by Jack Mars
Reid rounded the guest services building, trying to find Sara. The grounds were empty, but he kept his eyes open in case Rais was still present. He did not see any movement, anyone else, until he reached the building again.
As he approached from the rear, he saw a small figure standing at the edge of one of the pools. Her blonde hair was bathed in dim blue light as she stared into the water.
“Sara!” he called to her. “Sara, my god, you’re okay…”
She flinched as he touched her shoulder. He knelt, his arms open, ready to engulf her in a hug, sweep her up, get her to safety…
She looked up at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy from crying, her cheeks sharp and her features entirely foreign.
Reid’s arms fell limply to his sides. His mouth fell open but words failed.
“I’m sorry,” the girl said in a whisper.
“You’re not…” Reid’s mind felt as if it had short-circuited. This girl was not Sara at all. She was older, at least eighteen, but short and thin-framed like his daughter. And wearing her clothes.
“I’m sorry,” the girl said again. “He… he made me…”
“Where is she?” Reid gripped the girl’s shoulder, harder than he intended. She shrank away from him; he had forgotten for a moment that he was still holding the Glock in his other hand. He quickly holstered it. “Where?”
The girl shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. He made us switch clothes. He told me to come here, and keep my face hidden… and to give you this.” She held something out to him. A folded slip of paper.
His fingers trembled as he opened it. There were only three words written on it, in tight, neat handwriting. Wall, the note said. Minceta Tower.
Reid crumpled the note as he clenched a fist. Rais had never intended to show up at the resort. He wasn’t going to let Reid choose the location or set any terms. He still had both his daughters, and now he was baiting Reid into coming where he wanted him.
Sirens wailed from beyond the stone walls of the resort. “Go,” Reid told the girl. “Get to the police. Tell them to call the American embassy. Tell them everything you know. Understand? Everything you know. They’ll take care of you, okay?”
The girl nodded, tears welling anew in her eyes. “I’m sorry…” she said again.
“Go.” He pushed her gently in the direction of the resort entrance. Her feet shuffled against the pavement—her feet in Sara’s sandals. In his daughter’s clothes. “Wait…” He cleared his throat and forced potential tears away. “Are they… when you last saw them, were they okay?”
The girl nodded. “But they won’t be for long. They still believe… they think you’ll find them.”
I will find them. He nodded to her. “Go, hurry.” He let the crumpled note fall from his hand and into the pool as the girl scurried away toward safety. The sirens were louder now, just beyond the stone wall, blending with the still-blaring tone of the resort’s alarm.
Reid sprinted for the red gate, the rear entrance of the resort, and shoved through it as fast as his legs would carry him, toward the walls of Dubrovnik.
*
Villa Maya overlooked the coast and the Adriatic Sea to the south, so Reid ran parallel to the coastline for several blocks. The great stone walls that rose up from the sea protected the peninsular section of the city that jutted outward where the natural rocky cliffs could not. Minceta Tower, as the note had specified, was the highest point of the sea-facing wall, built in the fifteenth century at the behest of Pope Pius II to defend against the Turkish threat.
Try as he might to distract his mind with the facts, Reid’s fury only grew as he sprinted in long strides toward the stone fortifications. Rais had given his word, and then betrayed it.
What did I expect? Reid scolded himself for being so naïve. He should have seen this coming, should have known that the assassin would double-cross him.
The entrance to the walls and the tower beyond was gated, closed off to tourists after dark. There was a small guard house, but no one inside. He checked the perimeter; there were cameras, but that was of little concern to him now. He shrugged out of his blazer and threw it over a shoulder as he climbed the gate. At the top, he laid the blazer over the sharp wire and scrambled over the fence, dropping safely on the other side, pulling the blazer down with him and putting it back on.
