Clayton loves watching Natasha in her element.
Like this.
She has inherited her mother’s quick and cunning mind, as well as her striking looks. In Natasha, there is a raw and savage cunning. Clayton sees her fulfilling the promise of her gifts tonight. A culmination of events. A culmination of work. The Operation turning over a new leaf. Leaving things behind and yet moving things forward.
Cat listens as Clayton quickly relays the encounter with Nate to the group. About
Nate going through the computer files on his laptop. As Natasha asks question after
question, he leaves off no detail. Natasha now knows she’s made the right decision to
keep Cat as bait for the FBI.
There’s nothing else that can be done.
No other way to leverage the situation.
Yosef nods that the camera is ready.
By now, where Natasha slapped Cat has turned into a swollen bluish bruise. Cat can feel her eye swelling. She wonders if her orbital socket is broken. With each beat of her heart, she can feel the blood pound through the bruise. It hurts. A dull, throbbing, aching pain that intensifies if she moves her jaw.
Natasha grabs Cat’s arm. “Get up.”
Cat scampers up. By now, her body feels like a storm front of aches and stiffness. She has not had any water in three hours. Her lips are dry. Her head is pounding more with every step she takes. She wonders if her jaw is broken.
Breathe.
Remain calm.
Natasha positions Cat in front of the camera, holding her by a clump of hair. The red light on top of the camera tells Cat the camera is recording.
Natasha starts off with melodrama, looking directly into the video camera’s lens. “Do you know who I am? Do you know who this is? Well, the answer is probably no to both questions. But that is going to change. My name is Natasha Klenkov. I am of Ukrainian and American descent. I hold Ukrainian, British and American passports. I was educated in the West—at Oxford University in England.”
She pauses and looks at Cat.
“And who is this, you ask? This is the FBI’s Dr. Catherine Powers. No doubt you know her from her many famous cases. She’s caught many a madman. Yes, she is quite famous. And a valuable asset to the FBI. How valuable is she to me and my comrades? Valuable enough to demand the FBI provide a fully fueled private jet to be waiting for us at Fort Lauderdale Airport in an hour. We do not need a pilot or copilot. My comrade behind the camera is quite an excellent pilot. No one is to be aboard the jet. No FBI. No feds. No Special Forces. No police. No SWAT. No law enforcement of any kind.”
As if on cue, one of the Rottweilers barks. The others below follow suit.
Natasha looks out over the balcony. By now, the rain is coming down in torrents. “Ah yes, my dogs have made mincemeat of your SWAT members today. Their blood and what is left of their bodies are splattered all over the yard.”
Breathe, slow and steady.
Be calm.
Natasha turns her attention back to the camera’s lens. “My comrade will get us where we need to go.”
Don’t panic.
Just breathe.
Slow and steady.
“When we are on the plane, we will provide the location where you can find Dr. Powers. Although I make no guarantees about what condition she will be in.”
With this, Natasha laughs and grabs Cat’s lower face hard, putting pressure on her bruised cheek and eye.
Although Cat wants to scream, she will not give this Ukrainian bitch the pleasure. Cat feels water in her eyes. A single tear down her check in front of the camera.
No.
I am not going to cry at a time like this.
“You see what I have done to her? She is useless American trash. Just like all of you. The plane. One hour. Precisely at 9:18 p.m. eastern time.”
With that, Natasha tells Yosef to stop filming.
Within seconds, the video is making its way across the Internet. Hit after hit until it gets to the attention of the folks at Quantico and in Washington, DC. By then, they have only twenty-four minutes to comply. It is hardly time enough to fuel a plane, much less have it ready to go.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Patience is the companion of wisdom.
—St. Augustine, On Patience
Time seems to move slowly and quickly all at once.
Patience is a virtue.
With the words, an image of her father appears in her mind. She puts it aside. There is too much at stake now for daydreams.
