Two From Isaac's House

by Normandie Fischer

  She shook her head, afraid to speak against such heat.

  “They pulled out his fingernails, one by one, to make him talk. But he would not. Not my cousin. So they killed him.”

  “If… if they killed him, how could you know they did such things? Who was alive to tell you?” She might have been horrified by his words, but wisdom slid right out through some hole in her brain. Curiosity—she had to remember what curiosity did to cats.

  “We have ways to know. It is known. They did it. They are thieves and murderers, these Israelis. And you think to bed one of them.” He spat on the Persian carpet and resumed his stance at the window. “But that will never happen. We have plans for Tony.”

  His expression reminded her of a snarling dog, teeth exposed when the lips curl. She shivered. Rabid dogs could inflict horrible damage. The idea of this creep’s hands—or fangs—anywhere close to either Tony or her—or Uncle Adam—nearly made her throw up.

  “Oh, yes. Achmed desires nothing more than to see your dear Tony again. And once Achmed has extracted every bit of information Tony can give him, Sami will be allowed free rein.”

  She didn’t want to know who Sami was. Achmed sounded bad enough.

  “It is true. Sami is sharpening his knives. What a cub! When he heard that your precious Tony had murdered his brother, Bahir—supposedly Tony’s best friend, but we see what Jewish pigs do to best friends—Sami begged to be the one to carve Tony into small pieces.”

  “Tony hasn’t murdered anyone.”

  “No?” His gun hand made a circular motion in the air. “You think not?”

  She didn’t answer. Mouth shut, lips glued.

  “Bahir made a mistake in letting Tony live. Tony paid him back with a bullet to his head.”

  She would not speak. She clamped those lips tight enough to keep words of protest from slipping out.

  “Oh, I think we will allow you to survive, Miss Rina Roberts, survive and envision your lover’s condition once Achmed and Sami have finished with him. Only scattered pieces will be left.”

  Her prayer life jumped another notch as those images took hold. O God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, please hear my prayer. Please stop these madmen. Save my beloved.

  She closed her eyes and repeated the plea. Adonai, have mercy.

  Jamal’s hiss brought her eyes open in time to see him wave the gun again. “You are thinking that you know my name and will tell the authorities. Bah.” He spat out the word. His gesture was just as ugly. “I have told you the name I use today. Tomorrow? It will be a different one.”

  She’d have thought security in Israel would be beefed up enough to keep men like him from having that kind of freedom. Well, she’d make sure she memorized his face so even a name change wouldn’t keep the police from finding him.

  Of course, he probably didn’t actually plan to let her live. It would be too risky.

  No, she’d have to try to free herself. And hope Tony’d manage if she couldn’t—because while freeing herself sounded like a great idea, its execution seemed impossible. She didn’t own a gun and wouldn’t know how to use one if she did.

  “You know,” Jamal said as if he’d just remembered something faintly amusing. “I have not yet asked how you liked the photographs I sent to you. You know the ones I mean? So careless of Tony to have left them to be found among his things. It seemed fitting that you have them.”

  He’d done it? He’d torn them? “Why?”

  “How can you ask?”

  When she merely compressed her lips—she’d have hurled something if she hadn’t been worried about that gun—he shrugged. “To be perfectly honest, I wanted you to mourn, to be miserable as you imagined your lover in our hands, ripped into small pieces.”

  He was a sadist. She was in the hands of a sadist. On a certain level, she’d known that, but to be able to name it?

  Up flew another prayer.

  He leaned out onto the balcony and looked down at the street. “Ah, there is Khasim.”

  Then he stiffened and emitted something that sounded very much like an oath. “Come.” He grabbed her arm, yanked her to her feet, and pushed her in front of him to the door. He opened it slowly and peered out into the hall. “Quiet now,” he said as he prodded her forward, the gun’s muzzle hard against her ribs.

  She tried to divorce herself from the pain of his fingers digging into her arm, from the hardness of the steel boring into her waist. Something had gone wrong with Jamal’s plans. Are you there, Lord?

