Still, if he was ambushed by an itch, there was no way in hell it was getting scratched.
The air was cool and smelled like the ocean and freshly disturbed soil. He had a strong feeling he was inside. Probably in a basement. Which begged the question: Why the briny odor?
Riker had never felt so vulnerable in his life.
Silver lining to the nightmare he had just awakened to—he hadn’t been shot. Where he thought the round had struck his back, there was just a burning sensation. And constant pressure. Like there was some swelling involved. Save for the initial punch, the aftereffects were more akin to a wasp’s sting than a gunshot wound. Lord knows over the last week or so he’d heard all about being shot. From the searing pain to the itch he couldn’t scratch, Benny had made sure to share all the little details with anyone at Trinity House who would listen.
As Riker lay there trying to make sense of what had happened—why the gunfire and no gunshot wound?—he realized he was very thirsty, that his mouth and lips had gone dry as the Sahara. Though his tongue was semi-numb, he could still feel something pressing against it. When he probed the item, he discovered it was round and smooth and was keeping his jaw locked wide open. Which in turn was putting great stress on all of the associated joints and muscles. When he tried to call out, his words were reduced to unintelligible grunts.
Think, think, think.
The only thing he remembered following the sting to his back was the ground rushing toward his head. He remembered absolutely nothing between his head hitting the road and coming to in his present condition.
It suddenly dawned on him that the hit to the back had most likely been a dart shot from an air gun. The time loss and foggy brain were probably due to the combination of the tranquilizer used in the dart and yet more brain damage caused by the ensuing impact. He was no stranger to concussions. Still, thanks to the latent effects of the sedative, he couldn’t tell if his headache was a remnant of prior damage, new trauma, or side effects of whatever drug had been administered by the dart.
Didn’t matter, he reminded himself. For if he kept worrying about the past, no way he was going to survive the day—or night—whichever it may presently be.
One at a time, he tested the anchor points, straining with all his might. No give whatsoever. All he got for his efforts was the knowledge that the drugs were still sapping his strength. Best to conserve what little he had. So instead of worrying about things he couldn’t change, he began to plan his escape.
***
Riker had no way of judging the passage of time. He didn’t know if he’d been awake for ten minutes or an hour and was chewing on whether or not he was going to speak to his captor when he heard the snik of a lock being thrown. Next, the squeal of hinges in dire need of lubrication sounded somewhere above and behind his head. Somewhere in the distance, an engine was purring softly.
Generator?
Hollow footfalls came next. As Riker lay still, playing dead, they grew louder and drew nearer. When the footfalls ceased, a light scuffing noise commenced. The new sounds lasted a couple of seconds and ended with Riker sensing that someone was danger close to him. In his personal bubble. The sensation of air being displaced near his head made him think that the someone was standing over him. Probably examining him as if he were a specimen in a petri dish.
The sound of a person breathing confirmed Riker’s hunch. It was coming from his left. A couple of feet above his head. It was also a bit ragged. Was he or she a smoker? Could descending the stairs be to blame?
Control what you can. It was advice given to him by an anger management counselor. The same counselor who had told him humor was a good way to combat a flare-up. To nip it in the bud. An off-ramp from the next level: violence.
Humor had no place here. So Riker resorted to the former advice. He had counted the hollow-sounding footfalls: twelve. The shuffling sounds afterward had accounted for probably half as many.
He added this new information to what little he had already compiled and went over it in his head. He was pretty certain he had ended up in someone’s basement dungeon. He was naked and completely immobilized. Which meant that the twelve stairs to freedom just a few feet from the crown of his head might as well be a mile away.
For now.
Resigned to the fact he was going nowhere if he couldn’t get free of his bonds, he thought through his options. He came up with only one: reason with his captors. Build a rapport with them and hope something good came of it.
A tall order, indeed.