Cat’s stomach clenches because she knows she only has one shot at this. Her fear increases as she thinks of what she must do. But then she puts it out of her mind.
You only have one shot.
Do it.
Cat’s adrenaline is pumping; she can feel it like a bold river flowing through her veins. As Yosef is distracted taking down the tripod and the others are enjoying Natasha’s grand speech, Cat sees her opening and takes it.
Natasha is just three feet or so from the open French doors, her back to the balustrade. Cat can see that the marble floor of the balcony is now slick from the rain. The dogs wait below. Above the sound of the rain, Cat can hear them barking and growling, fed by bloodlust earlier tonight. Now they want more blood and flesh. Their hunger insatiable and unquenchable.
Cat runs forward now at full speed, with as much force as she can muster, straight into Natasha with a head butt. The blow hits Natasha hard—a little on the chin but mostly in her chest square on, knocking Natasha backward against the balcony’s balustrade. Cat watches the look of surprise on Natasha’s face—her eyes wide and her mouth open, with no sound coming out. Cat is giddy to the point of dizziness. She watches as Natasha stumbles backward, trying to find her footing on the rain-slick marble.
This time, Natasha’s boots do not catch on the marble, but give way, their soles slick from God’s tears. Natasha is off-balance, leaning backward. She is half laughing and half crying. Cat watches as Natasha’s face changes in that millisecond, a millisecond in which she realizes things have changed. Her face changes from a look of being in control to a look of realization that something is wrong. Above the sputter of the rain, Cat can hear Natasha’s gasp as she realizes she is going over the edge. She is realizing that if the twelve-foot drop doesn’t kill her, the dogs will.
She screams a word Cat can’t decipher as she falls.
Cat hears a hard thump, and as she is looking over the balustrade, Natasha lands with a grunt of pain. She groans, and then instantly, the dogs are on her. Cat steps back away from the horror. Back into the bedroom. Now all she can hear are the dogs and intermittent screams. Screams like Cat has never heard come from a human being.
Behind her, Cat can feel the rest of them, stunned from what has just happened. Then she can sense them rising, rushing at her, charging at her. Quickly, Cat wheels around.
There is no time.
Just do it.
Cat grabs the tripod stand from Yosef and swings it wildly back and forth in front of her so they can’t get any closer. Yosef is cursing.
Cat catches his head with a wild blow. A strike to the side of his face. The sound of metal meeting bone in his jaw. He grunts in pain and goes down in a heap, his arms up over his head, as if he is awaiting another blow.
Cat’s attention is drawn to Isabella, the next closest to her. Isabella’s stride is fast and quick, coming toward Cat. Cat can see she has the AK almost up to shoulder level. She is getting ready to shoot. She is getting ready to end it.
There is no time.
Just do it.
As Isabella advances, Cat braces her feet and uses all her might to swing the tripod from left to right again. The tripod’s metal meets the metal AK with a clash. There is a crash in Cat’s ears, and the feeling of the blow reverberates up Cat’s arms like an electric shock wave. The AK goes flying out of Isabella’s grip. It skitters across the floor, landing just in front of Cat.
Cat watches as Isabella goes down hard from the force of the bl
ow.
Isabella is spewing profanities and hatred toward Cat.
Before Isabella can say another word, Cat drops the tripod and picks up the loaded AK.
Cat points it in her captors’ direction.
Clayton, ever the negotiator tries to disarm the situation. “Come on,” he says in his charming, ever-so-smooth voice. “We were going to let you go. You heard Isabella. We aren’t going to kill you. We need you alive. Now, give me the gun.”
His words register with Cat, but she does not believe him. How could she? Given the circumstances, the only one she can trust and believe in is herself. She will go down fighting tonight if she must. But she will not die here. Not tonight. Not in this place.
Outside, there is the sound of the rain and the dogs. There is no more screaming from the backyard. No more sounds from Natasha.
Cat wonders if the girl is dead.
