Do Unto Others-ARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "Very juicy, but quiet, so she must strain to hear."

  "I'll consider it. It would have to be after I have a down day or two."

  Chapter 8

  Caron felt dirty the next morning. She knew it was unhealthy, but there it was. She'd treated Dom badly, put on a spectacle, annoyed her guards. In return, she wasn't sure what Elke's response meant, but it was faintly creepy, and Aramis continued to be a stone eunuch.

  Jason and Horace, or Shaman, escorted her down to the garage. It seemed improper to use that nickname, but he apparently enjoyed it.

  Even Ewan seemed distant. She frowned. So much for secrecy. Had he heard rumours or a report of her exploits? He'd known her since birth. A perception as a slut wouldn't go over well, and he'd probably talk to Tad, too.

  She made a point of smiling though.

  "Good morning, Ewan, good to have you driving for me again."

  "Thank you, Caron," he said.

  That wasn't like him. Either he was picking up her mood or had heard something.

  She piled in and decided against her usual quiet travel. She brought up music, dug a boiled egg and some cayenne salt from the bar, and leaned back for comfort. She needed to put the weekend behind her, manage class, and apologize later, though not much later.

  Caron didn't notice Ewan turning off. She was so used to varying routes it was just background. She noticed they were going slower, though, and after several minutes she asked, "Is there a problem?"

  "Not at all, Miss," Ewan said. "We should be arriving momentarily."

  She didn't recognize the area at all, and they'd been around the school from every direction.

  "Arriving where?" she asked.

  At that moment he turned the wheel hard and brought them up into the dark maw of a warehouse of some kind. The overhead door was hydraulic and almost slammed closed behind them, pausing at the last moment to settle and lock into its track. She grabbed for the door. Locked. She punched the override. Nothing.

  "Here," he said, and sighed. "I am very sorry, Miss."

  He released his safeties and was out the door in half a second.

  Four goons . . . real goons, not bodyguards . . . trotted up to the door and stood in an arc around it. Their faces were hidden by masks and they carried submachine guns.

  "Let's have no trouble," one said, and clicked the door open.

  Feeling chilled and burning in a simultaneous flush, prickles all over, she carefully stepped out, one foot at a time, eyes darting back and forth.

  They didn't touch her, only gestured with guns. She walked in the direction indicated.

  It's not assassination, she told herself. You're worth too much alive and unhurt. They could kill you anywhere, no need to sneak around, no need for four . . .

  It wasn't reassuring. Her world had just been smashed. Ewan had been with the family longer than she'd been alive. His father had been with them. His grandfather.

  And now he was helping some criminal element.

  She kept her eyes straight ahead and made as if to ignore their presence. She even adjusted her posture for the look-down-the-nose effect for the lower classes. She took a slow, measured breath and tried to calm the trembling, vibrating anxiety and fear. She was a Prescot, and Prescots were neither impressed nor intimidated by rabble.

  She raised her left arm gracefully and pressed her neck pendant panic button. It was only the third time she'd ever done so, and the other two had been for training. She doubted the signal would get anywhere; only complete idiots wouldn't have it damped and jammed. Still, if there was a chance, or a power fluctuation, or a gap, the signal might get out.

  She tried to keep track of movement. Ewan had driven south and turned east. She was now facing south again. The warehouse was stripped and empty, lit and had few features, but there were eight other bays with trucks backed in. She gulped.

  Sure enough, a few moments later they chivvied her left, east, and into the empty back of a truck. As she turned and watched, one man rolled the door down while the others stood with their guns ready. The door rattled and latched and everything went dark. She could smell stale food and mild decay from previous cargo and spills. Then she heard other truck doors running down. Possibly seven or more decoys, dammit.

  The powerplant was electric. Caron shifted back against the forward bulkhead and squatted down for balance. The truck pulled out smoothly, up a ramp and then south. South. That was definitely away from the school at this point. West. South. Soft east.

