Touching Midnight

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  Quin flicked on her torch and reached for the rucksack, easing it on with the supple grace of youth. Since she was already two inches taller than Olivia, and physically stronger, Olivia didn’t argue.

  Quin adjusted the shoulder straps until the fit was snug. “By the way, how did you find me?”

  Olivia turned up the collar of her jacket as they began picking their way down the hill, her expression wry as she followed in her great-niece’s wake. Somehow the girl had derailed the monumental telling off Olivia had planned to deliver and was now attempting to take charge. “Did you really think we didn’t know about this place?”

  As the last light disappeared from the horizon, the glow from the narrow mission windows looked small and insubstantial against the vaulting darkness. Warm and welcoming though the lights were, Olivia’s stomach tightened with worry of a different kind.

  Thirteen years ago they’d had money, and it had bought them this bolt-hole, but the years had eaten away at their nest egg, until now they were practically as poor as the local people who came to the mission for help.

  The community at Laguedo was comprised mostly of the elderly and the young, because the able-bodied men and women had migrated to the cities or, worse, melted into the hills to join up with communist guerrilla groups or the local drug cartel. The mission stumbled on, short of funds, short of food and medical supplies, but mostly, woefully short of labor, and out here everything required physical effort.

  The road system was almost nonexistent, consisting of narrow tracks that were dangerous at best and often impassable in winter. In addition, the swing bridge that spanned the Agueda River, providing the only road into and out of the valley, was a constant deterrent to using the aging Bedford truck they’d bought with the property. The bridge had been built by the mission over sixty years ago, and had originally been intended for use by pedestrians and carts only. Every time Jose inched the old truck over the bridge, Olivia held her breath, waiting for ancient beams and steel hawsers to finally give up the ghost.

  Isolation aside, there was no piped water supply or sewage system. An ancient generator supplied them with heat and lighting—most of the time—and the hot water system was supplemented by a coal-fired boiler. Every six months a run to the coast kept them supplied in dry goods for most of the year, if they were careful, but stringent budgeting didn’t count for much when a disaster like an earthquake or a flood sent people flocking to them for shelter and medical attention. The Peruvian government provided compensation, but it was usually much later, and not nearly enough to cover their outlay.

  Over the years, she and Hannah had taken up the financial slack with their own funds, but now their resources were close to exhausted. At their current rate of expenditure, within two years they would be broke—unable to afford to pay wages and unable to buy medical supplies. Without funds, they would have to close their doors, which would break both Hannah’s heart and her own. The impoverished local people needed the medical center.

  To survive, they needed cash. They could stumble on if she made a trip to England to liquidate assets, but the risk that if they did so they would lose Quin was so high that neither she nor Hannah was willing to consider that option unless they were forced to it. Almost equally as hazardous was the option of selling their property and chattels through a legal firm in Lima, but if they did that, they could attract Quin’s father—Lord Mallory—to Peru.

  Even if they got their hands on more money, it wouldn’t be enough—they still needed an able-bodied workforce and, in this desolate part of the country, that was an almost insurmountable problem. Trying to hold young men in the valley was like trying to hold water in a colander. And trying to find a replacement for Jose, who not only did the heavy gardening work but kept the buildings and the Bedford in reasonable repair, had so far proved impossible. It was only a matter of time before he retired, and on the day he left, their viability would disintegrate. To Olivia, the equation was simple. Without the support of a man who was physically strong and had enough knowledge of mechanics to keep the truck and their generator running, they couldn’t survive here.

  They could lay their hands on more money if they were pushed, but the issue of funding aside, what they really needed was a miracle.

  Seven

  Five years later

  The Tasman Sea, thirty miles off the eastern coast of Australia, latitude thirty degrees south.

  Michael Linden nudged the cabin door open with his foot, sighted down the short barrel of a SIG Sauer, and coldly surveyed the man lying bound and gagged in the cramped forward cabin of the Mariane.

