Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series)

by M. P. McDonald

  His mouth went dry, and he wished he could laugh at the irony. "Don't do this, Mo." The trace of pleading in his tone embarrassed him, but he couldn't help it.

  Mo ignored him and rifled through the desk drawers, pulling out a soft silk cloth that Mark used to clean lenses. "I knew there would be one of these handy." He draped it over Mark's nose and mouth. "I'm sure you remember the rules. You tell us what we want to know, and we'll stop."

  Hazim poured the water over Mark's face, but he must not have water-boarded anyone before because the cup was empty after only a few seconds. Mo laughed, and Mark felt a surge of relief. They were just trying to scare him. As Mark coughed and sputtered, it crossed his mind that he needed new friends since at least two of them were familiar with the finer points of waterboarding. He tried to be thankful that he hadn't felt the familiar terror of drowning. Instead, he was just cold and wet.

  Then he heard the gurgle.

  "Let me show you how it's done." Mo pulled the cloth a little higher on Mark's face. He tilted the cup, allowing just a thin stream to pour out. At first, Mark was able to hold his breath, but Mo kept just enough water dripping that the cup was still half full when Mark had to breathe. He tried to turn his head, moving it a fraction, but Hazim clamped a restraining hand on his forehead.

  Gasping, Mark fought, bucking so hard the desk jerked forward. Water flooded his nose and his sinuses, burning and triggering the irresistible impulse to take a deep breath and snort the water out. The breath sucked liquid down into his lungs, and he coughed, unable to stop. Each cough tore through him and pulled more water into his lungs. Mo asked him where the camera was, but Mark heard him only dimly through the roar that filled his ears. His coughs weakened. The room whirled in his vision and everything went black.

  It didn't feel like he'd been out long when Mark blinked his eyes open. His head ached and his throat felt raw, his chest tight. After a fit of explosive coughing, wet at first, then finally subsiding to dry hacks, he lay limply, panting.

  Mo hovered over him, Big Gulp cup tilted menacingly. "Tell us where you hid it."

  A drop of water splashed on Mark's cheek and he flinched, his heart racing. "I told you before—the Feds took it."

  "Liar."

  Already out of breath, it didn't take long for the darkness to claim him this time.

  Mark awoke to a stinging slap against his cheek. Disoriented, he stared at Mo, wondering where he'd come from. "Hey. What's going...?" The feel of wet cloth against his lips as he spoke triggered his awareness. At the sight of the cup in Mo's hand, pure panic set in. Mark twisted, turning his face away, ignoring the pain of the tape ripping at his skin and hair. Jack-knifing his legs, he almost escaped from the tape.

  With Mo and his buddy right there, getting free was impossible. Mo simply put his hand on Mark's brow, forcing his head back down, and Hazim re-taped it, followed by another loud rip as Hazim tore off another long strip to re-fasten Mark's legs to the desk.

  The water cooler bubbled and made a loud noise, as if belching. Mark couldn't control the trembling of his body and his heart galloped at a flat out sprint inside his chest. In prison, the sessions would always stop if he passed out. He'd never lost consciousness twice in one session. Even then, the knowledge that a physician had been present had added a small measure of security in Mark's mind. The officials wouldn't let him die if they could help it. Mo and Hazim had no such reluctance, and there was no doctor standing by.

  Mo handed the cup to Hazim this time, as though bestowing a great honor upon him. "You watched, now show me how it's done. Unless..." Mo made a stop gesture with his hand, "unless Mark has decided to tell us where the camera is hidden."

  His mouth dry despite the recent dousing, Mark licked his lips. He had no doubt that they'd kill him if he told, but he wasn't sure that they wouldn't kill him anyway. "Release me, and I'll get it for you."

  "Ah, so now you can get it? I thought the feds had it?" Mo crossed his arms, resting one elbow in the palm of the opposite hand, and scratched his chin. "What should I believe? Just a few minutes ago, you swore the camera was no longer in your possession."

  "I know, but I'm telling you the truth. Let me go, and I'll get it for you. I don't even know why I was resisting, the thing has been nothing but a curse since I bought it. You're welcome to take it off my hands."