  Shortly she was on the M5, she figured. She made note of the time. A moment's fumbling let her find a pen. She shot her sleeve, yanked it up and wrote backwards from the inside of her elbow up, retracing the route as best she could.

  Then a wave of anger swept over her. She should have been banging on the side for attention, dammit. Yes, tracking her route was good, but getting out was better. Though realistically, the odds of anyone hearing anything and reporting it were slim. Still, she would when they stopped again. If they stopped.

  "Say again?" Jason almost shouted.

  Helas said, "Disappeared. Transponder off. I zapped a request for traffic cameras. They were connected in thirty seconds. Nothing."

  "I fucking said we needed our people. Alex said it. Don't hire us and then . . . arggggghh!"

  An adrenaline panic slammed him. He took a huge draft of air, slowly exhaled, and punched for Alex as he did so. Today was about to get exciting.

  Caron was sure they were back on streets, but not sure where. With no way to gauge speed, they were somewhere a few kilometers away, and not north. Still, that was a defined area. She'd work this as surveying problem.

  She had some weapons and tools, but it seemed probable that any use would just get her stripped naked and abused. Whomever had her was using teams of people, not just singles. She despaired of fighting a group, even with things like the flash bang.

  The lorry slowed, stopped and then the door rattled up.

  "Out," a man said. She recognized him as one of the group from earlier. That meant two vehicles had come this way. Another item.

  A door on the wall ahead stood open, and she assumed that was their destination.

  It was. Or rather, it was hers. They reached the door in formation, and in a moment, one goon slipped her purse free and another yanked at her backpack. A pair of hands from a third shoved her firmly inside, and the door was closed.

  She flushed in fear and anger again, and turned to the door. It was hinged on the outside. She wasn't going to try the knob yet, but she knew it would be locked when she did. From outside came the sound of bars being slammed into place in the concrete floor. She glanced down and saw a covered slot large enough for a tray of food but no more.

  Concentrating on the cell kept her mind busy. She took a good look.

  It was a locker room, or it had been. L-shaped. There were four nice toilet stalls and four sinks, with plenty of hand towels and warm air dryers. The floor was tiled, and had periodic drains set into it. There was a bank of modern lockers with settable biometric locks, and four shower stalls. The plain benches had a cot set up between them with a pillow and coverlet.

  So, it seemed there were plans for food and water, she had toilet facilities and showers, and bedding.

  That meant they planned to keep her alive for now. Good.

  She glanced up, then made it look like a gesture of frustration, while taking a surreptitious peek at the ceiling. Dropped acoustic tiles. Was it possible there was an opening above? It seemed unlikely they'd miss something like that, but they might count on her not noticing.

  Another slow walkthrough didn't reveal any obvious cameras or monitors, though it was quite possible they had miniaturized ones. There was no reason not to play bored, so she opened every locker slowly in turn, scanned them, read the graffiti, and looked for signs of cameras.

  Nothing. The place was bare.

  Alex tried hard not to steam. His professional advice had been ignored, and now his principal was missing, along
with her untrained retainer. He might have attended a basic bodyguarding course, but he was not the skilled professional the rest of them were.

  There was also the possibility he was corrupted, compromised or dead. Alex wouldn't mention the latter. Ewan seemed like a nice guy, but he was not Ripple Creek's responsibility. He very well might be their problem, though.

  He'd advised against trusting anyone. Joe Prescot had attacked him for that, and Bryan had been soft. This was not a Ripple Creek failure, but it would play that way on the news.

  So, first thing was to recover the principal, second was to keep it out of the news. The relevant parties would know, and that was all that was needed.

  Jason was in the office with him, pacing. Jason did that when he couldn't shout or break something.

  Jason said, "I'm not sure what we can do. We have government sanction to protect our principals, and Corporate will back us up a lot. Going looking, though . . . first, we're not PIs. Then there's the legal limits on entry, interception, et cetera."

