by Cherry Adair
Oh, God. So much for taking initiative.
“She must like pain,” Ragno said mildly, taking out a crumpled handkerchief and dabbing at his nostril.
Ragno dropped her arm as suddenly as he’d grabbed it. It hung numbly at her side.
“I ask you one more time, Miss Jones. Where are they? And which one is the Phantom?”
Tory suspected they would give her only so much time to answer before they killed her. She was also pretty sure it wouldn’t be quick or pleasant. “You keep asking me the same questions,” she said, striving to sound reasonable. “The last time I saw S-Sir Ian was after dinner last night. He left me and I don’t know where he went.”
His arm lashed out and the cane whistled as it came down across her back. Tory screamed.
She saw the arm swing back again. It was stopped in midflight by Samuel Hoag’s bony hand.
“I think Miss Jones has had enough, my friend. There are other ways….” Hoag said grimly, looking at her. “Aren’t there, my dear?”
Tory gauged the distance to the door. With almost superhuman strength, she broke free from the two men and ran for the door. The handle slipped out of her sweaty grasp as she felt a hand on the back of her shirt and she was yanked off balance.
“No!” Using her legs, she kicked out at Hoag as he plucked her away from the door and dragged her back into the center of the room. He spun her around, and shoving her hard in the chest, he pushed her down on the bed.
Before she could even bounce, she was scrambling backward, stopping only when she was against the ornate satin headboard. “Don’t come near me.”
She could tell by the murderous rage in Ragno’s face that it was a pathetic command. Hoag held him back as he tried to beat her with the silver-headed cane. The sound of the cane thumping the satin spread filled the room. Dust hung in the sunlit air. Tory stared at the glinting silver head as it came closer and closer. Her mouth dry, she pressed her spine into the soft fabric at her back, twisting her legs out of reach. It was a total waste of time, of course.
Marc. She pleaded silently, frantically, as Hoag opened the door and spoke to Mario in rapid-fire Italian, then slammed it shut, spewing even more dust into the air. Hoag jerked his head for Ragno to get out of the way and seated himself at the foot of the bed. Tory, now on her knees, scooted farther back, trying to make herself a smaller target.
“My friend is a little zealous in his quest for the truth, Miss Jones.” His voice was deep and devoid of expression. Tory tried to stop shaking, and she fixed her gaze on his face.
Behind him, Ragno impatiently tapped the cane on the carpet. Its thumping sounds syncopated with the thump of her heart. “There are ways to make even a whore like you talk, and I assure you we will use every one of them until you do.” He turned his head as Mario came back into the room, followed by Giorgio. Hoag motioned to the two men. “Hold her.”
Almost catatonic with fear, Tory glanced from one side of the bed to the other. She had no idea what they were planning, but she knew it would be bad. Very bad.
She bucked and kicked with all her strength, but they managed to catch her flailing arms and legs and flattened her against the bed, spread-eagled.
Hoag lifted the small box Mario had brought in on the tray, extracting a hypodermic needle. Tory stared with morbid fascination as he plunged the end and a thin stream of liquid spurted from the sharp tip.
Her back arched off the bed as he came toward her. The needle sparkled in the golden sunlight coming through the window.
She licked her parched lips. “Please. Oh please don’t…” Her eyes went wild as he pushed up the sleeve of her shirt.
“A little phenobarbital, Miss Jones. It won’t hurt a bit.” She felt the first sharp prick of the needle under her skin then a stinging heat surged through her veins. Her vision clouded and her lids closed. Just before everything went black she heard Ragno say, “You gave her too much, goddamn it, Samuel. You gave her too—”
MARC FELT FOR THE PULSE at the base of her throat with fingers he had to will to remain steady. It was pitch-dark, but he hadn’t dared turn on the flashlight. Her pulse was thready but stable.
“Thank God.” He shook her by the shoulders, and she moaned. “Tory. Sweetheart.” Urgency made his voice as cutting as a knife. “Wake up.”