The raspy breathing ceased for a few seconds, then the person spoke. “Just you and me, Lee Riker.” The male voice was even and measured. “I’ve missed having my very own captive audience of one. I bet you’re a good listener. Am I right?” He paused for a few seconds. “I sure hope so. Because you need to hear a few things before I let you say your piece. And your story better be good. If it is, if I believe you had no choice but to do what you did, I’ll grant you a quick death. But if your story is unconvincing, I’m prepared to go the long haul. It’s not my first rodeo, Lee. While this little space of mine doesn’t have all the accoutrements of the black sites I’m used to, it’ll do. I have spent a lot of time and put some effort into getting this place ready for this glorious day.”
As soon as the man had said “Just you and me,” Riker knew his captor was the man he’d duped into letting him reposition the vehicles on Shorty’s ferry, Miss Abigail. The same man he had ultimately left stranded on shore during the first frantic seconds of a zombie attack. In his mind’s eye, Riker saw Tobias Harlan’s jaw drop as the man realized that not only had he just lost his spot on the ferry, but that he also had to deal with the Bolts streaking down the dock toward him. As acceptance washed over the older man’s narrow face, the nephew, Jessie, was bringing a rifle to bear on the departing ferry.
Riker had been waiting for the storm of bullets when he heard Tobias order the nephew to check his fire and engage the Bolts.
As the ferry finished its slow turn and reversed course, motoring away into the inky black, the last impression Riker had of the unfolding scene was Tobias and the kid breaking contact and sprinting for their pickup. That snapshot in time, of the pair heading for safety, had helped Riker deal with the awful feelings associated with the decision he was going to have to live with until he drew his final breath, which, given his present situation, and Tobias’s demeanor, was rapidly approaching.
It suddenly dawned on Riker, after having just revisited his unconscionable misdeed, that Tobias was no over-the-hill new-age hippy as his dress and demeanor had suggested. Everything Tobias had done on the dock that night had been tactically sound. There was no hint of panic. He had prioritized the threat, saving retribution for later. And later had arrived.
Where’s the wife now? Riker wondered. The nephew? Is it really just you and me alone in your dungeon?
The answers to Riker’s unasked questions came in an oration that was more flood-of-thought than a one-sided conversation.
Tobias began by saying, “I bet you want to know how we found you?”
Riker wanted to nod but stifled the urge. Pretend you’re on the couch, Toby. Go ahead, you can tell me everything.
“That Shelby of yours is a rare model. Dealer plates were New Jersey. The Jersey Motor Vehicle Commission only tagged three in the last year. One blue Shelby Baja in the last month. Your name was on the temporary tag. Not too many Lelands on the books. Bank records led to some escrow records. From those came the address to your place on the hill.” He paused. Riker felt eyes on him.
Satisfaction evident in his tone, Tobias added, “It pays to have friends in high places. It’s a shame your sister got dragged into this. Under the influence of my very own drug cocktail, she told me that you kept her and the retard in the dark prior to your dishonorable deed. If you hadn’t have done that, I would feel a bit better at having used her as bait.”
We, thought Riker. Where’s this other person?
“Why the ven
detta if I’m still above ground? Because, Lee Riker”—Tobias’s voice suddenly rose a couple of octaves—“my wife died as a result of us getting trapped in the surge to escape the marina. Some teens tried to carjack her at gunpoint. Me and the boy arrived back at the truck just as the punks were breaking her window. They all died as a result of their poor judgment. Two got the Mozambique treatment courtesy of Tobias Harlan. Two to the chest, one to the head. A runner got the kid who had broken out our window. It took a chunk of the kid’s ear, then went for Maria’s arm.” He paused again. Then, in a funereal voice, he said, “She lasted six hours. I thought the turn would be peaceful. I was so wrong. I could see her fighting it. She lost the battle.” He exhaled sharply, then grunted. “You got two birds with one stone. Watching her changed the kid. He’s taken to chopping off their arms. Making pets of them, then blowing the hell out of them after a short while. His behavior is becoming riskier by the day. I’m afraid he has a bit of a death wish. Only thing I can think of to explain his recent actions.”
