Bait

by Leslie Jones

  Because she didn’t want to look at his loose, jaundiced skin. His heavy face, his double chin. His thick brows, or the bags under his eyes.

  His eyes, black with hatred.

  Adrenaline kick-­started her heart and sent her stomach plummeting. Her gasping breaths sluiced more water into her lungs, and she coughed again. She tested the restraints on her arms. Anything to avoid looking at him.

  Fedyenka Osinov.

  He contemplated her, saying nothing, not a twitch of emotion on his face. Just the burning malice in his eyes. Somehow, that frightened her more than rage would have. They looked at each other for endless moments.

  “Untie me.”

  Christina broke first, uttering the words as a command, as defiance. It amused him. His eyes crinkled at the corners, though his mouth did not even twitch.

  Instead, he nodded to the man who’d thrown water on her. Stas Noskov. She remembered him from Baghdad. He was a forty-­year-­old brute of a man, with broad, heavy features and pulled-­down brows. His hair, beating a fast retreat from his forehead, was buzzed close to his scalp. He’d been a boxer, but now he was fat over muscle, with piggish eyes and fists as big as hams.

  Without changing expressions, he backhanded her across the face.

  Pain exploded in her cheek, radiating up through her neck into her skull. Blood filled her mouth and ran down her face where his big iron ring cut her. She waited for the pain to ease, head hung. When she could, she spat the blood from her mouth. She tried to reach Fedyenka, but he was too far away. Someone laughed.

  Turning her head, Christina saw an eerily familiar face. Anger burst through the terror, and she glared daggers at him, loathing stamped baldly onto her features. She’d been flanked, and had been Tased into near unconsciousness before he clapped a cloth over her mouth that smelled of sweet acetone, antiseptic, and sweat. He’d held it there while her vision blurred and her hearing faded.

  Then she’d blacked out.

  Now Shay Boyle grinned at her as though they were old friends meeting on the street for coffee. “Hey, Chris. How’re things?”

  “Did you sell out Interpol for money?” she asked. “Is it as simple as that? No ideology except cash, no allegiance to your country or any other?”

  Shay shrugged. “Nothing’s ever simple. You should know that, Chris.”

  She blanched. “Don’t call me that.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “It’s Christina, right? Christina Madison, of the CIA.” He drew out the letters slowly, punctuating each letter. “Not Chris Barlow from Chicago.”

  He drew a knife from a sheath at his hip and began to toss it end over end. Flip, flip, flip. She knew that blade. It was eight inches from end to end, sleek and sharp and deadly. His habit of tossing and catching it by the hilt each time had annoyed her. Whether a nervous habit or from boredom, she’d never found out.

  Fedyenka stirred and rose, displeased at being ignored. His sagging body had seen better years. He was a bear of a man and while most of his muscle had turned to fat years ago, his arms were still huge. He came to stand in front of her, forcing her to crane her neck back to look up at him.

  “You killed my brother,” he said, so low she had to strain to hear. Rage buzzed in his voice. Like Gabe, it dropped when he was angry.

  Gabe. Poor Gabe. He was going to return from his trip to the grocery store and find her gone. He’d know she hadn’t left of her own accord when he saw the mess. She’d ripped anything she could from Stas as they’d struggled, but she didn’t know whether or not it would help Gabe.

  “You killed Yuri,” Fedyenka said again, almost monotone.

  “He was a criminal,” she said, trying to sound brave. “And you are a criminal, all of you. You belong in jail.”

  Shay laughed again. “There’s nothing to connect me to any of this. I’m Interpol. After this, I go right back to Baghdad and pick up where I left off.”

  “You’re shit. I’ll know.” If I’m alive, she thought. One look at Fedyenka’s face, though, and she knew the truth. She wasn’t leaving this room.

  “You pretended to be fucking Princess Veronica pretty good,” Fedyenka said, staring down at her. “If I hadn’t already known what a lying bitch you are, I might have been fooled. ’Course, now you look like the cunt you are.”