The walls were like a corridor, partitions on either side of him reaching just past his waist. He pulled out the Glock as he took a stone staircase up, two steps at a time, clearing the corner before continuing onward. The lighting was dim, the walls illuminated only from spotlights recessed into the sea cliffs and on the land side, shining upward and casting long shadows along his narrow route. He had roughly a six-foot span from each short parapet on either side—not much room to maneuver, but equally unfit for a surprise attack from the assassin. Still he could not help but feel like a rat in a maze.
His eyes adjusted to the moonlight and shadows as he followed the serpentine trail upward, up the slope of the hillside. Reid hazarded a glance over the edge. Sixty feet below the sheer cliff was a sharp, rocky outcropping, and beyond it the black water of the Adriatic.
The jagged battlements of Minceta Tower were just ahead, fully illuminated in white spotlights. A stone staircase led up to the darkened entrance of the castle-like tower. Reid’s jaw clenched tightly as he drew near.
He’s here. Rais had chosen a place that he could defend if needed, a place where he had the high ground, where Kent Steele would have to come find him. He was fully aware that he could be walking into a trap.
The narrow causeway widened into a semicircular balcony as he approached the tower, the walls on either side rising higher, nearly ten feet. No one would see them from the ground; they would be completely obscured by the parapets and tower. This was what he wanted. Just me and him.
His throat ran dry as he examined the stairs, the dark and open entrance, squinting to try to see some sign of life on or inside the tower. He could see nothing—at least not above him. But before him, on the wide balcony and between the high walls, was the vague lump of a shadow.
As he crept closer, he saw that the shape was a body.
The man was lying fetal on his side, facing the opposite direction. Reid knelt beside the body and gently rolled him over onto his back. The once-blue shirt of a security guard was stained and slick with blood. A gruesome smile had been sliced clear across his neck, the whites of his still-wide eyes shining in the moonlight.
A patrolman, Reid reasoned. Someone to make sure the tourists stayed off the walls at night. Unsuspecting and entirely innocent in all of this.
There was another object, small and silver and oblong, lying near the dead man’s head. As Reid reached for it, it vibrated violently against the stone floor, startling him.
He flipped the phone open and slowly put it to his ear.
“Hello, Agent Steele.”
A shiver ran down Reid’s spine as he rose to his feet. He checked the tower in his periphery but still saw no movement.
“You lied to me,” Reid said softly. “You gave your word and you broke it—”
“Yes,” Rais interrupted. “A man who built a life on lies and murder broke his word to another man who built a life on lies and murder.”
“No. I have a life. A real life. And at its center are two girls who have nothing to do with this. They are just children. Let them go. Come deal with me. That’s what you want, right?”
“Throw your gun into the sea,” the assassin ordered.
Reid hissed a scoff through his nose. Rais was most definitely in the tower; he was watching Reid at that very moment.
“Or what? You’ll shoot me?” He knew that wasn’t what Rais wanted.
“I was not entirely untrue to my word,” the assassin said. “I did bring one girl. She is in the tower with me.”
Reid’s heartbeat doubled its pace. His first instinct was to sprint, run into the tower, find his daughter and shoot the assassin dead.
“She has a knife to her throat,” Rais continued. “If you want her back alive, throw your gun into the sea. If you would like her blood to run down these stone stairs, then do what you’re thinking. Keep your gun. Rush the tower. But I will kill her.”
“Don’t,” Reid said quickly. “This is between you and me. It has nothing to do with her—”
“She is an instrument,” Rais responded calmly. “Her purpose was to get you to this point. Her life now means nothing to me. You have a choice, Agent Steele. Keep your gun, rush the tower, and kill me—but she will be dead by then. You could save one daughter. Trade one life for the assurance of the other. Or throw your gun, and perhaps you’ll save both.”
“Proof of life,” Reid demanded. His voice sounded weaker than he intended. Rais had the upper hand in every way. “I want to hear her voice.”
Rais chuckled. “You have no leverage to make demands. I will give you three seconds to make your decision.”
Reid didn’t hesitate. Contrary to the assassin’s words, there was no choice. He would never risk sacrificing either of his girls. He heaved the Glock over the wall and into the Adriatic.