  The camera had made Mark's life hell, and the truth of that must have shown on his face because Mo nodded, waved his hand over Mark, and said to Hazim, "Get him off there, but leave his arms taped."

  Mark grimaced as Hazim ripped the tape off his head none too gently, taking some of Mark's hair, and possibly some of his skin, along with it. He tried to sit up, but felt like a turtle stranded on its back until Hazim gripped his elbow and yanked him upright.

  A new fit of coughing overtook him as water that had filled his sinuses drained down his throat in an overwhelming rush. His stomach convulsed and he leaned over to vomit into the wastebasket.

  Shaky and drained, it was all he could do to stand. "I need my keys. They're in my pocket." He pointed his chin at his right front pocket.

  Mo's eyes narrowed and he indicated for Hazim to reach in and pull out the key ring.

  Mark tried to take a deep breath, but the effort only set off another coughing jag. Damn it hurt.

  "I was out using the camera earlier and it's in my van. Look under the tarp in the back. I think that's where I put it."

  Hazim started to go towards the front of the studio, but Mark shook his head and said, "It's in the alley out back."

  Once Hazim was out of ear shot, Mark turned to Mo, finding the other man watching him.

  "It was not my intention to drag you into any of this, Mark."

  "So why did you? Why lie and get me to go to Afghanistan?" Mark shook his head and gave a snort of bitter laughter. "I was so damn proud to go help you on that book. I felt like I had a chance to make a difference to those poor women, but instead it was all just some sick, twisted ruse."

  He stepped closer to Mo, straining against his bonds. If only he could wrap his fingers around the other man and choke the truth out of him. He had to settle for crowding him and getting in his face. "Can I ask why me? You had lots of friends who were photographers. Why did you choose to ruin my life?"

  Mo retreated a step. "That book wasn't a ruse. I wrote it and even sent it out to a few publishers, but while we were in Afghanistan, my uncles and cousins welcomed me. For the first time, I was amongst people like me. Or like I should have been. I'd strayed and lost my way. I became American." He spat the last word like it was a vulgarity.

  Mark felt a cough building, but suppressed it, unwilling to interrupt Mo's explanation. He heard the door to the van slam, and knew it would only be a matter of seconds before his own fate was decided.

  Mo glanced towards the back door, but resumed speaking. "I dated American women, I watched American television, and I..." He paused, his face flushing as he glanced away. "I even took photos of nude women." The red flush turned deeper as anger replaced the embarrassment on Mo's face. "I broke the laws of Islam."

  "What does that have to do with what you did to me? Or more importantly, what you wanted to do to innocent men, women and children? How could killing them atone for your sins?"

  His face now ruddy with anger, Mohommad closed the distance between them. Mark fought the urge to flinch when the other man lifted his hand, but Mo only prodded him in the chest with his finger as he said, "You wouldn't understand. None of you Americans understand."

  Mark and Mo glared at each other. Every muscle in Mark's body quivered in rage. How could he have ever been friends with this man?

  The sound of footsteps broke the tension as Hazim returned, holding the camera aloft in triumph.

  Mo gave Mark one more hard look before crossing to Hazim and grabbing the camera from the other man's hands "Ah, this must be it. It's the one you bought in my country." He glanced at Mark as he turned the camera over in his hands, examining it. "I remember y
ou showed it to me. It is only right that I should return it to Afghanistan."

  Hazim nodded and said something to Mo that Mark couldn't understand. Mo shrugged, still focused on the camera. Hazim pulled the gun from his waistband and crossed to Mark, putting the gun to Mark's head.

  "Mo...don't do this." The cold barrel pressed hard against his temple.

  With a sigh, Mo said something to Hazim, who grunted and glared at Mark as he lowered the gun.

  Mohommad stepped close to Mark. "Do not try to get this back. I've been keeping track of you. Of course, that wasn't difficult. All I had to do was turn on the news." He smiled, the humor not reaching his eyes. "I also heard that you had something going with that pretty detective. Too bad that ended. However, your business partner is very easy on the eyes, and I would hate for anything to happen to her."

