The journey wasn’t long. Several meters along the length of the building, into the shadows, far enough away from the restaurant patio that she wasn’t visible beyond the lights but still close enough that she could see the back of Neeva’s head.
A group of two men and a woman walked in Munroe’s direction, and Munroe called out to them, offered a hundred euros if they’d take the envelope and drop it into the nearest mailbox for her.
Their expressions were a mix of suspicion and curiosity, but money, the world’s most common language, was one they spoke well, and so they took the envelope and the cash and continued along their way until their laughter and playful banter faded with them.
In the shadows, Munroe waited, her back to the wall, time continuing its slow march forward while her glance roved from Neeva to what she could see of the sidewalk and the pedestrians who filled the night.
In place of the Jericho, she held the taser. Double-checked the safety, reconfirmed the battery power. The moments passed, and eventually Neeva was forced to order a meal to retain her seat, but still no Lumani.
He’d seen the blood. He’d seen the limp. He was running on nervous fumes and exhaustion the same way she was, and he wanted the package. He had to show. And even if he took Neeva down from afar, he’d still have to come in close for the pickup. Even if he’d driven by once—twice—to confirm Neeva was truly alone, Munroe should have caught sight of him by now.
Consumed by the silence, by Lumani’s absence, by exhaustion, and entirely focused on trying to spot him on the street and in the crowds, she nearly missed the cues of approach from behind. Didn’t hear him, didn’t see him slinking through the shadows from the opposite direction until almost too late.
She turned. Caught a glimpse of him. Of the handgun.
Exhaustion became energy. Weakness became strength.
He was still in the range between far enough to miss and close enough to hit.
He stopped suddenly when she turned. Drew, and so did she; he fired and the slug hit her square in the chest. The force threw her backward onto the ground, and when he approached to fire again, she aimed the laser sight at his neck.
Pulled.
Threads of voltage sent him into spasms.
Hurting, trying to breathe, Munroe forced herself up from the ground and closed the distance. Kicked the gun out of reach; it was another HK USP .45 Tactical, same as what Tamás and Arben had used. Let go of the taser and put the Jericho to Lumani’s forehead.
With a boot on his chest, she used her free hand to search for the syringe he surely carried. Found it. Jabbed it into his thigh. Waited with the gun to his head until his eyes shut and his jaw went slack. Punched him just to be sure. The sedative would have been measured to heavily dose Neeva and her nearly half-weight to his, but at this point, what the fuck ever.
A group of pedestrians on the other side of the street had watched the entire scene. Munroe waved them on. “It’s official business,” she said, and whether they believed her or not, they moved on. Human nature was always more inclined to apathy, to avoiding involvement, to seeing things as someone else’s problem. People were easy like that.
Munroe called to Neeva, though it took several attempts, each louder than the last, to capture the girl’s attention. Neeva, as Munroe had been, was so entirely focused on pretending to eat and act naturally while studying pedestrians that she’d filtered out the noise from behind. When the girl finally heard the call, she put money on the table and brought the bags, then, spotting Lumani on the ground, smiled. Had no idea that because of Munroe’s slipup they’d both come perilously close to disaster.
Munroe blinked back the exhaustion. God, she needed sleep.
Soon. Almost. Another hour at the most and she could collapse.
Munroe gave Neeva a strained smile. “Good job,” she said, and dialed the taxi driver. When he answered, she called him around for pickup.
That Neeva was still awake was a bonus Munroe hadn’t counted on, and so together, with one of Lumani’s arms draped over Munroe’s shoulders and Neeva propping him up more with her head than shoulders, they walked him to the curb. To the occasional passersby who stopped to gawk, Munroe said, “Too much wine,” which inevitably elicited snickers.
Inside the cab, Munroe handed the driver half the cash she’d offered and said, “The rest when we reach the hotel.” Switching to English, she said to Neeva, “We need to get him naked.”