  With her bare feet tied to the legs of the chair and the overlarge shirt sliding off one shoulder, she felt vulnerable. And sick at heart.

  She should have told Gabe she loved him.

  “Véronique.”

  “What?” This time his voice was whip-­thin, lashing her.

  “Véronique. Her name. It’s not Veronica.”

  Fedyenka leaned down and grabbed a fistful of Christina’s hair at the crown of her head, yanking her head back brutally. “Do I look like I give a shit about her name?”

  Christina blanched. Fury banked in his eyes, ready to spring forth like a serpent.

  He released her hair with a shove and returned to his seat, breathing heavily.

  She took her eyes off him long enough to glance around. The structure probably had been a barn at one time. It stood roughly forty feet long and maybe thirty feet wide. Made of timber and brick, it had clearly seen better days. The wood warped and curled; the mortar crumbled around the bricks. Ivy climbing the outside poked tendrils through the windows. Stalls had been ripped out to make room for farm equipment, leaving marks along the floor, but only an old thresher remained.

  When he’d gotten himself back under control, Fedyenka nodded and gestured to Shay, who went to the table. Christina looked at it for the first time. Her heart stuttered.

  A large car battery sat in the center of the table, attached to some sort of control box with a manual dial. Long thin wires connected the box to a wand with a bronze tip and an insulated handle. Shay picked up the wand and held it out for her inspection.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked, smirking.

  Fearful she did, fearful she understood why she’d been doused with water, she looked back at Fedyenka. He hadn’t moved.

  It was an electric cattle prod.

  “My team will find me,” she said, trying for brave.

  “Don’t count on it,” Fedyenka said. “No one even knows I’m in Europe. I rented this farmhouse through my lawyers for cash, under one of my aliases.”

  Christina worked some moisture into her mouth. “Where . . . where are we?”

  “In Concordia, still. In Brodeur, as it happens. Plenty of farmland, plenty of places to hide.”

  Christina felt a pang of despair. How would Gabe find her? She didn’t doubt he’d try, but he’d never find her. There would be no cavalry to rescue her this time.

  “Now. What did you tell the CIA about me? My operation?”

  Spurred by a sudden spurt of courage, she glared. “Everything. They know everything.”

  Fedyenka nodded to Stas Noskov, who flipped a switch on the machine on the table. A low hum filled the room. Shay swaggered over to her, holding the wand in front of her eyes and waving it to and fro. She tried to swallow, but her mouth felt like the Sahara.

  “This is called a picana,” Fedyenka said, crossing one ankle over his knee. “It’s got advantages over Tasers and cattle prods. Wanna know what they are?”

  Christina looked around the room for anything that could help her escape. Maybe if she appealed to Shay’s greed? “I can double what he’s paying you,” she said a touch desperately.

  Shay grinned at her. “Doubt it.”

  “My business is damned profitable, despite your fucking interference. You cost me a helluva lot of money, though, and I intend to take it out of your hide. Literally, you bitch.”

  Stas Noskov leered down at her, pulling the collar of the shirt out and peering in at her breasts. She spit at him. He slapped her, then grabbed the collar and ripped. It tore to her
shoulder, baring skin from her neck to her biceps. Fedyenka nodded again, and Shay touched the tip of the wand just above her collarbone.

  She screamed.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  GABE FOUGHT AGAINST unfamiliar feelings of helplessness and despair. He’d felt rage many times in his life, but never ­coupled with panic.

  He dialed Mace. Straight to voice mail, which meant the team had already gone wheels up. The hand holding his cell phone shook. Had they hurt her when they took her? Were they hurting her now?

  He combed through the house, looking for anything that would tell him where Fedyenka Osinov had taken Christina. He found a ­couple of brown buttons, a torn receipt, and a pair of broken sunglasses in the kitchen. Even in the midst of his anguish, he experienced a flash of pride. Christina had been trying, even as she fought for her freedom, to give him a clue.

