Slipping through some of the nearby bushes, the burly Russian scanned the property around him for any signs of life. The little campus of gray villas seemed peaceful and asleep. The lighting was poor; it was easy to remain undetected while moving to the nearest building. He was wearing his black utility pants and tactical vest that blended into the night, leaving only his head uncovered. There were no streetlights or sources of wide illumination, and the small fixtures near the door of each villa did little beyond allowing someone close to the door to see what the unit number was. Unit 15. He was looking for Unit 6. Was it better to stick to the shadows and try to remain hidden? Or pretend that he was one of the tenants and walk around nonchalantly as if he belonged there? Anton decided on the former. He was sure that they all knew he was still at large, and it was quite possible that someone was on watch even though Anton fully doubted that even the FBI would guess that he knew so much about them. He ducked around the corner and moved silently past the winding gravel path until he was at the next building. Unit 14. He continued around the perimeter.
There were two goals for this excursion. One was to kidnap Derek Callahan. Ransom was an old and familiar game to Anton, and while he would have preferred to not have to do it in a locale as small as Bermuda, he was confident that he could keep Callahan hidden long enough to issue his payoff demands and make sure that this time, without question, the money changed hands and became untraceable. The second goal was to torture Callahan to death. Anton had spent no small amount of time thinking up what he wanted to do with this man. He certainly had no intention of returning him alive to the FBI or Bermuda Police force. No. Anton wanted his pound of flesh for Johan, for the disruption, for the inconvenience.
Unit 13.
The first step would be to knock his victim unconscious, of course. That would allow Anton to haul Callahan back to the car and then off to the condo, which was well far and away enough to be isolated and not attract attention. The bed was already prepped with rope for securing hands and ankles, spread eagle and face down, head hanging off the foot of the bed so that Anton could keep the bucket underneath. He’d have his target tied long before he woke up.
Unit 11.
Once Callahan regained consciousness, Anton would work up the psychological tension. Let the realization of being immobilized and helpless sink in. Allow the stifling feel of the duct tape over his target’s mouth convey that there was no way to shout for help. There would be no rescue, not for him—not that Anton would let the FBI know that as he extorted them for a payoff. Anton would skulk around the apartment for an hour or so, without speaking, without giving any inkling of what was going to happen. He had a chain that he planned to lay out a few feet in front of Callahan’s vision. He would add the butcher knife next to it. Then the broom stick, the container of salt, followed by the hatchet, clamps, pliers, and wire. A small blanket would cover everything but Anton would peel back the edge to show the chain and leave it there for about fifteen minutes and let Callahan wonder.
When he was ready to get started, Anton would crank up the music. He had a carefully orchestrated playlist of select Johnny Cash songs that he had arranged on his iPod. To the rhythm of Folsom Prison Blues, Anton would take the chain and lash at Callahan’s bare feet, the links cutting the skin and the force of the iron fracturing the small bones in his heels, instep, and toes into a million pieces. He could already hear the screaming in his mind, muffled by the duct tape, harmonizing with the Man in Black lyricizing about regrets and mistakes. When there was nothing more left of the feet, it would be time for the knife. Anton would start by cutting Callahan’s pants and underwear off. He had found long ago that there were differences in how to best drive humiliation between men and women when it came to the removal of clothes. For women, it was best to make them undress themselves, the submission and capitulation being the best means to prevent them from externalizing blame and instead making them feel as if they were involved in their own denigration. For men the opposite was true—tearing off of the clothes enhanced the feelings of powerlessness and weakness. Once his victim’s lower half was exposed, Anton would put the broomstick into action. It was a good, sturdy piece of wood and he had roughed up the handle quite a bit. He would club the back of the hamstrings repeatedly and go on and on until he could see the muscle spasms contorting Callahan in pain. The backs of the calves were good targets, too. When Callahan was exhausted from the debilitating spasms, maybe Anton would finish off the broom handle with a couple of ass-raping thrusts to bloody up the fool’s insides.
