"Do you know where you are, Vannie?” Patrick asked.
Once more he managed to shake his head.
"You're in the Doinsiún, and you've been here nearly a week."
Van's eyes flared despite the vertigo it caused, but his world didn't slide away on him. It held firm, then the queasiness ceased completely and the wavering vision settled. “B ... bailey,” he whispered, nothing more than a croak.
He watched his brothers exchange a worried look then Liam looked down at him with what passed for compassion on Liam's craggy face.
"When they were torturing you, you gave them the code to gain entry to your estate. The Portal Police went after her."
Shock then fear then shame then the sick feeling of helplessness shot through Van in that order. He still couldn't make his body obey his commands and though he could whip his head back and forth in denial, he couldn't even lift a hand to grab Liam to demand he go after his sister-in-law.
"Get. Her. Back.” The three words took effort to force out.
The moment Liam and Patrick looked at one another, he knew.
"Where. Is. She?"
"We don't know, Vannie,” Liam said. “Doyle's people took her."
Fury replaced the other emotions in Crevan Byrne's mind, and he clenched his teeth together. “No!"
"I don't think he would hurt her, Vannie,” Liam said. “From what we've been able to learn, the man cares deeply for her and...."
"Get. Her. Back!” the Modartha ordered, his fangs lengthening for a brief moment.
"We don't know where she is,” Patrick admitted.
The Modartha's eyes widened with intense rage.
"We'll find her, Van. We will,” Patrick told him quickly.
"We put a tracking chip in her, Van, but they deactivated it somehow,” one of the other men told him.
Van looked up into Collin O'Rourke's gray eyes and wished with every ounce of his being that he could break O'Rourke's neck. He knew the man had been the one to extract the code from him though he could not remember the torture session at that moment.
"I was only doing my job, Van,” O'Rourke defended himself from the revenge he saw forming in the Modartha's gray eyes.
"Fuck. You.” Van's eyes were glittering with hatred.
"We'll get her back for you, Van,” the other man spoke up and the Modartha turned his eyes to Colm Donley. “The first thing to do is to get you out of here."
"But that's not going to be easy,” O'Rourke stated, flinching as Van's eyes snapped back to him. “We've got Senator Flynn going before the Seanad Faolchú, the senate, this afternoon.
"He knows what the fucking Seanad Faolchú is, Collin,” Liam snapped.
"Brennan overstepped his boundaries by remanding you to the Spider,” Patrick put in, “and there are those who will be glad to vote to censure him. As soon as that's done, we can get you out of here."
"Until then, you're stuck here, Little bro,” Liam said, “but we are trying to keep you safe. The Warden doesn't want a hair on your head harmed."
As though waiting for his title to be spoken, the Warden's face appeared over Van. “Visitation is over, Milords. I've just received word the general is headed over."
"Pompous prick,” Liam called Brennan. He gave the Warden a steady look. “Don't let anything happen to my brother. You understand?"
"Aye, Milord,” the Warden acknowledged the threat.
"We'll be back, Van,” Patrick said, patting Van's arm, not knowing the action brought instant agony to his brother's flesh.
"Hang it there, Little bro,” Liam said and surprised the hell out of Van by bending over and putting a kiss on Van's forehead.
"Down the back way, please,” the Warden said, hastening the four men from the cell.
Swiveling his head to watch his brothers and two of his military comrades leaving, Van realized that most of the aches and pains and discomforts in his body had subsided, yet he still couldn't move his arms and legs and that terrified him.
He still could not make his limbs obey him when General Brennan and his ass of a personal secretary came striding into the cell. He looked up into Brennan's gloating face, ignoring Timothy Faison, who was standing there with clipboard in hand.
"Well, well, well, Commander,” the general said, bouncing on the toes of his feet. “How the mighty are brought down, eh?"
"Brought down,” Faison repeated with a giggle.
"A petition is underway in the senate to have you released, but my people will delay the outcome until we have managed to catch Doyle,” Brennan declared. “I don't want the Modartha to bungle his capture again."
Van snorted. The only way Brennan and his court of jesters could catch Kona Doyle was if the man actually walked up to them and held his wrists out to be cuffed.
"You will show respect to the general!” Faison hissed.
"Why isn't this man restrained?” Brennan asked, and Van realized the Warden was just outside his cell.
"He doesn't have control of his limbs, General Brennan. “I saw not need to...."
"Faison, put those straps on him,” Brennan interrupted.
Laying his clipboard aside, Faison was practically humming with giddiness as he stepped up to the bunk to drag the heavy canvas restraints over Van's wrist, buckling it so tightly Van was hard put not to flinch. Once all four straps had been engaged and Faison stepped back, the Modartha's wrists and ankles were throbbing with pain.
Satisfied his prisoner was incapacitated Brennan smiled hatefully, then spun around on his heel and marched out of the cell. “Come along, Faison."
Faison gave Van a smug look. “What a pretty sight you are lying there all helpless,” the secretary whispered. “Someone could come in and hurt you and you could do nothing about it."
Cold fear shot through Van's heart but not even a waver of his eyes showed it as the officious little bastard followed behind his boss. He caught the Warden's eye and the man shook his head.
