Grave Vengeance

by Lori Sjoberg

  Turning her back, she stepped inside the room and closed the door behind her. More than half a century had passed since she’d last questioned a prisoner. A sliver of self-doubt crept into her thoughts, unsure of her ability after so many years. What if this was one of those “use it or lose it” kind of skills? Ruthlessly, she brushed the uncertainty aside. One way or another, she wasn’t giving up until Tommy talked.

  At the far end of the room in front of the file cabinet, Tommy sat bound to the chair. His arms and legs were secured with plastic zip ties. All the fingers on his right hand were bent at odd angles, as were both forearms a few inches above his wrists. A blue bandana covered his eyes, while the rest of his face was covered with bruises.

  For a long moment, it was 1962, and she saw Dmitri bound to the chair. He was staring at her with a look of such hatred it chilled her down to the bone. She shook her head as she squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, her mind was back in the present.

  Tommy’s head turned toward the sound of her footsteps. Tugging at the ties that bound him to the chair, he shouted, “Who’s there?”

  Gwen took a deep breath and let it out slowly. You can do this. After putting on her best poker face, she whipped the covering away from his eyes and tossed it on the desk. His eyes squinted against the glare of the light, a look of surprise crossing over him when she came into focus. Clearly, he’d expected Dmitri to provide tonight’s entertainment.

  “I don’t know if you remember me,” she said. “We worked in the same unit for about a year back in the eighties before I got transferred to Chicago.” She stood before him, her arms folded across her chest. “But in case you forgot, my name’s Gwen. I’ll be your interrogator for the evening.”

  Tommy looked her up and down and dismissed her just as quickly. “I’m not telling you shit.”

  “Yeah, that’s what most folks say before they get to know me.” She walked a tight circle around him, checking the restraints on his wrists and ankles. Dmitri had been liberal with the zip ties. No way was this guy going anywhere. “Ask them later, and they usually have a different attitude.”

  “Whatever.” Tommy sounded bored, but his hands continued to tug against the bindings. “He’ll find me, you know. And when he does, you’ll pay for this.”

  “Ooh, I’m shaking in my shoes.” With her left hand, Gwen unzipped her bag and rooted around until she found the small knife she kept tucked in one of the inner pockets. The blade was short—less than four inches—but would serve its intended purpose. “While we’re waiting around for my imminent doom, why don’t you tell me where I can find Patrick?”

  Tommy let out a snort of laughter. “He’s up my ass. Want to take a look?”

  “Maybe later.” She unfolded the blade as she stepped toward him, her expression purposefully blank. “But first you’re going to answer my questions.”

  “Or what?” The bastard had the balls to smirk.

  Despite the preferences of the boys at the Pit, she preferred to avoid physical coercion as a means of extracting secrets. In her experience, she achieved far greater success playing the role of good cop, cultivating a subject’s trust in order to obtain the most accurate information.

  But soft interrogation required time and patience, and she lacked the luxury of either. Samuel expected results, and he expected them immediately.

  Steeling her resolve, she grabbed the bandana and jammed it in Tommy’s mouth. “You remember my partner, the big, angry Russian guy who broke your arms and fingers? Well, he agreed to stay outside until he heard the first scream.” With a maniacal grin, she leaned in close and spoke softly. “I can’t have him interrupting our fun because you decide to squeal like a little pig.”

  Tommy’s eyes widened. He said something that sounded kind of angry, but the words were garbled through the gag.

  “I’ve always been curious about the limits of immortality,” she said conversationally as she stepped back and cleaned her nails with the tip of the blade. “I know a few reapers who’ve been banged up more times than Wile E. Coyote.” She gestured with the knife toward her own injury. “Get shot, and the wound repairs in a matter of hours. Break a hand, and the bones knit back together. But if we lose a limb, it doesn’t grow back. And you know, that makes me wonder just how far the healing process goes.”

  Kneeling down beside the chair, Gwen unlaced his running shoes. She took her time removing his shoes and socks, dragging out the moment for as long as humanly possible.