  "We have to tell Mister Prescot."

  "You do. I agree. Tell him it's a probable, not to be alarmed, and we'll keep looking, but the clock is running."

  There was a knock at the door. Elke discreetly stuck her head in.

  "Come in," Alex said.

  She slipped in and closed the door.

  "We have limited tracking resources," she said. "Some pheromones, some camera shots the police gave us free. Have you a map?"

  "Yes," Alex said and spun his comm around.

  "Ewan was varying his route as we told him, but he took a right here and kept going. Lost camera view here. We might have a pheromone trace here. Shaman is in that area. I suggested he deploy from the school OP."

  "Good. Is Aramis still there?"

  "Yes."

  "No outside comments until I say so."

  "Aramis says he's sure the word will leak from the cops."

  "Maybe. If so, Mister Prescot can fucking own someone as a slave for the leak, after this is done."

  Caron's brain whirled with the need to do something. She choked it down. She was a scientist, dammit, and scientists were methodical. They didn't plan to kill her, she couldn't be more than a few kilometers from the college, and people would be looking for her. She also still had her backup charge card and some cash in the pocket in her waistband. If she could get outside and into traffic, she'd be free.

  It was an exciting prospect. Free herself. It would also shame and humiliate her captors.

  She also had to get the word out about Ewan. If he'd betrayed her, he might betray others.

  Still . . . first things first. She had a small amount of stuff on her person that might prove useful. She tried to itemize mentally, but her brain was still thudding with outrage and disorientation. She might be a decent observer, but her cognitive function was still impaired.

  Were her observations correct? She spent a moment reviewing the area in immediate view. Yes, probably.

  She wandered about, hugging herself, scratching, shifting. She made a point of using the toilet both for relief, and to get a stall door in between her and any observation. I just hope there's no perv cams, she thought.

  She wound up with a lumpy pile of stuff in one jacket pocket. It wasn't much, but it might matter.

  This was going to take some time, she decided.

  The watch imprinted on her shirt cuff said she'd been here thirty minutes. Was that all? She felt as if she'd been slow and discreet, but all her activity had to have been done in a rush.

  Still, no one had come to disturb her. She had to be secure enough so far. If they wanted her for ransom or political clout, they had no reason to let her putter around unless they didn't know or didn't care. So she should continue. It would keep her mind busy.

  She stepped right up to the corner of a locker bank and pulled out her handful of stuff, laid it down.

  She had her stun ring, a pipe lighter, 87 Marks and some change in cash, her still-hidden emergency credit card, a flash stick with personal data and codes on it, a small flashlight, a key that was not a key; it had a tiny knife folded into it—what use did she have for keys? People opened doors for her. She had a tiny pair of pliers, a couple of meters of fine cord, a pair of light gloves, a spare capacitor for her computer interface, two safety pins she kept for attaching loose buttons, her emergency condoms—as if she'd ever need those, and some lint. Oh, the phone hidden in her hair clasp.

  She felt stupid for not remembering the phone, but a quick test showed there to be no signal. This was a metal frame building, but that alone shouldn't stop reception. Someone had a damping field set up. Likely her earlier call had gone unheeded.

  However, even if she couldn't escape, if she could get where she could place the phone to be traced, that should do it. Too big a field and it would cause interference on the street. People would complain, a technician would show up, and might question the dead zone. The building ends or corners might just be outside.

  That just gave her another reason to get above that ceiling, if she could.

  She swept her property back into her pocket, and turned back to the room proper.

  She had planned to listen at the door. There was a scuffling sound outside it right at that moment. She cursed, but it came out as a "meep."

  Then the slot at the floor opened and a tray was shoved in.

  "Here, Miss," she heard Ewan say.

  Anger welled up, and her first impulse was to kick the tray right back out. The slot closed, though.

  She wasn't at all hungry, and the food didn't look that appetizing. It was okay—a sandwich, an apple, a piece of pie and a bottle of Juice-ade—just not thrilling.

