But for landscaping lights in the flower beds, the house is pitch black inside. The only sound is rustling from the palm fronds on the trees that line the street. Cat can smell an approaching tropical storm coming in from the west. The air is still, but carries that smell of rain and impending moisture. There is a feeling of lightning—electricity in the air. Cat can’t describe it, but she has always been able to feel it. A metallic smell and a feeling of heaviness.
In the distance, a flash from lightning in a cumulus cloud.
About ten seconds later, the rolling sound of thunder.
Using hand signals, the SWAT team surrounds the front of the house without so much as a sound, weapons drawn, blending seamlessly into the night. They move effortlessly, no wasted movement. They move as a whole—like ants moving on their prey—each knowing what the others are thinking and doing, before they do it. Working together and moving for a common good. For a common goal.
Here, the goal is justice.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
They do not want to lose the element of surprise, but they do not realize that they have already lost it.
Isabella waits for them.
* * *
“Come on, come on.” Isabella watches Cat and the SWAT team slowly approach from a darkened window. She can just barely see their bodies outlined in the little moon light there is tonight. Isabella has seen their kind before. In the Ukraine. In Eastern Europe. In Russia. Now, in the United States. They are always the same. They want a piece of Isabella. They will pay handsomely for their wants tonight.
Enough playing games.
Tonight, the game will be over.
Isabella’s AK-47 is trained on the SWAT team leader, Michaels. She does not know his name. But his name does not matter to her. Tonight, he will die like all the others.
Suddenly, Thomas Pierce’s Mercedes speeds up the driveway. It comes to a quick stop, tires screeching.
Before the SWAT team can react, Thomas is out of the vehicle and running at a full sprint toward a side gate with a sign on it: “Beware of Dogs.” He ducks behind the gate, leaving it open, as twelve attack-trained Rottweilers rush toward the SWAT team and Cat. The dogs are in full sprint, at top speed, teeth showing, snarling. The dogs are moving lightning quick across the front yard. Cat watches one of the dogs jump on Michaels, taking him down, its teeth finding his flesh. The SWAT guys are firing shots wildly. Cat watches one animal go down. But the rest are still coming at full speed.
One of the dogs spots Cat and decides she is easy prey. This dog easily weighs over 150 pounds. Pure muscle, teeth, aggression and energy. Cat’s 120-pound frame will be no match for this animal.
There is no time. Cat takes a shot and misses.
The animal is moving even faster now.
Coming straight for her.
He wants to kill her.
There is no time.
Think.
Cat turns and scrambles up a concrete courtyard wall, up and over, into a private wrought iron gated area. She lands hard on one ankle, twisting it, still holding her weapon. She feels pain in her left ankle, but there is no time for pain now. The dog tries to force its face in between the black wrought iron gate rails, its mouth snapping open and closed, its teeth glistening in the moonlight. The dog’s hot breath just inches away from Cat’s face.
She backs away from the dog, still crouched on her hands and knees. Toward the front door. She never loses eye contact with the dog.
Behind her, a loud sound. The front door swings open with force, slamming on the inside wall. Cat looks behind her. Isabella stands there, her almond-shaped emerald eyes shining even in this low light. She looks like she’s been crying.
She says only two words. “Get inside.”
Cat does not react for a second.
Isabella shouts louder. “Get inside now.”
Cat does as she is told.
She backs toward the front door, her right hand down at her side. Cat hopes that Isabella will not see her firearm.
It is a stupid thought. She’s already seen it.
“And while you are at it, give me the gun.” Isabella’s right hand is out, waiting for Cat to place her only weapon in this woman’s hand.
Cat refuses.
“Now.”
Cat has no choice. She hands over her gun.
Isabella jams the AK-47’s muzzle hard against Cat’s back for effect as she walks behind her. When they are both inside, Isabella slams the door, looking at Cat. Reaching behind her back, she locks the dead bolt with a click.
“Now it is just you and me.”
Rage is seething through Isabella. That much is clear from the tone in her voice and her precise actions.
Thomas is suddenly there, moving out of the shadows into the light.
He places a finger up to his chin. A questioning look.
“What shall we do with her?” He runs his hand through Cat’s hair, places his palm against her cheek. “She is quite beautiful in a plain American sort of way. Nothing like you, my dear, of course.”
Isabella, never at a loss for words, says nothing.
She simply watches Thomas as he toys with Cat. As a dog plays with a mouse before he kills it.
Thomas begins to circle Cat in the passageway.
He walks slowly, considering her.
From the look on his face, Cat can tell what he is thinking.
What will I do with you?
What will I do with those nice, tight, long American legs of yours?
And what lies between?
The thought of it disgusts Cat. She wants no part of this man and the game he is playing. She wants no part of what he and Isabella share. With no words between them, Cat can see that Isabella’s and Thomas’s sexual energy is rising. Cat is trapped. Isabella and Thomas appear to have no need for words at a time like this. They need only each other and Cat.
Cat has felt like this only once before. When she was trapped on the boat with the Burning Man. When he almost killed her. When he stole Joey’s innocence. She won’t let things go like that again. Not this time.
