The Keeper leaned close. So close the jerk’s hot breath breezed against his cheek. “I. Don’t. Make. Deals.”
“What have you done with them? I’ll kill you. If either of them have so much as a scratch…”
Frantic anger clawed its way up his throat. He struck out with his foot. The mercenaries had made a mistake in not binding his legs. He hooked his leg around his captor’s shin and jerked. The man went down, striking the concrete with a surprised grunt.
“Son of a...” The razor sharp hiss melded with the click from the cock of a gun’s hammer. Cold steel pressed against Keith’s temple. “Don’t fuck with me, King. I’m out of patience and my finger’s feeling mighty twitchy on this damn trigger. I want the security codes. Now.”
Sweat trickled down Keith’s forehead and dripped between the blindfold. His eyes stung from the salty droplets.
He didn’t have the codes. They were with Cam. “Not until I know if Grace and Ryker are safe.”
The man snorted and dug the barrel of the gun deeper into Keith’s skin. “The way I see it, you don’t have the luxury of calling the shots. For all you know, the woman and her brat could be dining at a five star restaurant by now. Or they could be lying on the cold concrete with a knife pressed to their throat. You want to gamble?”
Keith grit his teeth. “I want to kill you.”
“I’m surprised at you, Keith. You’re turning into a regular comedian.”
“Listen, Dickhead—”
The gun trembled against Keith’s head. “Shut up and give me the codes.”
“Go to hell.”
“You want me to go to hell? You’re telling me to go to hell?”
The gun left Keith’s temple. The man’s heavy boot connected with his body. Pain burned across his left shoulder and set the tendons on fire. The chair toppled backward, his feet uselessly scraped the floor. His head struck the concrete, bright flashes floated in front of his eyes.
Don’t lose consciousness. Don’t—
Pressure slammed across his windpipe. The bastard’s foot crushed the air from his lungs. A spasm twisted in his gut.
He gagged on the saliva pooling in his mouth. “You...suck...”
Yeah, lame comeback, King. His head swam, the cheap metal chair dug into his hands from his weight, his legs felt sluggish. Do...something.
“Time’s up, King. Once more, where are my codes?”
Kiss...My...Ass. Keith pushed a low growl through the pain in his throat and swung his legs upward in a burst of renewed strength. He hooked his feet around the asshole’s legs and threw his body sideways, knocking the shitbag to the ground. The pistol skittered across the ground with a dull rattle.
Blessed air flooded down his esophagus. He gulped for it, choked on it. Victory was short lived.
Hands circled his throat. “Give me the codes! I need those codes!” The traitor’s desperate words shot saliva against Keith’s cheek.
He twisted, flailed. Had to get the hands off his throat. His head bounced against the cement. The blindfold slid a fraction higher up his forehead. He froze.
He could ID the bastard. Ignoring the ache pulsating through his skull, he dragged the back of his head along the cement. He refused to die without knowing the man’s name.
Choke in air. Drag.
“I’ve lost patience, King. Maybe you need a little incentive.”
The fabric inched high enough to allow a sliver of faint light to filter through.
Again. Weaken the material. Distract the bastard. Make him angry.
He twisted his lips into a smirk. “I bet...you’ve got...a little incentive.”
Another scrape against the concrete and the blindfold moved higher.
Fingers dug deeper into Keith’s throat. “Your lady won’t think so.”
“Don’t...touch...” Keith gagged at the pressure. He jerked his head. “Her!” The last word burst from him in a hoarse roar and the blindfold slipped above his eyes.
Surprise flashed in the man’s eyes and loosened his hold around Keith’s throat. But the shock paled in comparison to the recognition that jolted across Keith’s chest.
“C...Colby?”
Disgust narrowed the man’s eyes. “That useless vegetable wouldn’t have the balls.” He pushed to his feet.
Keith’s head spun. Not Colby. But Colby had a brother, two years his junior who served in the Army.
Though they’d never officially served together, Keith had run into Captain Longenbow on more than one occasion.