“Let me see her,” he insisted. “At least hear her…”
“The other gun,” Rais said. “The one on your ankle. I believe you favor the Ruger.”
Reid gritted his teeth so hard he felt they might crack, but he complied, tugging the LC9 loose and sending it into the sea after the Glock.
“And now the bag.”
Reid had nearly forgotten about the small black duffel lying next to the guard’s body. Angry, seething, he reared back and hurled the bag by its strap, up over the wall and into oblivion.
“I’ve done what you asked,” he growled into the phone. “Now you have to give me something, anything… hello? Hello?!” Rais had ended the call. Reid threw the phone in fury, sending it skittering over the stones, and turned to rush into the tower.
But before he could take even two steps, a silhouette appeared in the dark doorway to Minceta Tower. The figure slowly descended the stairs, bathed in the white glow of the spotlights. He looked different than he had last time they had met, but the only thing Reid could focus on was his wild green eyes, shining like bright emeralds. His face was impassive, but his eyes were keenly grinning.
“No.” Reid shook his head. “No, you bring her out. You bring her out here so I can see…” He trailed off as the realization struck him.
Stupid. His blood ran cold. I’ve been so stupid. They’re not here at all. Rais had bluffed. Neither of his girls was on the walls. The assassin had come alone. His hands trembled with rage and remorse in equal measure.
Rais paused on the stairs, looking down on Reid with something that nearly approached pity. “Agent Steele. Your daughters were never here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Panic seized Reid’s chest so tightly he staggered back a step, steadying himself against the wave of nausea that threatened to overtake him.
“What?” he heard himself whisper.
“Your daughters were never here in Croatia,” the assassin repeated. “Your eldest is very smart. I thought that she might find a way to leave you something. So I made sure that she heard ‘Dubrovnik.’ I found her message to you in the motel.” A smirk played on Rais’s lips. He was enjoying this, enjoying Reid’s shock and utter disbelief. “She led you here for me. I thought you might discover that before we landed, so there was a second plane in Nova Scotia. It departed ten minutes before your daughters arrived there, and it was bound for Dubrovnik. But the plane your daughters were on never came here. And so the authorities found nothing.”
Reid shook his head slowly, refusing to believe it. “But the cargo depot… the textile mill…”
“Oh, the traffickers do use this place,” Rais said casually. “But at my request they landed elsewhere. They are an unscrupulous group that had hoped to be Amun in the past. It was not difficult for me to convince them that Amun was still functioning underground, and that they could be welcomed into the fold.” He chuckled. “From what I hear, you took care of several of their members. Two birds with one stone, as they say. Perhaps if you survive—if you win this night—you can still find them.”
Reid’s lower lip trembled as a fresh wave of horror crashed down upon him. “You…” He struggled to form the words. “You gave my daughters… to them?”
Rais frowned. “Of course I did. Don’t you see? Not only will I not tell you where they are, but I don’t know where they are. What matters is that you are here, with me. I have destroyed your family. Now I will destroy you.”
Bile rose up in Reid’s throat. His legs felt weak. He knew this man was a psychopath, a murderer, even a monster—but he had underestimated the full lengths to which one person was willing to go for such a seemingly insane belief. Reid had believed that Maya’s message gave him an upper hand; that he was gaining on them. But he was merely being baited.
His girls could be anywhere. Finding them now would be an insurmountable task alone. He would have to contact the agency and turn himself in. Whatever it took.
But first, he had to deal with this animal, or else the specter of Amun would continue to haunt him to the ends of the earth.
Just let go, prodded the voice in his head. Let go of the wrath. Be the man you know you are. His life was not built on lies and murder, but that was all that Rais could understand. And because of that, Reid could always have the upper hand. He would not let his rage blindly control him.
He cleared his throat and kept the waver out of his voice as he said, “There’s one problem with your plan.” In his periphery he glanced down at the security guard’s body. “You haven’t destroyed anything. Not yet. My family is still out there, and I’m still breathing.”