  Seething, Mark dipped his shoulder and rammed it into Mo's chest. "Don't you dare touch her, you mother—" Before he could finish, he saw a blur of movement and an instant later, nothing.

  Chapter 3

  Jim Sheridan saved the file he'd been working on and clicked the off button. Another week over. He stretched while the computer whirred as it closed programs and shut down. The weekend loomed before him with nothing on his agenda. He chuckled at the thought of how just a few months ago, that was the norm, but lately the weekends had been crammed with activities.

  Lily was a whirlwind, with lots of friends, and most accepted Jim, despite some initial awkwardness. As a CIA officer who headed the Chicago FBI field office, he didn't quite fit in with her free-spirited crowd, but she didn't seem to mind. She never forced him to be one of the gang, but made sure to include him in conversations.

  Since they'd started dating, he had met dozens of new people. A chuckle rumbled out of his chest. He felt like an old dog trying to learn new tricks, but he was loving every minute of it. It surprised him how much he enjoyed the shows and concerts she invited him to. They had gone to see some of the improv. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard tears had come to his eyes.

  He sighed and rolled his sleeves down, buttoning the cuffs. Lily had been gone only a few days on the trip she'd planned with a friend months ago, but he missed her already and wasn't quite sure what to do with his time for the two weeks.

  The computer screen darkened, and he stood, grabbing his suit jacket off the back of his chair. As he shrugged into it, his desk phone rang. For a half-second, he thought about ignoring it. It was Friday, and he'd put in twelve hours today. Duty won out, and on the fourth ring, he answered.

  "Officer Sheridan." He tucked the phone against his shoulder and ear as he buttoned the jacket.

  "Sir, I'm sorry to bother you, and I'm not sure if this is important or not, but Washington called, relaying a message that there was attempted activity on your phone."

  Jim stilled. He only had one encrypted phone registered to him and Mark normally just called him via his cellphone. "What time?"

  "About an hour ago."

  "An hour ago? And I'm only just now hearing about it?"

  "I'm sorry, sir. The main offices there have closed for the weekend, and the switchboard only just now called about it."

  "Never mind. Just give me the message."

  "That's the thing. The call never went all the way through. I wasn't even sure if I should bother you with this."

  Jim took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It's probably nothing, but I'll call the phone back and see what's up. Thank you for telling me."

  After hanging up, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed Mark. After several clicks, it disconnected. It could be broken, so Jim set the phone on his desk and used the land-line to call Mark's regular cell. It rang four times before going to voicemail. Jim left a short message for Mark to return the call. Then he called the studio and got a busy signal. That was strange. Between the cellphones, voicemail and call-waiting, he couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten a busy signal on a phone.

  Twenty minutes later, he pulled up in front of the studio. It was probably overkill, but he grabbed his weapon from his glove box and put it in his suit coat pocket. He tried the front door, but it was locked. He rounded the building to the back alley. Dusk put the alley in shadows, but he sighed in relief when he saw Mark's van parked by the back door. He knocked on the door and waited.

  After a second knock, he tried the doorknob, surprised when it turned in his hand, but rationalized that Mark was probably in his darkroom and unable to come to the door. He stuck his head in. "Hello? Mark?"

  The light above the darkroom wasn't lit, so that was ruled out.

  He blinked, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dim interior. Mark's desk was completely clear. He smiled. It was about time the guy cleaned it up. Jim turned to go up the steps to the loft when he heard a groan.

  Reaching into his jacket pocket with one hand, he bent into a defensive crouch and took a closer look at the office. He noted a mug on the floor against the back wall, a handful of pens, pencils and paper clips scattered around it. It looked like the desk hadn't been tidied up so much as swept clean—except for a puddle of water at one end. A strip of duct tape dangled raggedly from the back of the desk. He wasn't sure what to make of that. Half beneath the desk, he spotted the phone he'd given Mark. Not a good sign.

  Another groan, louder this time, came from behind Lily's desk. His heart skipped a beat, but he reminded himself that she was lounging on the deck of a cruise ship about now.

  Glancing over his shoulder to make sure nobody was coming down the steps, he hurried to the desk.