  “Ah, much better.” She smiled. “Shall we begin?”

  He screamed through the gag.

  “Oh, stop being such a big baby. It’s not like I’m taking off your fingers. Well, at least not yet.” Eyes narrowed, she scrutinized his bare feet. Everything hinged on him believing she’d actually follow through with the threat. “Losing a few toes might mess up your balance, but I’m sure you’ll adjust quickly enough. Although now I’m wondering if your toes would reattach under the proper conditions. I guess we have ten tries to figure it out, right?”

  Tommy blanched. Eyes as wide and round as saucers, he struggled against the restraints.

  “You’re only going to wear yourself out. Dmitri put a lot of time and effort into making sure you were nice and secure. Now quit squirming around so I can get to work.” Inside, her heart was pounding a mile a minute, but she forced her face to remain placid. She grabbed the big toe on his right foot and pressed the edge of the blade along the joint.

  “Mmm! Mmph!” Sweat beaded across Tommy’s forehead. His chest heaved and his nostrils flared, and for a moment she thought he was going to cry.

  “Oh, what now?” She shot him an exasperated look. “If I take this off, you’re just going to scream.”

  “Mmm!” Tommy shook his head violently from side to side.

  “Promise?”

  He nodded like a bobblehead.

  Gwen looked him over as she stroked her chin with her thumb and forefinger. “Well, okay. But if you scream, I’ll start with your fingers instead.”

  She yanked the bandana from his mouth and tossed it on top of his shoes.

  Free of the gag, he sucked in a gulp of air. “You crazy fucking bitch!”

  Now it was Gwen’s turn to give a bored look. “You’ve got thirty seconds to tell me something useful before we go back to playing ‘This Little Piggy.’ ”

  If looks could kill she’d be six feet under.

  She checked her watch. “Twenty-five seconds.”

  When the seconds ticked down to ten, she bent to pick up the bandana.

  “No!” he shouted, the fear thick in his voice. “Okay, okay, I’ll talk!”

  Not letting go of the gag, Gwen leaned a hip against the desk. “I’m listening,” she said. “Better make it worth my while.”

  Tommy gave one final tug at the restraints before turning his attention back to Gwen. “Patrick’s creating a new order of reapers,” he snarled. “Ones who refuse to follow Fate’s commands like a dog.”

  She tilted her head a little to one side. “Like me?”

  “Yeah, like you.” The fervor in his voice reminded her of a preacher at a roadside revival. “The Righteous will grow like a cedar in Lebanon. Together, we’ll act as the hand of God to strike down the sinners and purge the filth from this world.”

  “Sounds great on paper. But if you do that, you’ll alter Fate’s grand design. You know she won’t allow that to happen.”

  “What makes you think she’ll have a choice?” His expression faltered, as if he’d just said too much.

  “Why won’t she have a choice, Tommy?” Reaching into her pocket, she drew out the paper and held it out for him to see. “Does it have anything to do with this?”

  He paled.

  Aha. “Tell me what it is, Tommy.”

  He shook his head. “He’ll kill me if I tell you.”

  “If you don’t tell me, I’ll make you wish you were dead.”

  Seconds ticked by. A minute.

  “I don
’t have all day. Talk or we return to our original programming.”

  Tommy bit his lower lip so hard it bled. His eyes darted about the room, as if searching for a means to escape. “The artifact acts as a key,” he finally said. “It opens a portal between dimensions.”

  One by one, the dots connected in her mind, and her blood chilled to ice in her veins. “He’s planning to assassinate Fate?”

  He shook his head. “Not assassinate. Overthrow. We’ll need her until we know how everything works.”

  “And then he’ll kill her. How charitable.” Gwen prowled across the room like a tiger in a cage. How could he even consider doing such a thing? True, Fate could be a cruel mistress at times, but without her designs to bring order to the world, humanity would plunge into chaos. “How does the portal open?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit!” She braced her hands on the chair arms and leaned close enough to see the pulse pounding in his throat. “Tell me how it works.”

  “I told you I don’t know!”