Explains the clown zombie with the sign around its neck, Riker thought. You’d have to get danger close to dress it up, let alone hang a sign on the thing. A noise he immediately attributed to water sloshing in a large vessel grabbed his attention. Though he had been hanging on Tobias’s every word, he had remained still throughout. Did his best to keep his respiration even. To stay calm in the face of danger and, as he feared he was about to find out, in the presence of crazy.
Calm lasted about five seconds. All the way up until the point when a wet cloth was put over his nose and the first drops of cold saltwater hit his face. By the time the third second had ticked into the past, he thought for certain he was drowning. After five drawn-out seconds, each seeming to last longer than the previous, he was thrashing his head side-to-side and arching his body as far off the table as possible.
Riker’s stump took a beating from hammering repeatedly against the hard surface. In a way, he thought, it would have been better to have been put into four-point restraints, not just the three.
He had no idea how long the waterboarding session had gone on. Once, just before he passed out, Tobias had said, “Impressive, Lee. You’re going … be … tough nut … crack.” Due to the continuous splashing noises from the slow torrent hitting the wet cloth, Riker missed hearing some of the words. But he got the gist—he was persevering, and Tobias Harlan wasn’t happy about it.
Crazy arrived the moment Riker came to. He was still strapped to the table, the surface of which was now tilted ninety degrees to the right. Water ran across his face, left to right, ear to ear, then fell to the floor, pattering softly somewhere below his right cheek.
Did the table convert into a rotisserie? As he thought it, he imagined the thing in his mouth was a shiny red apple and he the hog on the spit. Not too far from the truth, he would soon learn.
Tobias was hollering crazily at the top of his voice as he waved smelling salts under Riker’s flaring nostrils. Compared to having a steady stream of saltwater forced into his nose and mouth, this was nothing. So he went back to the comatose act.
“Don’t die on me, motherfucker,” Tobias bellowed. Riker felt the sting of a hard slap to his left cheek. Then, voice strangely calm, Tobias went on, saying: “You can’t die on me. I won’t allow it. I’m not done with you yet. You left us on the precipice back at Shorty’s dock. Stole safety right out from under our noses.”
Just as an intense spasm corded the muscles in Riker’s neck, the table was spinning counterclockwise. As Riker was returned to his original face-up position, he heaved and warm salty water purged from his lungs and sluiced around the thing in his mouth.
The respite Riker was hoping for didn’t arrive. Before he could draw a breath, the cloth was back and so was the water. Riker didn’t count the seconds this time. No reason to. Nothing he brought to mind to distract him from what was happening could rise above the fight and flight impulses emanating from the reptilian part of his brain.
It went on and on like this for an indeterminate amount of time.
Finally, after coming to for the seventh or eighth time, this time on his back, with a searing pain in his chest and every nerve ending burning like tiny suns gone supernova, the blindfold was ripped from his face.
As Riker clenched his eyelids to ward off the light bombarding his retinas, he felt someone manipulating the straps holding the gag in place. When the gag came out, so did Riker’s one burning question: “Where the fuck is my sister?”
Chapter 47
The answer to Riker’s question was delivered with a closed fist. He was still seeing the stars and tracers brought about by the tightness of the blindfold when the unexpected blow snapped his head to one side.
“You’ll learn Tara’s fate when your suffering matches mine,” Tobias growled. “Until then, you don’t talk unless I order you to talk. And when that order comes … seeing as how I just saved your life with a shot of adrenaline—the first fucking thing I want to hear from that rotten mouth of yours is a sincere ‘thank you.’” He paused and raked a hand through his lengthening hair. “I’ve only had one man die on me and stay dead. Wasn’t going to let you off that easy.” The ragged breathing was back. The man was enraged, Riker thought. He’d been there more times than he could count. It had all started on Route Irish. He blamed himself for not seeing the IED. Even more so than the animals who had planted it.
Another blow landed on Riker’s cheek. It was delivered openhanded and with much more force than the last.
“Look at me when I talk to you, Lee Riker. At least afford me that respect.”
