by Mari Carr
“Ms. Hancock, please come down here. I was sent by your…leader…to rescue you. I will protect you,” Marek called up.
She looked at him over her shoulder. “I’ve heard that before, Mr. Lee. I don’t believe you.”
He looked taken aback by her statement.
“Damn it, Rose,” Weston ground out again. “We don’t have time for this.”
She kept her attention on Marek. “Go back to Juliette.” Rose took perverse satisfaction in using Juliette’s name, breaking a sacred rule of the Trinity Masters and giving away such an important secret—the Grand Master’s name. “Tell her we’ll come to her, but not now.”
That was a big-ass lie, but a lie that might get Marek to leave.
Marek looked from her to Weston. “Ms. Hancock, this man kidnapped you.”
“And if you take me back to the U.S., I’ll be executed. Alive and kidnapped is better than dead.”
Marek’s straight brows made a single dark line above his nose, his frown was so ferocious. “What are you talking about?”
“The Grand Master didn’t tell you? I’m a traitor. I burned down a building, nearly blew up the headquarters, and tried to murder three people.”
Marek stared at her. “You’re…joking?”
“Nope.”
Weston was walking down the hill. He stopped at her side. “I’m taking both of you back to the cottage. You have two choices—I can put you in the trunk of the car, or you can walk.” There was anger in his tone, and maybe some hurt.
Get in line.
But she knew when to bite her tongue and accept her beating. She started trudging her way to the cottage. Halfway up, she looked over her shoulder. Marek was back in the car, slowly and carefully turning the car around. Weston stood on the high ground, the gun trained on the other man.
Weston kept the gun trained on the car as Marek drove slowly back the way he’d come, then turned left into the driveway.
Rose took a seat on the front step and picked gravel out of her cut up legs. She watched them—Weston keeping his gun on Marek. Marek’s gaze was moving, switching from Weston to the road in front of him.
Marek parked the car then carefully climbed out, his hands up. Weston stopped where he could keep them both in sight.
“Open the door and go inside, Rose.”
She stood and opened the door.
“Follow her,” Weston said.
Rose turned to watch Marek precede Weston into the small house.
“Kitchen,” Weston said.
Rose led their fucked-up little parade into the kitchen.
“Open that door.” Weston motioned with a small jerk of the gun. Rose opened the narrow interior door. It was dark, but she reached in and found the string to a bulb.
There was a narrow, steep staircase down into the cellar
“Empty your pockets,” Weston demanded.
She looked over her shoulder at Weston, but she couldn’t read his expression. The man who’d held her while she’d wept, who’d walked her through the web of secrets and information, was gone. When she looked back, all she saw was a hard, scarred man, with no mercy on his face.
Marek calmly set a wallet, passport, and cell phone on the kitchen counter.
“Rose, pat him down.”
“Am I your prisoner or your accomplice?” She tipped her head to the side in exaggerated mock confusion.
His face was a stony mask. “You’re a pain in the ass.”
“Language,” Marek chided.
Rose and Weston looked at Marek, who regarded each of them calmly. Some of the tension eased out of Weston.
“What were your orders?” Weston asked Marek.
“To find Ms. Hancock and rescue her from her kidnapper.”
“I’m not her kidnapper,” Weston snapped.
“Technically…” Rose let the word trail off.
“I believe she was running from you when I arrived.”
“Just…just get in.” Weston gestured with the muzzle of the gun. Marek walked to the door.
“Wait,” Weston barked out. “You swear you were not sent to kill her.”
“I’m not a killer,” Marek said, and looking at him, Rose believed it.
“In that case, get in. Both of you,” Weston said.
Rose raised her brows, but the expression was wasted. Weston wasn’t looking at her. She slipped through the narrow doorway and started down the stairs. She groped in the gloom and found another cord at the foot of the stairs.
The cellar was small, with low wood ceilings and stone walls. No window, no way out but the stairs. There was a set of shelves along one wall, the wood silvery white with age. On the bottom shelf were a few tarps, large bottles of water, and other emergency preparedness items.
Marek followed her down.
She looked up to where Weston’s big body blocked most of the light from the kitchen. The bare bulb at the top of the stairs cast the undamaged left side of his face in shadow and made the features she could see harsh and sharp—the false eye, the scars around it, the misshapen brow bone.
Rose closed her eyes and her heart clenched.
You’re not the only one who suffered, Rose.
The door closed.
Marek Lee looked around then placed his hands on his hips. For some odd reason, the posture reminded her of Superman.
He looked at her, his brow furrowed. “This,” he declared, “is not going particularly well.”
Rose started to laugh.
Chapter Eight
Marek checked the walls, more out of habit than an expectation of finding a conveniently bricked-over window or secret door. Cellars, or basements as his mother and the Americans would say, were common in most English countryside cottages. The old ones had them. Cellars had served as food storage in this part of the world for ages before the invention of refrigerators. This one was larger than most, roughly two meters long and three meters wide. The walls were gray stone that was cool to the touch. He’d made a circuit of the place several times in the past hour. No windows.