  Three doors down, Jamal pushed her face against the wall. “Stand still and don’t move a muscle.” He fumbled momentarily and unlocked the door.

  What he did next convinced her that the role of captive maiden should never be romanticized. Ever. First chance she had, she’d tell Auntie Luze to make sure all her heroines could kick butt and take names. Amazing how anti-gun she’d been until she’d looked down the barrel of one. Oh, yeah, this creep was making her rethink her whole I-never-want-to-own-a-gun attitude.

  It was true. She was imagining a small gun, target practice, and the ability to shoot that man’s hand away from his own weapon. As none of that was possible, she kept her one-sided conversation going with heaven. The channels must be buzzing with her prayers. She hoped they didn’t get turned away.

  Jamal pulled a chair toward the middle of the room. “Sit.” His lips smiled, his eyes smiled—but he looked like a wolf licking his lips, as sadistic as a circling predator.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing the action controlled more than her vision.

  His breathing grew rapid. His breath hissed through his teeth as he moved behind the chair. She smelled him—sweat and some strange, unknown odor that sickened her. She waited for his hands to close on her throat, but she felt only the air move beside her ear, knew a moment of blinding pain, and then nothing.

  46

  TONY

  Tony pressed the gun to the driver’s temple. “If your friend harms one hair on her head because of that signal you gave, I will personally pull out each of yours, one by one, before I kill you.”

  “La, la, nothing. I did nothing.” The man’s voice rasped. He clenched the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened. “Jamal is not… He will not hurt her. He will wait to have you first. You have been promised to Achmed—and then to Sami.”

  “Sami?”

  “For killing his brother.”

  Zif had mentioned Bahir’s disappearance, but confirmation of his murder hit Tony hard. Still, he didn’t have time to deal with that now. Rina was up there with Jamal. He remembered Jamal of the cowboy boots. Jamal of Paola’s murder.

  “You slide out behind me, very slowly.” He edged out the passenger door, then crouched behind the car, keeping himself clear of the other man’s feet, keeping the gun in plain view of the man’s face. “And stay low. Or the hole this makes in you will end your miserable life right here on the sidewalk.”

  The anger energized him. Together they crept forward, hidden behind cars until they were opposite the hotel entrance. They waited while a large truck moved slowly toward them, and then Tony pushed the man in front of it. The driver slammed on his brakes and leaned out the window to yell angry curses. Tony waved, apologized, and propelled his hostage into the hotel and up to the desk.

  “Rachel, I need a place to lock this fellow up, see he’s kept safe but out of the way until I can get help.”

  She showed only momentary surprise at seeing the gun. “Terrorist?” At Tony’s nod, she motioned to him to follow her into a small room next to the office.

  Tony looked around. He grabbed a curtain tie to bind the man’s hands behind his back and another for his feet. “Something to gag him?” Rachel left and came back with a pillow case, which Tony tore in two long strips, one as a gag, one as a blindfold.

  “What else must I do?” she asked as she locked the door behind them.

  Tony scribbled on a pad and handed it to her. “Call this number. They’ll get in touch with the local people.”
>
  “And you?”

  “I think there’s another one loose in the hotel. How many guests do you have right now?”

  “Some on the second floor live here, but, at this moment, we have only a single gentleman on the third floor with you who arrived shortly after you did. I have not seen him leave. He has the room three doors from Rina.”

  “When he checked in, did he ask about me or Rina?”

  “He only asked where other guests stayed. He said he wished to be away from anyone else. I did not think, except that he wanted privacy.”

  “Can you keep out of sight for a while? Until help comes?”

  Rachel nodded. “I will, but is there nothing else I can do for you?”

  “Just call that number. Tell them I need help with at least two terrorists. They’ll know what to do.”

  Tony walked quickly, quietly, up the flights of stairs, the safety off on his pistol. As he approached the small alcove at the top of the stairwell, he slowed. Someone could hide behind those luxurious potted plants and have a view of both the stairs and the corner into the hallway. But nothing moved.