Unit 9.
Then it was going to be back to the knife. Cut off the shirt. Flay the skin off his back. Lay the strips of flesh on the floor in front of the prisoner and let him see the irreparable damage that was being done to him. Stir up the realization that this wasn’t a simple torture session to pass the time, but rather that this might be a slow, lingering punishment that was just getting warmed up in how much permanent and overwhelming pain it was going to cause.
That would be the point where Anton might have to rip off the duct tape from Callahan’s mouth to let him puke into the bucket, rather than asphyxiate himself on his own vomit.
Unit 8. Anton was getting closer.
Salt. Salt would go into the bare muscle fibers exposed on Callahan’s back. The duct tape would have to go back on for that part. It would be, well... loud.
Hatchet time would come after that. Anton wasn’t sure if he was going to chop off each hand right away or start with the fingers. For that matter, there was a chance that this part could backfire altogether. The most powerful impact that mutilation had on a victim’s psychology was the idea of them having to live their life forever affected by the removal of a key body part. Take three fingers off each hand and there would be embarrassment and shame with almost everything the person did. That was assuming you left the thumb on. But still, a person could get by with a thumb and an index finger. Take off the whole hand, however, and you were talking about being crippled and dependent. You just can’t do much without hands in this day and age. The thing that worried Anton was what Callahan might suspect at this point. Anton had seen people who clued in that their torture was just taking the slow boat to a gory death, at which point they would become resigned to the end and much less susceptible to the psychological elements of the session. Anton didn’t want that to happen with Callahan. He wanted him to think that somehow, somewhere, there might be a way out and that if he begged for mercy or could otherwise find some way to capitulate, the mutilation would be stopped before it was unrecoverable. Which, of course, was ridiculous—there would be no stopping.
Anton decided that he might have to talk a little at this stage to keep up the con. Maybe he could demand ten million dollars to keep all ten fingers and when Callahan refused, take off a pinky. Then the remaining nine would cost eleven million in order to “stop.” Thumbs could be worth more, Anton wasn’t sure. It kind of didn’t matter, so he decided he would come up with the rest of it later.
Unit 7.
The rest would probably go more quickly. Pliers—rip off his earlobes and eyelids, maybe pull a few teeth. Clamps—a little peripheral crushing, whether it be toes, nipples, genitals, something else. For the wire, Anton thought he would heat up the end with his lighter and then make Callahan watch as he moved it ever closer to his eyeball until, as he screamed in terror and was unable to blink because he no longer could, Anton would jab it in and swirl it around until the socket was filled with jelly.
There were some other things that Anton mused over. But when it was all done, he’d probably simply duct tape up the rest of Callahan’s head until he couldn’t breathe and let him asphyxiate in his new and terrifyingly brief darkness.
The rhythm of Johnny Cash’s A Boy Named Sue ran silently through Anton’s head. It was the story of a boy cursed at birth with a girl’s name who sought revenge against the father who had maliciously branded him so. The verse near the end, where the grown boy finally tracked down his old man,
repeated itself over and over to the point where Anton had to consciously make sure he didn’t start singing it aloud: My name is Sue! How do you do! Now, you gonna die!
Yes, that was what Anton was going to do. He was going to teach this fool a lesson. Callahan was going to wish he had paid Krystian the money long, long ago, and been done with it.
He was standing in front of Unit 6 now.
Anton checked over his shoulder. There was no one around. Silently he slipped in the key that he had taken off of the custodian earlier that night, after a brief but inconsequential struggle. He turned the knob and gently opened the door. The security chain started to pull taut up at eye level. Anton quickly wrapped electrician’s tape around the chain and then hoisted up the bolt cutters he had been carrying. He quickly and efficiently cut the metal links, with the tape helping to muffle the recoil as the small chain snapped back before dangling uselessly against the door. Anton tossed the bolt cutters into the grass by his feet and went inside, closing the door behind him.