He also didn’t find any cameras or listening devices. Without electronic bug-detection equipment he couldn’t be sure, but even if there had been bugs and cameras, he needed to talk to Ms. Rose Hancock, so he would have to risk being overheard.
Rose was sitting on the second step up, her head resting in one hand, the other wrapped across her middle. Occasionally there was a random residual giggle. She was in pain and possibly still in shock from the botched escape.
His job was to get her back to Boston. The revelations of the past few minutes required him to rework and realign his knowledge of the situation, but the end goal hadn’t changed.
First priority, assess the physical situation. Done.
Second priority, take care of the target. Third, gather information. It was time to take care of items two and three.
Marek grabbed one of the large jugs of water off the shelf and brought it over. “Ms. Hancock, we need to wash off your knees.”
Her pants were shredded. Watching her jump from the moving car had been horrifying. She’d been lucky or smart to hit and roll the way she had.
She sat up, wincing, and stretched out both legs.
Marek dropped to one knee. “Is it okay if I touch you?”
“You’re asking?”
“Of course.”
He could feel her looking at him. “Um, yes, yes, of course.”
He tore each pant leg from the knee down to the hem, then tore a few inches over her knee, so he had a good view of her leg from above the knee to her feet.
Uncapping the bottle, he raised it and poured water over one leg. Blood and dirt ran over her skin in rivulets.
“Who did you try to kill?” he asked.
She looked at him, her face soft, and his instincts told him she was going to answer.
The door at the top of the steps opened.
He sprang to his feet and started up when Rose’s gasp of pain made him halt.
“Ms.
Hancock?” he asked, twisting his upper body to look down at the top of her head. She was hunched over.
“Rose?” The light from the kitchen cast the big man in shadow, though the bulb illuminated his legs. His voice rang with concern.
“I’m fine,” she hissed.
“I…damn it. Eat something.” The gunman set down two brown paper sacks on the top step, then he reiterated his demand and closed the door.
Marek carefully backed down the steps, then dropped to a crouch.
“Ms. Hancock?”
No answer.
“Rose?”
“I’m fine.” She raised her head, but didn’t look at him. Instead she focused somewhere over his shoulder. “Did he bring food?”
The scent of fried fare from the local chipper was drifting down the stairs. There was an anxious, hungry note to her voice, as if she hadn’t eaten in a while.
And maybe she hadn’t.
Marek took the steps two at a time, grabbing the bags and coming down the stairs just as quickly.
One bag held smaller wax paper sacks of buttery, golden-fried cod and thick-cut chips, both items piping hot. The second bag had two soda cups, kept in place by wads of napkins, plastic cutlery, and two paper plates.
He was about to offer to wash her hands, but the way she was staring at the bags had him rethinking that. Instead, he passed her a wad of napkins, a drink, and a straw, then set the plates on the floor and tipped out most of the chips and three of the four pieces of fish onto the plate. She tapped the straw against the step to push it through the wrapper, then stuffed the end into the drink, using only one hand for the whole procedure.
Seeing that, he opened a packet of malt vinegar and drizzled it over the chips, dumped on some salt.
“Be careful, it’s hot.” He passed her the plate, then dug around in the bag and found a fork, reaching over to ground it in some of the chips as she balanced it on her knees.
She snatched up the fork, speared two chips on the white plastic tines and blew on them, two quick, shallow puffs, then shoved them into her mouth. Her eyes widened, probably from the heat, then slid closed in apparent enjoyment.
Marek watched her eat, occasionally reaching out to place two fingers on the edge of her plate to keep it from tipping onto the floor.
Watching her eat and drink hungrily made his heart ache for her. The poor woman obviously hadn’t had anything in days.
Once she slowed, her plate half empty, she looked at him. “You aren’t going to eat?”
“I ate not long ago.”
“It isn’t poisoned,” she said.
“I didn’t think it was.”
She chewed a chip thoughtfully. “True. If he wanted me dead, he would have killed me already. If he wanted you dead, he would have shot you.”
“Yes, Wesley Derrick had time to kill us.”
“Wesley Derrick?”
“That’s his name.”
“Wesley…Wes. That makes sense.”
Marek waited, aware that time was something of a luxury. He would need to move before too much longer, but this was also a rare opportunity to speak with the woman he’d been tasked to save.
She sucked down the last of the soda in her cup. He grabbed the second one and passed it to her.
“You should have it,” she said.
“I’m fine, but thank you for thinking of me. Go ahead.”
She shook her head, and went back to eating her fish and chips. Wanting to be companionable, he reached into the bag and snagged a still-hot chip, popping it into his mouth. She watched him for a moment, then glanced down at her own food. They ate in silence.
Finally, she set the plate aside.
There was tension in the silence now. Rose wiped her fingers, brows drawn together. Marek took her plate, tipping the food back into the bag. In a hostage situation, it was good to save all resources. He wiped his own fingers on a napkin.
“I’d like to ask you a question,” he said. “Actually, I’d like to re-ask a question.”
She stiffened.
“Who did you try to kill?”