She didn’t move. He shook her again. Harder this time, beginning to realize this was no ordinary sleep. They had ten minutes—fifteen, tops—before the dirtbags discovered the unconscious guards down the hall.
He pulled her upper body against his chest, her head flopped to his shoulder. Thank God they’d brought her down to the dungeon. He’d managed to find her after an hour of searching upstairs and then only with the unwilling cooperation of one of Ragno’s men. But this location sure as hell beat hauling her from one end of the immense castle to the other to get out.
From here, it was a fairly straight route—up the back stairs and into the front hall. He wanted like hell to hold her and he needed to see her in the light to assure himself she was all right. He had time for neither.
“Damn it, Victoria, do you hear me?” he demanded fiercely, pushing her head off his shoulder and holding it in both hands. “If you don’t wake up and move your ass, we’re in some serious shit.”
She moaned again, stirring in his arms. Her head moved to the side slowly, and she whimpered, trying to pull away.
“Marc?” Her voice was weak, but at least she was conscious.
He hauled her to her feet and waited a second while she got her balance. “Up and at ’em, sweetheart.” She wilted against him. Marc forced her to walk from one side of the small cell to the other and then back again, keeping his ears tuned to any noises outside.
By the time he’d walked her back and forth a dozen times, her gait was steadier.
“Do you know what they gave you?” he asked urgently as he eased his supporting arm away to see if she was capable of standing on her own.
“Pheno…”
“Barbital.”
She faltered, but Marc kept his hands off her. He was prepared and willing to carry her, but if she could stand on her own two feet all the better. “Keep walking. How long ago did they give it to you?” His voice was harsh in the darkness.
“This morning sometime. How long ago was that?”
“Too long,” Marc said grimly. “The good news is that it should be pretty much out of your system by now. Keep walking,” he barked, as her steps lagged. He heard the shuffle of her feet on the stone as he went back to the cot and tossed a canvas bag on the mattress.
“Ever used a gun?”
“No.”
“Well, you’re in luck. Time to learn a new skill. Come over here.”
When she got close enough, he took her hand and wrapped it around the laser-sighted automatic. He tightened his fingers over hers when she tried to jerk her hand away. “Listen and listen good, princess. Both our lives depend on you getting yourself pulled together. Now, concentrate while I tell you how to use this.”
After he was sure she understood the basics, he pulled her behind him and checked the corridor. Everything was quiet.
Keeping Tory at his back, Marc walked carefully toward the stairs. If anyone came now, they would be in one hell of a bind. There was nowhere to go. The wall sconces, spaced every twenty feet, cast dim amber light the length of the corridor. While the numerous shadows and recessed doorways could hide them, they could just as easily hide the tango’s men, too.
He glanced at Tory out of the corner of his eye. Her face was stark white, and her eyes dark and terrified, but she was on her feet and moving. The automatic hung from her hand—away from her body as if she felt the damn thing would bite.
He used his own weapon to tilt the infrared up. “Keep it there,” he said harshly. She nodded, gripping the gun more firmly between both hands. The damned cast interfered with the grip, but at least it looked as if it was at a usable angle.
The stairs ahead were curved and dangerous, and
he motioned for her to stay directly behind him as he climbed steadily. If anybody decided to come down, they would be at a distinct disadvantage.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the light at the top.
Still moving silently, he motioned for her to follow him as he kept to the wall, heading for the sitting room where he’d first seen her last night.
Finally reaching the double doors, he opened one and motioned her in behind him, then closed it silently. The room was empty and quiet as he moved to the door at the other end.
He cursed. The palace was enormous, with doors everywhere and a million places to hide. Unfortunately that meant there were hiding places for the bad guys, too. The only way out was through the main foyer and out the front door—if they were lucky enough to pass through undetected. He’d disabled the motion detector when he’d come in for Lynx, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t some conscientious guard out there.