The villa was dark inside and Anton stood completely still, listening, while his eyes adjusted to the blackness. Gradually he saw that he was standing in a small living area with a kitchenette off to the side. A sofa and coffee table were to his right, and the door that led to the bedroom was straight ahead. There was no sign of any activity or movement, which was good. He had been most worried about the snipping of the chain, and although he was practiced at doing such things without attracting undue attention, there was always a risk that he might alert the occupant and have to move quickly—and violently—upon entering the threshold. That didn’t seem to be the case here.
Anton pulled the small bottle of chloroform from the pocket on his thigh and poured a generous amount into a rag he had brought with him. He walked silently toward the bedroom door and pushed it open.
The shape of a sleeping person dominated the queen bed against the far wall. It was cold inside—there was an air conditioner mounted in the window and its rattling confirmed that it was cranked up to high—and Callahan understandably had the heavy bed covers pulled all the way up. There was crap everywhere on the floor. Clothes, an open suitcase, and piles of assorted whatever meant Anton had to step very carefully as he moved his way over to the side of the bed. Anton unfolded the rag and readied it in his right hand, staring at the shape of Callahan’s head, aiming. Then he clasped the covers with his fingers and pulled it back while simultaneously shoving the rag into his victim’s exposed, helpless face.
He realized something was wrong as soon as the chloroform-soaked cloth made contact.
This is a woman. Long hair, delicate features... this isn’t Callahan...
There were some short, muffled sounds of surprise as the girl writhed briefly under the cloth Anton was clamping over her mouth, but he was already taking a step back, reassessing, thinking furiously about how his intelligence could have been faulty. His right foot slipped off of some random piece of junk that this stupid woman had dumped all over her room and he stumbled back into another harder piece of junk. And then the junk grabbed his lower leg and twisted it.
Anton collapsed onto the floor just in time for a fist to connect with his jaw.
He threw up his arms to protect his head as more punches came. Anton didn’t quite understand what had happened and only had a vague sense that he had stepped on... someone sleeping on the floor...? but between blows he lashed out with a knife-handed chop and connected hard with something solid. The punches momentarily stopped. Anton kicked his way clear of his assailant and tried to scramble back to the bedroom door. He was almost there when a set of hands grabbed his tactical vest and swung him off course just enough for him to crash into the doorframe.
A punch to his kidney turned Anton around in a spasm of pain. He kicked at his attacker’s legs and connected with something fleshy, like a calf, and for a moment Anton thought he might have knocked his attacker down. But the coiling silhouette in front of him thrust itself toward his own legs, and the next thing Anton knew was his knee was exploding in agony and he could no longer stand. He crumpled to the floor—on top of a suitcase, no less—and hit the back of his head against the wall in the process.
Anton would later recollect only vague memories of the aftermath of his attempted incursion. Aside from the repeated punches to his face, there had been a blinding flare of white as the bedroom lights were flipped on. Some woman—tall, blond, tattoos—unsteadily wobbling about in the background, shaking off the effects of his aborted chloroform. The same woman disappearing and reappearing with a burly Hispanic man who put him, very painfully, in handcuffs. But there was one recollection that was not vague at all, and one that Anton would never forget for as long as he lived. It was the picture of one Derek Callahan, nose bloody, holding him down with a knee against his chest, staring at him with a wry smile that said he knew he had won.
50
Beaumaris, Armchair Safari.
“They’re coming, Haas! They’re coming!”
Megan ran down the steps from her observation post on the battlements. She had counted a dozen enemies approaching before losing sight of them in the curving, maze-like canyon.
Haas met her at the bottom of the wall. He appeared rather nonchalant about the whole thing. “Are they all Kenzen?”
“No. Four were humans, on horses. Does that mean something?”
The ranger stroked his chin. “That’s a new twist.”
“How so?”