BY THE TIME they arrived at the hotel, through something of a maneuver in the small backseat, they’d stripped Lumani down and then Munroe, having confirmed the pants and shirt were free of trackers, put them back on. The shoes, jacket, belt, and everything else he’d worn and carried on him she’d rolled into a ball, and they’d stopped along the way so that she could dispose of them.
With another portion of cash handed over to the driver, he didn’t question the many requests for turns and false starts. They traveled aimlessly along random streets. Stopped and waited. Moved to parking garages and waited more, and although Munroe expected a tail, she found none. Throughout, the taxi driver paid attention but said nothing but grazie when at last he parked at the curb outside the hotel and Munroe handed him the last of the money. “I have more,” Munroe said. “Wait and I will return.”
To Neeva: “I’ll be right back.”
Taking Lumani into the hotel, unconscious and barely clothed, was one thing, putting him on display and babying him through the check-in procedure another, and so she entered the hotel alone, scoped the lobby and the elevator area to place the cameras and security, and then returning to the front desk, secured the keys.
At the taxi, Munroe and Neeva inched Lumani out, and with his arm draped over her shoulders and his body sagging, Munroe handed the driver another payment. “Don’t return for any of the items we threw away,” she said. “Not even the phone or the watch—there are evil people looking for those pieces, and if you carry even one of them, you’ll invite death to your family.”
The driver gazed at her quizzically and she said, “You have enough money to make up for any value you might get out of going back for them. Please just believe me.”
He nodded.
“I’ll keep your number,” she said. “I may need your help again.” So he smiled and waved before driving off, and she stared after him, hoping he’d follow through—not just for his own sake, but for hers.
Munroe turned from the diminishing taillights toward the bright hotel entrance. With Neeva’s help, she juggled carrying bags and walking Lumani through the front door, a slightly more attention-gathering process than it had been getting him from the back of the restaurant into the taxi.
This hotel, unlike the boutique one that had served her purpose earlier in the evening, was a European version of an American chain, which made it easier to blend in and hide. The twenty-four-hour front desk rotated shifts, and employees and guests passed through the cycle in numbers great enough to make this one odd incident just another curiosity.
From lobby to elevator, past curious hotel personnel and guests, Munroe tossed out the occasional sarcastic comment poking fun at Lumani and eliciting smiles as they continued on, up several floors, down a hall, and finally, into the seclusion of the room.
Munroe shifted furniture, and when she’d cleared the space she needed, she stripped Lumani out of his clothes again and then maneuvered him into the desk chair with its back wedged into a corner. With the roll of tape, she bound him—ankles, knees, wrists, elbows, shoulders, and torso—so that he took on the shape of the chair and could not, through accident or effort, tip it over. The sedative wouldn’t be enough to keep him under for long, but he was as sleep-deprived as she was, and she expected him to be out a while. She didn’t tape his mouth for fear of suffocating him, and because in any case what noise he made would surely alert her before anyone else.
Duct tape. Perfect weapon; so many uses. With her work done, Munroe took a step back and tossed what little was left of the roll onto the desk
.
Munroe sighed. Glanced at Neeva, who’d fallen asleep as soon as Munroe had gotten Lumani in the chair. Sat on the room’s one bed and took off her shoes. Lay back and darkness descended.
TAPPING PULLED MUNROE from the deep. Subtle random thuds that paused and continued on, eager and frenetic, only to pause again. Without moving, without changing the rhythm of her breathing, she opened her eyes just enough to observe and for a minute or two lay still, while Lumani twisted in the chair, straining at the bonds, throwing himself forward and occasionally inching the chair away from the wall.
Neeva slept on.
Munroe opened her eyes fully, waited until Lumani had finished thrashing. Smiled at the shock on his face and the sudden freeze when his eyes locked onto hers and he realized she’d been watching him.
“What do you want with me?” he said.