Vincent? No, not Vincent...
“Victor. Victor Longenbow.”
Victor turned, raising his brows. “I’m touched. You remembered.”
Keith hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. He breathed in smoke. A fuzzy memory. Not real. Phantom screams reverberated in his ears. Dummy charges flashed with real explosives. Shouldn’t have happened.
A face—Victor’s face—floated before Keith’s murky vision. “I’m sorry,” Victor had mouthed around a cocky grin.
Keith tossed his head, jarring the memories from his brain. Sorry? Sorry couldn’t begin to cover Victor’s responsibility for the death of his friends. For framing Keith for the training accident and spreading lies to ruin his integrity.
“How could you take the lives of innocent men? They were just doing their job. Serving their country.” Keith’s throat ached.
His friends, his brothers, had lost their life because of this sick freak.
“This isn’t about them.”
“The hell it isn’t.” Keith clenched his teeth. “Those men died because of your greed.”
Victor circled around Keith. “Money’s a part of it, sure.” He shrugged. “Power, too.”
Keith tracked Victor as the man paced, hoping to find an opening to take the bastard out. “You’re a Captain of the United States Army. Is that not enough power for you?”
“You think I care about my career?” Victor’s jaw tightened. “I don’t. I went into the Army because it’s what the Longenbow men do. I wanted my dad to be proud.”
“Fat chance,” Keith taunted, hoping to bait Victor into reacting out of anger. “Your dad saved all his pride for Colby.”
The tendons in Victor’s neck went taut. “The golden boy can’t take a piss without his nurse.” He pointed a finger at Keith. “He’s tarnished in my dad’s eyes. Tainted.”
“And you’re not?” Keith’s hands tingled as he tried to wiggle them free from the rope.
Victor’s eyes narrowed. “I’m a hero! Dad was devastated when they brought Colby to the hospital in a coma, his back broken. Dad wanted your head on a platter. I convinced him to let it go. I took the brunt of Colby’s rehabilitation costs on my shoulders.” He shook his head. “Do you know how much round the clock therapy for a cripple costs?”
“Certainly not as much as the missiles you meant to let terrorists steal.”
“No. That was pure selfish greed on my part. I’ll give you that.” Victor’s face contorted. “But Colby’s therapy was a pain in the ass, and a drain on the bank account until I stumbled onto a lucrative side business.”
Keith narrowed his eyes. “Please. Don’t keep me in suspense.”
Victor drew back a booted foot and kicked Keith in the ribs. He wheezed and rolled to his side.
Hadn’t seen that one coming.
“Illegal immigrants,” Victor spat. “Smuggle them in a trunk of a car. Under the gutted out dash. Hell, make ‘em walk across the desert with no shoes and a single bottle of water. Makes no difference. They’ll pay a bundle for a shot at the American dream. And that’s nothing compared to the cash drug runners will pay if you agree to pack a little smack along. The opportunities are endless.”
Keith coughed. “Security codes and military secrets are a far cry from kilos of cocaine or thousands of immigrants. You’re selling the Country one piece at a time.”
Victor laughed, a breath of air that sent frissons of alarm up Keith’s spine. “I loved watching those bastards scra
mble to find the man behind the smuggling. The idiots never thought to look right under their nose.”
“Stevens did. He was on to you.” How far was the door? Twelve feet? Fifteen? Keith scooted backward across the floor using the chair as a sled. What would he do when he got close enough?
Victor waved his Glock. Unconcerned. Haughty. “He’s fish bait.” He stomped over to Keith and sputtered. “Now, come on, come on, I’m weary of this. The codes?”
He towered over Keith and aimed the gun at his head.
“Captain Longenbow.” Keith clenched his teeth. “I am an American Soldier. I am a warrior. And a member of a team.”
Victor smirked. “Ah, that’s right. I outrank you.”
“I serve the people of the United States and live the Army Values. I will always place the mission first. I will never accept defeat,” he continued, reciting the Army Creed.
“Not this time, King. This time defeat is all you’ve got.”
