Whatever worked.
That’s what they’d told her in training. In truth, the focus helped her maintain her iron grip over the events of ten years ago.
She stood with arms held out at her sides as Davic’s goons checked her for weapons. They found the pistol at her waist, the knife too, the strip of high explosive they’d all been issued with that was fastened around her calf. She gritted her teeth and didn’t move as their hands became more intimate, grabbing at the cheeks of her ass, her breasts, and running between her legs.
Grinning faces moved before her eyes. “I think she needs a full body search.”
“Count me in.”
“Can’t take her to the boss without checking her thoroughly first. Davic would flay us alive.”
“He’s done it before.”
The figures moved closer. Collins tensed, already figuring her next move. This close she could disable at least three before they overpowered her. Might make them think twice about a second attempt. Collins took a steady breath, but then a voice stopped all motion.
“Wait. The boss wants her taken to the Belladonna Room immediately for interrogation. There’s no time for all this. We’re under attack, you idiots.”
Collins relaxed her muscles, but not her mind. She had an idea where the Belladonna Room was and what might go on in there. The only good part of all this was that Radford was being given time. Radford. She thought of him as the Edge’s weak link. The man so involved with himself and his twisted feelings that he might, inadvertently, get them all buried eight feet under.
Now, if only the idiot would get his goddamn ass into high gear.
*
Radford floundered. The shock of seeing Maisie Miller, their mission objective, and losing the other members of his team at the same time, momentarily fazed him. The twenty-nine-year-old woman gave him astonished eyes, as if he were the oddest thing she’d seen in the last five years. Somehow, he doubted that. Maisie stood near the window, open chamois and spray bottle in hand, wearing tight jogging bottoms and a purple t-shirt. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, her face nourished but clearly hollowed out with hardship and loss. A hardness had formed around her eyes that Radford instinctively knew hadn’t been there before she fell foul of Blanka Davic’s subjective world.
“Maisie? I’m Dan Radford. I’ve come to get you out of here.”
Gunfire sounded from the corridor. A stray round whipped through the room, splintering wood and plaster. Maisie still stared as if she’d just come face to face with a unicorn.
“Maisie? I’m here to help.”
She walked a step forward. The chamois and bottle fell to the floor. Her arms came out, palms up, as if in silent supplication—me?
Radford spun away from her as the door to the room crashed open. He pivoted from the waist, weapon aimed and fired a quick burst as two men fell inside. Maisie’s safety was paramount now. Briefly, through the open door, he saw Collins being frisked across the hall, but he couldn’t break away to save her. Both invaders fell, but only one was incapacitated. The second had been shielded by the first, and now kicked his legs to get into a better position. Radford fell on him, knees first, knocking the breath from his body. Hoping he wouldn’t break another finger, the ex-MIT graduate punched at his opponent’s windpipe. The effect was instantaneous, causing bug eyes and a nasty gurgling sound. Radford kicked the man’s weapon away and quickly climbed off.
Just in time to intercept another attacker. Maisie’s scream of warning helped. Radford charged head down, tackling the surprised guard around the waist and pushing him back out of the room.
He spun, shouting to Maisie, “Get that window open!”
“I can’t,” she said in a subdued voice, a voice that had already lost much of its American accent. “It’s security locked by keypad.”
Radford cursed, still grappling. His opponent was big, but was already puffing hard, a sign of too many desserts. Radford spun him and tried the only trick he could think of.
“Fuck you, buddy.”
Radford let go. The man flew hard at the window, striking it with his back, crunching the frame. Glass splintered but held. Radford pushed his advantage in an instant, running and leaping at the man, feet first, smashing into his chest and lower body, almost cheering aloud as the wood smashed outward and the panes of glass shattered.
Radford hit the floor. The man still struggled in the remains of the frame, stuck. Maisie hopped from foot to foot, looking like she was ready to leap onto his back. Radford yanked him clear and smashed him across the head with the butt of his gun. He risked a quick glimpse outside.
