by Nina Mason
This was how some people got their jollies? He shook his head in disbelief. When it came to sex, he knew people were into a lot of seriously kinky shite, but this went way beyond kinky. This seemed downright sick and twisted. And he was far from a prude. He wasn’t averse to a wee bit of slap and tickle now and again. And yet, he drew the line at anything approaching abuse.
A sudden realization shook him hard: genital torture was one of his deepest fears. When he was in Baghdad, bound and helpless on the floor of that festering shithole, eating his own scabs to keep from starving to death, listening to the agonized screams of fellow captives, his mind conjured up images of some of the horrifying tortures he’d read and written about. Things like La Parrilla, the torture method so popular among South American military regimes during the Dirty Wars and juntas of the 1960s and ’70s. Political prisoners were strapped to a metal cot with electrodes attached to their most sensitive areas. Nipples, ears, teeth, and, of course, the genitalia. The voltage administered sometimes made the victim jerk violently enough to break their own bones.
The thought of it made his stomach turn. Then and now. How could anyone commit such cruelties against a fellow human being? And for what reason? Hatred? Fear? Ideological differences? Worse yet, he knew that the majority of people didn’t even need that much incentive to flip the switch. As Yale University psychologist Stanley Milgram proved in a series of scientific trials back in the 1960s, most people would administer a deadly shock to a stranger simply because they were told to do so by an authority figure. The experiments had been repeated at different times in different cultures, always with the same results.
I was only following orders…
Buchanan shook his head, fighting to put it all out of his mind. He went back to the story. Another hour passed. He was nearly finished and still no calls. He checked his watch. Eight-thirty. Bloody hell. There were still too many unanswered questions, but he had no choice but to go with what he had. It was his only hope for saving Thea. And stopping Babylon. Just as he was preparing to log in to The Voice, his phone started buzzing on the table, nearly giving him a heart attack. Snatching it up, he answered in earnest.
“Don’t tell me you’ve come to your senses at last and decided to accept my generous offer.”
The sound of the scurvy spider’s posh accent turned his blood to slush.
“Actually, I’m calling about the merger.”
Silence.
“How did you know about that?” Osbourne wanted to know.
“Let’s just say a wee birdie told me.”
“Before or after someone shot up the place and put you out of business?” Osbourne asked, sounding entertained.
Buchanan’s lips puckered with disdain. “And I suppose you know nothing about that.”
“If I did, I certainly wouldn’t admit it.”
Buchanan took a breath and clenched his fists, struggling to keep his cool. “I know about your scheme with Azi Zahhak.”
Another silence.
“That’s what I thought,” Buchanan said, feeling a bit smug.
“Where’d you get your information? No, wait. Don’t tell me. A wee birdie. Am I right?”
“A big fucking eagle, actually,” Buchanan told him. “Anyway, I’m about to break the story and wondered if you’d care to comment.”
“About what?”
“About how it feels to have the rug pulled out from under your own feet for a change.”
“As it happens, I don’t.”
“So, it’s ‘no comment,’ then?”
“That’s right.”
Osbourne abruptly ended the call. Buchanan returned to the story, adding a quick paragraph stating that the Golden Age CEO had declined to comment. He copied the file onto the clipboard, switched over to The Voice, and entered his username and password, drumming his fingers on the table as he waited. The cursor spun and spun until, finally, a window popped up.
Unable to Connect.
The browser can’t establish a connection to the server.
What the fuck? He tried again with the same result. Jesus wept, the bloody server’s gone down. And not by accident, he’d be willing to wager. The big question now was: What the hell was he going to do? Getting an idea, he went back to the story, made a few changes, and fired up Thea’s e-mail program. After searching the contacts for Glenda’s e-mail address, he opened a new message, hammered out a quick note, and attached the word file. It was risky, but worth a try, especially since he was out of other options.
He got up to stretch his legs. He could use another cup of coffee, not to mention a piss. Leaving the laptop, he took his cup to the counter and ordered a refill. As the barista was taking care of it, he glanced around in search of the restrooms. Seeing a sign and suddenly needing to go with some urgency, he told the kid behind the counter he’d be right back.