  She wondered if they'd return for the tray in say, an hour, or if they'd wait until the next meal, or just let them pile up. Then she added tray, thermoset plastic, one, to her list.

  Thermoset didn't burn, she recalled. On the other hand, there was a lot of paper that would, and lockers, and the cot, and the benches. She could start a sizeable fire in here. Would that trigger an outside alarm? Or had whomever had kidnapped her arranged for that possibility?

  Too many variables. The only reasonably certain one was that they needed her alive. Would their claims be low enough Tad would just pay it? High enough the entire government would come looking? Enough to hurt the family but leave them solvent enough for a repeat performance? Would they keep trying to demand more, then dump her alive . . . or dead?

  Too goddam many fucking goddam fucking goddam variables. She growled quietly but with clenched teeth.

  Then she reached down and grabbed the apple. She might as well clench her teeth on something nutritious and a little tasty.

  She bit, chewed and stared at the floor. It wasn't a very tasty apple.

  The apple was half gone when she realized she'd been staring at a folded wad of paper, straw colored like the tray, that said "read" in tiny letters.

  She unfolded it, and recognized Ewan's writing at once. She almost crushed it up in rage, but made herself read it.

  (in Welsh) "Caron, I'm sorry. Blackmail works with enough leverage. I did what I had to. They promise you'll be unharmed. It's just about your money. We're south and west of Oxford about fifteen kilometers, in Abingdon.—Ewan."

  Bryan Prescot tried to focus. He knew his brother was upset also, but he was too worried about Caron to really care, or to listen.

  Joe said, "I just think it's a bit too convenient that they weren't around at the time."

  "We told them they could trust Ewan. Nor do they have any reason to sell out. This is what they do. It's much easier to believe one bad apple than a crate." He wanted to believe it. He also didn't want to. Ewan's family had been with them for generations. Ewan and Dewi and he had played Robin Hood together in the woods, gone to school together . . . would he rather not trust his friend, or his highly paid experts?

  Joe said, "Hell, he or whoever he works for may have paid them to join in. Or they may have suborned him. The onl
y people we can trust are family. There shouldn't be any outsiders anymore."

  "I wish that were true. Lots of distant cousins would like in. Our gifts are basically unspoken bribes. There are limits, though, or we're just dispensing charity and creating jealousy, and at that level, we'd be affecting entire economies." He tried to keep calm and rational. He needed to stay grounded, because his head was spinning with nausea. Caron was missing and there was nothing he could do. He didn't even know where she was, yet.

  "Better that than this!"

  "I'll take it under advisement." Dammit, he didn't want to fight with his brother over this.

  Joe must have finally seen his expression, because he took the hint and nodded, then left, closing the door behind him.

  Bryan took a deep breath, and considered what to do next.

  Aramis said, "Dammit, we have to do something. She's our principal!"

  They were all in a company owned hotel in Oxford. When you were Bryan Prescot, you could get air travel authorized in seconds, at high speed. An ultramodern, ultra-expensive craft delivered him to the roof about the same time they arrived by car.

  Prescot was across the hall in an office. They were in a parlor for a deluxe suite. There were basic refreshments but no one was interested.

  He probably wasn't here to dismiss them. Corporate would handle that. It could be a vent and bitch session. He could even scream at them. They hadn't failed or violated anything, though they might take the heat anyway. He didn't seem the type, though.

  Alex replied to Aramis, "We can't do anything unless asked. If we indicate we have that kind of intel, some principals will freak. If we fail in recovery, same thing. We're not on the spot and want to stay completely out of it."

  "She's kidnapped at the least, and certainly scared, probably with good reason," Aramis said.

  "And a total scorcher, yes?" Alex asked with a cocked eyebrow. "Look, Aramis, I feel sick about it, too. But we did not lose her and can't get blamed. If we try to get back into it, we will get blamed."