  The receipt was for a Q8 petrol station in a place called Brodeur, Concordia. It was faded, blurry. He squinted hard.

  He pressed a speed-­dial on his cell phone.

  “As I live and breathe. Archangel. To what do I owe . . .”

  “Stephanie, it’s an emergency. Christina’s been taken.”

  “Shit,” Private Stephanie Tams said. “Colonel Granville . . .”

  “Tell him later. Right now, I need my team back here yesterday.” He didn’t know how much time he had. Maybe none. “Get it cleared.”

  “Yes, sir.” Through the phone line, Gabe heard Stephanie yell for someone. “Tell the colonel we’re not done in Concordia. And get the team back to . . . where are you, sir?”

  “The safe house we stashed the princess at.”

  “Got it. Wait one.”

  The silence on the phone grated on his already fraying nerves.

  “Gabe.” Just by her voice, he knew he wasn’t going to like what she had to say. “Colonel Granville won’t authorize the plane to turn around. They’ve got a live mission. Don’t tell anyone I said so, but you’re going to be recalled, too. I’m sorry, sir. You’re on your own on this one.”

  Fuck and double fuck. He dropped his head into his hand.

  But that wasn’t going to help Christina. “I found a receipt for a gas station. Pull up a map of Concordia.”

  “Done. Where in Concordia?”

  Gabe squinted at the receipt. “Place called Brodeur. Zoom in on a gas station at Rue Grande 41.”

  “Okay. Using Google Earth. Wait one.”

  It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds, but it felt like a lifetime until Stephanie said, “Switching to street view. I found the gas station. What now, sir?”

  “Okay. I need a map of the surrounding areas. I need isolated areas where he might be holding her. Farmhouses, abandoned castles, windmills. God, I don’t know.” The truth was, he couldn’t think. His heart was frozen in his chest at the thought of what they might be doing to Christina at this very moment. They would kill her; he had no illusions about that. But Fedyenka Osinov would want revenge for the death of his brother.

  Osinov.

  “Get back to me, Steph.” He disconnected and dialed Trevor.

  “Carswell.”

  “Where are you?” He couldn’t keep the tenseness out of his voice. “Fedyenka Osinov snatched Christina.”

  “Shite. How the hell did he know about the safe house?”

  Gabe exhaled hard. “And the timing stinks. They wait until Ronnie’s gone to attack? Somehow, some way, they knew Christina was impersonating the princess. They must have been waiting . . . dammit.”

  “Breathe, mate. I’m still in Parvenière. Where are you?”

  “Still at the safe house, but I’m leaving for Brodeur.”

  “I’ll meet you there. Ninety minutes.” He paused. “Me, mate. I can’t involve my team in an unauthorized mission.”

  “Haul ass.” He’d take whatever help he could. “Thanks, man.”

  His next call was to the local police.

  “Chief Van den Nieuwenhuyzen.”

  “I need Federal Police help,” he said. “I need Aart Jansens. Are you still holding him?”

  “Ja. I can talk to him for you. What do you need?”

  “I need his sniper skills. I need a shooter.”

  Silence.

  Gabe pressed on. “Also, I need him to help me find an isolated area in or around Brodeur. I need information about any houses or buildings that have been rented or leased recently, or have been owned for a long time but unoccupied until recently. Ones where the renter or new owner paid in cash, or went through a broker. Uh, I have to tell you something. About your crown princess.” He briefly closed his eyes. He could go to jail for this. The operation had been classified from the start. But he didn’t hesitate one iota as he filled the police chief in. “I have to find Christina soon. She doesn’t have long.”

  “An interesting tale. And quite the conundrum for you, I suspect. You may rely on my discretion. However, what you ask might take some time,” the chief said.

  “Christina doesn’t have time,” Gabe practically roared down the phone line.

  “I’ll use every influence,” the chief promised. “Jansens will cooperate for a reduced sentence.”

  Gabe threw himself behind the wheel and pointed the car toward Brodeur.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “WAKEY-­WAKEY.”