Munroe sat. Stretched. The clock on the desk told her six hours had passed since she’d dropped into oblivion, and the darkness on the other side of the curtains, that dawn had not yet arrived.
She stood. Pulled the last bottle of water from the grocery bag. Opened it and, standing in front of him, staring at him, took a long, drawn-out swig.
She wiped a hand across her mouth.
Placed the bottle on a side table, close enough that had he not been secured to the chair, he could have reached out and taken it.
Pulled the taser from the bag and rewound the electrode wires she’d had no time to deal with when hustling him from the street into the taxi. With the probes back in place, she set the taser on the desk within his line of sight.
He studied her intently now.
She fished through the satchel for another gas cartridge, shook it for him to observe, and then slowly, deliberately, each movement exaggerated for staged effect, swapped old cartridge for new. Facing him, she sat on the edge of the bed with a box of ammunition and reloaded bullets into the two spare magazines she’d not yet had time to refill.
Swapped out the half-empty one for a full one.
Reloaded the third as well.
“Where’s your rifle?” she said.
“In my car.”
“Where’s your car?”
“It was not far from the restaurant where I was supposed to pick up the girl.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “You are definitely the wounded party here.” Loaded the last magazine. “You didn’t have keys in your pockets.”
“I had a driver.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Another one?”
He shrugged.
Munroe stood. Picked up the taser. Casual and nonchalant, she aimed the laser toward his chest and fired.
For the second time between sunset and sunrise, the electrodes worked their magic. Lumani flailed and twitched, this time naked and bound, and what should have been satisfying in some small way left Munroe hollow.
When the current had ended, she leaned over and removed the probes. When Lumani had caught his breath, she stared down at his thighs and pointed the taser at his groin. “Next one goes there,” she said.
“What do you want from me?” he said. When she didn’t answer, he tugged at the bonds, manic and frantic. The chair rocked and the back legs tipped off the ground, and when finally he’d spent his energy, he said, “Why didn’t you kill me?”
“I might still,” she said. “But right now you’re worth more to me alive. I can’t decide whether the value is in trying to trade you for the girl in the United States or use you for information.”
“Can I have clothes?” he said. “This is inhumane.”
Munroe stepped closer. Knelt so she was eye-to-eye and tapped the taser against her thigh. “When I douse you with cold water so you can’t breathe, when I shove wide objects up your ass, when I beat you while you’re bound and helpless or stand by and laugh while someone else does, when I pull out your teeth and slaughter your family members, then we can talk about inhumane.”
Lumani fought the bonds and the chair again. Twisted. Shook. Grimaced and snarled, and finally out of breath, he glared at her. “I don’t do those things,” he said.
Munroe stood and moved several paces back. Behind her, the covers on the bed rustled, and without turning she knew Neeva had woken, had sat up and was watching. “You do those things,” Munroe said. “You do them every time you bring another girl through your uncle’s doors.” She paused. “Who killed Noah? Was it you?”
He said, “Noah?”
“The Moroccan. The punishment when Neeva ran.”
“Not me,” Lumani said. “My counterpart.”
“How did you find him—the Moroccan?”
“The same way we found you,” he said.
“The woman in prison?”
Lumani nodded, and his confirmation felt like a savage knife slice followed by an injection of painkillers. She drew a long breath past the pain for the morphine: For what it was worth, Logan hadn’t been tortured for the information, yet even sequestered in prison and cut off from the world, Breeden had found a way to dig and probe and follow Munroe’s movements; with nothing but time, endless time, what else did a person have but reason and motive to plot revenge?
Munroe cursed her own weakness, the failure to anticipate, the failure to watch her back. If anyone was to blame in this scenario, it was she. She should have known better.
She turned back to Lumani. “Was Noah dead from the beginning?” she said. “Before this even started, killed ahead of time just so you could have that image available in case you needed some sick card to play to control me?”
Lumani raised his eyes to hers. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s possible, but I truly don’t know. That is a question for someone else to answer.”