“I will never quit.”
Victor’s lip curled. “You’re pathetic.”
“Not half as pathetic as you.” He ground the last words out and threw his body weight, rolling onto his knees. He shot to his feet, gave a last vicious tug on his bonds and somehow succeeded in loosening them. His hands slipped free, the chair crashed to the floor.
Victor stumbled, his jaw working with shocked anger.
He rushed Victor, who recovered enough to pull the trigger on his Glock. The retort of the gun sliced through the room, echoed off the walls, and rang in Keith’s ears. Missed.
He slammed into Victor with his left shoulder and followed the bastard to the floor. Fire vibrated along his left arm.
Victor grunted and threw a punch, cuffing Keith in the side of the head. Keith returned the favor with a fist to Victor’s nose.
“Son of a bitch!” Victor spat blood and staggered to his feet. He weaved an unsteady path to his Glock.
Keith sprang to his feet and sucked in a tortured breath. He vaulted at Victor’s back, wrapping his arms around the Captain’s neck.
Victor lost his balance under the added weight and toppled forward. His head struck the upturned leg of the chair. The metal gouged a path along his forehead as he hit the floor.
Keith rolled aside. Blood trickled from the cut in Victor’s head onto the concrete. The man didn’t stir.
Keith grit his teeth and struggled to his feet. He retrieved the Glock, checked the magazine, and shoved it into the waistband of his pants with deliberate, labored movements. There wasn’t an inch on his body that didn’t throb.
A stab of pain penetrated his fuzzy brain and ignited a single thought: Grace and Ryker. He had to find them.
“What’s going to happen to Keith?”
Grace stared at the heavy iron door, still hearing the echo of its slam in her head. Tears gathered in her throat. “I...don’t know, sweetheart.”
She squeezed Ryker’s thin shoulders for a brief moment, and then stood on wobbly legs.
She felt dazed, restless, numb.
Alone.
Unsure of who to trust and what to do next.
No. Wrong attitude. She needed to take action. Ryker needed her. A flutter of unease skittered across her stomach. They had to get out of here.
She ran to the door. No handle. Her fingers sought purchase in the crack between the doorjamb, and tugged. Pain splintered across her fingernails. It was no use. The door wouldn’t budge.
There had to be another way.
She scanned the room and caught sight of Ryker. He hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor. His eyes were huge and confused behind his glasses.
“Will Keith...” He swallowed and looked away. When his eyes found their way back to hers, he blinked. “Just...will he end up like Dad?”
His soft voice sent a shard of ice-cold pain through her heart.
“What?”
Ryker drew his knees up to his chest. “I know Dad’s...not coming back.”
Oh, honey. She’d hoped to avoid this conversation until Ryker had the chance to adjust to everything that had happened. Until, preferably, they were back in their little home and life was back to normal.
But they had no home anymore. No guarantees. If they made it out of here alive, life would have to adjust to a new kind of normal.
She crouched down beside Ryker and took his face in her hands. “It’s true. There was...trouble on the boat and your Dad...he didn’t make it off alive.”
Ryker’s eyes pooled with tears. “I knew it.”
“I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
Ryker shook his head. “Dad’s dead because of me. He was trying to keep me safe.”
“No, Ry, that’s not—”
“If Keith dies, will it be my fault too?”
“No! How can you even think that? None of this happened because of you.” She pushed a strand of his wavy brown hair away from his eyes. “There are bad people in the world, Ry-Ry. They hurt others because they’re greedy. But there are good people, too. Like you. Like your Dad. He’d be so proud of you right now. I’m proud of you.” She wrapped her arms around Ryker and drew him into her embrace. “We’re going to find a way out of here.”
She kissed the top of Ryker’s head then stood and surveyed the shadows at the back of the room. The crumbling concrete walls rose to meet the low, uneven cement ceiling. The room had no windows, but a single light hung from a rusted fixture. What was this place? Instinct told her the room was underground, possibly a basement. The glow from the bulb provided just enough brightness to illuminate the boxes, wooden crates, and miscellaneous pieces of metal ducting stacked along the wall.
