by Andrea Kane
Lauren didn’t answer.
“You were so taken by me that you didn’t even notice when I slipped your cell phone out of your purse.” His teeth gleamed in a face that Lauren couldn’t believe she’d ever thought was handsome. “We didn’t have time to enjoy each other then. We do now.” He reached up and rubbed his knuckles across her breast.
That did it.
Lauren couldn’t help herself. She sat up and slapped him resoundingly across the face. “Take your hands off of me!”
Hot color suffused Marko’s cheeks and the furious glint in his eyes made Lauren cringe. Dear Lord, what had she done?
Abruptly, the door opened, and Lauren felt a wave of gratitude for the intrusion—until she saw who it was.
Bashkim. Oh God, did he plan on joining Marko and raping her? He was carrying something in his hands, and Lauren lifted her head to see what weapon of torture he’d brought to intensify her pain and add to their pleasure.
To her surprise, it was a tray of food—a bowl of Bavarian potato soup, a slab of bread, and a bottle of water.
He stopped halfway across the room, seeing what Marko was doing.
“Mjaft!” he barked, with an adamant shake of his head. He set the tray down on a chair, reached into his pocket, and peeled off a one hundred euro bill, tossing it at Marko. “Merrni këto para dhe për të marrë veten një lavire.”
Still glowering, Marko released Lauren, picked up the one hundred euros, and rose.
“I’m being told to get laid elsewhere,” he told her icily. Lowering his voice, he added, “But we’re far from done, my wild little Lauren.”
Lauren squeezed her eyes shut until Marko’s footsteps had vanished down the hall.
Bashkim picked up the tray and continued toward her.
“Thank you for sending him away,” Lauren said weakly, fully aware of the irony of thanking this man, and equally aware that he couldn’t understand a word she was saying.
“You’re welcome,” he replied in excellent, only slightly accented English. “Marko has the manners of a pig.”
Lauren started. “You speak English.”
He nodded, setting the tray on the nightstand.
“You’re weak. You must eat,” he said. “I know you’re frightened. But soon we’ll get what we want, and this will all be over.”
“What is it you want?” Lauren couldn’t control the tears any longer, and they spilled down her cheeks. “Money? Call my father. Please. He’s very rich. He’ll wire the ransom to you today.”
“It’s being taken care of. I have no doubt that your father will cooperate.” Bashkim gestured at the food. “Enough talk.”
Lauren fell silent, scrambling into a cross-legged position and placing the tray on her lap. The food smelled good. The knot in her stomach eased just knowing that her father was being contacted. He’d wire the money to them in an hour.
She’d be free.
With a resurgence of hope, she tasted the soup. “This is delicious.” She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She uncapped the bottle of water and began to greedily drink. It was the first substantial amount of fluid she’d drunk in four days. She was badly dehydrated and her body was desperate for renewal.
“Slowly,” Bashkim cautioned. “You want to keep it down.”
Lauren nodded, placing the bottle on the tray. He was right. The taste of choloroform was beginning to fade, but her body was protesting the large onslaught of fluid.
She paused for a moment. Then, she took a small bite of bread, chewing slowly and thoroughly before she swallowed.
“Good.” Bashkim nodded. He stood, feet planted apart, waiting patiently while Lauren made her way through the meal.
Fifteen minutes later, she’d eaten most of the bread and half the soup.
“That’s all I can manage,” she said.
“It’s enough.” He set aside the tray. “Next time you’ll come to the kitchen. There’s more food there.”
Lauren wiped the streaks of tears off her face, trying to come to terms with her violent abduction and her now less-than-barbaric treatment. “You’re being very kind. I’m grateful. Because you’re right. I’m scared—terrified. Please call my father as soon as you can. I beg you.” She started crying again.
“I told you, it’s being taken care of.” Bashkim didn’t elaborate. “And don’t worry about Marko. He won’t bother you again.”
He turned to leave.
“Thank you,” Lauren called after him. “Thank you so much.”
She listened to his retreating footsteps, bowing her head in relief. Her father was being contacted. It would be okay. Soon she’d be home.
Suddenly she had the strength to take a shower and resume being human.
* * *
Bashkim paused in the hallway, listening to the sounds of her preparing for her shower.
She was a nice girl. He hoped her father would cooperate. He hoped she wouldn’t have to die.
He didn’t normally feel pity. Normally, he didn’t give a shit if or how he slaughtered the people he killed. But this one reminded him of his youngest sister. He’d make the next few days as easy on her as possible.
If death became necessary, he’d kill her in a kind way.
3
Manhattan, New York
24 February
Saturday, 4:00 a.m. local time
Aidan settled himself in the rear seat of the limo as it pulled away from his apartment building.
He punched in a secure cell phone number that rang in Lyon, France. When the other party answered, he said, “It’s Aidan.”
“I assumed so. Patience. I just sent you the email,” Simone Martin responded in her lilting voice, her speech laced with that particularly sexy French accent. That, among other things, had been what drew Aidan to Simone from the start. Their relationship was a complicated and torrid one—on-again, off-again at the beginning, very much on-again now.
