Bait

by Leslie Jones

  Alive. It didn’t need to be said.

  “I was followed in D.C.,” she said, trying to gulp back her terror. “I thought it was a training exercise, but it was you, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Stas answered. “You don’t got a clue, do you? You got no fucking idea what’s going on.”

  “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  Shay laughed. “It’s all about you, Christina Madison of the CIA. It’s always been all about you.”

  That brought her head up. “What are you talking about?”

  Fedyenka rose and went to the table, where he picked up a metal pipe, maybe three feet long. He idly twirled it as he came over to her. “You’re thinking too much about the past. I want you to think about now. What I’m going to do to you for killing my brother.” He tapped the pipe against her knee. “What do you think I’m going to do with this? Or would you prefer the picana again? I’ll let you choose.”

  She’d be damned if she’d choose her own pain. He’d just pick the other to torment her anyway. When she didn’t answer, Shay tore a strip off a roll of duct tape, and pressed cruelly against her mouth as he stretched it taut. She glared her disgust. He grinned at her, dropped a kiss on top of the tape, and walked away. Fedyenka took his place.

  He tapped the pipe against her knee again. “How would it affect your career as a cheating, whoring liar if I broke both your knees?” he asked. “They used to do that in Chinese POW camps, you know, during the Korean war. My father had both his knees broken by the camp commander. That fucking bastard was determined to break my father, but he never did. My father hobbled out of that camp using two sticks, and he spat in the commander’s face as he left.”

  Give me a chance, Christina thought. I’ll spit in your face, too.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  GABE PACED THE parking lot like a caged tiger. The inactivity drove him insane.

  He waited. Waited for Stephanie to send him the layout around Brodeur. Waited for Trevor to meet him with supplies. Waited for Aart Jansens to get back to him about recently rented properties around Brodeur.

  And he prayed.

  His phone rang. Even before the first sound died away, it was up at his ear. “Morgan.”

  “It’s Jay Spicer,” came the voice on the other end of the line. “I hear you lost my operative.”

  It threw him for a moment. “How did you . . . ?”

  “Private Tams from your unit called me,” Spicer said. “She brought me up to speed. It’s a good thing she did, too. I remember reading a report about a week ago from my guys in Parvenière. They make it a point to have good relations with local police. So this guy calls the police, right? He says he’s the farm manager for some remote farm outside of a tiny town in the middle of fucking Nowhere, Concordia, right? He says he rented the place sight unseen to a foreigner—­that’s what he said, apparently—­talked funny, right? So he goes to give him the keys, and there’s like eight guys there, and the main guy, speaks funny, tells him to get lost and not come around again. So this guy, this farm manager, he thinks this is odd, so he kind of drives by every now and again, and it’s all quiet, but there are always guards outside, right, walking around with machine guns. That’s what this guy says. Doubt he’d recognize a machine gun versus a machete, but whatever. So I’m thinking, where better to take someone . . .”

  His phone beeped. “That’s Stephanie,” he said. “Anything else?”

  “Nawp. That’s the gist of it. Call me with an update. Madison’s my operative, right?”

  Gabe switched over to Stephanie Tams. “What’d you find out?” he asked. He didn’t have time for hellos and goodbyes. Each moment wasted was one moment more that Christina might die.

  “I’m sending you an aerial layout of the farmhouse Jay Spicer thinks Christina might be being held at. You know, don’t you, that we might be off base here?”

  He didn’t want to hear that.

  “It’s the best I’ve got,” he said, frustration leaking through his control. He thumbed open the JPEG Stephanie had emailed him. Aw, hell. It was farmland, all right. A single house and what looked like a ­couple of outbuildings in the middle of at least a mile of planted fields. The nearest tree line was at least half a mile away.

  He called Trevor back. “Where are you?”

  “Fifteen minutes. I stopped at a sporting goods store to pick up some stuff.”

  “Good. I’ll send you the layout. It’s bad. No cover, no concealment.”

