by Fiona Quinn
Thorn flipped on the light, disorienting Brian. “Brainiack. Stop. He’s out, man. Stop.” Thorn caught hold of Brian’s fist and held it in an iron grip. Brian looked down at where he had crushed the man’s orbital socket, making a crater in the guy’s skull.
“Is he still alive?” Thorn put two fingers on the man’s carotid. “You’re bleeding,” he said with a lift of his chin toward Brian.
Brian looked down at his grey camo BVDs to find an ever-expanding bloodstain around his waist and down his pants leg. He could feel the warm wetness pooling. Brian pulled the first aid kit from his leg pocket, found his QuikClot combat gauze, and stuffed it into the slash. “Son of bitch.” His skin felt cold and clammy. How much damned blood had he lost? He heard sirens outside. Saw the red and blue lights strobing the walls. But what he hadn’t seen or heard was Sophie.
***
Brian woke up from surgery to find Nadia in his room. When he looked her way, her face crumpled as she started crying. Shit. He looked up as Nutsbe opened the door. Nutsbe turned Nadia’s way, shook his head and started to retreat.
“Nutsbe, what happened to Sophia?” It took everything in him to get that one sentence out clearly. His body was still under the influence of some heavy drugs.
“She’s going to be okay. They found ketamine in a syringe on her bed.”
“Is she awake?”
“Sophia’s been out since we brought her in. All her vitals are stable. It’s a matter of time.” Nutsbe sent an uncomfortable glance toward Nadia who had pulled her heels onto her chair and was hiding her face behind her knees like a child. “You’ve got twenty new stitches, dude. Not much in the way of bragging rights. You left a good amount of blood on Sophia’s carpet. That’s gonna cost you.” Nutsbe turned to Nadia. “Hey, Nadia, you know what would help? Brian needs some orange juice and a banana. Could you run down to the cafeteria and get that for him? Make him feel better?”
Nadia stood, nodded her head and slid out of the room.
“You’re an ass,” Brian told him.
“I’m protecting her.” Nutsbe slid into the seat that Nadia had just relinquished. “You want to hear the shit that went down after your delicate princess-self took a swoon?”
Brian propped himself up on his elbows.
“The tango was Will Sheppard dressed up in his wife’s clothes.”
“That’s very Alfred Hitchcock of him.”
“Isn’t it, though? It gets better. Thorn let the paramedics in, then slipped across the street to shake the house before he identified Will to the police.” He gave a theatrical shiver. “This is going to creep me out the rest of my life, and I just saw the pictures. Thorn’s gonna need years of therapy.”
Nutsbe moved the chair over to Brian’s side, his phone in hand. He held up the screen, which showed a picture of closet with shelves lined with baby food jars.
“What is that?”
“Thumbs,” Nutsbe said as he swiped his finger to bring up the next photo. “See this? They’re in alphabetical order. This one is for the wife Janice. Sometimes the names are listed by first, sometimes last. She was under J for Janice. Under each one is a series of numbers—GPS coordinates.”
“How did you figure that?”
He flipped the picture to the one that said Keith Rochester. “It has Saturday’s date, followed by these numbers, that when you put them into the Garmin give you—”
“Sophia’s front yard.”
“Bingo. They have CSI following up in the other spots. Homicide down in Harrisonburg now have names and dates to go along with those two graves they found down there.” He scrolled to another picture. “Look at this.” Nutsbe glanced over at him. “Can you see?”
“Barely. I’m still pretty fuzzy from the meds.”
“It originally had Marla Richards’s name on it, but it was crossed out and Rochester’s name is written beneath. The original GPS coordinates are scratched out too.”
“He changed his mind about who to kill?”
“The date changed to one day earlier. He had planned to kill Marla—Betty, really. Ha! That would have messed up his system, but good—on Sunday. But I guess he was out stalking and saw Mr. Rochester go down. Rochester was an R, and that was as just as good. He’d already done the whole thing with the flowers, according to the estimated time of death put together by the medical examiner. So he tucked Rochester in the shallow grave.”
“Why do you think Sheppard moved the flowers from Sophia’s yard to the Richards’s?”
“‘Cause he’s bat-shit crazy?” Nutsbe tucked his chin as he shook his head. “Ready for the shit?”
“That wasn’t enough?”
“Sophia Abadi is on the next jar with the formaldehyde already in it. The date was last night. And the GPS coordinates are for the one that was originally on the Richards/Rochester jar. We’ve already got word back from PD that there’s a four-foot-deep hole in the woods.”
Brian’s whole body frosted. His stomach flipped over.
“Dude, you’re turd-green.” Nutsbe pushed a pink plastic container under Brian’s chin.
Brian waited for the wave of nausea to lift, then he brushed the pan away. “Anesthesia,” he said.
Nutsbe caught his eye. “She’s fine. He didn’t hurt her before you got there. She was drugged and has no idea what happened.”