  “Fine, have it your way.” She kneeled down beside his feet. “Which big toe do you prefer to lose first, the left or the right?”

  “Dammit, I’m telling you the truth!” His voice cracked. “I don’t fucking know!”

  Glancing up, she studied his face and saw unwashed terror in his eyes. Instinct told her he was speaking the truth, so she switched to another line of questioning. “Where’s the stone now? Who has it?”

  He shook his head again. “I don’t know. We were supposed to pick it up from some broad in D.C., but she said it was missing from the museum’s inventory.”

  “Which museum?”

  “The Smithsonian.”

  Like there was only one Smithsonian. “Care to whittle that down for me?”

  “Natural History,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “And the woman’s name?”

  “We never got her name. She said it was safer that way.”

  Great. “If you’d gotten the stone, where were you planning to take it?”

  Tommy licked his bleeding lower lip, his eyes looking everywhere but at her.

  “Come on, Tommy. I’m losing my patience. Where were you taking the artifact?” Lightly, she traced the tip of the blade over the top of his foot, and every muscle in his body jerked.

  “I don’t know, all right? Our orders were to go back to the hotel and wait for instructions. But then Reynolds spotted you and the Russian on the highway and decided to give Patrick a call.”

  “And Patrick told you to shoot Dmitri?”

  He hesitated before answering. “Not exactly.”

  When he failed to elaborate, she asked, “Then what exactly did he tell you to do?”

  Tommy fidgeted in his chair. “He said to grab you, and to make sure the Russian was in no condition to follow.”

  So Patrick still harbored hopes of converting her to the cause. That might come in handy later. Her anger spiked at the thought of their plans to harm Dmitri. How dared they turn on one of their own? Idiots. If they had any idea who they were dealing with, they would have come up with a better plan to take him out.

  What had first seemed like a simple retrieval mission was quickly snowballing into something far more sinister. How many reapers were already involved in Patrick’s plans for insurrection? How many more would join? She had a feeling things were going to get a lot messier before they got any better.

  With a sigh, she rose to standing. “Thank you for your help.” She glanced down to inspect his broken fingers. The bones in his thumb had already realigned and were in the process of knitting back together, but the remaining digits were still twisted at odd angles. He’d heal by morning, but the process would be more painful without the bones being set first. “I bet that hurts almost as much as a gunshot wound. Here, let me help.”

  “No!”

  Gripping his index and middle fingers, she wrenched them back into place. The shriek he let out could have woken the dead. “That’s for my shoulder. This is for Dmitri.” She gave his ring finger and pinkie the same treatment.

  When the screaming stopped, the door opened, and Dmitri stepped inside. His expression was completely unreadable. “I take it you convinced him to talk?”

  Crossing the room, she met Dmitri at the door. In a lowered voice, she said, “He was kind enough to share what he knows.”

  Dmitri took notice of Tommy’s shoes and socks on the floor beside the chair. “Do I want to know why you took those off?”

  She shook her head. No way was she going there with him.

  Thankfully, he didn’t push her for an answer.

  Now that the excitement was over, her body felt heavy with fatigue. Mentally exhausted, she walked back to the desk and dropped her knife in the bag. She needed rest, and she needed food if her body was to heal by morning. And she definitely needed a drink. Something strong enough to make her forget about this godforsaken day. “What do you want to do with him?”

  Dmitri zipped the bag for her and slung it over his shoulder. “Toss him back in the trunk.”

  “That’s bullshit!” Tommy’s face flushed red as he struggled against the restraints. “I’ve answered all of your questions! Let me go!”

  “Why would we do a stupid thing like that? You’re not going anywhere until we verify your information.” Dmitri tucked Tommy’s socks inside his shoes and picked the shoes up by the laces. “If any of it fails to check out, I’m giving you back to her.”

  Chapter 7

  Gwen wasn’t the only one who needed a good stiff drink.