  Mark lay on his side, his arms bound behind his back with duct tape. Blood trickled from a swollen cut just above his temple. Jim's stomach churned. Now what had Taylor gotten mixed up in? He bent and gave Mark's shoulder a gentle shake. "Mark?"

  Mark blinked, his eyes unfocused. As Jim reached out to shake him again, Mark flinched away and mumbled, "No."

  "Hey, whoa. Take it easy." At least Mark was somewhat awake. "I'll be right back. Just sit tight." Jim wanted to make sure the site was secure before he let down his guard. A quick check of the studio and closets revealed nobody, and as much as Jim hated to leave Mark, he had to check the loft too. As he passed the back door, he shut and locked it.

  Jim crept up the stairs, noting the wide open door. Gun ready, he slipped inside. A survey of the room revealed closets with contents tossed about, dresser drawers open with clothing draped over the edges. Whoever was responsible for the disarray was gone. It was possible Mark had interrupted a burglary in progress, but he recalled the expensive camera equipment still in the studio. It didn't make sense that they'd left it all, especially since Mark had been bound and beaten unconscious.

  No longer worried about making noise, Jim hurried down the steps and found Mark trying to sit up but failing miserably without the use of his hands.

  Jim wasn't sure Mark should be sitting, but assisted him with a steady pull on his elbow. The collar of Mark's shirt and the whole back was soaked. He glanced at the puddle on Mark's desk and a large plastic cup that lay on its side beneath it. In the scuffle, the drink must have spilled.

  Mark swayed and Jim steadied him before moving behind him to tear at the binding. The tape was triple wrapped, and he couldn't rip it. Mark's hands felt cold and lack of circulation caused them to turn a dark red. The tape had been on awhile. He reached over Mark's shoulder and opened Lily's center desk drawer. Rising up on one knee, he spotted the scissors and cut through the tape.

  "There you go." Jim tossed the scissors back in the drawer as he moved around in front of Mark.

  Mark closed his eyes and grunted as he eased his arms in front of him. He rubbed his wrists while gingerly rotating his shoulders. "Shit! My shoulders hurt like a sonofabitch."

  Jim sat back on one heel and gave a relieved chuckle. At least Mark sounded okay. He pulled out his cellphone.

  Mark opened his eyes at the sound of the buttons. "What are you doing?"

  Jim
paused before hitting the second '1'. "Calling the police and the rescue squad."

  With a grimace, Mark shook his head, wincing at the motion. He put a hand to the goose egg topped by the cut. "No. Don't."

  "Why the hell not?"

  Mark stood, leaning on the edge of the desk for support, his knuckles white. "Because I know who did it." He straightened and took a deep breath. "And he stole the camera."

  Jim spotted Lily's desk chair lying on its side in the corner. He grabbed it, rolling it behind Mark. "Sit down and tell me what happened."

  Blood still trickled down the side of Mark's face and Jim found a roll of paper towels, folded several into a pad, and wet them with water from the cooler. He handed it to Mark, who pressed it to his head. "Thanks."

  Mark's desk chair was shoved into the far corner, and Jim pulled it to the other side of Lily's desk and sat waiting until Mark had mopped up the cut and was ready to talk.

  The desk started rattling, and at first the sound puzzled Jim until he realized it was Mark's leg bouncing. He'd forgotten that nervous habit.

  "Mo did it."

  "Mo?” Jim tried to remember why he knew that name.

  "Mohommad Aziz."

  Of course. "How did he get in?"

  "I hadn't locked the front door yet." Mark folded the pad and winced as he pressed it back to the injury.

  Jim shook his head. "Not a good move, but I meant how did he get in the country? He shouldn't have been allowed back. I'm sure that was a stipulation of his release. Did he say anything about it?"

  Mark shrugged, his eyes downcast, but his voice dripped with sarcasm as he said, "He didn't tell me, and I didn't have a chance to ask him. Maybe next time he beats the hell out of me, I'll try to remember to ask the pertinent details before he gets to the waterboarding part."

  Surprised at Mark's tone, Jim glanced over to the puddle on Mark's desk, not wanting to believe it could be evidence of what Mark was telling him. "Waterboarding? What do you mean?"