"I'll be back later,” the Warden promised.
* * * *
Hours passed and Van managed to dose, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his wrists and ankles as the restraints cut into his flesh. He tried now and again to move his shoulders and knees, but he was still paralyzed and, at any rate, held down by the wide straps.
Despite what the Warden had told him, the man didn't come back. He knew night had fallen, but no one had come to bring him food or water, and he was getting giddy from hunger—not to mention the headache that had returned. He was roughly a day or two from the full moon and could feel it pulling at him. He wondered if he would regain his full strength with the rising of the lunar orb.
Furtive movement outside his cell made Van turn his head that way. He frowned, his eyes narrowed. The corridor was dark save for a light farther down. He tried again to move, but whatever the drug was that had sapped his ability to make his muscles obey was still flooding his system.
The light went out at the same moment the door to his cell opened. His heart thudded hard in his chest and he opened his mouth to ask who was there but was stunned to feel the cloying odor of tape slapped over his lips and held firmly in place. He grunted, trying to pull his head free but hands were all over him—unbuckling the restraints and he was powerless to prevent what he suddenly knew was about to happen to him.
Growling viciously behind the tape, his head whipping back and forth as his prison issue pants were pulled down his legs, he forced his mind to go elsewhere as he was flipped over to his belly and the first rip of brutal pain drove deep into his body.
By the time they were through with him, Van was as immobile as a statue, no longer trying to make his muscles work, just lying there, and silently taking what they were forcing upon him. Though tears streaked down his cheeks, he made not a sound as they turned him back over, pulled up his pants, and re-buckled his restraints.
"Complements of the Resistance,” one of the men hissed at him, but he did not recognize the voice.
The tape was rip
ped from his mouth and then his attackers were gone.
He had counted five different scents as they assaulted him and though he had not seen the men, and only one had spoken to him he would know them anywhere by their particular, individual scent.
He vowed to tear them apart with his bare hands for what they had done to him.
Long into the night he lay perfectly still, though he knew the movement had finally returned to his muscles. He stared unblinkingly at the ceiling, his hands flexing into tight fists from time to time, his mind a seething mass of savage vengeance.
Chapter Four
When the men had come up behind her and taken her arms to escort her to a low-slung glider, Bailey had not protested. She knew they had been sent by Kona Doyle and as the glider hovered just above the payment then lurched forward on its cushion of hot air, she just sat between the two men and stared straight ahead through the windshield. The driver had barely glanced around at her, but she recognized him from the few secret Resistance rallies she'd attended with her friend Nate Striker.
"Are you comfortable, Milady?” the man on her right asked. “Is it too warm for you?"
Her abductor's concern for her helped to soothe Bailey's nerves. “I'm fine, thank you."
No more was said as the glider shot along, dodging traffic easily on the express lanes. They passed several Portal Police cruisers, but the men inside the government vehicles did not seem interested in them. She reached up to touch the aching spot where the tracking chip had been injected beneath her skin. As soon as the glider had taken off, the man on her left had passed some kind of device over her neck. “The chip has been deactivated,” he pronounced.
Hearing that should have frightened Bailey, but it hadn't. She'd expected as much for, despite what the government thought of Doyle, he was not the bumbling fool they believed him to be. She knew her husband would have known Doyle would cripple the tracking device long before the Portal Police considered it a possibility.
It was far out into the country the glider took them, at least three hours of traveling as the sun set and night dragged its dark fingers across the sky. Careening over dirt lanes that were little more than footpaths in places, they went deeper and deeper into the outback—as the unpopulated lands were called—until she spied a large metal hangar partially camouflaged by the sweeping trees hovering over it, its silvery surface lit by only a few ground torches.
As the glider settled lightly to land, the man on her right got out first then held his hand out to her. She ignored his polite offer to assist her and scooted out of the glider on her own. As she moved away from the vehicle, she saw Kona Doyle striding from the hangar.
"I was beginning to worry, Lynch,” he snapped at one of the men.
"It took longer than expected, Milord,” Lynch replied. He was the man who had sat to Bailey's right in the glider.
"The chip is deactivated?” Doyle demanded.
"Aye, Milord."
Doyle came to her and took Bailey in his arms, oblivious to the stiffening of her body. “How are you, my love?"
"As any prisoner would be,” she said and pushed against him.
The Resistance leader did not release her. Instead, he leaned down so his lips were at her ear. “It would be an easy thing to have someone enter the Modartha's cell and slit his arrogant throat from ear to ear. Is that what you wish done, sweeting?” he asked.
There was no doubt in Bailey's mind that Doyle would do just that. “You know it isn't,” she said, relaxing against his hold.
"I thought not,” he said and moved back only to slip an arm around her shoulders. “Our ship is fueled and ready to leave. Shall we?"
Fear rippled through Bailey. “Where are we going?” she asked.
"Somewhere the Modartha would never think to look,” Doyle said. “Don't worry, my love. You've seen the last of that bastard and he, you."
He walked her into the hangar where a sleek gray Fiach class runabout lay cupped in its docking harness. The expensive machine was humming softly, gearing up for its flight out of the hangar.