He thought of Lynx in the chopper, waiting for them like a sitting duck. How the son of a bitch thought he could fly in the condition he was in was beyond him. But he wasn’t leaving without his sister.
Marc could understand the sentiment.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. The silk Paisley scarf tying back her hair had slipped, loosening the long strands, and her eyes were wide with fright. His gut tightened at the smudged tearstains on her pale cheeks. When she moved the barrel of the gun up a notch and tilted her chin, he almost smiled.
Bowed but not beaten. Damn, what a woman.
Admiration swelled his chest. He brushed the red mark on her cheek with a gentle finger while in his heart murder glowed like a fiery ember. He was going to enjoy killing these bastards. Enjoy every fucking minute of it.
“Let’s go.”
It was one in the morning, the household was asleep and the foyer was blessedly empty. He heard the scuff of her shoes behind him on the slick marble as his eyes scanned the wide-open expanse. The heavy front doors were about forty yards ahead of them. Beyond that was the drawbridge, then the formal gardens and finally freedom.
Marc dipped his head close to her ear and whispered that they were going to take a chance on cutting a diagonal across to the door. It was a calculated risk, made even more of a challenge when the scent of her hair distracted him for a millisecond. Keeping to the walls would give them more cover but would also take longer, and time was of the essence.
Ready to run, she mouthed. Her magnificent hair trailed down her back, one sleeve of her white shirt was still pushed up, and Marc could see the bruise made by the needle. A red haze of fury threatened to blind him. Oh, yeah. He was going to enjoy like hell coming back to take care of those bastards. But first things first.
Gritting his teeth, he scanned the foyer one last time. Grabbing Tory’s elbow, he sprinted across the slippery marble tile. He felt her skid and paused briefly to steady her, then dragged her close behind him again. Heat emanated from her body as she pressed close.
They reached the door and he quickly slipped its bolts. They groaned and rattled, but the door opened. After a quick reconnoiter he went through first.
In front of them was an immense courtyard. Marc held her back with his arm as he scanned the shadowy open ground between them and the gate in the far wall.
In the center was an enormous three-tiered fountain. There was no water spouting from it, and the moonlight glistened off the green moss and slime in the basins. The cover of running water would have helped silence their progress, but that was not to be.
High walls surrounded them on three sides; the dark windows of the castle were at their backs. The walls made good, deep shadows and he took her arm, pulling her past the shrubbery along the side of the castle, keeping in shadow.
She followed him closely, stopping when he stopped, keeping the same distance between them. He breathed easier when they had traversed the unprotected space between the castle and the surrounding wall. His feet flattened the tall weeds, making a path through the overgrown garden beside the wall. They were almost there.
He dared not take the chance that Ragno had snipers positioned in the windows. Tory followed him, silent except for her ragged breathing.
Her face was deathly pale and streaked with dirt, with strands of hair plastered to her sweat-dampened skin. Marc cursed silently and nodded toward the pedestrian gate beside the tall portcullis that led outside.
She lifted the gun in her hands higher. They came to the small door in the wall that he’d left unlocked when he’d come in. “Almost there,” he said under his breath, pushing it open and pulling her through behind him. It was too good to be true. Were Spider’s men all so incompetent they hadn’t noticed that she was missing? Marc glanced at his watch in the moonlight, surprised that it had taken them only sixteen minutes to get from the dungeon to outside the walls.
The medieval drawbridge spanned the moat, which was more fetid mud than water. Urging her to move faster, he sped across the warped wood timbers and toward the gardens and the cover of the trees.
He could smell the rotten stink of stagnant water, his feet biting into the gravel of the driveway. They would be clear targets, out here in the open. But there was no alternative; they had to make a run for it.
He stopped for a moment to look over his shoulder. “Tory, listen to me. We have to run hard for those trees over there. If you hear anything—anything at all—ignore it and run faster. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Okay.” In the moonlight, her eyes were wide terrified pools.