  Jake Lombard was the eldest of the Lombard brothers. He was also reportedly the toughest, and Linden hadn’t wanted to touch him, but Harper hadn’t allowed him the option of choosing a softer target. The crazy son of a bitch had wanted to inflict maximum damage on the Lombard family, and taking down the heir apparent was the ultimate hit.

  As logical as Harper’s strategy was, it didn’t solve Linden’s problem. He’d been left hanging out to dry with a target who was rumored to be even more of a cold-blooded killer than he was himself.

  His gaze was wary as he inventoried his prisoner. Lombard had been shot in the thigh, but Linden didn’t trust a gunshot wound to control a man who had a reputation for being ice-cold and ruthless.

  Linden didn’t mind “cold” as an adjective. He expected anyone with any kind of grip on reality to have discarded the fuzzy illusions that most of the human race were burdened with—it was the “ruthless” part that worried him. That one descriptive word, supplied by a psychopath like Egan Harper, put Lombard in the category of target that Linden usually went out of his way to avoid. In his opinion, pitting himself against someone who had the potential to take him out was a major flaw in any execution contract.

  But, speculation or not, Linden was also aware of the hype that surrounded the wealthy Lombard family of hoteliers. Money and media attention were notorious for building marketable fantasies. Whether Lombard’s reputation was deserved, or the product of a few overactive imaginations and a nice little publicity campaign to scare off business competitors, didn’t matter. When it came down to it, Linden could only rely on what he’d observed, and so far, that involved two salient facts. Lombard had watched his girlfriend die without flinching, and he was tough enough that he hadn’t whined about his own wound.

  Linden nudged the door wider and studied the pulse at Lombard’s throat. The fact that he was forced to remain in such close proximity to his target while he waited for the execution order made him, quite frankly, nervous. He didn’t like to be this close—ever—and damned if he would do it again.

  But Harper wanted Lombard kept alive, at least for another few hours, in case there was a hitch with the money.

  Linden’s mouth curved cynically. Of course there would be a hitch with the money. In his view, Harper was mentally deficient if he thought he was actually going to collect. He seemed to have forgotten the truism that people who had the balls to make the kind of money the Lombard family had, generally knew how to hang on to it.

  Crouching down in the cramped quarters of the cabin, Linden shoved the barrel of the SIG into the soft flesh just below Lombard’s jaw, gritting his teeth at the rhythmic, oily heave of the launch. He could already feel himself turning green. The sea had gotten progressively lumpier through the day, and at the moment his time limit below deck was approximately thirty seconds before his stomach tried to turn itself inside out.

  Suspicious when there was no response from the apparently sleeping man, Linden jabbed the gun into Lombard’s throat again, noting that he was pale and sweating, and a flush rimmed his cheekbones. This time Lombard’s eyelids flickered, but he remained slack, his breathing slow and shallow.

  Oh yeah, he was a sick puppy. “Not so tough, after all.”

  Linden estimated that Lombard could last another two or three days without medical care, but he’d lost a lot of blood, and infection had set in. Even if he was hospitali
zed at this point, he would still be a stretcher case for a month.

  Satisfied that his prisoner was finally out of commission, Linden felt beneath the semiconscious man to check the knots on the rope, then inspected the bloody mess that was Lombard’s thigh. As he bent closer, his nostrils filled with the thick, sweet scent of blood, and nausea rolled through him in a hot, greasy wave.

  “Shit.”

  Clenching his jaw, he straightened, stumbling against the wall as he backed out of the stuffy cabin and kicked the door closed.

  Jake’s lids flipped open, all his attention focused on the narrow hallway outside the cabin door and the sound of Linden’s receding footsteps.

  It was time to get to work. Linden checked on him at approximately hourly intervals. Factoring in a few minutes as a margin of error, he estimated he had a window of forty-five minutes, max. Ideally, he should wait until dark before making a move, but that was hours away, and he couldn’t take the risk of waiting that long.

  Most hostages didn’t live past the first twenty-four hours. According to his calculations, at least thirty-five hours had passed since he and his fiancée, Rafaella, had been taken captive while leaving a restaurant in downtown Sydney—long enough for any deal that Harper had floated to evaporate. His family would have stalled for time while they threw their resources into finding him, but Jake was pragmatic about his chances. Harper was too well organized; this time he’d assembled a team of professionals.