  “We might have to wait until dark to go in.”

  “Not an option,” Gabe clipped. “Every moment I waste here is one step closer . . .” He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t even think it. She had to be alive. She just had to be.

  He’d broken all land speed records getting from Parvenière down the E46 toward Brodeur. The Q8 petrol station was nestled between an empty lot and a row of townhome apartments. He’d pulled as far into the back as he could and killed the engine.

  Now what? It was suicide to go rushing to the farmhouse in broad daylight. He had his Glock and an extra magazine—­thirty-­one rounds—­and his boot knives. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

  A nondescript blue Audi pulled into a pump. A man emerged, capturing Gabe’s attention immediately. Despite the warm day, he wore a light jacket concealing a holster under his arm. His short hair had a prominent window’s peak, his features broad and Slavic. Gabe hunched down a little in his seat, keeping his face turned away and watching in his mirrors as the man went inside, coming back out about ten minutes later with a bag of burgers, a six-­pack of beer, and cigarettes. He pulled out and started through the tiny town, driving past the old stone church and out onto the two-­lane local throughway. Gabe let him get far ahead before he pulled out and followed.

  He hung well back, keeping several cars between himself and the man he was tailing. He punched up the farmhouse’s address in Google Maps with one hand. Sure enough, the man was heading toward the farmhouse. He made no attempt to backtrack or hide his destination, nor did he seem to notice his tail. When he turned down a long access road, Gabe drove past, keeping pace with other cars heading out of town.

  About fifty yards ahead, he found a place to turn around. Again, he didn’t slow at the drive, although he did risk a quick look. Two guards outside. What had the property manager said? There were eight of them. Not impossible odds for a Delta Force operator, but still pretty bad.

  He returned to the petrol station because he had nothing better to do, filled his gas tank, and bought food from the burger stand at the end of the convenience store. He chewed, tasting nothing. Just waiting. He hated waiting at the best of times.

  Now it was intolerable.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  HER STRENGTH WANED with every passing minute. Her world narrowed to this place and this man, to her fear and the throbbing pain. She let her head hang, because it hurt to hold it upright.

  It displeased him.

  He rose abruptly from his chair and was in front of her in two strides, jerking her chin up with cruel fingers. “You will look at me, so you know who is in charge here.”

  “Go to hell.” She couldn’t think of anything better to say. Her nerves and neurons were scrambled, and it hurt to talk.

  One of the guards brought in a bag and a six-­pack. “Food.”

  Stas and Shay tore into the burgers at once. Fedyenka turned her face this way and that. She had no clue what he looked for. Finally, he moved to the table and unwrapped a hamburger. He took it to the door and leaned against it while he chewed, turning his face to the breeze.

  “Hey,” she called. “I’m hungry.”

  Shay snickered. He popped a beer, chugging down half of it before stopping to belch. “How ’bout a beer instead?”

  Stas crammed fries into his mouth. “No beer.”

  “Moron. I wasn’t serious.”

  Ch
ristina brought the image of Gabe to the forefront of her mind. She had to hold on. For him. He wouldn’t stop looking for her. Therefore, she couldn’t give up.

  “Why wait a year?” she asked Shay. “You obviously knew where I lived in D.C. Why wait until now for this?”

  Fedyenka came back, spinning the cylinder on his revolver. “He couldn’t find you. Damned international police can’t find one stupid bitch. But he finally tracked you down.”

  Shay lit a cigarette. “I have contacts everywhere. I knew where she was the whole time.”

  Fedyenka looked at him in disbelief. “You fucking took my money to look for her when you knew where she was?” He raised the revolver, thought better of it, and lowered it again.

  Shay grinned, scratching through his short beard. “Aren’t you glad I did? If you’d’ve already killed her, she couldn’t have come to Concordia to take Princess Ver-­on-­i-­ca’s place.”

  “What if we lost her? What if she went to Vienna anyway?”