Crap. Nothing but empty space and a glazed terrace far below, but if they jumped out far enough . . . if they could just . . .
Another guard came in, snarling. Radford fired. Maisie hit the floor. The guard’s weapon jerked, spraying bullets from wall to ceiling. Collins was being dragged away and Radford felt his stomach churn.
End of the line. Your losses are justified. An old CIA rationalization.
This time more than any other.
Radford leaned down and helped Maisie to her feet then, before any more gun-toting goons could appear in the doorway, he threw her hard out the window.
She screamed and with good reason.
The ground rushed up at her.
Radford jumped out a second later.
39
Trent bounced off the roof of the Ferrari onto its hood and slid the rest of the way to the floor. He ducked down behind the sloped front, picking off men as they careened down in his wake. Three tumbled down to the floor before the rest became wary. His comms system barked and two voices spoke at almost the same time.
Collins: “The Belladonna Room. What’s that?”
Control, Will Howe: “The Thrusters are coming.”
Trent smiled grimly. Collins was telling him where Davic’s men were taking her and in doing so revealed that she couldn’t see a way out. Otherwise, she’d have stayed quiet. Howe was warning them that Hadleigh’s team were inbound. This place was about to go from red hot to volcanic eruption.
He heard a sound at his back, turned, and saw nothing. A faint movement caught his eye. Only then did he see the dark-skinned man sitting at the wheel of the silver Pagani. A polishing cloth dangled from his raised hand and fear radiated from the wide whites of his eyes. Trent made a placating gesture. The man’s head nodded very briefly to Trent’s left.
Down.
Instinctively he threw his body forward and felt the passing of a weapon a hair’s breadth above his dipping head. He twisted. The weapon adjusted and came down on his gun arm. Trent grunted, but held on. A guard stood above him, clearly surprised that his assailant had managed to cling on to his firearm.
“We were trained for pain,” Trent said as he opened fire, knocking the guard off his feet amid a hail of red.
Trent crept around the Ferrari and checked on the other dead men. No one else had followed down the stairs. Had Davic called them back? Or were they lying in wait?
No mind. Collins needed him. He scooted over to the car detailer and asked him to raise the garage door, giving Hadleigh’s men added access. Hopefully one of his wild, eccentric bunch wouldn’t shoot the poor bastard.
Then he ran for the stairs.
*
Collins was prodded by the barrel of a rifle all the way down the winding stairs and back along the ground floor corridor. The point jabbed at her spine, her ass and her ribs, even the back of her neck; its wielder sniggering and marking himself for some kind of nastier than normal revenge later. Collins wasn’t the kind to let pure viciousness slide. She hadn’t earned the ‘nutbuster’ accolade by pure chance. She was a tough act, and would get what she wanted any way she could. She could bite, maim and kill. She could get down in the dirt and come up bloody with victory. But she would come up. She knew a thousand ways to win, and a thousand more to exact revenge.
The hardness had been a part of her life for over ten years. The hardnes
s formed her barricade, her walls; and enabled her to live.
So when the men ahead stopped outside the Belladonna Room, Collins allowed herself a little stumble and a glance behind. She noted the face of her tormentor. He grinned inanely and gave her a thigh shot for good measure.
It wasn’t the worst treatment she was about to be subjected to. More guards congregated around the entrance to the Belladonna Room. One of them grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her through the doorway, tripping her so that she landed on her knees inside. Instantly, she rose, taking in her surroundings, not surprised.
It was the bizarre room of course, the one with the whips, knives and pool above. The one with Blanka Davic’s face engraved on the base. Only now she had something to compare it to. The Serbian boss himself stood before her.
Davic was good looking, blond and blue eyed, with a shaggy mane that had been styled to make him appear rugged and handsome at the same time. An old scar ran in a straight line across his forehead, following the line of a worry wrinkle. He stood tall and straight, with an air of superiority plastered across his features. Here was a man used to getting whatever he wanted.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked harshly. “Breaking into my home.”