Nutsbe and Brian turned their attention to the door as it swung open. Titus moved into the room to stand at the end of Brian’s bed. “This week Panther Force captured a dangerous mental patient and returned two kidnapped kids to their father, revealed a Hamas informant, and solved the murder and disappearance of eighteen people, as well as safeguarding what could have been a nineteenth victim. If Brainiack hadn’t got that paper cut, we would have come out looking like superheroes.” Titus moved closer to extend his hand. “Outstanding effort, gentlemen.”
“Thank you, sir,” Brian said as they clasped hands.
“Brainiack, there’s a lady outside who would like to see you, if you’re up to it.” He reached out to shake Nutsbe’s hand. “Nutsbe, Nadia told me to tell you the cafeteria is closed, but she’s heading to the grocery store to get orange juice and bananas.” He shook his head and left.
Nutsbe grinned. “Good luck.” And he slipped out too.
Sophia walked into Brian’s room wearing a nightgown and robe, with slippers on her feet. She looked too pale. Her eyes were haunted. Her lips trembled at the corners, and Brian was afraid she was about to start crying again. He didn’t think he could handle it.
She swallowed hard and got herself under control. “They say you’re going to be good as new.”
“A little scratch, no big deal.”
“This never would have happened if I weren’t such an idiot. I should have let you take me to a hotel. Neither of us would be here now.”
“I don’t blame you a bit.”
She came farther into the room and sat on the corner of his bed. For a long time, they looked at each other. To Brian it felt like a balloon had been stretched to capacity, ready to pop and now the air was slowly being released. The tension was easing.
“I was so angry at you.” Sophia closed her eyes tightly. “I felt so betrayed.”
Brian stilled. Duty first, always. But could he have fought harder? Done something different? Brian didn’t usually second-guess himself. Review and learn was one thing, but this was a different process—more of the blame and shame variety.
“They told me what happened at my house. Why I was in the hospital. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. I’d be dead.”
They both sat in complete silence. There was no denying that truth. It was stunning. Incomprehensible. But nevertheless, probable.
“I tried to put myself in your place, to imagine what this was like from your perspective. If our roles were reversed, I don’t think I’d have been out sitting for hours in a car, keeping watch. I think I would have said, ‘to hell with her, I’m heading home.’”
“Sophie,” Br
ian started, but there were no more words. He didn’t know what to say.
“If I were being objective, I would say that you did the right thing for your job. I understand that. It just feels violating that I was being watched when I didn’t know it. It’s creepy. And scary. I could have gone to prison, far away from my boys. That scenario feels every bit as terrifying as being stalked by a serial killer.” She pushed her hair from her face and cleared her throat. “All I did every single day was try my best. Every day, when I wake up I say to myself. ‘Another step forward. Just keep trying. Just make it through another day.’”
“One foot and then the other.”
“Yup. It’s all I could ask of myself. And really, it’s all I could or should ask of you. I treated you badly. Yet I expected you to be loyal to me above all else.”
Brian opened his mouth to speak, but Sophia put up her hand to stop him.
“I have a lot to adjust to. A lot to absorb. But I’m done being angry with you. Right now, all I can feel is gratitude and maybe a glimmer of hope.”
Brian reached out and laced his fingers with hers. “What are you hoping?” he asked as his phone buzzed on the counter. Sophia gave him a tight-lipped smile, then got up and retrieved it for him.
He swiped to read the text then handed it to her. It was a picture of a US soldier in a sweat-ripened t-shirt, standing in front of the cave with the ring in his hand. The next picture was of him placing it as far as his arm could reach into the small opening. The last picture was a thumbs up with a GPS in his hand with the readout of the exact place she needed the relic to go.
“You’re free,” Brian said.
He waited while emotion swept over Sophia.
She looked around the room, up at the ceiling, as if she were searching out any menace that could be hiding in the corners. She nodded. “It feels that way, doesn’t it?” A surprised smile spread across her face. She lifted her arms straight up, like a runner crossing the finish line. “Wow. It’s like… Wow.” She hugged herself as she caught Brian’s gaze. “I’m free!” She threw her head back and laughed. When she sobered, she looked slowly around the room. “No more curse,” she whispered.
“Does this mean you don’t have to protect me anymore?” He swallowed hard as she focused back on him. “Now that Ashtart is home, does it mean you and I can be together?”
She blinked. “Yeah.” Her smile widened. “I think that’s what it means.” She crawled up onto the bed next to him. Very gently, she curled herself into his arms and released a deep sigh of perfect contentment.
“Yeah,” Brian said, planting a kiss in her hair. “I couldn’t agree more.”
This is not
THE END
Please follow Brian Ackerman and the Iniquus family
as they continue their fight for the greater good.
Would you like a sneak peek at the next book in the Iniquus chronology?
DEADLOCK
He’ll risk it all to keep her safe.
Honey Honig was good at his job, infiltrating the most dangerous places on Earth, and sweet talking the bad guys into releasing their hostages. A former Delta operator, now running missions for Iniquus, he worked the long, tedious, and dangerous business of dragging victims over the thin line that separated rescue from death. If Honey could figure out the right words to say at the right time, they’d live.