  The Interpol agent laughed. “I told you, I have contacts everywhere. One of the Household Guards knew me. It was dead simple to put a tracker on the royal limo as soon as I knew Chris was on her way. I told him it was for her protection. I knew where she was every step of the way. So when you told me to bring her to you, I sent my men to grab her on the road to Grasvlakten.”

  “Where you failed,” Fedyenka growled.

  Shay scowled, flinging his cigarette down and grinding it with his boot heel. “I underestimated her bodyguards.”

  “You failed me again at Grasvlakten. I had to go get her myself.”

  Christina gave her head a quick shake. Surely, she’d heard wrong? “What . . . what do you mean? You said before . . . this was all about me?”

  Shay swaggered over to her. “Does that surprise you, princess?”

  Her head was whirling, but from residuals of electric shocks or this new information, she didn’t know. “I don’t understand.”

  Fedyenka laughed. The sound grated along her nerve endings. “Story of your life. Princess. Har-­har-­har.”

  Shay shot him an annoyed look. “I knew where you were and I knew what you looked like,” he said, with the exaggerated patience of someone talking to a dim child. “When Fedyenka here told me to get rid of Princess Ver-­on-­i-­ca, I knew the perfect way to do it. I contacted Émile Bonnet. He’s hot to protect his retirement. See, there’s these rare sheared minks. Very expensive. He has men who trap them and sell them to Fedyenka. I told him the entire supply would dry up if he didn’t get the princess out of the way. So Bonnet contacted a guy he knows to fake a shooting. Just enough to drive the princess out of the castle and into a safe house.”

  “But how did you know about the safe house?”

  “I have contacts . . .”

  “Everywhere. I know.” Christina rolled her eyes. “But how did you find it?”

  Shay chortled. “Dead easy. I’m law enforcement, remember? A cop. I told Interpol in Parvenière that I had a high-­profile case—­classified, of course—­that might require a safe house. He gave me the run-­down on the three the government keeps. Addresses and everything. And then told me one was in use. Imbecile. Then I just waited for your bodyguards to catch Bonnet’s fake assassin. Véronique goes back to her life. And I take her out for real. Boo-­hoo. So sad. But she doesn’t show up at the Vienna summit, and Fedyenka gets his sheared minks.”

  “And I went to the safe house,” Christina said, realization dawning. “You followed me there?”

  “Nope. We were already there. Watched you go in and her come out. When your boyfriend left, we snatched you. Dead simple.”

  The way he emphasized dead caused a shiver to make its way down her spine. Keep him talking, she chanted to herself. Give Gabe time to find me.

  “What if . . . what if he hadn’t left? Or we’d gone together?”

  “He’d be dead,” Shay said matter-­of-­factly. “Two birds with one stone. Fedyenka gets both his mink supply and you. A win-­win.”

  Fedyenka added, “Really rare mink. Women pay a fortune for them. Men, too. Problem is, their primary breeding grounds are smack dab in the middle of where they want to drill for oil. I’d lose too much money if my supply dried up. Bonnet told me the princess would never change her mind. Worse, she’s pushing to get the damned things regulated and monitored to make sure nothing happens to them because of the oil drilling. Do you know what regulation means in my business? Lost revenue.”

  “This was only ever about money,” she said. “You disgust me.”

  Rage crawled across Fedyenka’s face. “You’re a mouthy bitch. You need to learn respect. And it’s not just about money. It’s about my fucking brother!”

  Shay wandered outside, lighting a cigarette.

  Christina could think of only one way to stop the torment. She raked him with a look of contempt.

  “Yuri was weak,” she said. “But better than you. You’re weak and stupid. You can’t hold on to the business now, can you? Yuri was the brains, tiny as they were.”

  And then she did it.

  “He was easy to kill. I’m glad I did it.”