The sign led him down a dimly lit hallway toward a back exit with a screen door. Through the mesh, he caught a glimpse of a big blue dumpster. Maybe he’d step out for a smoke, he thought, after draining the lizard.
The loo was one of those single-toilet unisex ones. He locked the door behind him, lowered his fly, and stepped up. As he relieved himself, he felt a cool breeze on his neck. The window by the sink was open a crack, presumably to let in fresh air. The room, which stank of mildew and urine, could use it. After zipping up, he stepped to the sink to wash his hands. As he dried them on a paper towel, he heard something. Feeling the scorch of alarm, he hurried to the door and pressed his ear against it.
“Where is the man who was using that laptop?”
The man asking had an Eastern European accent.
“In the john,” said the lad behind the counter.
Bloody hell. How the fuck did they find him? He fished the phone out of his pocket, doing a quick calculation. He’d given the number out to only two people: Milo Osbourne and Robert Sterling. Had one of them used it to track him down? Something struck him then: Both men were in London. Was it coincidence or by design?
Either way, it was time for a new SIM card. He plucked out the old one, dropped it into the toilet, and flushed. He stepped to the window, opened it the rest of the way and, using the toilet seat as a step stool, hopped up and wriggled out. Just as he dropped to the asphalt below, his bad knee squawking, he heard them slamming against the bathroom door. He humped down the alleyway as fast as his bum leg would allow, never looking back.
* * * *
Thea awoke to find she’d been tied down, spread-eagled to something cold and hard which was digging painfully into her back. As terror closed around her throat like fingers, she tugged hard against the restraints, but they held tight, so tight, in fact, they were tearing into her flesh.
She swallowed hard, telling herself to stay calm. Fog shrouded her mind. She couldn’t recollect a single thing, what had happened to her, where she was, or even her own name. She laid there for several minutes, foraging around for anything, anything that might help her put the pieces together. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to break through the fuzz that filled her mind.
Now aware of stinging pain, she looked down. She saw flesh. Bare flesh. Toes, knees, a dark patch of hair, a belly button. The breasts were like her own, yet strange to her somehow. There was something clasping the nipples—something that pinched. Shiny silver claws. With wires. Like tiny jumper cables. The pain was so intense her eyes were watering. Or was she crying? She struggled to reason it out. Why would her breasts be wired? Was she in the hospital?
It was too dark to see much around her, but it didn’t feel like a hospital. It didn’t smell like one, either. There was no disinfectant odor. There was something, though. A stench she couldn’t quite place. She took a deeper whiff, trying to break it down. Sweat. Metal. Something fishy. The answer hit her then, like a blow to the head.
Sex.
The whole place reeked of sex.
Her mind started to whorl. A scream rose in her throat. She wanted to let it out, to let it pierce the sile
nce like an alarm. She opened her mouth. Nothing happened. It was like one of those awful dreams where she’d try to scream and scream, but couldn’t seem to make a sound.
It’s a nightmare. Only a nightmare. None of it’s real. It can’t be.
Above her, a row of naked light bulbs snapped on, nearly blinding her. Drawings covered the ceiling. Gruesome drawings. Floggings, hangings, dismemberments, impalements. A woman in a cauldron being boiled alive. A man hanging upside down being split up the middle with a two-handled lumberjack saw.
Shuddering with revulsion, she looked away, turning her face toward the wall. What she saw there scared her even more. From the rough block wall hung chains, shackles, and manacles. The surface itself was streaked with blood and other things she didn’t want to think about.
Again, she recoiled, turning her head in the opposite direction. Her stomach lurched when she saw what was there. Adjacent to the frame to which she was bound, there stood a heavy table. Some sort of workbench. Arranged neatly on top were a range of tools—pliers, mallets, wire cutters, a power drill. Terror gripped her, tying a knot in her bowels and squeezing the air from her lungs.