“How many counterparts do you have?” she said.
“There are three of us,” he said. “But I am the …” His voice caught, and his sentence failed.
“The best?” Munroe said, finishing it for him. “You should be proud.” She turned to Neeva. “You want revenge? Want to know what it feels like? You can’t kill him, but if you think it’ll do you any good, have at him.”
Neeva scooted off the bed and Munroe dug through the satchel, pulled out the pocketknife. Flicked the blade open, all four inches of it, and even as small as the knife was, the weight of the metal in her palm became soothing, calming: a familiar lullaby of death that put the world at ease.
Neeva said, “Use this?”
Munroe said, “Yes.”
“What about the taser?” Neeva said. “Or maybe the gun. I could shoot him in the leg.”
“No,” Munroe said. “If you want to know what it really feels like, then you do it personal and close. Anything else is cheap and easy.”
Neeva took the knife. Gingerly. The way someone unfamiliar with handling a gun might take such a weapon: two-fingered from the base, like it might morph into a snake, might coil and bite. And then, with a toss of her head and her posture straight, Neeva grasped the handle firmly, strode around the bed to Lumani, and stood in front of him for a long while, looking from the knife to him and back to the knife again, as if analyzing what she truly felt and determining what course she would steer.
Lumani’s jaw clenched and his gaze hardened, as if he braced for a pain he was too proud to plead against.
“You’re the guy who kidnapped me, aren’t you?” Neeva said.
Lumani held stoic and didn’t reply.
“I could cut you,” Neeva said. “I’m not scared, and it wouldn’t bother me to see you suffer. But I want to talk to you. So, you choose. Cut or talk?”
“I was one of them,” Lumani said.
“And this is what you do for a living? Kidnap girls?”
His head jerked up defensively. “It’s not a living,” he said. “It’s a requirement, and I never touch the girls.”
“Oh, so that makes you better than the rest of them?” Neeva returned to staring at the knife. Pointed the blade down toward Lumani’s thigh. There her hand hovered with the point of metal ba
rely touching him, and she said, “Who dies?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Who dies if you don’t follow through on your requirement?”
He lowered his eyes.
“You’re an asshole,” Neeva said. “You turn innocent girls into human cattle and you still find a way to feel sorry for yourself. You should feel guilty, not make excuses for why it’s not your fault.”
Neeva’s hand gripped the knife handle harder, tighter, until her knuckles whitened. And then she jabbed the blade down into Lumani’s thigh and jerked: a three-quarter-inch penetration, easy. Maybe an inch. To the side of his leg, missing bone, striking soft tissue.
Had to hurt.
Lumani screamed and Neeva pulled the knife out. Stood staring at the blood on the blade while the wound began to weep. Munroe stepped forward and slowly, almost tenderly, took the knife from Neeva’s hand. “Do you feel better?” she said.
“A little.”
Lumani swore and rocked the chair, teeth gritted, hands clenched tightly around the ends of the arm handles.
“Do you want more?” Munroe said.
“Telling him he’s an asshole felt better than cutting him.”
Munroe handed her back the knife. “Go get a washcloth and bring it to me. Then wash off the knife,” she said. “Make sure you do a good job—those are your fingerprints and his blood, and we’re in Italy, not the United States.”
Neeva took the handle between forefinger and thumb and left for the bathroom, returned briefly with the cloth and left again.
Munroe picked up the tape from the desk. Put the towel over Lumani’s wound and used the last of the roll to hold it in place. Knelt so she was eye-to-eye with him once more. “I’d like the names of your counterparts,” she said. “And I’d like you to explain everything you know about the way your uncle operates, both here and in the United States. I want to know about the clients and I want to know the structure of the organization.”
Lumani, breathing shallow, broke off eye contact and stared at the floor.
Munroe stood and returned to the bed. Sat on it and studied him, while from the bathroom the sound of water flowing continued.
The Doll Page 30