  Fedyenka’s face purpled and veins popped out in his face and neck. He dropped the revolver as his big hands rose, clamped around her throat, and squeezed. Christina closed her eyes, waiting for the blessed darkness to take her, though her body twisted and fought for air. Just as spots began to dance behind her eyes and she felt herself begin to fade, the pressure around her neck disappeared. Her eyes snapped open and she gasped as life-­giving oxygen rushed back into her lungs.

  “No,” Fedyenka said. “I won’t make it easy for you. I’ll kill you when I’m ready, not when you want to die.”

  He picked up the revolver and set it on the table, returning with the metal rod. He hefted it a few times, then ran the metal edge across her cheek. “You need a lesson, though. Respect.”

  Before she could register his intent, he swung the pipe and smashed it into her knee with all his strength. She screamed, and passed out.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  FULL DARK HAD settled in by the time Trevor pulled up beside him. He motioned, and Gabe started the car and followed him up the street and into a brick alley. They parked the cars next to one another. Trevor popped the trunk. Gabe wasted no time burrowing through the two duffel bags inside.

  Binoculars, two pairs. Cheap walkie-­talkies, but they would do. Lots of .40 caliber ammo and, best of all, three shotguns. “My blokes send their apologies,” Trevor said.

  “It’s better than what I have.” Gabe wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  There were also two sets of Army-­surplus camouflage pants, shirts, and kevlar helmets. “My choices were somewhat limited,” Trevor said apologetically. “Crops are growing, but it’s too early in the season for them to be high enough for us to crawl through. Some are green soybeans, some are wheat. The gold kind.”

  “There’s a stand of trees separating this property from the next,” Gabe said, showing Trevor the aerial map. “We can start there.”

  They changed into the camouflage clothing and loaded up on ammunition, then got into Trevor’s car. He followed Gabe’s directions, parking at the end of a driveway about a quarter of a mile from their target. The two of them slipped into the trees to make their way to the farmhouse. Once they reached the edge of the tree line, they settled in to watch.

  “It’s up to us.” A lead lump settled into Gabe’s gut and remained there.

  Trevor put a hand on his arm. “We’ll get her out.”

  While they waited, Gabe and Trevor mapped out the land, moving from tree to tree until they knew every inch of the property. Forest surrounded the farm on three sides, but the closest sat more than fifty yards from the house.

  The farmhouse itself was two stories, old brown brick with three separate roofs and two ch
imneys. The center roof jutted out from the other two sections. The front door was on one side of it. A sun room had been added to the left side of the house.

  The area around the house was paved with flagstones. The flagstones turned to gravel leading away from the right side of the house, which turned to a paved road when the long gravel drive dead-­ended. There were trees where the gravel driveway turned onto the paved road, but the area surrounding it was grass; no way to get to it unseen, and nowhere to go after they got there. Gabe dismissed it.

  An outbuilding squatted halfway between the main house and the road. It might have been a barn at some point. Maybe storage for farm equipment, since a rusted-­out tractor sat off to the side, attached to some sort of device lined with disks that he thought must have been for ploughing at some point. The entryway seemed to consist of two wooden doors at one end that looked to him like the door on a horse stall. One sat propped open.

  The whole thing looked rickety, with plenty of gaps. Piles of man-­height bricks rested along one side; maybe someone at some point had thought about fixing it up. Even the red roof was missing tiles.

  Even if they were able to make it to the main house, there was no way for them to get to the outbuilding unseen.

  “There,” Gabe said. “That’s where they’ll have her.”

  “Not the house? Why?”

  “Gut check,” he said. “The house rambles around, but the outbuilding is compact. Besides, if it’s for equipment, there might be hooks . . . chains, or . . .” He couldn’t continue.

  Trevor put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “That kind of thinking won’t help now, mate. Let’s stay positive, okay?”

  Gabe nodded, but the lead in his gut grew heavier.

  Five men guarded the grounds; three patrolled randomly, while the other two took up positions where one could watch both the gravel driveway and the front of the house, while the other stood between two trees and watched the back. At least one guard always patrolled the side closest to the tree line, off to the left of the house.