Ironically, it had been Valèrie who’d introduced them when Aidan was, once again, overseas, having been called back to active duty by the Marines for a specified period of time. Valèrie and Simone had studied together at the Paris-Sorbonne University and gone on to remain friends. As for the introduction, it was classic Valèrie. She’d bid a fond adieu to the month-long sexual marathon she and Aidan had shared, and had become immersed in some intensive journalistic assignment that consumed all her time and energy. As a result, she was unbothered by the obvious and electric attraction between Aidan and Simone.
Life worked in strange ways. At the time, Aidan had dismissed the affair with Valèrie as a pleasant diversion. But that had been before he’d known Abby had been the result. Now? He could never regret a liaison that had given him his precious child.
As for him and Simone, it turned out that, at the time, she was working for Thales, a military contractor, giving the two of them the opportunity to work—and to play—together. She’d moved on to McKinsey and Company, and Aidan’s military assignment had ended, at which time he’d headed home to the States and begun working with Heckman Flax. But their fire still burned, even now, when they continued to live countries apart and saw each other so seldom.
“Aidan?” Simone prompted.
“I’m here.” He cleared his throat and checked his iPhone. “I don’t see the email yet.”
“Un minute, chéri. I included a brief summary of the skills I felt were necessary, plus a list of those people best suited to address a European kidnapping with an industrial espionage component. You’ll find dossiers on each individual attached, as well as a few alternate selections in the event that you disagree with my assessment of the mission.”
Aidan felt himself grinning. “When have I ever disagreed with your assessments?”
Simone was what Aidan affectionately referred to as a “people whisperer.” She knew more about human beings than they knew about themselves. Based out of Lyon, France, she spoke five languages flu
ently. In her current “real” job as a managing partner for McKinsey, she was head of recruiting. Her role was to find the best people in the world and convince them to join the firm. As the Zermatt Group’s human capital expert, she applied the same skills in recruiting talent for them.
Aidan relied on Simone to not only find new talent but, when a project presented itself, to scan their talent pool and develop a short list of professionals with the skills and team chemistry to be successful.
She’d never let him down yet.
“Here it is,” he said, opening the email. “Great. I’ll review it all on the plane.”
* * *
Two hours later, Aidan’s flight took off.
First class on United flight 303 to San Francisco was quiet this morning. Probably because it was Saturday and all the business travelers were already home for the weekend.
Aidan sank back, enjoying his morning cup of black coffee. He needed it after the night he’d had. Poor Abby had woken up at two a.m. really sick. Aidan had prevailed upon their pediatrician, explaining his business dilemma. The compassionate man had met them in his office and diagnosed Abby with strep throat. The twenty-four-hour drugstore had filled the doctor’s prescription. Still, Aidan had been in a major bind. He had to take this trip. But Abby’s fever was high and her throat was horribly sore. Not to mention she was probably still contagious. The nanny had left at midnight and was now visiting her daughter in New Hampshire for the weekend. He just didn’t know how he was going to manage.
So he’d called Marc and Maddy to come over quite early. God bless his brother and sister-in-law. They were dressed and ready before Aidan hung up the phone. Madeline was an ER nurse. She’d assured Aidan that she’d take care of Abby. And Marc would love being the entertainment committee.
Abby had woken up from her feverish sleep as soon as she heard her uncle and aunt arrive. And she’d forgotten all about how sick she was. Not only were they here for what she viewed as a two-day playdate, they’d brought gifts: a gallon of cotton candy ice cream, her favorite, and a get-well present of a brand-new princess doll they’d saved to give her. The doll had flowing golden hair, a pink satin gown, and a crown with tiny colored rhinestones on it. Abby collected princess dolls like baseball cards. This was another beauty to add to her prized collection.
So Aidan had blown out of there with an enormous hug from his own little princess and, just as importantly, peace of mind.
“Mr. Devereaux, can I bring you anything?” the flight attendant was asking. “Breakfast will be served in an hour. Would you like something in the interim?”
Aidan glanced at his near-empty cup. “Just some more coffee, please. I need all the caffeine I can get.”
She smiled, having seen more than her share of business travelers. “I’ll get it right away.”
Aidan spent the next few hours reviewing everything Simone had sent him. All spot on—as usual.
He glanced out the window. The morning was new and clear, and he found himself staring down at the beauty of the Rockies. Just seeing them brought back vivid memories of the Swiss Alps, the formation of the Zermatt Group, and the events leading up to the coalition that had taken on a life of its own.
It started five years ago in the small Swiss town of Zermatt. Three amazing professionals from Aidan’s previous life—Terri, Simone, and former MI6 agent Philip Banks—had arrived at the mountain resort at Aidan’s invitation. Over wine and raclette, they came together as a loosely formed group and adopted their meeting location as a nom de guerre: The Zermatt Group.
Aidan had met each of them during his overseas military career in communications and intelligence. They had worked together on different projects, under the auspices of different organizations and governments. Aidan had selected them for the unique talent they brought to the table—leadership, information technology skills, investigative abilities, even the assessment of human personalities and capabilities. But most important was each team member’s strong network of contacts and innate skill at recruiting others to serve as a secondary circle of operatives.