  He eased around the corner. He had to assume that Jamal was in Rina’s room, holding her hostage. If that man had hurt her, touched her…

  He couldn’t let his thoughts go there. He listened, but only silence greeted him.

  He unlocked his door and crept out to the balcony. It was a jump of about four feet, maybe less, over to hers, but he didn’t want Jamal to hear him.

  Think, Tony, think.

  He stripped to bare feet to get better purchase and to silence his movements. Clamping his teeth, he flicked the safety back on, tucked the pistol in the waistband of his pants, and climbed up on the railing. His useless arm meant he couldn’t leap across that empty air with any sense of security, in spite of his very long legs. Swinging was also out. Why hadn’t he taken gymnastics? First thing he’d do after getting out of here—once his shoulder was fully functional—would be to study life-saving techniques. Martial arts. Rock climbing. Something. Just in case… because obviously one never knew when one might have to play Batman.

  Rina needed a superhero. Someone who didn’t draw her into danger, someone who didn’t get her kidnapped by terrorists. Someone who could actually save her.

  Well, he’d do his best, or he’d die trying.

  The stone of the building was rough, and there was a slight ridge running along the wall about a foot below where he stood. He moved one foot gingerly out to test the ridge. It held. He felt along the wall for a slight indentation in the stone, gripped it, ignoring the shooting pain that threatened the fingers of his right hand.

  “Mind over matter,” he whispered to his body. And to heaven: “A little help, please?”

  He pulled himself out into space. Vertigo threatened, but he clung to his roost until it cleared and then slowly slid his feet along the three-inch platform, letting his left arm do most of the work as he grabbed hold where he could. He only trusted his right hand momentarily. Sweat dripped into his eyes, onto his lips, and soaked his shirt. He tried to blot out the noises from below, the traffic, an occasional shout, a car door slamming. Finally, his feet found the solid edge of the next balustrade and his hands another nook in the stone. He stood there, leaning against the wall while his breathing quieted. And then he slid slowly to the balcony floor, drew out the pistol, and flicked the safety off.

  Quietly, softly, he padded to her door. It was unlocked. He hadn’t even considered that he might find it barred. Listening for any sound from within, he opened it gently.

  Please let her be safe.

  47

  RINA

  She couldn’t move. She could barely breathe. And that crazed man had blinded her.

  A car honked, someone screamed over the traffic noises but, entombed in blackness, she was most aware of blood pumping in her ears. She forced her lids against the weight pressing them shut and glimpsed filtered light.

  So, she wasn’t blind, just wrapped to the chair, a seated mummy with her arms crossed in front, her eyes behind a blindfold, and a gag over her opened mouth so it hit her tongue. He’d tied the—what was it? Something sour, probably torn bedding, full of unrinsed soap. Or full of something else foul that made her want to lose what little she’d eaten. At least she could breathe and wiggle a finger or two.

  She was trapped, she couldn’t see, and the loudest sound out of her mouth was a cross between a moan and a gurgle. If her nose clogged, she’d suffocate. She sniffled, but that only made her nostrils constrict, and it was happening, she was going to die right in this hotel room, and then what good would she be? She’d never be able to warn Tony in time.

  She dragged in a breath, let it out.

  Relax, just relax.

  She inhaled slowly, exhaled, one, two, three.

  Okay, you’re alive, you’ll be fine. One… two…

  She repeated the litany to herself, willing away panic. She wouldn’t give up, she couldn’t, someone would come, someone would find her, and she absolutely would not consider that madman returning first. Jamal was out there somewhere, stalking his enemies, her men. Tony. Adam?

  And Jamal had a gun.

  She tried to swallow, but the gag made it hard to move the spittle backward, so it stuck at the top of her throat. She was going to choke. On the thought, her whole mouth filled, some automatic answer to panic like in the dentist’s chair when saliva overwhelmed the wads of cotton and dangling suction tube, and she thought she’d drown. She had imagined bound heroines, had read about them roped to bedsteads, to chairs, even to tent poles, and not one of them had woken like this, drooling. Some heroine she was turning out to be, about as romantic as a toad.

