“So can being tortured,” Sergei said. “But I’m thirsty. I forgot to hydrate before climbing up your laundry chute.”
She chuckled again. “Ah, not only can my intruder speak, but he even has a sense of humor. Delightful.” She rubbed herself, drawing his attention, once again, to the fact that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath that open robe. Also to the fact that she had shaved off—or more likely had a surgical procedure done to—the hair of her pussy. Odd woman.
“Maybe the robot can bring it if you’re busy.”
Laframboise frowned at the robot. “It shouldn’t be here.” She shifted her frown to him, eyes narrowing, and Sergei wished he hadn’t mentioned it.
“Don’t look at me,” he said. “If I knew how to program robots, I’d have them shooting people, thus saving me the need to crawl into ducts full of neurotoxins.” He was talking too much. She was sure to notice something was causing his voice to sound off.
“Hm.” Laframboise strolled to the table, her fur robe swishing about her bare calves, the heels of her shoes clacking on the wood floor. If she thought there was anything strange about wearing a robe and heels without anything else, she didn’t share it with him. She set down the baton—dare he hope she was done with it for the night?—and poured a single glass of wine, then took a sip.
There was a second glass. He eyed it hopefully. If he had a hand free, he could probably rip the scalpel out of his mouth, torn flesh be damned, but he didn’t and he couldn’t. He needed a solvent.
Laframboise watched Sergei while she sipped, then walked over, the baton in hand again. She touched the tip of it to his stomach, and he flexed everything, anticipating the pain. But it wasn’t turned on, and only the cool metal pressed against his skin. She smiled, her lips moist from the wine, and ran it across his abdomen again. His groin twitched toward her, and it annoyed him to no end that an image of her jumping him ran through his head. Somehow, he doubted Jamie would envision having sex with any of the meatheads who had tormented her in her life.
“If you try anything,” she murmured, her cold eyes locking onto his, “I’ll turn it up to the maximum setting.”
A morbid part of him thought to ask what it was set at currently, but with her this close, he didn’t want to risk speaking. She might see a suspicious bulge in his cheek.
“Medium-low,” she said, apparently anticipating the question. She lifted the glass and leaned into him, the bare flesh of her abdomen pressing against his penis. Tall woman. They would be the same height if he were standing on the ground. Something that wouldn’t happen anytime soon if that wine didn’t help.
She touched the glass to his lips, wariness in her eyes—she clearly expected him to try and bite her or knock the wine away—but she tipped the glass and let him drink. The strange kindnesses of one’s enemies. Or maybe she hoped he would loosen up and enjoy her torture more under the influence. The thought made Sergei want to spit the wine out all over her face, but he held it in his mouth instead, swishing it around on the left side. The better to critique the vintage, of course. It turned out to be port, rather than wine, and he hoped the higher alcohol content would do the job.
“Good, isn’t it?” Laframboise asked. “Not the usual swill you’re used to as a mercenary, I imagine.”
Sergei was trying to keep too much of it in his mouth, to inundate the scalpel handle, and when she grabbed his cock again, it startled him into sputtering a few precious drops. They dripped down his chin and onto his chest.
“Now, now, mustn’t waste such as fine vintage,” Laframboise said and licked the drops off.
He wanted to point out that a napkin would be tidier—and also that his penis wasn’t a handle, damn it—but he took advantage of her distraction, letting his head tip back as far as the wall would allow and working the scalpel handle with his tongue. Was it giving? Loosening its hold on his flesh? He thought so. He swallowed the port, so she wouldn’t wonder why he wasn’t doing so, then pushed against the handle with all the strength in his tongue. Which wasn’t as much as he wished it was. Maybe he should start doing barbell curls with tiny weights. Still, the scalpel handle seemed to loosen slightly. Maybe it was only his deluded imagination.
Laframboise bit harder into his skin, then drew the baton close again, resting it against his side. Sergei winced as fresh agony blasted into him, up his spine and into his mind this time.
For a moment, he was a seventeen-year-old boy again. He was lying on the ground in that tent, unable to attack the woman atop him, the chip in his head throbbing warnings of pain, telling him he would die if he fought her. He could even smell the dirt beneath him, hear the counselor’s ragged breaths as she rode him, hear the sniper fire in the forest beyond the tents. Overwhelming fear came over him: fear that someone else in the squad would walk in and see his humiliation; fear that he would never be a true warrior, not if he couldn’t defend against one woman; and fear that nobody kind would ever come along who could possibly want him. He found himself bucking, trying to escape before the snipers closed on the camp, before the commander walked in. Pain erupted in his arms as something bit into his wrists.
“Oh, yes,” the counselor groaned.
Her voice was different, not that of the young woman who had controlled him all those years ago, and it broke through his fear, his panic. He remembered where he was. Not in the desert, not waiting for the enemy’s encroachment, but in this stupid penthouse. And there was someone kind and wonderful who wanted him, someone who might be in trouble at this very moment, someone who needed him to be thorny for her.
Get yourself together, Sergei!