  Jake had even heard of Michael Linden. He’d sniped in ’Nam in the sixties, then disappeared for a while before resurfacing as a mercenary. When he’d gotten tired of being ripped off and jerked around by multinationals trying to “reshape” economies in third-world countries, he’d put himself on the open market as a professional hit man.

  Linden had been cool and very slick. He’d held them in a warehouse until he’d received a phone call; then he had calmly raised his arm and fired two shots. Grief and icy rage knotted his stomach. Rafaella had died instantly, but Linden had been careful not to kill Jake. Within an hour of the kidnapping, they had put to sea; shortly before dawn, Linden had disposed of Rafaella’s body over the side.

  Gritting his teeth, Jake flexed frozen shoulder and arm muscles, and slowly forced his wrists apart, ignoring the burning pain where the rope sawed into raw flesh.

  The rope they’d used to bind him had originally been tight enough to cut off his circulation, but it had been wet for a day and a half now—soaked with the seep of blood from his thigh and wrists.

  He hadn’t been able to undo the knots, but he’d loosened the hemp enough with constant flexing that he would finally be able to make the stretch required to force his hands under and around his buttocks, then jackknife his legs and feet through the loop made by his arms. Once he could remove the gag from his mouth and actually see what he was doing with the rope, he would be able to work the knots with his teeth.

  Craning his head, he fastened his teeth on the edge of the sleeping bag he was lying on, clenching on fiber-filled nylon as he wrenched his shoulders and arms down and simultaneously curled his body into a tight ball, groaning as fiery pain exploded through his thigh as he forced his wrists down his back and finally managed to hook them beneath his buttocks.

  Sucking in a breath, he gathered his strength for the next effort. The series of movements required to complete the maneuver of sliding his hands beneath his feet made his head pound and hot lights explode in front of his eyes. Warmth spread across his leg, and distantly he realized he’d torn open both the entry and exit wounds in his thigh again. For some time he floated hazily, his head buzzing, body slack, his awareness oddly skewed, as if his mind had temporarily disengaged itself from his body—but he hadn’t passed out; he was still conscious, still functioning.

  The next step was to restore some sort of circulation to his fingers, because he would need a measure of dexterity when it came time to attack the knots at his ankles. He wanted to get moving, find a weapon, formulate a strategy for escaping, but he had to do things in the right order. Missing a step could be fatal. And he hadn’t waited this long to mess up his only chance at survival.

  Once the gag was off, he attacked the knots with his teeth. Minutes later his hands were free, and he noticed with a blank sense of surprise that the bastards had left him his watch.

  That was a mistake. Linden might be good with a gun, but he wasn’t good with people. Jake had seen that character trait in snipers before—they could kiss their weapon good-night, but they didn’t understand what mattered to people, or the basics of breaking down a prisoner.

  Allowing him to keep his watch was a fundamental mistake, because it gave him information, and information was power. He could mentally orient himself much more quickly, because he could monitor time and keep an accurate log of the routine of his captors—and he could run a schedule.

  The time was two-forty-five in the afternoon, which meant it had been forty hours since he’d been kidnapped, not the thirty-five he’d estimated.

  Grimly, he worked the knots at his ankles, then tore his pants leg where the bullet had punched holes front and back and used the fabric to bind the wound, pulling the broad strip of cloth tight in an effort to immobilize the muscles.

  He had been lucky; the bullet hadn’t shattered bone or nicked an artery. If the artery had been cut, he would have bled out inside half an hour. But, luck aside, the wound could still kill him. The initial paralyzing shock of the round punching through his thigh had worn off, but the combined effects of blood loss, dehydration and soft tissue damage had kicked in with a vengeance. It had become infected, and the poison was spreading through his system, draining his energy and clouding his mind. His inability to accurately judge time indicated that his physical condition was worse than he’d thought. His perception had become impaired, and with every hour that passed, he would become weaker and punchier.