No, not that way.
Never again.
Cat eyes her gun, wishing she had it back from Isabella. But with the three of them here in a small space, two on one, there is little hope for that. Perhaps there will be a time later better suited for an ambush. Cat is pretty sure she can take Isabella, one-on-one, with no guns. But not both Isabella and Thomas, when they have weapons and she does not—no way. And not here in this small, enclosed space. Too much risk. Too much danger. No upside.
Outside, the dogs are barking. Random shots are being fired. Cat wonders how many of the SWAT members will be maimed by the dogs. She wonders if some of them will be killed.
Isabella’s words bring Cat back to her own reality. “Tape her wrists and put tape over her eyes.”
Cat can hear Thomas Pierce doing something. She cannot see what he is holding in the darkness where he is standing.
What?
From the sound of it, it is two-inch-wide gray electrical tape. With that sound, Cat knows what is coming. She tries to resist Thomas, but he is too quick and too strong. It is obvious he has done this before because he is so fast. In two quick movements, he binds Cat’s wrists securely and he has run tape over her eyes and mouth. There is just enough space to breath.
Cat is now blind.
Darkness.
But Cat can still hear. It feels strange to be blind. But with one sense limited, her other senses go into a heightened mode of awareness.
She needs to pay attention to everything she hears right now.
Everything.
Outside, she can hear SWAT team members screaming. The dogs are on them. A single gunshot. She wonders if another one of the dogs is down. Regardless, she knows that the SWAT team members will be no help to her in here. They have their hands full.
I will have to take care of myself.
She can hear Thomas Pierce behind her
. “Up the stairs.” He is guiding her down the hallway. She is mentally counting each step so she will remember for later. In case she must run with tape around her eyes. An initial bong from a standing grandfather clock to her left makes Cat jump. She counts the chimes. It is eight o’clock at night.
“Up now,” Isabella orders, the gun’s muzzle against Cat’s right shoulder. Cat’s breath catches in her throat as she feels the gun press against her. Then she lets the air out of her lungs.
Breathe.
You must stay calm.
Keep your wits about you.
Keep counting every step.
Distance is important.
Breathe.
Don’t panic.
Just breathe.
Cat feels her feet at the edge of a staircase. She ascends the steps, one by one, slowly, counting once more in her mind.
Remember the number of steps.
She is unsure if her next step forward and up will bring another step, a landing, flooring or something else.
“Good girl,” Isabella goads her from behind with the barrel of the AK. She shoves it hard into Cat’s shoulder.
If my wrists weren’t bound, I’d take you out.
“Good girl, keep going.” Isabella seems to enjoy the gun’s barrel right up against Cat’s skin, causing pain. Cat keeps climbing the steps, one by one.
Don’t panic.
Just breathe.
“Now down the hall and I’ll tell you when to turn left.”
Pierce is enjoying this game too, as he watches Isabella poke the AK’s hard steel into Cat’s flesh over and over.
One, two, three…
“Stop pressing that gun into me, you bitch.”
“You are in no position to make demands of me.”
Four, five, six, seven…
“Now turn left,” Isabella barks.
Cat does as she is told.
From the smell of it, I am in a bedroom.
The air smells of perfume.
Yes, Isabella and Pierce’s bedroom.
What do they want with me here?
Then the answer comes to her. Cat feels she is going to be sick. They are going to rape and kill her here. In this room. In their own bedroom. Probably on their own bed. That would be the only reason to bring her here.
Outside, there is a Florida summer storm brewing. The sound of far-off thunder—a low, rumbling sound. Then Cat hears a different sound. It is a voice she has never heard before—a young woman’s voice. The accent is slightly Eastern European, but with a proper English twinge. It seems to come from a corner or somewhere outside. “Bring her to me.”
Breathe.
Don’t panic.
Isabella and Pierce shove Cat toward open French doors. Cat can feel the linen curtains fly against her skin and a damp wind in her hair as she moves forward. Outside, no doubt the storm is fast approaching. Blinded, Cat feels the humid air seeming to rush at her face, as if she is on a roller coaster. Cat says nothing as she inches forward onto a balcony.
Now the voice is not quite to her right, but not quite in front either.
That accent again. The words come more quickly this time. “You think you can come here to hurt us? To hurt me? You are wrong. You can’t. We are indestructible.”
Whoever it is who is talking lets her last words linger in the wind for a while.
Then she rips the silver-gray electrical tape off Cat’s eyes and mouth in one single movement. Cat feels pain so strong it makes her eyes water.
Cat’s vision is hazy for about thirty seconds. Then she regains her composure. Her mouth and eyes are still stinging, but that does not matter. Standing before her, shoulders back, eyes defiant, is Natasha Klenkov.
Natasha steps closer. Directly in front of Cat’s face. Natasha’s face just an inch away from Cat’s. There is something in this young woman’s eyes. Not quite anger, but a seething need to obliterate everything good around her. Cat’s seen this look before. The Burning Man, Eric Dupont had the same insane look in his eyes that night out in Laguna, California. The night Cat saved Joey. David had that look in his eyes, too, before his own fire consumed him in Southern California in a firestorm.