The woman’s breathing grew heavier as she rubbed herself against him. Would she climb onto him right there on the wall? If she did, she would have to grab his shoulders or the chains to hold herself up. He could bite her then. His stomach curled at the idea of trying to gnaw into someone’s jugular like an animal would, but he had experienced enough of that baton.
She flicked a button on it, and he tensed expecting a fresh attack, but Laframboise stepped back, and the wall shifted behind Sergei’s back instead. His portion of it tilted and thrust outward, until he was lying on a table-high slab next to his tormenter. Make that bed-high. Her eyes were dark with lust, and she didn’t waste any time climbing onto it.
His head thunked back, and he reluctantly accepted that he wasn’t going to be able to escape this fate.
As she lifted her leg to straddle him, an obnoxious siren wailed in the hallway. An alarm?
Laframboise scowled suspiciously at him. He thought about shrugging innocently back, but that might make her more suspicious. He settled for a sullen glare, even as he prayed that she would get off him and go to check on the problem. That might give him the moment he needed.
Still scowling, she set the baton down next to his side and slid to the floor. She stalked to a desk and waved a holodisplay into the air. As soon as her back was to him, Sergei worked harder than ever at the scalpel. With a ripping of flesh that filled his mouth with blood, he finally tore the tool free. Halfway there. Now he had to get it into his hand. He pursed his lips around it, ready to spit it out. He would only have one chance. His aim had to be precise, his hand quick. He could hit a target at thirty meters with a throwing knife. Surely he could do this.
He checked on Laframboise first, but she was hunched over the display, her back to him. “What the hell is going on, Cheng? Are there more mercenaries in here?”
“Not sure yet, my lady. We’re checking as fast as we can.”
Sergei turned his head, grimacing at how far away his hand looked. One chance…
He spit out the scalpel like a cherry pit, arching it and hoping his aim was as true with his lips as it was with his arm. The compact handle spun through the air, and bounced off the edge of the shackle. No! He almost cried it aloud before he caught himself. The tool landed on the wall-turned-bed, less than two inches from his fingertips. And in plain sight.
Laframboise must have heard
it, because she looked back at him. He returned her stare, not glancing at his hand, hoping she didn’t notice that small dark object lying beside it from across the room.
“There was an incident with a hover truck delivering groceries,” the man on the other side of the comm said, “and then something in the kitchen just a few minutes ago.”
The kitchen? Where he had left Jamie? As Laframboise turned back to the display, a fresh wave of fear rushed through Sergei. Whatever was going on in the kitchen, that had to have been Jamie’s doing. They could be zeroing in on her right now.
With new urgency driving him, Sergei pushed his arm as far out as he could through the shackle. His fingertips brushed the scalpel. His wrists were already bleeding—he barely remembered thrashing and causing those wounds—and the moisture seemed to help, lubricating the underside of those iron restraints. Another half an inch, and his index and middle fingers pinched the scalpel. He pulled it back, thumbing it on. The slender crimson blade licked out. He turned it, hardly caring if he cut himself, so long as he could slice through the shackle.
“Keep me informed.” Laframboise swiped an irritated hand to turn off the display.
Damn it, he needed another sixty seconds. The scalpel laser was cutting the iron, but the awful angle meant it wasn’t searing through it quickly.
“And turn off that damned alarm,” she snapped, though the call had already ended. The security man must have anticipated her order, because the siren did grow quieter, at least on this floor. Laframboise growled and stalked toward the table to pour herself another glass of wine.
Yes, Sergei urged. Take your time, enjoy your drink…
The beam sliced deeper, the shackle growing warmer under the laser, the hot iron painful against his bloody skin. A few more seconds was all he had to endure. As Laframboise drank her wine, he willed her not to notice the faint burning metal smell that rose above her own musk.
She set down the glass and turned toward him, a determined expression on her face. He twitched the fingers in his left hand, hoping to draw her eye in that direction, hoping she wouldn’t see the slender laser blade in his right. Freedom was so close.
“It’s time to introduce Phase Two,” she said, stalking toward him. Then she squinted, spotting the tool.
Cursing, she threw the wine glass and ran toward him.
The hot blade sliced through the last molecule of iron, and the shackle broke in half. Laframboise reached him, lunging for the baton, but it was far too late for her.
Sergei struck like a viper, his hand wrapping around her throat. He almost grabbed the damned baton instead, but he didn’t need it. He jerked her down, and all the rage and humiliation and pain culminated in one massive squeeze that crushed her neck before she had time to react.
He pushed her off him and heard her body slump to the floor. Maybe later, he would feel triumphant at his victory, but he was too exhausted and mentally battered to feel anything now. The only thought that kept him from slumping there in a stupor was that he had to find Jamie and make sure she hadn’t been captured. With a shaking hand, he picked up the scalpel and set to work on the other shackles.
* * *
Jamie stood with her ear pressed to the door, waiting for the kitchen to quiet down, for everyone to run out in response to the alarm. But it was hard to be certain with the incessant wailing reverberating from the walls. Since she was the one who had set off the alarm, she could hardly begrudge the sound. She just hoped it had come in time to help Sergei, to distract Laframboise from tormenting him until Jamie could get up there and do… she didn’t know what yet.