Her expression didn’t change. “Jumping right into it, huh?”
Marek winced. Foolish choice to ask like that. He’d thought perhaps a blunt question might startle her into answering. But now her guard was up.
He grabbed the bottle of water again, and went back to the task of cleaning her cuts. He worked in silence for what felt like half an hour, but was probably less than half that—the silence and tension making each moment stretch painfully. He knew it had to at the very least sting to have her cuts washed, but she didn’t react.
“I want to make something clear, Ms. Hancock.”
“Rose. Call me Rose.”
“Thank you, I will, Rose. I am not a bounty hunter. I’m specialize in kidnapping and ransom situations. I was hired to find you and help you return home to Boston. I’m here to save you.”
“Save me?” She let out a sad little laugh. “I’m afraid that ship sailed.”
There was a weary darkness about her. Marek had once read a lovely short story written in Thai about how weary Death was, and how Death would mourn each time it collected another soul. The figure of death was described as bowed and slumped under the weight of endless years of sorrow.
Rose reminded him of that story—there was something in her eyes that made him think she’d known too much sorrow for her age.
Her bare feet weren’t in good shape. “May I?” He gestured toward her ankle.
“Yes.”
She watched him as he carefully lifted her foot at the ankle and placed it on his knee, then poured water over her sole.
“You’re getting your pants wet,” she said.
“That hardly matters.”
“You’re a gentleman.” She stressed the last word as if finding that descriptor a great revelation.
“I strive to be.”
“Huh.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I haven’t run into a whole lot of genuine gentlemen in my life. Good manners, courteous, but gentlemen…” She shook her head, but not in anger. She’d softened toward him.
Time to try again.
“I’d like you to tell me who you were trying to kill. And why.”
She sighed. “How much do you know about the Trinity Masters?”
“Enough that the Grand Master trusts me, and enough to know you probably shouldn’t be talking to me about it.”
“I don’t give a fuck anymore.”
“Language,” he chided.
She reacted as if he’d slapped her. She looked away and said, “I’m sorry, Si—”
The words cut off mid-sentence. He checked to see if there was a particularly bad cut on the foot he was washing that he’d jabbed. Her feet were scraped and still dirty even after the washing.
“Rose, did I hurt you?”
“No. You just reminded me.”
“Reminded you of what?”
“That’s a messy question I’m not going to answer. At least not yet. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” He set down the foot he was working on. Her legs were now a wet mess.
“The Grand Master sent you?”
“That’s right.”
“Why you? I mean, who are you?”
“My name is Marek Lee, and I’m a consultant—security, NGOs, a bit of everything really. But as I said, I’m particularly known for kidnapping and ransom work. But I think what you’re asking is why the Trinity Masters would hire me. My grandparents—Grandma Ruth, Grandma Grace, and Grandpa Jim—were members of the Trinity Masters.”
“You’re a legacy.”
He nodded. “I suppose I am, but my mother turned down her membership. She chose instead to marry my father.”
“She married for love.”
“Yes.” There were napkins in the bag, but the fibrous paper wouldn’t feel good against her raw skin. Marek started unbuttoning his shirt, Rose watching him with a cold face.
“You know about the Trinity Masters, but you’re not a member. Which means you’re not one of the purists.”
He undid his cuffs. “Purists?”
“The Trinity Masters are a bit too liberal for some—we let in people of color now. Shocking.”
“My mother said that Grandma Ruth faced some resistance. Grandma Ruth was South American.”
“So you get it. The purists are a secret group of racist scum. They’ve been keeping secrets from the Grand Master. When Juliette took over, she figured out that there was something going on, and she started going after them.”
“You tried to kill some of these purists.” He stripped off his shirt and used it to start blotting the remaining water and blood from her legs. He was wearing a black vest, or tank top as the Americans called it, underneath.
“Oh no, I’m one of them.”
He froze, both hands pressed to her calf.
“Yep,” she went on, but now he could hear the bitter sarcasm. “I was…raised by purists. They made me and my…my friend help them.”
“Made you?”
“They were holding someone I love hostage.”
Marek blew out a long breath. “A well-known technique for forcing compliance.”
“My friend, on their orders, went to steal something from a non-purist member. He was shot. I…” She let out a sad little laugh. “I lost it. I heard him die and I just lost it.”
“You heard him die?”
“I was on the phone with him. He didn’t think there was anyone in the condo, so we stayed on the phone. I heard the gunshot. I heard him take his last breath.” Her tone hardened and her eyes glittered. “I heard them panicking when they realized he was dead. Realized they’d killed him.”
“You tried to kill the men who killed your friend.”
“Yes.” She hissed out the word. Then, with a visible effort, forced a rather cruel smile to curl her lips. “I burned down a hotel, too.”
Marek saw the pain she was hiding. He could have pushed, but instead said, “Well, you must have gotten up very early in the day to accomplish all that.”
Rose’s face lifted and she stared at him.
He smiled and kept drying her legs. “Did you think I’d condemn you for lashing out in grief?”
“Yes. Because I am condemned.”
