other pocket and slid it into his own.
At least he left it on, she thought. For now.
The first man spun and began walking toward the exit, smiling at the bartender and the patrons as he passed. Sarah couldn’t look at them. She was afraid to speak, to call out, and therefore afraid to even make eye contact, for fear that they would know what was happening and try to intervene and then cause Reggie to get —
The second man was behind her now, pushing her out the door. She felt the cool air of the lobby, then five steps later to the right and they were out in the humid, chilly Mediterranean air.
The second, larger man — Ivan — stopped. “We wait here for a moment,” he growled. “Maybe your friend will run after you?”
Sarah swallowed.
Please, Reggie, she willed, do not leave the bar. Please.
The man waited, standing just to the side of the door, holding Sarah’s arm in his left hand and hiding the gun behind her body with his right, pointing it toward the hotel’s entrance.
To the casual observer or passerby, they looked like two lovers enjoying a brief respite from the bright lights of the hotel interior, or a couple on a smoke break.
The first man was at the vehicle, a low, long boat-like Cadillac or something. She wasn’t positive what color it was, but it looked black. There was no front license plate for her to memorize.
The man in the car flicked on the brights, illuminating Sarah and her guard and the front doors, and Sarah knew anyone trying to leave would be immediately blinded as they exited.
Again, she prayed.
Please, Reggie. Stay inside.
“You go to the car,” the tall man said. “Now.”
She wasn’t about to argue, and she didn’t need to wonder about the consequences of her trying to run away, so she walked slowly to the passenger side of the vehicle and opened the door.
“Get in,” the first man said.
The second man waited by the door for a few more minutes, then turned and jogged to the vehicle and got in the back.
Sarah looked at the driver and saw a small, compact pistol in the man’s left hand, just beneath the window. He was watching the front doors, but Sarah felt his peripheral gaze directly on her.
“Okay,” the Ivan said from the back seat. “We’re good.”
The driver — the smaller man — nodded. “Looks like your friend made the right call, Ms. Lindgren. Please buckle your seatbelt. I do not want any accidents to ruin our night.”
She clicked her buckle and nodded.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
The man seemed to soften a bit as they hit the edge of the parking lot and sped up onto the main road. It was a small, two-way street that mirrored the coastline down below them, and Sarah’s side had a perfect view of the jagged cliff face next to her.
“To the office,” he said.
“Your office?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Why?”
“Because that is where your father is staying,” he said. “And we thought you might like to see him.”
41
Reggie
THINK, REGGIE.
HE THOUGHT.
He thought harder, and still there was nothing he could to change the situation.
His mind raced, his adrenaline pumping. He felt fresh, ready, as if he hadn’t had any alcohol in the past month.
That, of course, was far from the truth, and he wasted a moment wondering if his senses were somehow dampened by the booze he’d been consuming.
Of course not, he thought.
Alcohol certainly slow
ed his reaction time, but it didn’t slow his thinking. His mind was clear, ready to take action, but the problem was that he had no idea what he should be doing.
He’d waited until the trio — including Sarah — moved out into the lobby and rounded the corner. When he was safe from being spotted by the pair of kidnappers, he bolted up and out of his seat and toward the door.
The bartender had yelled something at him as he left, but he waved it off. He’d go back and pay the tab later. Besides, he’d figured, it would be on the CSO anyway, and they were all staying in the hotel.
He’d reached the lobby just in time to see the smaller man hustling to a car parked right in front of the hotel lobby. It was set up like a typical hotel building, with a covered dropoff area cordoned off directly in the front of the building, and the man’s car sat parked right between the two columns that held up the overhang, pointing over the shrubs and plants and directly into the lobby.
It’ll be a perfect way to blind anyone coming out, he realized. That means they’re going to be waiting for me. He didn’t need to see the second man and Sarah to know they would be waiting somewhere nearby, the larger man holding a gun out and waiting for Reggie to walk right into it.
Without even thinking twice about the situation he spun around and sprinted to the nearest exit sign he could find. It had been off the opposite side of the lobby, and he hurdled a couch and end table that stood in his way.
Upon reaching the hallway that led to the exit, he increased his speed and hit the door with his hip. It flew open, and for a moment he had been worried the glass might shatter, or that another hotel guest could have been on the opposite side of it.
But he didn’t slow down. He ran, now unimpeded by couches, end tables, guests, and glass doors. The parking lot wrapped around the hotel on two sides — this side and the front of the building, and he let his legs unravel all the way and sped on.
He’d reached the front of the hotel just in time to see the taller of the two men duck into the back seat and the car back away from the curb. He raced toward it, but it began crawling forward and toward the parking lot exit.
There was a license plate on the back of it that swung suddenly into view, visible only for a split second, but it was all he needed. He committed it to memory as the car pulled onto the small road and sped away.
He was fast, but no one was fast enough to chase down a car that didn’t want to be caught.
He grabbed his phone and typed in the license plate number to ensure he wouldn’t forget it, only then realizing how strange it seemed that a getaway vehicle even had a license plate in the first place.
Was it stolen? Reggie wondered. Perhaps the kidnappers had hotwired a vehicle before coming into the tavern? He saved the note on his phone, turned off the screen, and placed it back into his pocket.
The others would obviously want to know that Sarah had been taken, and he would tell them as soon as he could. But if there was any chance he could call in the stolen vehicle and get it on the record that it was carrying an American kidnapping victim, they might just have a chance at getting the jump on the criminals.
He pulled the phone back out and looked up the number for the local police. Finding it quickly, he pressed the link and the call connected.
He was breathing heavily, only now feeling the alcohol, exhaustion, and travel catching up with him.