  She almost laughed, stifling it because movement made her feel as if a hammer beat against her skull while red dragons warred behind her eyelids. If only she could slide back into darkness for a while longer.

  48

  TONY

  Tony scanned the empty room. Rina’s purse sat where she’d left it on the bureau, but other than two pillows tossed against the headboard and a towel on the bathroom counter, he saw no sign of any disturbance.

  She must be fine. Surely, Jamal hadn’t hurt her. Not while he still needed a decoy.

  He’d scaled one wall, and nothing would get him back out there to scale three more sections to get to Jamal’s room, assuming that’s where the man had stashed her. The element of surprise would no longer be his.

  Perhaps Jamal hadn’t been waiting in ambush at the stairwell because he’d been too busy moving Rina. But the man wouldn’t be sitting around, waiting for him to come knocking. Not after all this time.

  No, Jamal would be somewhere in the corridor or strategically placed to keep watch. And he’d be armed.

  Tony opened the door to the hall as quietly as possible and crept out to listen. All was quiet. The stairwell and the small alcove were just around that far corner. If he were Jamal, that’s where he’d hide.

  The other man said their job was to capture Tony. So, maybe Jamal didn’t plan to shoot first. Or maybe the second man had lied.

  The corridor was eerily quiet. Tony heard a door close someplace far below, but no voices. He crept along close to the wall, the pistol ready and his eyes trained ahead, listening at every door for the slightest noise from within. He heard only his own heart.

  A half-wall opened the stairwell to the atrium and the lobby below. That meant a man in hiding would easily see anyone approaching by stair or from this hallway. Tony didn’t want to think of the gun in Jamal’s hand or the gleam in his eye at their last encounter when Tony had lain trussed on the floor at the Abu Sadiq camp. No matter what anyone said, that gleam did not bode well for his chances today. Jamal seemed the sort to shoot first to vent his anger and apologize later for not returning with an intact prisoner, one ready for Achmed’s personal enjoyment. Achmed wouldn’t want to risk anyone else botching the job.

  His trainers, Zif’s guys, had emphasized that he should always
aim for the center of body mass if he ever found himself in a gun fight. Shoot to kill, they’d said—unless he wanted to end up the one killed. Of course, his chances of accuracy were hampered by having to manage most of this left-handed. He could use the right, sort of, somewhat, but he’d have to aim with the left and help with the right.

  It might work. He didn’t want to be anyone’s executioner, not even Jamal’s. Nor did he want to end up a corpse and leave Rina to deal with that.

  He had to think, and to think, he had to wipe fear from his mind.

  Perhaps he could toss something to draw Jamal’s fire. But was that ever successful? He’d seen heroes do it in the movies, but he couldn’t imagine Jamal being stupid enough—or jumpy enough—to fall for such a trick.

  A noise stopped him. The shuffle of a foot on carpet? Heavy breathing? It wouldn’t be reinforcements, not making all that racket. So, an innocent.

  Adam? Adam would be unarmed and unprepared for danger.

  Tony held his breath and eased around the corner—in time to see a hand with a gun pointing toward the stairs. He heard a thud, like something banging on the stairwell wall, and the gun’s owner came out of hiding, aiming at the noise.

  Jamal.

  Tony steadied his left hand with his right. He didn’t have time to do more than point and shoot. And pray as the bullet left his gun. Jamal twisted away, his weapon flying from suddenly loosened fingers. And then he fell to the floor, moaning.

  So, not dead. Tony kicked the dropped gun out of the way and kept his pointed at the sprawled and bleeding figure as a wheezing Adam climbed the rest of the stairs.

  “Thank God,” Adam said, bending over with his hands on his knees.

  “You okay? What was that thumping I heard?” Tony pulled out his cell phone, hit speed dial for his cousin, and waited.

  Adam sucked in air with a couple of deep breaths before standing. “Me, trying to become invisible. Saw a hand snake out from those bushy plants. Figured making a little noise might bring help and perhaps give the owner of that hand a moment to reconsider.”