The air in the bedroom seems not to move. It is as if the world has stopped. Simply stopped spinning. Seconds pass, masquerading as what feels like minutes.
Thomas chimes in with his own ridiculous comments, always trying to one-up daddy. “Come on, Cat. This is a no-brainer. Just give me the gun.” He is moving closer to Cat with one hand outstretched, as is Isabella, who has a strange, contorted look on her face that Cat cannot describe.
Then she understands.
Think what you would look like if your child had just been mauled by your own dogs.
In a way, Cat feels sorry for Isabella.
But her sorrow lasts only a millisecond.
Cat has no time for compassion. She must take care of herself. The only way down is through the dogs. By now, they are so agitated, they will attack anything. It does not matter that she has a gun. She could turn and try to shoot each animal from the balcony, but that would leave her back exposed to the three human animals in the bedroom with her.
That is not an option.
So Cat starts shooting. It is the only way. The gun is hard to hold with her hands like this, with her wrists taped, but she can do it. She must do it. She must risk it. There is no other choice.
She can feel the backlash from the gun with each bullet. She physically feels it as they leave the chamber—pain in her right forefinger. Pain radiating up her left arm, finding no reprieve there, only intensity with each blast. In the room, the AK blasts sound like cannon fire. Cat watches as the end of the muzzle glows white and yellow and blue with each blast. Deafening. Like the thunder just outside. Like the barking dogs, who are now in a frenzy from the noises above.
Cat is holding her breath. Adrenaline flows thick like honey in her veins. In a way, she cannot believe what she is doing. Gunning down these people. Gunning them down like this. This is not what she trained for. This is not what all those hours of gun training and target shooting at Quantico, Virginia, were meant to add up to. Indiscriminately firing shots out of a high-powered death machine like a crazed killer. My God, I have become what I hunt.
I have become a killer.
A flash of lightning from outside brings Cat back to her senses.
No, I’m not like them.
I have no choice.
They have given me no choice.
In that sweet moment of sanity, Cat continues shooting. Her mind is clear. She will not die here.
Bullets ricochet and spew all over the room.
They catch furniture, the camera and flesh.
Cat watches Isabella take one in her gut—watches Isabella go down. Cat watches as the bullet finds her flesh, watches her mouth open round and wide. Isabella is giddy—trying to find her footing, blood coming from her stomach, as her right hand grips at the gaping wound. Blood glistens wet and oily-looking on her hand. She looks at her stomach, then at Cat. There is something so filled with hatred there—Cat cannot describe it. It is beyond hatred. It is more like loathing. Like Isabella damns the very second that Cat was born on this earth. Like Isabella damns Cat’s soul for all eternity.
Cat has seen the look before—but never this intense. This was pure hatred from one mother to another. In Isabella’s eyes, Cat can tell what she is thinking.
If I had the strength, I would murder you with my own two hands.
Cat glares back at Isabella.
You can’t kill me.
You were never that strong.
All of this is exchanged in just a single look between the two women. No words are needed.
Cat’s focus widens. She sees that Clayton is behind Isabella. He is lifting her up off the floor, holding her in front of him, using her as a human shield. Isabella is trying to say something over the sound of the rain outside. Cat cannot make it out.
Cat keeps the AK up.
Clayton is moving forward toward Catherine, one arm holding Isabella in front of him, the other stretched out. She knows if he gets his big hands around her throat, he will either strangle her or send her flying over the balcony’s rail.
Cat brings the gun up, pointing it at Isabella and Clayton. Her finger is on the trigger, but nothing is happening. There is a clicking sound. No more bullets. The AK is out of ammunition.
Cat steps forward. She flips the AK in the air so that the handle is now where the muzzle was and catches it in one quick, seamless motion. Cat holds the burning-hot muzzle in her hands, clenching just as tight and as sure as she can.
You made me do this.
I have no choice.
It must be this way.