  Bracing one hand against the wall, he hauled himself upright and tested his ability to stand. If he couldn’t stand, he couldn’t walk; if he couldn’t walk, he would die.

  The bandage was firm enough that he could bear his own weight—just. He would be able to walk, as long as he avoided putting too much pressure on the leg.

  Moving awkwardly, Jake began searching the cabin for a weapon or anything else that might boost his chances of survival. Despite being tiny, the small forward bunkroom provided access to some of the largest storage areas on the launch, just beneath the bow. The first locker contained boxes of wet suits and soft-soled neoprene boots, the second was stacked with buoyancy compensators—the inflatable, sleeveless jackets divers used to control descent and ascent. The final locker contained life jackets, several bottles of sunscreen and a variety of pairs of sunglasses. There were no hard objects of any kind, unless he counted the metal valves attached to the tubes hanging off the BCs. Any hardware like diving knives and spear guns would be stored along with the snorkeling gear and oxygen tanks somewhere on deck, which put them effectively out of Jake’s reach. To have any chance at all, he needed to be armed before he ventured outside. Linden was never without a sidearm, and he had to assume that the other man on the launch, Horton, was armed, as well.

  The life jackets were a good option, and so were the wet suits. If Jake went into the water in his weakened state, he was going to have difficulty staying afloat, and the chances were he could be in the water for hours waiting for rescue.

  Pulling out the first box of wet suits, he began checking them for size.

  As much as he wanted to kill both Harper and Horton, his best option was stealth. He didn’t know if the launch had a runabout, but most vessels this size had some kind of secondary craft with them. If there was a runabout tied behind the boat, he might have a chance, but if it was an inflatable lashed to the bow, he would be in trouble. Manhandling an inflatable into the water would take time and make too much noise.

  Warm as it was, if he ended up swimming, his main problem was going to be hypothermia. Neoprene didn’t keep the
water out, but it did keep in body warmth, and it had the added advantage of being buoyant. Wearing a wet suit, his whole body would float.

  He selected the largest, thickest grade of suit he could find and stripped off his shoes and pants, opting to leave his shirt on to provide another layer of warmth. Clenching his jaw, he eased the overalls on, wincing as the tight neoprene slid over his bandaged thigh. He fastened the Velcro flaps at his shoulders, then thrust his arms through the jacket, zipped it and tested the suit for suppleness. Limited as he was with his leg movement, he had to make sure that his upper body was unrestrained. When he was satisfied that he could move unimpeded, he selected a pair of neoprene boots.

  A sharp clattering made him freeze in the motion of pulling on the second boot. The faint sounds came from the galley. Given the fact that it was early afternoon, Horton was either making a late lunch or getting a drink, in which case he wouldn’t come near Jake, because Linden was the only one who checked on him. Horton was the amateur—in charge of piloting the boat and assigned all the menial tasks.

  A full minute after hearing the faint sounds of Horton leaving the galley and climbing the ladder back up to the flying bridge where he habitually sat, Jake opened the cabin door.

  The rich aroma of coffee hit him as soon as he stepped out into the cramped corridor, making his mouth draw tight and his stomach clench. He was so dehydrated, he was hardly producing any saliva, and the knowledge of just how close he was to complete incapacitation knotted his belly. He had to rehydrate as quickly as possible, and a jolt of caffeine wouldn’t hurt, either.

  But before he allowed himself to either eat or drink, he examined the drawers and selected a short-handled knife with a pointed blade. After sliding the knife into the sleeve of the wet suit, he grabbed the half-full coffeepot from its rest and the carton of milk that was sitting on the bench. Swiftly he removed and discarded the lid of the coffeepot, tipped the contents of the sugar bowl into the coffee, then eased back into the cabin nearest to the galley and closed the door. With hands that shook, he emptied the carton of milk into the coffeepot, swirled the now lukewarm mixture around to dissolve the sugar, then drank with long, steady gulps, not waiting to taste the liquid, simply filling his belly as quickly as he could.