When the bad guy slipped through Honey’s fingers, Honey hunted a lead to Tanzania. That’s where he met Meg Finley.
Bad guys weren’t the only ones that Honey knew how to sweet talk. He’d found his way onto an African safari with Dr. Meg Finley, and into her bed. This wasn’t just recreation, though, Meg sparked something deep and binding in Honey’s heart.
Out in the bush, when the group of scientists was taken hostage, Honey and Meg found themselves swept up in the crime. From the inside, could Honey and Meg save themselves? The others? It was one thing to be part of a rescue team, it was a whole other deal, to be on the wrong side of the metal bars.
Whatever else happened, Honey swore he’d find a way to protect Meg, and get her home safe. Or he’d die trying.
Enjoy this excerpt:
Deadlock
Chapter One
Rooster
Djibouti, Djibouti
“Before we begin, I need proof of life.”
The radio crackled with static in return.
Rooster scraped his teeth over his top lip, waiting.
“Mr. Honey.” The buzzing and mechanical channel whines were replaced with the cheerful sound of lighthearted banter. “You know every time I say your name, I laugh at the irony.”
“How’s that?” Rooster stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankle, settling into the conversation.
“Oh, if you knew, you would kick yourself.” The man’s accent sometimes rang with Arabic notes, sometimes with French, but his English was quite good. He had obviously spent time in America. “As for your proof of life, you must realize by now that I am an educated man. I’m not a Somali pirate raised with minimal thinking tools. I’ve done my research. I know your tactics. The Bowens are worth three million dollars. I will hold firm to that number. That number is not negotiable. The only things we are to negotiate are how the payment is to be made and how you are to retrieve your people.”
Rooster was pleased. “Brilliant” had never strung so many words together at one time. Up until now, his responses had been monosyllabic, sometimes just grunts, since their communications had begun over a month ago. Rooster had made a career of hostage negotiations. It took him to some of the bleakest, most godforsaken parts of the Earth. Now, here he was in Djibouti on the Horn of Africa, sitting behind his radio set with a wet towel draped over his neck in a poorly air conditioned rental house on the outskirts of the capital city. Djibouti was a country of dry scrublands, volcanic formations, the amazing Gulf of Tadjoura beaches, and temperatures that ran over a hundred degrees, day and night. It’s a dry heat, Rooster reminded himself.
Though he drank water constantly, he hadn’t peed in days. His clothes were covered in white scum from where his body’s sweat had left its residue.
In hostage situations, when Rooster introduced himself as the negotiator, he used the radio call sign he’d been given way back in boot camp some twenty-odd years before, Honey. Well, he made sure to say Mr. Honey so things didn’t get weird. Not to say that most of the people he negotiated with were fluent enough in English to understand that the noun was often used as a term of endearment.
Most of the men who negotiated from the bad-guy side chose to be called names like “Glock” or “Chief,” sometimes “Boss.” Rooster knew these were words they thought, in their limited grasp of English, gave them power. This was the first time an English speaker had wanted to be called “Brilliant.” A narcissist. Someone who’s ego swelled to cover up his lack of conviction, and probably the fact that he had a micro-dick. Rooster had steered his psychological tack accordingly.
Right now, though, Rooster needed to push things along. Time was the enemy. There was a statistical trajectory for good outcomes, and that section of the graph had come and gone. Hostage negotiation was a slow game. But they were now in the orange zone, the time when people without training, who were psychologically and physically unprepared for the challenges of captivity, folded under the weight. If the captors recognized their victims’ decline, a deal was often possible. If they didn’t, then Rooster’s team would be trying to get the corpses back, so the victims’ families would have closure.
Bad things could happen—did happen—to hostages held under kidnappers’ thumbs. But so far, Rooster was batting a thousand bringing his clients home at least alive, if not always safe and sound. He reached out to knock on wood. He tended toward the superstitious when his ego bubbled up some wiseass thought like good batting averages.
His teammate Randy sent him a chuckle when he did it, then refocused on his task at the computer.
Rooster pressed th
e comms button. “It’s been a while since I heard from the Bowens. Before our conversation continues, I need proof of life,” Rooster said, not a trace of emotion in his words. The captors wanted him to be passionate and work from the heart. Rooster knew the only way he could save these people was to keep an emotional distance. He had to think of these negotiations like a businessman buying office supplies. Necessary supplies, but objects all the same. Compartmentalization was a honed skillset. Boxes were a handy tool. His emotions belonged to a different part of his life and not his career. Emotions equaled mistakes.
Brilliant laughed. “I am not stupid enough to be in the same area as my hostages. If you have some new communications tracking device, it will not work. I am a moving target.”
Rooster rubbed at his chin, his focus sharp. “Okay, let’s set up a time, I need to hear their voices. I need to verify that they are still the right people, and they’re still safe and sound.”
“Bowen is holding up under the strains of his conditions. His wife, on the other hand, is not. We believe she needs immediate medical attention. I am very worried for her.”
“She has a heart condition. You know that,” Rooster said. “Does she have her medication? Is there a drop point where I can provide supplies?”