Yes, Cat knows the look.
She does not divert her eyes from this girl, this woman.
You must face her head on.
Natasha Klenkov speaks in a hushed tone. “You think you know all about Black and Knight. You know nothing. You have not even begun to fathom the depth of our work. How many girls we have helped along the way.”
Cat has had enough.
She laughs out loud, right in Natasha Klenkov’s face. A laugh of disgust. “Helped?”
Cat wishes her hands were not bound so she could shove this girl backward. Shove some sense into her.
“Helped? Is making a woman a sex slave helping her?”
“Silence.”
Cat won’t shut up.
“You only help yourself. You’re no different than a pimp pushing whores on the street corner. So don’t give me your bull that you’re some kind of savior for these girls, because I don’t buy it.”
“Insolent bitch.”
Natasha Klenkov slaps Cat broadside across the face. So hard, she leaves a clear red handprint on Cat’s check.
Cat’s cheek stings. Her eyes water even more than before.
That’s it. I’ve had enough.
Cat lurches forward with all her body weight and head butts Natasha Klenkov’s forehead, knocking the girl backward so hard that Natasha’s back is against the balcony’s balustrade. Cat watches as Natasha looks over her shoulder. Cat knows there is at least a twelve-foot drop from the balcony. Cat can hear that a few Rottweilers have returned to the backyard, agitated from the night’s activity. The dogs are growling and howling and barking as they see Natasha above on the balcony. They are hungry for blood. Although Cat can’t see the animals, she can imagine them circling on the lawn below. Waiting. Watching.
With her hands still bound, Cat runs forward as fast as she can and head butts Natasha again. Cat watches as this time, Natasha comes closer to going over the edge backward. But she finds her footing in time. Below, Cat can hear the dogs getting more agitated. With each move from Natasha above, they grow more disturbed and vicious.
By now, Isabella has had enough. “How dare you? This is my daughter.” Cat feels the AK-47’s butt coming down on her again and again from above. Isabella’s first blow is enough to knock her to her knees. Now Cat can only put her taped hands and arms up in self-defense against Isabella’s blows.
Thomas Pierce steps in.
“Enough,” he shouts. “Enough of this.”
His eyes glow in Isabella’s direction. “Bludgeoning her to death doesn’t do us any good, does it?”
Natasha Klenkov regains her composure. Isabella does too.
By now, a strong tropical wind whips through the night air. It catches Natasha’s dark hair, so she looks like Medusa. “You are right, Thomas. Killing her now won’t do us any good. We need her as a negotiating tool. She can buy us a way out of this. The feds will negotiate to save her.”
Cat struggles to stand up. As she finds her footing, she leans forward and spits in Natasha Klenkov’s face. “The United States does not negotiate with terrorists. The FBI does not give a rat’s ass about me. You will get nothing.”
Natasha wipes Cat’s spittle away. “No, you are wrong. They will to save you.”
Natasha stops talking for a few seconds and eyes Cat up and down. “Or does your FBI not value your life?” Natasha says the words in a mockery.
Right now, it does not matter what Cat does. She is now bait for whoever the feds are sending after her. This plan has gone to hell.
What if they kill me?
All Cat can think about is Joey and Nate. It’s weird how family and lovers float through her head at a time like this. When Cat’s instinct for self-preservation should be paramount, all she can think about is her loved ones.
Who will raise Joey i
f I am killed?
Who will take care of him if I am gone?
At this moment, Cat knows she’s got to figure a way out. There’s got to be something she can do.
Outside, a flash of lightning, then a crack of thunder and the dogs.
The dogs.
Cat knows what she must do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Force without wisdom fails of its own weight.
—Horace, Odes
Patience is a virtue. Patience is a virtue.
Cat repeats the phrase over and over in her mind as she crouches in a corner. She remembers her father saying it to her as a little girl. It did not sink in then. But now, Cat’s life depends upon it.
She must wait for the right time. She must watch their movements.
Natasha, Thomas and Isabella have no idea what Cat is thinking. They still believe they have control.
They are mistaken.
Cat watches Pierce pace back and forth, deep in thought. Isabella watches his every move without speaking. Cat wonders if Isabella is really in love with him or just using him. Cat suspects the latter. Natasha appears to love only herself.
Downstairs, Cat hears banging at the front door. Isabella waits with Cat in the bedroom as Thomas and Natasha head down to see who it is.
They return with the assassin, Yosef. Cat recognizes him instantly from his photo on the firm’s website. Though the man seems more emboldened than he did in the photo, as if his physical presence is fueled by the violence in this house and the growing promise of violence in the storm threat outside.
He holds a video camera and begins to set it up facing a blank wall.
Clayton Pierce, released on bail, is right behind him. He nods in Natasha’s direction but does not acknowledge any of the others. From the look on his face, Cat can see what Clayton Pierce is thinking. Natasha is a creature of rare beauty and brains, even more beautiful than her mother, Isabella.
Dying Declaration Page 20