If she were dreaming, now would be a very good time to wake up. She closed her eyes and tried to will herself awake. Her heart nearly stopped when dance music pulsed out of the walls. Pulse racing, heart pounding, she listened to a few beats, trying to place the song. She didn’t know it, although she recognized the breathy voice at once as Madonna’s.
Her breath caught when the door burst open. Three men came in. The tuxedoed man was out in front, carrying what looked like a policeman’s nightstick. The other two she recognized as the twins who’d abducted her from the barn. As the tuxedoed man approached, he began slapping the nightstick threateningly against his palm. She tried to shrink away, but couldn’t. The bindings made it almost impossible to move. He wore gloves. Black leather gloves. Behind the mask, his eyes were cold and unreadable.
The tuxedoed man stepped forward. She saw the baton, coming toward her, moving in below her navel. It wasn’t hard to guess where he was aiming. She tried to pull her legs together, to block the attack, but she was helpless. She thrashed against her bindings with everything she had, twisting and screeching like a wild animal.
“Where is the recording? Does Alex Buchanan have it?”
“Fuck you, freak show.”
The baton struck with the force of a Z, making her body convulse and her teeth snap together. Over the ringing in her ears, Madonna went on singing.
Chapter 25
Buchanan, still running for his life, careened around the corner into a narrow alleyway. Seeing it was a dead-end, he ducked into a doorway. He needed a minute to catch his breath. And to think. He was drenched in sweat, blood was thundering in his ears, and it felt as if there was a meat hook in his side. He stuffed his fist into the spot as he bent over, gasping for air.
What was he going to do? He’d been doing his best to stay out of sight, cutting through back alleys and parking garages whenever he could. For a while now, he’d been going in circles, passing the same goddamned landmarks over and over. He couldn’t hear footsteps behind him anymore, but that didn’t mean they weren’t somewhere close, lying in wait. There was no way they’d give up so easily. He needed to get off the street, to find a place to hole up while he waited for the story to break. But where?
When the stitch had subsided and he could breathe once more, he peered out from behind the dumpster, checking both directions. Seeing nothing, he strode briskly to the end of the alley, stopping at the corner to have a look up and down the street. There was no sign of them, but there was a rather dodgy motel on the next block. Maybe he could crash there…just for a few hours…till he figured out his next move.
He waited for a break in traffic, then loped across the street, slowing to a walk as he approached the entrance. He had low expectations, but was still disappointed the second he stepped inside. The lobby (if you could call it that) was harshly lit and smelled strongly of urine, Lysol, and nicotine. The desk was behind a shield of bulletproof glass. A pair of putrid pink chairs and a faux wood-grain table were the only furniture. The woman talking to the clerk wore torn fishnets, spike-heeled boots, and an obscenely short skirt. If the room cost more than twenty bucks, it was a total rip-off.
As he approached the glass, the hooker rounded on him and stuck out her chest like a pigeon. Her breasts, impressive in size, were barely contained within what appeared to be a skimpy bikini top.
“Hi there,” she said, running her hand down his chest. “Want some company?”
“Not as such,” he said stiffly.
“Ah, c’mon,” she said, slipping her hand between his legs. “I could use the cash, and I’ll bet you could use a little something, too.”
“Be that as it may,” he said, clearing his throat as he tried to extricate himself. “I’m not interested.”
“Corinna,” the clerk, a young black man, said, “how many times I gotta tell ya not to bother my customers?”
Corinna instantly backed off and Buchanan pushed around her.
“A single. Smoking. One night. How much?”
“Eighty-five,” the clerk replied.
Buchanan choked on the price. “Eighty-five? For this dump?”
The clerk only shrugged. Buchanan, shaking his head, pulled out his wallet, checking how much cash he had left in his billfold. Just enough, thank God. But still. Eighty-five bucks for this fleabag was highway robbery. Begrudgingly, he set the money on the counter. The clerk scooped it up and slid him a key.
“Elevator’s broken and the Net’s down,” the man informed him, waiting, of course, until he had the money.