  Pain exploded in her skull as Stas Noskov slapped her. She pried her eyes open. Shay and Stas had apparently switched places. Shay now controlled the rheostat dial. Stas stared at her breasts.

  It was Shay who had spoken. Christina coughed. She must have bitten her tongue during the last round with the picana, because she was bleeding from her mouth. It was a struggle to lift her head.

  “Let’s start over,” Fedyenka said. “What did you tell the CIA about my operation?”

  He kept asking variations of the same question. He didn’t care about the answers. This was about punishing her, exacting revenge for the death of his brother. When he grew tired of it, he would kill her.

  “I told them what an asshole you were.”

  It didn’t matter if she told him the truth or lied. His reaction was always the same.

  He nodded to Shay, who turned the dial to the right a few clicks. Stas pressed the tip of the wand to her temple. She shrieked as fast as she could draw breath, one after another until her voice was hoarse. Even when he took the wand away, her head throbbed and pounded and threatened to explode.

  “The picana is a peculiar tool,” Fedyenka told her, as casually as if he’d said he’d like coffee with his lunch. “Did you know it was developed just for situations like this? Fucking imagine that. A product designed specifically for one human being to torture another.”

  “Fas . . . fascinating.” Her eyes refused to stay focused. Her head dropped forward onto her chest and stayed there.

  “The high voltage makes the shocks hurt more, but it’s got a low current, so you’re less likely to die while we’re talking. Pretty damned cool, huh?”

  “Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?”

  The rage simmering behind his eyes abruptly burst forth. He nearly threw himself out of the chair and stalked to her, grabbing her hair and forcing her head back. “Not until you’ve suffered as much as I have,” he screamed into her face, spittle landing on her skin. “Not until you’re begging me to kill you. Or maybe I will kill you now.”

  He yanked a revolver from the back of his belt and pointed it at her. “Are you ready to die? Do you want to die?”

  It was hard to push the words past the dread clogging her throat. “Go to hell.”

  Fedyenka raised the revolver over her head and pulled the trigger.

  The roar of discharge so close to her head caused her entire body to flinch, the sound physically painful. She took in huge gulps of air, eyes squeezed shut, as agony la
nced through her skull. “Son of a bitch.”

  “So you live awhile longer. A pity.”

  Fedyenka intended to terrorize her, torture her. It was working. Christina started hiccupping gulps of air, trying to suppress the sobs clawing their way up her throat.

  “Who do you work for at Langley?”

  “A man.”

  “Did you work for him when you lied your way into my business in Baghdad?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Boss.”

  Shay stopped flipping his knife and put the tip of the blade on her knee, over the top of her T-­shirt. He pressed down slowly, letting her feel the blade penetrate through the cotton to her skin below. She grit her teeth. When he’d made a hole in the shirt, he canted the blade sideways and sliced through the material, baring her upper leg.

  Finally, he slammed the knife back into the sheath at his hip. Christina was close enough to grab it, if only her hands were free.

  “You’re a coward,” she hissed. Maybe she could get him to lose his temper and . . . and what? Cut her loose? Kill her? “Only a coward tortures a woman who’s tied up and can’t even defend herself. A real man wouldn’t do that. Only a sick, twisted one.”

  “Was that insult meant for me, or for Fedyenka?” Shay chuckled. “Neither of us cares what you think, though.”

  But Fedyenka cared what she felt. He wanted her in agony before he ended her life.

  “Where are we?” she asked. Keep them talking. Keep them away from the picana.

  “Concordia. Didn’t we tell you that already?” Shay frowned, annoyed.

  “Why should it fucking hell matter to you? You’re going to die here,” Fedyenka growled.

  “Call it morbid curiosity.”

  “We’re at a farmhouse on the outskirts of Brodeur. Far from civilization.” Shay shrugged. “No one to hear you scream, Chris.”

  Fedyenka threw him an annoyed look. “Shut your fucking hole.”

  “What difference does it make? She’s not leaving here—­”