Not to mention the fear.
He was terrified, even though he was running through scenarios in his mind, planning out contingencies and working through the options. He had been in this situation before, and he had come out every time the victor. There was no reason for Reggie to expect any different this time, except that this time the situation involved someone much closer to home.
The operator on the other end of the line picked up and answered in Greek. He paused, trying to collect his thoughts.
We’re not supposed to be here, and they don’t know — or care — who the CSO is.
The CSO had been involved in numerous exploits over the past year and had received international attention for its victories — and losses — but Reggie wasn’t naive. He knew that any PR love they’d received over the time the CSO had been operating would not translate into any favors from local law enforcement. The impression most people had of them was likely the equivalent of that of a well-known television personality. Reggie and the others were heroes, but the kind of heroes that get book deals and get interviewed on morning shows.
Not the kind of heroes that get to call in to the Santorini police department and order people around.
“I — I need a license plate lookup,” Reggie said.
There was a pause, then another few words in Greek.
I didn’t even think to get a Greek-English dictionary, he thought.
He tried again, but the woman on the other end was clearly not able to understand him.
He growled, frustrated, then shoved the phone in his pocket once again.
I’ll try the front desk, he thought. They should be able to translate.
He tried to think ahead to the next steps, the possible outcomes of every situation he could think up, but none seemed logical or plausible. He was a civilian in another country, trying to report a kidnapping without inviting too much scrutiny, as he knew that every local police force around the world all shared a common trait: they asked too many questions.
He wanted Sarah found, but he also wanted to find her kidnappers himself.
He had unfinished business with them.
As he walked into the hotel lobby, immediately bombarded by the brilliant white lights from the two fake chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, he saw Ben walking over.
“Hey buddy,” Ben said. “You okay? What were you doing outside?”
Reggie didn’t need a mirror to see what his face looked like — he could feel it, and he could see it reflected on Ben’s own face. “I — I was… Ben, Sarah’s gone.”
“She’s what?” Ben said. “I just came down to see if you were still here, thinking you might want a nightcap or something. Sarah’s gone? Where’d she go?”
“She was taken, Ben,” Reggie said, still struggling with the truth himself. He looked at his best friend, his eyes bloodshot, and he could almost see Ben’s understanding. Ben was morphing in front of his eyes, reading Reggie’s expression and nonverbal cues, taking it on, making it his own. Ben straightened up, growing a few inches, and his eyes narrowed, waiting for Reggie to explain so Ben could take off in the right direction and destroy whomever it was that was behind this.
Reggie continued, this time his emotions all hitting his lips at the same time. He didn’t care who heard; he didn’t care what he sounded like. The words fell out, one after another. “Two guys, armed, came into the bar, forced her to follow them, threatened me. I’m not carrying right now, but even if I was — they had a gun to my head, and they just came out of nowhere. One of them was named Ivan, I think. I tried to call the — I don’t know Greek, Ben, and I couldn’t understand what they — the guys didn’t look like military dudes, if you know what I mean, and they almost seemed nice about — or at least calm, you know — and I ran, but they were already —”
Ben reached out and squeezed Reggie’s shoulder. “Hey, hey. It’s okay, man. Settle down. You’re rattled. You’re not the kind of guy who gets rattled, okay? So just take a few breaths and look at me.”
Reggie nodded, listening to his friend. “Yeah, okay.” Ben was right. Reggie was not the sort of guy to get rattled easily, especially in a situation like this one. He usually thrived in situations like this.
Except that most situations like this didn’t involve people like this.
Sarah wasn’t just anyone — and she had been taken right out from in front of him.
He was rattled.
“Sorry man,” he said. “I’m just — it’s a little nerve-wracking. I was right there, sitting in front of her. They just came in, and I wasn’t even able to move fast enough to do anything about it.”
“Let’s get upstairs, get the others, and see about following her. We’ll track her down.”
Reggie nodded. He felt strange, like he was off-balance. Not something he felt often, and it wasn’t because of the alcohol.
Alcohol might actually help, he thought as he followed Ben upstairs.
42
Sarah
SARAH’S WRISTS SCREAMED IN pain, but she was too caught up with her situation to notice. She’d been bound — a quick wrap of contractor-strength zip ties, cinched tight against her skin — and then thrown into the backseat of the dark SUV. She’d not been able to discern the exact color, but she had seen the make and model of the vehicle just before the larger man had shoved her inside. A Volkswagon Atlas, the newest in the VW line of mid-size sport-utility vehicles.
There had been a lot of thoughts going through her mind when she noticed the name of the car. One of those thoughts was regarding the irony of the situation. Atlas was a titan from Greek mythology, one of the titans of Mount Othrys who fought against the gods of Mount Olympus in the Titanomachy, the ten-year battle between the older titans and the younger, newer gods of Greek lore.
Atlas, on the losing side, was forever condemned to hold the weight of the heavens, immortalized in sculptures depicting a man, head cocked to one side, a massive globe balanced precariously upon his shoulders.
The titan Atlas also had some well-known landmarks to his name: the Atlantic Ocean and, of course, the mythological continent of Atlantis.
The other thing that crossed her mind was the fact that an SUV like this was an odd vehicle to be licensed to an owner on the island. There were SUVs around, but most of those were owned by rental companies that specialized in making the American tourists feel more at home by renting them the large, gas-guzzling vehicles they were used to.
But this vehicle wasn’t a rental — it had a license plate registered to someone on the island and no stickers from a rental agency adorning its back window. Whoever kidnapped me owns this vehicle, she thought, or borrowed it from someone who does.