“You forgot to pay your last drinks tab at the Monte Carlo,” she said. “We’re here to collect.”
Davic’s face twisted in incredulity. “Don’t you know who I am? What I could do?”
“I know you’re an egotistical, perverted old man who gets off on bondage and death, but mostly on a power trip,” she said evenly, in front of twenty guns. “I know death is way too good for you.”
Davic frowned. “I’m not old.”
“Point made.”
Davic lashed out. Collins tried to duck but the Serb was fast. The blow caught her across the chin, making her see stars. Blood seeped between her teeth.
“The men you are with. I know them. Aaron Trent. Dan Radford. And, again, who are you? Where is Silk? Is he dead?”
“Why should I answer any of your questions?” Collins spat blood onto his jacket.
“It doesn’t matter. We have a facial recognition database hardwired offsite. We’ll find you eventually. And after all this time you have come after Maisie Miller? How touching.”
“Set me free,” Collins hissed. “I’ll show you how touching I can be.”
Davic regarded her, seemingly for the first time. He was used to conducting these kinds of interrogations, but perhaps saw in her an opponent who could truly do what she said. He stepped in, slamming a fist into her stomach. Collins’ knees failed and she slipped to the floor, managing to catch herself with her hands.
She felt his boot against the nape of her neck.
“I could crush you.”
“Then do it, but I’m guessing someone as twisted as you long ago lost the ability to perform.”
A shot rang out. Collins stiffened. But Davic’s next words told the story.
“Anyone else want to smirk at her comments?”
No one spoke up. The boot’s pressure intensified. “Kiss it,” he said. “And I’ll make it quick. Otherwise it’s the secrets of the Belladonna Room for you.”
“I thought you wanted to know my name.”
“Not any more, Special Agent Claire Collins of the FBI. The geeks found you out. And your bureau along with the CIA has no idea of the firestorm I will unleash against them for this. You think threat level red is high? You’ve seen nothing yet.”
Collins managed to chortle as her nose was squashed into the floor. “Fucking delusional prick. You’re a drug dealer, a weapons negotiator for third parties. You’re a kidnapper, a crappy pimp, a low-life enforcer. You think you could bother the agency?”
Davic’s boot went away and he whispered into her ear. “Am I? Is that all I am, Agent Collins? How then did I arrange the brutal deaths of the loving Miller clan?”
“We know how.”
Then Davic’s voice dropped to an undertone. “No. I assure you that you don’t.”
Then he went away, standing up. His next words made her shudder and try to stand.
“Men. Have at her.”
She twisted away as the punches and kicks rained down, but there was nowhere left to go. Trapped and doomed to die in a bizarre bondage and death room. Was that any way to go?
*
Trent stormed up the stairway, grabbing a lone guard and throwing him bodily off the structure without losing pace. Behind him the garage door began to rumble up. Hadleigh would be here any second. For Collins’ sake at least, Trent welcomed the backup.
But it wouldn’t arrive fast enough.
Trent had heard the barrage of words, and could now hear the barrage of blows as Collins succumbed to a terrible onslaught. Her grunts grew sharper, more desperate. Trent reached the upstairs corridor and saw several downed bodies, the burst open door to Maisie’s room and the way open before him.
Radford was away, out of here. Good. That left Trent time to execute the only plan he could devise at short notice. He didn’t have time to head downstairs and anyway, there were too many guards present to save Collins.
Desperation made him shiver.
Head down, he raced up the corridor.
*
Radford hit the surface of the pool less than a second after Maisie Miller. Disoriented, he twisted in the water, striking hard for the surface. He sensed Maisie’s presence close to him, and scanned his surroundings immediately as he surfaced. The girl was nowhere around.