Shrugging, Buchanan snatched up the key and started toward the hall.
“Your room’s on the fourth floor,” the clerk called after him.
Begrudgingly, Buchanan mounted the stairs. He was breathing hard by the time he reached the room. After struggling with the lock, he pushed it open and peered inside. The walls were drab and bare and the carpet was a disturbing shade of bright blue. The pattern on the bedspread, a jumble of abstract shapes in bilious colors, could be summed up in a single word: hideous. There was a flimsy-looking dresser with missing knobs, a peeling laminate table, and a couple of chairs in the same shade of puke-pink as the ones downstairs. Buchanan, shaking his head, stepped inside and shut the door behind him. This place made that dump outside Philadelphia look like the Waldorf-Astoria.
Warily, he crossed to the bed and peeled back the bedspread. Carefully examining the threadbare sheets, he found a few holes but, to his great relief, no sign of pests (or the emissions of previous guests). Sitting on the edge, he shot a chary glance toward the door. The jamb looked as though it had been broken more than once and glued back together, which didn’t instill confidence.
He pulled the Glock from its holster and checked the clip. Only three bullets left. And his spare ammo was back in Philly, never to be seen again. First thing tomorrow, he’d have to find a place to buy more. In this shithole of a neighborhood, it shouldn’t be too tough. For the time being, though, he’d have to be content with what he had.
He lit a cigarette and reclined on the bed, tucking his free hand behind his head. The pillow was flat and the mattress lumpy, but it felt good to lie down. He was more tired than he’d realized. Even so, he wanted a shower. It had been a few days and he was starting to smell ripe. He rolled on his side, set his cigarette in the ashtray, and bounced off the bed. Crossing to the dresser, he braced himself against the end and pushed until it was in front of the door. Satisfied, he stripped off his clothes, tossed them on the bed, and headed into the bathroom.
To his dismay, the lavatory was in even worse shape than the bedroom. The sink was cracked, there was hair in the tub, and the toilet-paper holder hung from a single loose screw. He turned on the shower, grateful to find that it worked. Even the water pressure wasn’t too shabby. When it was steaming, he stepped under the spray. He stood there,
just letting the hot droplets buffet his skin, trying not to think about what that sicko was doing to Thea.
After a few minutes, he tore open the wrapper on the little bar of soap and started to lather. As he washed himself, he started thinking about the hayloft, but flung the memory away. He had no business going there when she was in the hands of a sadist. He rinsed off, shut off the taps, and stepped out, reaching for a towel. It was disappointingly small and rough, but he did his best to dab away the excess moisture, figuring the air could do the rest.
Back in the bedroom, he sat on the edge of the mattress and lit another cigarette. As he smoked, he grabbed the remote off the nightstand, clicked on the crappy television, and surfed until he found the news channel belonging to Babylon—the same one that had been on in the bar. He grumbled through a couple of one-sided commentaries before a dark-haired anchorwoman appeared in front of mug shots of him and Thea.
“Tonight, the FBI has joined the search for New York fugitives Alexander Buchanan and Dorothea Hamilton,” the woman announced with authority. “The pair, considered armed and extremely dangerous, was last spotted at a motel just outside Philadelphia, where they reportedly hijacked a car at gunpoint. The vehicle in question, a 2009 black Toyota Camry, was found an hour ago near Georgetown University. Authorities believe the suspects may still be in the vicinity…”
Too fatigued to watch anymore, he flicked off the set, smashed his cigarette in the ashtray, and let his body fall back on the bed. With any luck, this whole nightmare would soon be over, provided, of course, that Thea’s editor didn’t see through the smokescreen.
* * * *
Still strapped to the metal bed frame, Thea glanced toward the table of tools, trembling at the thought of what agonies lay ahead. The tuxedoed man, who’d been gone now for what felt like hours, had left on the lights and the music. At the moment, Annie Lennox of Eurhythmics crooned a fractured lullaby about Sweet Dreams.