"Shall we?” Doyle said, sweeping a hand to the steps up which he wished Bailey to climb.
"The Portal Police will stop you before you clear Faolchú air space,” she told him as she started up the steps.
"Keep telling yourself that, Sweeting,” Doyle said with a laugh. “This pretty little machine belongs to someone whose movement around Faolchú would never be questioned. This ship can go and come at will."
Bailey looked around at him with uneasiness as she entered the cabin of the Fiach. When she saw the person of important to whom the Resistance leader had been referring sitting in one of the plush leather seats, she stopped dead still in her tracks.
"Hello, dear,” Lady Tara Cowart-Flynn, the new wife of Bailey's uncle, Senator Earnon Flynn, greeted her. “How are you?"
Stunned that her uncle's wife was part of the Resistance, Bailey dropped into the seat Doyle indicated for her to use. She stared at Tara and knew at once this was the money behind the Resistance. She shook her head in disbelief.
"You should thank Lady Tara,” Doyle said as he sat down in the chair beside Bailey's and began to buckle himself in. “Without her, the Resistance would have folded long ago. She has kept my men and me in weapons and supplies. She was a godsend to us."
"Did they allow you to see Van?” Lady Tara asked then laughed. “Of course they wouldn't have. They wouldn't have wanted you to see the terrible things they'd done to him to get him to divulge the entry codes to his estate."
Bailey winced. She had never liked Lady Tara and had voiced her distrust of the woman to her uncle many times. Now she knew why the senator had been so anxious to have Van take her off his hands. Lady Tara would have insisted upon it, for it was obvious in the way the older woman was looking at her that her new aunt had no more liking for her than Bailey had for her uncle's wife.
"We were lovers, you know,” Lady Tara said then grinned hatefully. “Van and I."
It was on the tip of Bailey's tongue to call the woman a liar, but she really didn't know how many women—if any—her husband had had affairs with before they married.
"He is quite skilled,” her aunt said. “But then so is Kona."
Kona smiled politely. “I aim to please.” He reached out to cover Bailey's hand with his own. “As you will soon discover."
A shudder went down Bailey's spine, and she snatched her hand from beneath his as though his flesh had scorched her. The thought of Kona Doyle putting his hands to her made her ill.
"Perhaps you should explain to her what will happen if she disdains your attention, Kona,” Lady Tara said in a crisp tone.
"I've already told her to behave else I will order Byrne's death,” Doyle said with a careless shrug. “She knew I meant it."
Lady Tara was sitting with her elbows on the chair arms, her fingers laced casually together. She was staring intently at Bailey. “You know, my dear, there are worse things that can be done to a man like Van than just having him killed."
Bailey's heart thudded hard inside her chest. “W ... what do you mean?"
A sly smile tugged at the older woman's mouth. “Do you remember what he did to you in that alley?"
"He'll pay for that,” Kona said.
"Oh, he's already paid for it, my love,” Lady Tara said. “But I can see to it he pays again and again."
"What did you do?” Bailey asked, fear driving through her like steel claws.
"There is a word for what he did to you in the alley,” Lady Tara said. “It's called finger fucking.” Her smile became deadly. “What was done to him was the real thing."
"Oh, that's rich!” Kona said and slapped his hand on his thigh. “I wish I could have seen it!"
"He paid painfully for daring to accost your woman, Kona. That is recompense enough for the time being,” Lady Tara told him.
Tears filled Bailey's eyes. She wanted to believe the woman was just saying such hateful things to taunt her, but she knew that
wasn't the case. She feared Van had been brutalized, and to a strong man like him, such violence would have been soul-shattering.
"Would you like me to have my men visit him again?” Lady Tara inquired. “Perhaps several times before he is released?"
Bailey hung her head. “No,” she said in a small voice.
"Then you will do exactly as Kona wishes you to, my dear, and you will pretend you are enjoying it,” the other woman said.
"I take umbrage at that, Tara!” Doyle said. “I am a superb lover, as you've often told me."
"True, my love,” Lady Tara agreed.
"She'll learn to care for me as I do her,” Doyle said, stroking Bailey's arm.
"I know she will,” the other woman stated.
It was all Bailey could do not to jerk her arm away from Doyle's slimy touch. She was sick to her stomach at the thought of Van being abused in such a disgusting way but there was no way to change what had happened. Knowing she would be at Doyle's beck and call, at his mercy, paled in comparison to what she feared her husband had endured. For such a fiercely proud and in charge man, it would be an exacting hell beyond her understanding.
"Lest you think it was all done because of what the Modartha did to you, dear, let me set your mind at ease,” Lady Tara. “I had my own bone to pick with Crevan Byrne so do not blame yourself overly much for what was done to him."
"Payback is hell, isn't it?” Doyle asked with a chuckle.
"Indeed it is,” Lady Tara acknowledged.
Bailey turned her head away and stared out the window, for the Fiach was moving, slipping its docking harness, and was slowly moving out of the hangar. In a matter of moments, the state of the art machine would be soaring through space and beyond the reach of the Portal Police. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands and could feel the slickness of her own blood from the punctures.
It didn't matter. Nothing did. She had to hold onto the thought that Van would find her.
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