Radford dipped his head below the surface. Maisie was below, corkscrewing her body in a panic. Radford dived down, grabbed her arms, and hauled her upright, pointing upward. After another second they broke surface at the same time, coughing and spluttering. Radford shouted and stroked for the nearby pool ladder, pulling himself out. He reached down and helped Maisie.
“Get down on your fucking knees.”
Radford turned in shock. He hadn’t seen anyone on the way down, but then he’d been a trifle distracted, trying to air-crawl himself further away from the side of the house and over the pool. Now, three men stood before them, guns trained.
“I said get down.”
Maisie’s sobs wracked the air, betraying how close she’d come to and how much she craved freedom. One of the guards laughed cruelly. “The boss would like to hear that.”
Radford gauged the distance, but before he could move a sudden shout split the day in half.
“Get down!”
If Radford hadn’t recognized Hadleigh’s voice he wouldn’t have acted so fast, but the leader of the Thrusters possessed that southern drawl even under pressure. Radford grabbed Maisie around the waist and hurled them both back into the pool. At the same time more weapons opened fire and the three-strong team of guards was mown apart. Radford trod water for a second, holding Maisie close.
“Don’t look,” he said. “The Thrusters aren’t exactly known for their finesse.”
Maisie Miller pulled away from him. “Don’t look?” she repeated. “I want to look. I want to see their blood painting the walls. Their brains across the floor. I want to see every one of those vile, evil fuckers dying in screaming agony.”
Radford let her go. When Vince Hadleigh, a little smirk stretched across his face, reached down to help him out of the water, Radford accepted without thought. His attention was fixed back on the house and his friends still trapped within, and on young Maisie Miller who deserved a far, far better outlook on life.
*
Collins squirmed in agony, barely hearing when Davic called an end to the beating, barely realizing that the blows had stopped. She lay on her side, breathing slowly, her body one big bruised ache. The comms line hung from her right ear, damaged by a boot, trailing on the floor. Davic wrenched it free and whispered a harsh threat.
“Trent. Radford. Lock up your sons and daughters. I’m coming for them and you. I’m coming for the FBI and the CIA. I’m coming back to America.”
“Crazy.” Collins heard her
voice as little more than a death rattle. “Crazy asshole.”
In the next second several things tapped against the floor before her eyes. Collins refocused, recognizing the hard braided ends of a whip.
“Think you’re tough, Agent Collins? We’re about to see.”
The lashes went away, returning a moment later as searing agony across her back. Davic laughed at her pain. “Her shirt,” he said to the guards. “It’s protecting her. Take it off.”
“How about her pants, boss? Can we take them too?”
“We’re not here to enjoy ourselves,” Davic growled back. “We’re here to exact a lot of pain and maybe get ourselves a little information at the same time. Now, bitch, let’s see what you do with this.”
The whip fell again, this time on the bare flesh of her back. Collins thrashed and screamed. It felt like someone had touched several lit matches to her back. She already knew the scars would be permanent. More war wounds to go with the ones on her belly and thighs, ten years old now.
More burning pain. More laughter from the gathered men. Her eyes were wide open, searching, and she used her own twitching and jerking body to crawl toward the corner of the room where she remembered the knives were kept. One more blow and she was almost there, but suddenly Blanka Davic’s visage dropped down before her eyes.
“Looking bad back there, honey. Blood. Tattered flesh. You know the score. Now I could keep this going right down to the bone. I could whip at your exposed liver and keep you alive whilst it’s happening, believe me. But I want Trent, Silk and Radford. I want their bosses. I want the Trout. I want your boss. Everything about them. Now, I know I could use my . . . resources . . . but, Claire, darling, this is so much more fun.”
“The cops—” she managed.
“Don’t insult me. Your operation is not sanctioned.”
Collins flashed on a vision of the many senators, generals and high-powered businessmen this operation was aimed at protecting and wondered what each of them would do if they could see her now. Would they reach out and simply switch off the monitor? Would they try to help?
The Disavowed Book 2 - In Harm's Way Page 17