Could all that junk hide an exit?
She’d start there.
Pushing boxes aside, she squeezed her way into the corner.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
She shoved at a stack of crates. “Finding a way out of here. There has to be something sharp we can use, or another door,
Or—”
“But...what about Keith? Are we really going to leave without him?”
She dragged a two-foot wide box off the pile and clutched it to her chest. “We don’t have any choice, Ryker. If Keith were in our position, he’d do the same thing.” Her heart fluttered uneasily. Would he really? Keith hadn’t left her once since he’d agreed to help her. “Come on, help me with these.”
They began systematically moving crates, pipes, boxes, metal flashing, and other discarded junk to the middle of the room. By the time they cleared all four walls, Grace’s biceps screamed in protest and guilt burned its way through her stomach. Was she really going to just leave Keith behind?
He’d want her to think of their safety first. She’d get her and Ryker out of this mess and then find a way to help Keith.
“Now what?” Ryker’s sullen voice echoed her frustration.
She blew out a breath. “I was so sure we’d find—wait—what about in the next room? Do you remember seeing anything?”
He tipped his head, lost in thought for a moment, before lifting his shoulders in a slight shrug. “Don’t know.”
She ducked under the splintered doorframe and into the other room. It was a mirror image of the first room. Cold, stark, concrete. Empty except for an old metal file cabinet. Her spirits plummeted.
Hanging on to a shred of hope, she tried the heavy iron door. She shoved her shoulder against it, pried at it with her fingers.
No use.
She sank against the rough metal and squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to cry. Not in front of Ryker.
“Hey, Mom,” Ryker said from across the room, “If I was, like, Juni, you know from Spy Kids, I would go through this metal thing.” Ryker stamped his shoe against the object. A muffled, rhythmic clang echoed into the room.
Grace straightened. “What is that?” Her heart sped as she hurried over to Ryker. “Sweetie, you’ve found a storm drain.” She knelt and studied the square iron grate in the floor. It was barely big enough for a person to fit throug
h. And who knew where it led?
“A what?”
“A drainage tunnel for water run-off.” Her fingers curled around the corner of the drain and pulled. “Maybe we can—”
The rusty edge sliced under one of her fingernails. She shook her hand to eliminate the throbbing. Blood welled under the nail.
Ryker dropped down beside her and tried to put his fingers through the slits in the grate.
“That won’t work, honey,” she said, struggling to keep dismay from creeping into her voice.
She sat back on her heels and huffed out a breath. It was too heavy. They needed to wedge something in the grate to pry it from the opening. Like a piece of pipe.
“Wait here.”
Grace jumped to her feet and ran to the other room. She dragged a length of pipe from the floor and pulled. It screeched along the concrete floor as she dragged it back to the grate.
“Here, help me put this between the slots.”
Ryker guided the pipe to one of the slits in the drain and she threaded the end into the opening. Using the pipe as a fulcrum, she gripped it until her hands stung and pushed down with all her strength.
The grate emitted a creak but did not budge.
She released the pipe, wiped her hands on her jeans, and tried again. This time the grate lifted about a half an inch.
Ryker chewed on his bottom lip.
Sweat beaded on her forehead and slid down her temple. “I think it’s working.”
She sucked in a deep breath and pushed. Heat rushed her face and her arms quivered but she only succeeded in lifting the grate about an inch. Tops.
She swiped the sweat from her brow. “I can’t—I don’t—”
“Let me help, mom. I can do it.”
“No, honey, it’s too heavy—”
He took hold of the pipe. “I can do it.”
Ryker weighed fifty pounds at most. His thin arms would never have enough strength to help her push on the pipe. But if he sat on the pipe, it might work.
She positioned him between her arms. With the weight of his body, and her exertion on the pipe, they managed to raise the grate out of the opening. She braced herself against the wall and used her feet to slide the heavy vent across the floor.
Her Own Best Enemy (The Remnants, Book 1) Page 19