  As much as Dmitri hated to admit it, he was relieved she’d taken the lead in interrogating Cooper. The thought of inflicting that kind of torment put a ball of ice in his gut. Even so, he was still disgusted with himself for allowing a woman to do his dirty work because he lacked the mental fortitude. And not just any woman. Her. It pissed him off and made him feel like shit all at the same time.

  After trussing up Tommy and locking him in the trunk, they’d stopped at the nearest liquor store, ordered a pizza, and checked into a motel close to the highway.

  “Think we should tell Samuel about the artifact?” Gwen asked as she stepped through the open doorway. She crossed the modest room in a half dozen strides and placed the pizza box on the table by the television.

  “Not yet. He’ll only tell us what he thinks we need to know. Let’s see what we can find out first.” Dmitri closed and locked the door behind him. The faint scent of cleaning solution lingered in the air from a recent pass-through by housekeeping. The room wasn’t much, but it came with two beds, which would spare them an argument over sleeping arrangements. He dumped his weapons bag and Gwen’s duffel on the floor between the beds. The shopping bag full of booze went on the table.

  Gwen flipped open the pizza box, and the spicy scent of marinara filled the air. Stress and strain lined the corners of her eyes, but she perked up at the prospect of dinner. “Mmm. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

  “Not surprising. The last time you ate was around eight hours ago. Your body needs nourishment to repair that bullet wound.” He sank down on one of the threadbare chairs and grabbed a slice from the box. “How are you feeling?” he asked before taking a bite.

  “Tired. Achy. A little sleep and I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She dragged a hand through her short blond hair. The light failed to reach her eyes when she smiled, and for some strange reason it pained him to see her spirit diminished.

  After wolfing down two slices, he dug into the bag and pulled out the bottle of vodka. The liquor store had carried a limited selection, but he’d managed to find a decent brand. He unscrewed the cap and filled one of the motel glasses halfway.

  “Want some?” He tilted the bottle in her direction.

  “No thanks.” Her nose crinkled. “How can you drink that shit straight?”

  Was she kidding? “It’s the way vodka’s meant to be drunk. Why would I dilute it?” At home, he kept a bottle of Russian Standard
in the freezer. A few fingers at the end of the day dulled the edges off even the worst assignments.

  He raised the glass to his lips and drank, his eyes closing as he savored the flavor. The vodka went down smooth when he swallowed, leaving a warm trail in its wake. “Come on, just a little sip,” he said. “It’ll ease the ache in your shoulder.”

  At this point, the entry wound should have already healed. But the internal damage would take a while longer, and she’d suffer a fair amount of residual discomfort until her body completely recovered.

  She popped the top on a bottle of beer and pitched the cap in the trash can. “No, thank you. The shoulder’s fine.”

  “Chicken?” He couldn’t resist yanking her chain. There was something about the way those hazel eyes squinted that made his heart beat faster. Leaning back against his chair, he waited to see if she’d rise to the challenge.

  Her eyes narrowed the way he liked when she shot him a level stare. “I thought you said I was a bunny.”

  “Ah, yes. That’s right, zaika moya.” He bit back the urge to smile when her eyes narrowed further. It was sick, the way he enjoyed getting her all riled up. The flushed skin, those fiery eyes. In any other woman, he’d find it alluring. But even if he actually considered her attractive—and he most certainly did not—there was too much history between them. Too many lies. Too much hate. There was no such thing as mending fences when they’d never been built to begin with.

  He poured an ounce of vodka into an empty glass and nudged it in her direction. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid I’ll take advantage if you drink too much?”

  She paused, the pizza halfway to her mouth. “Like that would ever happen.”

  “You sound so sure.”

  Her chin jutted up. “That’s because I am. After all these years, I’ve come to realize there are few absolutes in life.” She ate a bite of pizza and washed it down with a swig of pale ale. “There will never be peace in the Middle East. I’ll never lose those last five pounds. And we will never, ever go down that road.”

  Still hungry, he grabbed another slice from the box. “I’ll agree with you on the Middle East, but what makes you think you need to lose five pounds?” From what he’d seen, she was in excellent shape. Maybe a little small up top, but it suited her athletic build.