Marc looked at the heavy gun clutched in her arms. He considered losing it so that she could run faster. But the fact was, whether she really had to use it or not, if something happened to him, she would at least have a chance of protecting herself. He pushed the laser-sighted gun more firmly into her grasp. “Remember how to use it?”
She nodded, “Red light, shoot.”
“Let’s go.”
The moon, unfortunately, was almost full and it was as bright as daylight. Her white shirt was a perfect target as they ran hell-for-leather toward the trees, the crunch of the small stones under their feet sounding dangerously loud. As soon as they were under cover he would give her his shirt. But first they had to get there.
The gravel driveway circling the moat was a wide, pale, unprotected swath they had to cross before they could even get to the shrub-studded lawn and the small forest rimming the estate.
Their feet hit grass as they sprinted for the thick cover of the trees. A high-pitched whine warned Marc a second too late that their luck had run out. The force of the bullet grazing his forehead dropped him to one knee. The pain would come later. He ignored it.
Staggering to his feet, he felt the warmth of blood running into his eyes. Tory stopped dead, her white shirt blinding in the moonlight as she turned.
No. Black speckles obscured his vision. No. “Run like h—”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GRAVEL CRUNCHED beneath the running feet behind them. Jesus. The bad guys were hot on their trail and closing. There was another ping as a bullet whizzed by and tore up the grass between them. “Get the hell out of here!” he yelled, as the air near his head parted from another bullet.
He swiped his bloody face with his forearm to clear his vision. It partially worked. Glancing over his shoulder he saw a muzzle flash, seconds later a barrage of fire came from the drawbridge. Somehow he managed to gather Tory under one arm, half dragging, half carrying her, twisting to spray the area behind them with a violent burst from his Uzi.
A black silhouette tumbled over the drawbridge. The muffled splash of a body hitting the muddy water was drowned out as another round of bullets ricocheted close to their feet. Grass and dirt sprayed as Marc pushed Tory forward, his arm propelling her as he returned fire.
“Go, for Christ’s sake.” He hauled her up as she stumbled in the soft dirt, and pushed her hard.
“I’m not leaving without you.”
The fool woman turned back and waited for him as M
arc staggered toward her, blood dripping into his eye. He caught at her cast and hauled her as fast as he could go.
A hundred yards.
Eighty yards.
Fifty yards.
“Go. Go. Go.”
The once-manicured lawn took a beating, sod flying as bullets whizzed too close for comfort. He almost tripped over a boxwood hedge but kept pushing and pulling at Tory to keep her abreast.
The trees swayed slightly in the breeze, dark branches beckoning when he felt a sting in his leg. Then, twenty yards from cover, his leg folded under him and he fell to the ground.
Damn. The sons of bitches were in front as well as behind them. Surrounded, outgunned and outmaneuvered he struggled to his elbows, pointed the Uzi at a burst of light and fired off several rounds. There was a scream and a thud as someone bit the dust.
The Uzi was good for another sixty-four rounds times three, with the second magazine welded to the first, but at the rate the bad guys were coming, he would be out of ammo long before they were.
Again he sprayed covering fire into the trees ahead of him. It bought Tory precious seconds as the shooting stopped for a moment.
Staggering to his feet, Marc was in motion, aiming his weapon in an arc while in a lurching run. He had to get her out of range and the hell away.
All he could see of Tory up ahead was that damned white shirt through the branches. As he ran he tugged his black T-shirt over his head. The night air felt good as it cooled the sweat on his body. He couldn’t feel the wound in his leg, but if he was capable of putting weight on it, it wasn’t broken. That’s all he cared about right now. Being mobile.
He pulled her down behind the cover of the shrubs. The heavy scent of gardenias permeated the air as he handed her his damp T-shirt. He blinked away the graying of his vision, doing a quick visional scan to be sure she hadn’t been hit. “Put it on, and do it fast.”