After everyone had seen Sergei shackled on that wall, her little robot shop had been stuffed with people for a small eternity. The display had excited the staff and aroused speculation, making them forget about the wayward robots in the kitchen. Nobody had glanced upward at her shelf, which was a good thing, because Jamie had been glowering down at everyone, resenting all of those workers for thinking nothing of helping Sergei—they could have at least expressed pity for his predicament. As soon as they had left, Jamie had climbed down and run to the terminal, afraid she wouldn’t be able to access the system again. She had wanted to find a way to activate that robot in the penthouse, to send it after Laframboise like a vengeful attack dog. But there had only been thirty seconds left before the log-in timed out—just long enough to trigger the alarm. The building’s security would doubtlessly figure out that it was a false alarm soon. She only hoped she could find a way up to Sergei before it was turned off.
It made her gut twist to think of him hanging up there naked, being tortured. Tortured for a crime that had nothing to do with him.
Jamie leaned back from the door. It had been quiet outside for a while, aside from the continued cry of the siren, and she was about to slide it aside. Then footsteps sounded in the kitchen again, fast footsteps. It sounded like someone was running toward her. Had someone already identified the source of the alarm? She rushed to the shelving unit again.
Before she had more than started to climb, the door slid aside. There wasn’t time to make it to the top. Jamie lunged and plastered herself into the corner next to the shelves, hoping whoever came in wouldn’t glance back.
Two women charged inside and ran straight for the display. The security system had disappeared once the log-in timed out, so it should take them a couple of minutes to get in and find the program again. Jamie eased for the door. Neither woman looked back. She peeked into the kitchen and heard more running footsteps, but they weren’t nearby. Several racks had been knocked over, and flour and sugar coated the floor and counters like a fine dusting of snow. The robots she had fiddled with had been powered down, even if their mess hadn’t been cleaned up yet.
When Jamie didn’t see anyone, she slipped out the way she and Sergei had first come in. If someone stopped her, she would use the original cover story, that she had been hired and was supposed to report to that head mechanic the recruiter had mentioned.
She was about to step out into the main hallway when a pair of men in battle armor ran into view. She ducked back into the kitchen, hoping they hadn’t noticed her. Or at least hoping that if they had, they wouldn’t view her as a threat.
They charged by the kitchen without stopping, ran to a lift in the center of the hall, and slammed their hands against sensors.
“Malcolm, where are you?” a voice demanded over one of their comm units.
“On my way, Sergeant.”
“If your ass isn’t on the roof within ten seconds, you’re fired.”
The man looked at his comrade, who shrugged back at him, the plates of battle armor clanking. “Promise?”
His buddy smirked.
“No,” the sergeant growled. “Get up here now.”
The lift doors opened, and the two men jumped inside.
Jamie was surprised that her hasty action was resulting in so much activity—she had assumed someone would have attributed her button push to a false alarm by now. Not questioning her luck further, she eased into the hallway and ran to the lift. She waved a hand at the sensor, not sure if it would respond to her. A door thudded open at the end of the hallway, and she winced, certain someone would recognize her as a stranger. But the person merely looked both directions up and down the hall, then yanked the door back shut.
The wailing of the alarm paused and a voice came over the speaker. “We are being attacked. I repeat, Laframboise Compound is being attacked. All security personnel report to stations, unless otherwise contacted. All non-essential personnel, remain in your rooms or at your work stations.”
The lift arrived, and Jamie tensed, afraid another set of armed security guards would be inside. But the cubicle was empty. She jumped in and said, “Penthouse,” hoping that was the name for Laframboise’s level.
“Hold the lift,” someone cried from the direction of the kitchen.
“No way,” Jamie muttered, jamming a hand against the manual controls, ordering the doors to shut.
The lift doors opened, and Jamie’s heart nearly stopped. She wasn’t on the penthouse level yet. Only Floor Nine. She reached for the manual door-shut button again, but it was too late. Another pair of security men in armor stalked inside.
She backed to the corner and kept her head down, hoping they weren’t as observant as the one downstairs and further hoping that the one downstairs hadn’t called to the others to warn them.
One of the men did look down at her, and he seemed to have a question on his lips, but the lift shuddered, and the lights blinked out for a second.
“Not a drill, is it?” the other man asked.
“Doesn’t sound like it. That’s the shields being hit.”
The lift reached the penthouse floor, and the doors opened. Jamie darted out, not glancing back. She hoped these men, too, had been ordered to the roof, and that they had already forgotten about her. Only when the doors whispered closed did she dare look back. They hadn’t come out.
She leaned a hand against a table in the wide hall, taking a steadying breath. This was turning into much more of an adventure than she’d had in mind. She rubbed a hand down her face, gathering herself. Once she found Sergei, she could relax. He would know what to do and how to get out of here.
The Assassin's Salvation (Mandrake Company) Page 26