In one quick, unwavering movement, Cat wields the gun as high as she can over her head and right shoulder. She comes down and across in one powerful blow with all the strength she can find in her muscles, her footing sure, her aim just where it needs to be. Down and to her left with all the force she can muster over Clayton. She listens to a crack as metal meets bone in Clayton’ skull. She feels the impact of the blow reverberate through her sore muscles. She watches Clayton go down hard and land with a thud on the floor. Isabella is down too. She is still bleeding out. Her eyes are wide.
Clayton is finding his own torment. He rolls sideways on the heavily tufted navy blue Persian rug away from Cat, making sounds that are not words. His hands are up around his head, as if he is expecting another blow. As he rolls over, Cat can see that blood pours from his mouth and nose, finding a marriage with the rug’s silken fibers. His eyes are closed. He is trying to say something that Cat cannot make out.
Will he stay down?
Have I killed him?
Cat’s attention is drawn away from Clayton toward Thomas, who is in front of Isabella now. Like Clayton, he has bloodlust in his eyes. It is directed toward Cat. He will kill her given the opportunity. Cat’s muscles are aching now. She can hardly find any air in her lungs. She is weakening. Her footing not as sure as before. Her knees hurt in a strange way from the tension running like a live wire through her body. She does not have time for weakness now. This is not the time to surrender to her pain.
I must do this.
You have given me no choice.
Holding the AK, its handle cracked from blunt force, Cat raises it again as high as she can over her head, this time taking aim at Thomas. Again, the gun’s handle and metal meet flesh and then there is the sound of metal biting into bone. But this time, it is not a skull. Just Thomas’ right shoulder. He takes the blow as if it is nothing. He hardly winces and does not make a sound. He does not back up.
He is still coming at Cat; his stride is slow. He is crouched now, like a linebacker, lowering his head and leading with his good shoulder—the left one.
Irrational anger in his eyes.
Thomas takes a coldcock punch at her, lunging forward from the effort. Cat ducks quickly. The phantom punch passes through the air above her head.
Thomas is off-balance from the phantom punch. He is trying to find his footing, but Cat can see he is having a hard time finding his purchase.
On the wet ground to Cat’s left is Yosef’s tripod. She had forgotten about it. It is bent slightly in places, but it will still make a goo
d weapon. And with the AK out of bullets, Cat has no choice but to revert to her original weapon.
Still crouching, quickly Cat drops down to her knees.
You made me do this.
Cat reaches out and picks up the tripod, taking aim at Thomas’ knees, which are just a few feet in front of her face. Once again, up and around with all her might. There is a crash and a clapping sound as the tripod finds bone. Thomas screams, going down right in front of Clayton, cursing. Cat raises the tripod once more and brings it down with all her force into Thomas’ face. His ranting stops.
A found blow.
A final vengeance.
A final retribution.
For Cat.
For Anna.
For Roxie.
For Judge Gonzalez.
And for all the women used up by the Operation.
In Cat’s ears, there is only the sound of unrelenting rain and the dogs below. Outside, there is a white-blue lightning flash and two seconds later the roaring percussion of thunder. The rolling sound of it seems to run through Cat’s body and soul. A second later, the lights flicker three times and then go out. Cat is plunged into darkness. No one around her moves.
She props herself up against a wall and feels the true soreness and pain in her body for the first time. The adrenaline rush is over, and she feels tired. So very tired. She puts her head in her hands and sobs quietly to herself as she waits in the darkness for someone to find her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
There is no wind that always blows a storm.
—Euripides, Alcestis
Nate looms up and over her. She can hear the tonality of his voice but can’t make out his words at first. They sound like one syllable has toppled on top of another one, leaving no space in between.
At first, when she opens her eyes, they hurt. In fact, her entire face hurts. For that matter, her whole body hurts and aches. She feels like her shoulders have been met full force by a sledgehammer. Her wrists are stinging. The ache soaks into her bones like a cold, drenching rain on a winter’s night.
Dying Declaration Page 21