The assassin’s smirk slackened, dragging his mouth into a frown.
“You have no love for anything or anyone,” Reid continued. “Your vendetta and your beliefs fuel your actions. They motivate and guide you to a meaningless end. But here’s the truth, Rais. You mean nothing to me. You’re just another insurgent, a part of the job. My daughters might have been instruments to your ends, but to me, they are the ends. They’re all that matters. I’m not going to waste my time on you. I’m going to go find my girls now.”
His heart racing in his chest, Reid turned around and walked away, noting and relishing the look of absolute astonishment on Rais’s usually passive face.
“No,” the assassin muttered.
Reid counted his paces.
“No!” Rais snarled. “I have come too far! You will not turn your back on me!”
He heard footfalls pounding the stone stairs. Coming up behind him, fast. He counted. Of course he knew he could not just walk away from Rais—but making the assassin believe he would, taunting him and diminishing his belief, was his bluff. He knew from experience how blind rage breeds carelessness.
All he needed was a moment of carelessness. A split-second of negligence, the slightest window of opportunity.
Reid took one more step and crouched on his right knee. He swung his hips and cantilevered his body, bringing his left leg up and around in a vicious roundhouse kick.
As Rais rushed up to angrily attack from behind, Reid’s heel connected with the side of the assassin’s face. He felt the sharp impact up his calf, resonating through to his hip. Rais’s head twisted first, his shoulders jerking wildly and his body following. He fell silently to the stone in a heap.
Reid did not wait around to inspect the damage or even to see if Rais was still conscious. He tucked into a roll and came up on his knees next to the guard’s body. He did not expect a gun, but on the man’s belt was another weapon—a thin leather blackjack, about ten inches long, one end curving into a beaver-tail shape and weighed heavily with a disc of lead. A well-placed blow with the blackjack could crack a skull like a melon.
Reid rose quickly and spun, rearing back with the leather-wrapped weapon—but an arm shot forward and stopped his forearm.
Reid blinked in bewilderment. He had put nearly his entire body weight into that kick, yet Rais was standing, his lips snarling in the moonlight. The left half of the assassin’s face was purple and slightly misshapen; he certainly had an orbital fracture, yet he had recovered as if nothing had happened.
He savagely twisted Reid’s arm to one side. The familiar sensation of Kent Steele reflexes kicked in and he jumped, both feet leaving the air as he somersaulted with his twisted arm to avoid it snapping. Then he lurched forward, bending his arm as his elbow connected with the broken side of Rais’s face.
The assassin staggered back two steps, but otherwise showed no reaction of pain or injury.
How? Reid wondered in frustration. How can he take hits like that and keep coming like nothing happened?
“Curious, isn’t it.” Rais grinned and wiped blood from his cheek. “Damaged nerves, courtesy of many previous encounters—including ours. It is not without its drawbacks, but is occasionally quite useful.”
Damaged nerves. Reid’s knowledge of the nervous system was admittedly limited, but if Rais could continue taking blows like that without feeling them, Reid would have to change his strategy. During their last encounter in Sion, he had stabbed the assassin half a dozen times in the back and chest—he could only hope the dead nerves did not extend to other parts of his body.
Rais reached into his jacket and produced a wickedly curved hunting knife, its blade razor sharp and glinting in the moonlight. Reid took an instinctive step back and tightened his grip on the blackjack.
“This knife killed the old man,” Rais told him. “And it was at your daughter’s throat. Yet I had the feeling it was not the first time she had a blade to her naked neck. It is no small wonder how you’ve come all this way and still cannot keep those close to you safe from—”
Reid leapt forward, his scorching anger rising up, getting the better of him. He swung the blackjack upward, but too wide; Rais skirted to one side and avoided it easily. But Reid did not let up. He swung the lead-laden weapon rapidly back and forth, arcing and coming close but missing by fractions of an inch each time.