With the same respect that he’d shown in naming Zermatt’s AI system, Aidan had modeled the group after the actions of his own childhood hero, World War II intelligence leader “Wild Bill” Donovan. Donovan’s outgoing personality and business skills afforded him access to key European leaders in both industry and government. His skill in recruiting others to help him, both domestically and internationally, made him the ultimate master spy and the founder of the OSS, the precursor of the modern-day CIA. Aidan had been fascinated with Donovan. It was that fascination that led him to enter military service, become a Marine, and choose a specialty in communications and intelligence that allowed him, like Donovan, to travel the world, working with many talented people on difficult missions.
Over the past decade, Aidan’s international exposure had afforded him a unique view of global geopolitics and business. And it had turned his stomach. The world was taking an alarming direction. With the lines blurring between legal and illegal, moral and immoral, the Zermatt Group would be there to remind the transgressors that they had gone too far.
Utilizing his Marine training and Donovan’s intelligence methods, Aidan had founded the Zermatt Group like a special ops military strike force, with himself, Terri, Simone, and Philip—who served as the group’s lead on-the-ground investigator—as a force multiplier to help the good guys, above or below their radars. They relied upon the respective networks of contacts they’d cultivated over the years.
The Zermatt Group members lived and worked in their local communities. Their jobs and business contacts gave them critical access to people, technology and financial assets. That allowed them to operate in the shadows. Terri made sure of it.
That’s how it started, and that’s how it had stayed.
And now, the Pennington kidnapping and industrial blackmail crisis loomed over them, begging for a swift resolution without sacrificing Lauren’s life in the process.
* * *
Aidan picked up his rental car and drove the fifty minutes from San Francisco to Silicon Valley, and directly to Santa Clara. It might be a Saturday, but it was no surprise that Vance Pennington was at work. Like Aidan’s, Pennington’s job required a seven-days-a-week, twenty-four-hours-a-day commitment.
Pulling around the bend, Aidan drove up the private road that led to NanoUSA. At first glance, he thought he was at a top-secret military base rather than a corporate headquarters. The entire building complex looked as if it were on lockdown.
He was stopped at the main checkpoint, where, as a visitor, he was required to leave his vehicle, plus just about everything else. All his personal belongings, including electronic communication devices, were placed in a steel box and locked away for safekeeping. He had to submit to a body scanner, which could check for any hidden weapons or embedded devices—swallowed, implanted, or otherwise.
The security procedures were similar to those Aidan had experienced at FBI Headquarters, only heightened to the nth degree.
When he’d stepped into the security office, he could see that his cell signal died instantly. So the windowless building was lead-lined, blocking any and all signals from entering or leaving.
These people were definitely serious about keeping their secrets secret.
Aidan was transported in a company vehicle from security to the main building and reception area. Since it was Saturday, a security guard was on duty, instead of a receptionist. Aidan gave him his name, and the security guard called Vance to tell him that his visitor had arrived. The security guard attached a Bluetooth bracelet to Aidan’s wrist and told him to make sure he was always with his escort. The bracelet would keep track of his physical whereabouts at all times, and any attempts to leave authorized areas or to tamper with the device would be immediately detected and dealt with harshly.
A second guard arrived, advising Aidan to accompany him up to Mr. Pennington’s office.
They rode up to the tenth fl
oor and exited, walking past frosted glass walls to the rear corner office that flourished a brass plate with the name Vance Pennington, Vice-President on it.
The guard knocked. “Mr. Pennington? Mr. Devereaux is here to see you.”
“Come in,” came the reply.
The guard pushed the door open and gestured for Aidan to enter. Then he quickly made his retreat, shutting the door behind him.
Glancing around, Aidan crossed over the threshold and onto the thick pile of cream carpeting. The office had classic mahogany furniture, plush leather sofa and chairs, and an expansive, horse-shoe-shaped desk. It was a good thing that the place was so huge and well-appointed, since there wasn’t a single window to look out of or to make you feel connected with the outside world. In short, it was a luxury coffin. Given the number of hours Vance Pennington worked, if this office were anything less than it was, he might succumb to claustrophobia.
Aidan’s gaze quickly scanned the few personal items on Pennington’s desk. Photos of his family. An expensive fountain pen and ink well. And on the wall behind him, a framed US Marine Corps Good Conduct Medal.
Not a surprise. Terri’s intel had told him as much, just as John’s information had informed him that Robert Maxwell hired patriots. But the fact that Pennington had served in Aidan’s own division of the military was a nice bonus. It might be a bonding mechanism that would swing the pendulum in Aidan’s favor.
“Mr. Devereaux.” Vance Pennington rose from behind his desk, reaching across to shake Aidan’s hand. Saturday or not, he was wearing an expensive suit and tie, as if it were a weekday.
Then again, so was Aidan.
“Please.” Vance gestured at one of the buttery-soft leather chairs across from him. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Aidan sank down into the chair. “And I’m not big on the formalities. It’s Aidan.”
“Vance,” Pennington replied. “Can I have someone get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?”
“I’m fine,” Aidan assured him. “Although I am intrigued by the extent NanoUSA has gone to ensure its security. The grounds and the building are a veritable fortress.”