“Kenzen are summoned creatures. They’re tough, but dumb—the AI scripts are only so good. So they tend to charge right at you and not pay attention to traps.”
“Traps like we’ve set here?”
“Exactly,” Haas smirked. “See, maybe I’m not some raving-lunatic psychopath. But the humans will be smarter. They’re probably real people, like you and me.”
“Real players? You mean, like more of the gangsters?”
“Yeah. Each with a bunch of that money behind him.”
Megan felt a knot in her stomach.
Haas removed his cloak. “Let’s see what we can see.”
They climbed to the top of the ruined gatehouse together. Megan pointed out the general location where she had seen the approaching enemy. Haas thought that was about a mile away, which meant that the battle could start at any time.
“Things are going to happen fast. If you hear me tell you to do something, it needed to happen two seconds earlier. You’ll have to jump. Okay?”
“Okay,” Megan said.
“Good.” The ranger slapped her shoulder. “Go back into the courtyard and stand in Alpha. They’ll see you through the open gatehouse.”
“What am I supposed to do there?”
“Stand still and look scared.”
That won’t be hard.
Megan scrambled down the crumbling stairs leading to the courtyard. This whole defense was crazy—but somehow, it had become exhilarating. Part of her couldn’t believe she was actually helping her captor. Haas terrified her. But, knowing who he really was, was it really possible that they could win?
Out of curiosity, Megan walked deliberately over the rubble and debris they had scattered around Alpha. It was hard going. The rocks and broken trash shifted under her feet and almost sent her to her knees. Fascinating.
Drawing her short sword, Megan sat down and put her blade across her knees. Then she waited.
* * *
Haas watched the thief disappear into the gatehouse. When he was sure she was not coming back up, he picked up the coil of rope he had innocuously tossed out of the way and looped one end around a massive stone crenellation once used for cover by defending archers. Unfurled, the rope was more than long enough to reach the ground outside the castle wall. Haas tugged on it to make sure it was secure.
If things went badly, he would fall back to the rope and rappel to safety while the attackers were preoccupied with Megan. It would be a shame to leave the poor girl to the wolves, but Haas wasn’t about to be stupid with a million-plu
s dollars and a Portable Hole in his possession. Business was business.
* * *
Gareth spied the tiny figure sitting in the middle of the courtyard as soon as they rounded the last bend. It was the thief. She saw them immediately and dashed out of sight. A quick scan of the battlements revealed no other defenders.
“Fantastic!” a voice said behind him. “There are no doors—this will be easy!”
Gareth looked over his shoulder at Klaus, the burly warrior directed by DarkZeus. The man was powerfully built and wore a braided topknot that fell down his back from his shaved head. Behind Klaus was Pr1mal’s character, Ardmore, and a computer-controlled henchman named Melador. They had all logged in separately and rendezvoused in Bangor to continue the hunt in Safari while Anton and his crew worked the angle around the bank heist.
Anton had been very specific in his instructions to Krystian: get the rest of the credit card money back. And this time, it hadn’t taken the cold barrel of a pistol to motivate him. He didn’t need extra encouragement. This was personal.
And the person in question had just run out of view.
“Just make sure you do your jobs,” Gareth snapped to his companions. “Remember, no one loots the thief’s body except me.”
Klaus drew his sword. “Aye, no worries about that. Come on lads, let’s go get her.”
“Can’t wait,” Ardmore chimed in. A wicked-looking Greco-Roman helmet hid most of his face.
The warriors kicked their heels into their mounts. Gareth motioned for the Kenzen to follow, but for some reason he himself lingered behind. Maybe he was getting tired at chasing this thief all over the place. Or… maybe something just didn’t feel right.
A dark streak flew from the top of the gatehouse into the rocky cliff that rose hundreds of feet above the approach. The streak hit with a clatter and started to fall, followed immediately by a small sheet of rubble.
Armchair Safari (A Cybercrime Technothriller) Page 46