Riker opened his eyes, then quickly closed them against the glare from the lone trouble light strung overhead. Though the bulb was an LED item and threw a uniform bluish-white light, Tobias still presented as a misshapen silhouette against a cluttered background.
“How’s it feel to die and come back? I’ve had jihadis tell me they saw their seventy-two virgins.” He let loose a wicked laugh. “What did you see?”
Riker said nothing. He hadn’t been ordered to speak. As his eyesight slowly returned to normal, he walked his gaze about the room.
The torture table was installed in an unfinished basement which he could only see about two-thirds of. The exposed floor joists directly above the table were dust-covered and home to cobwebs and shiny husks of dead bugs.
The room beyond Riker’s feet was piled high with plastic bins. The contents of each bin were indicated by words written on lengths of white tape: X-MAS ORNAMENTS; HALLOWEEN DECORATIONS; OLD WINTER CLOTHES; PHOTOS AND DOCUMENTS.
The wall behind a nearby workbench to Riker’s left contained vintage hand tools: files, wrenches, pliers, handsaws, a hammer. His stomach turned when he saw that the work surface was crowded with brand new power tools in all the colors of the rainbow.
On the floor beside the workbench was a pair of welding tanks. Hoses attached to metal welding guns were coiled atop the larger of the two tanks.
On a shelf underneath the workbench was a boxy device used to jump-start dead batteries. No doubt that would come into play sooner or later.
Above the workbench was a tiny rectangular window. It was dark outside. Clearly, the window was way too small for Riker to fit through. He even doubted Tobias could squeeze through if he greased his hips and tried really hard.
An extension cord snaked up the wall and to the outside via a hole punched through one of the windowpanes.
Tobias walked over to the bench. As he started pawing over the assortment of power tools, Riker saw that he was dressed in a camouflage fleece zip-up and desert-tan tactical pants, the cuffs of which were tucked into worn combat boots. He also noted that there wasn’t a single piece of silver and turquoise jewelry to be seen on the man, not even a wedding band—a sharp one-eighty since Riker had first met him on the highway near Shorty’s place.
On the wiry man’s right hip, riding high in a saddle-brown leather holster, was a Colt M1911 pistol. On the other hip, snugged side-by-
side in a leather mag pouch, was a pair of slim, single-stack magazines.
Tobias turned to face the torture table. To Riker, he looked younger, more spry than he had at Shorty’s. In one hand Tobias held a safety-orange cordless drill. Riker noticed his eyes were no longer those of a stoned new-age hippie on holiday. There was a fire in them now. A whole lot of crazy, too. Like a needle on a polygraph machine, those slate-gray orbs were in a constant state of motion.
Riker figured his assessment of the older man fit, for even as he had been spilling the hows and whys, the captor was no doubt gauging reactions to the information. Judging him by his body language and changes in respiration. Trying to mine fact from bullshit, the latter of which Riker hadn’t been shoveling.
Riker had a hunch at this point the interrogation would shift to the verbal variety for a short while. Tobias plugging the drill into the trouble light told him otherwise. As he closed his eyes, every muscle in his body clenched and his heart raced wildly in anticipation of the drill’s telltale whine and eventual bite of its bit, the beautiful squeal of unoiled hinges bought him some precious time.
Chapter 48
“Uncle Tobias, you there?”
Tobias Harlan looked toward the stairs. He said, “Did you complete everything on the list?”
Riker heard heavy footfalls coming down the steps. He was on six when a voice he recognized as belonging to the nephew called down. “Mostly.”
Tobias shook his head and put the drill back on the workbench. “Mostly? I didn’t send you off to build a rocket.”
Jessie said, “I dumped the body”—hearing this, Riker whipped his head around and strained to see up the stairwell. It was gloomy, so a pair of muddy boots was all he saw—“but couldn’t find a roamer. They’re always around when you don’t want them to be. But when you—”
Riker's Apocalypse (Book 3): The Precipice Page 30
