by Incy Black
Tight lipped, he nodded his thanks to the newspaper vendor and turned away, his rage decamping abruptly. Calm took its place.
Tonight, that son of a bitch, Patient Peter, would die. No judge. No jury. No forgiveness. No mercy. That psychotic freak had a one-way ticket to hell, and Jack was going to punch it for him.
Marshall dropped a firm hand on his shoulder. He looked at it and then shook it free.
“Come on, Jack, from the sounds of it, Smith’s with her. He’s good. Better than good. He’ll take care of her.”
He grunted and dug his phone from his pocket. “He’d bloody better be, or he’s going down, too.”
The investigator didn’t argue. Few did when he was in full execution mode. Wise men got the hell out of his way.
“Richard? Pick through every morsel you’ve got on Peter Forsythe. He’s got to have a hidey-hole somewhere… Then run the fucking program again, cross-reference every detail, his boxer size to his socks. And after that, run it again, and again, until you find something. The bastard’s got Lowry. Call me back.”
Jack had barely disconnected when a freight train smashed into his chest pounding him to the pavement.
He couldn’t move. Pain lashed through his body, but it was nowhere close to the agony of knowing he was supposed to save Lowry, and he was letting her down. He let the pain crest, rode it for a moment, then seized it to devour its power. He struggled to rise to his feet, only dimly aware of the yells around him. He would harness that power. It would get him to Lowry.
He still hadn’t relinquished the gun in his hand.
“Lie back down Jack; you’ve been tased.” Marshall’s voice.
“Who’s responsible for this god-awful cock up?” Still Marshall. And he sounded livid. He vaguely computed the investigator tearing the leader of Unit B, Special Arms Division, a new one. The fact that something had finally shaken Nick Marshall’s resolute calm made Jack grin. Or, he hoped he was grinning. Might have been a wussy wince. But at least he hadn’t been shot. He could still get to Lowry. Damn it, he had to get to Lowry. If he could just get his body to bloody cooperate.
Chapter Eighteen
Clawing her way through darkness, thrusting shadows aside, Lowry tore and ripped her way toward full consciousness. Instinct demanded she open her eyes and scope her surroundings. She kept them firmly shut as she tried to piece together what had gone wrong.
Oh God. Patient Peter had come for her. In person. She recognized him at the same time she’d accepted she’d never stood a chance.
Cautiously, surreptitiously, she tested her muscles, her breath clamped tight in her throat against the possibility of searing pain. No pain, at least, nothing she couldn’t handle. A few bruises wouldn’t hold her back. She’d fight.
She tested her psyche. It was just about holding up, too, though she could taste the edge of panic at the back of her throat.
Jack’s voice whispered through her mind recounting, as he’d done during her training, what she must do. Strangely, it calmed her, providing her with an anchor.
Pin down what happened. Assimilate as much information as you can. About your assailants, about your location. Stay calm, be ready to fight.
The lump on the back of her head throbbed. She vaguely remembered the car being plowed into, gunfire, yells, and screams. Fighting. Fighting for her life. Yelling for Smith to help her, as she was dragged toward a large van. A blow to the head, pain, then…nothing.
Lying on the steel floor of the van into which she’d been bundled, trying to brace herself not to roll under the momentum of the vehicle each time it hit a turn, she recognized the tang of sour sweat. Never a good thing. It suggested fear, and a panicking captor could be rash and violent. How many captors? Who was driving? Who was in the back with her? Because someone was. She could hear breathing and a soft, weak whistle. A tune, vaguely familiar, but which she couldn’t quite place. The notes repeated, aimlessly, over and over and over. What was that damn tune? Who was making that sound? Not Smith, why would he be whistling? Someone else. Where was Smith? Was he dead or alive?
Her fear jumped. She could handle one man on her own, possibly two. But more?
She measured the odds.
Her entire left length was numb from lying on her side. The smell of oil and the unmistakable stink of blood, old and fetid, continued the assault on her nose. Nausea threatened, and her head ached, but otherwise she was fine. She could fight. Though it wouldn’t be pretty.
She clung to Jack’s voice. Ran through the close combat moves he taught her. In her mind, she heard him yelling when she got it wrong. Heard him mocking when he’d put her on her back. Heard his order, his insistence that she learn to attack, because although defense might buy her time, it wouldn’t save her life, nor anyone else’s.
She sped through the chorography of kicks, grips, choke-holds, and blows he’d forced her to learn. He’d been a brutal teacher, and she was ready to use every one.
Her body bounced and jolted against the hard metal floor, the terrain suddenly uneven. The van was slowing. She kept her body limp, unresponsive when hands yanked on her ankles and dragged her toward the sudden burst of fresh air. She needed the advantage of surprise.
She readied to attack.
Didn’t get the chance.
A plastic bag was dragged over her head and down across her face.
…
Back at the Cube, Jack smoldered animosity. He knew none were brave enough to approach him. They’d give him a while. The bastards had used a specially adapted stun gun on him. One favored by the Service because it incapacitated for hours and hurt like a sonofabitch. It also left bruises the size of cartwheels, but in his case, at least his ribs were intact.
The leader of Bravo unit had protested that the order to zap Jack on sight had come down from HQ earlier that morning. And it had not been countermanded. Not to his knowledge.
Marshall had immediately stood the entire Bravo team down and added the incident to his growing list of internal investigations to be pursued.
Too little, too late for Jack. By the time he’d recovered sufficiently to be able to walk unaided, the opportunity to pick up Lowry’s trail had been lost. He was now totally reliant on his brother coming through with information about where Patient Peter might be found.
And the waiting was killing him.
Christ, if this is what it felt like to be stuck behind a desk rather than leading from the front, and if this is what the future held for him, he’d shoot himself.
But what about Lowry?
She’d likely blame herself, and he wouldn’t be around to bully her into believing otherwise. Double Christ, he hoped she was hanging on. She had to know he was coming for her. She had to trust him that much. And if she had doubts? Well, he’d fucking spend the rest of his life proving he was worthy. He’d handcuff her to his side and lose the bloody key if that’s what it took.
The alert put out on Patient Peter brought him little comfort. It had come too damned late. That was the problem with having to wait for proof and evidence: it caused unnecessary delays. He should have followed his own code. Act first, worry about the questions later. Patient Peter was now in hiding. And goddamnit, he had Lowry.
His cell phone slow-danced across the low coffee table in front of him. He snatched at it, his other hand rising to hold the bruising on his chest, which kicked like a mule in protest against his too sudden movement.
“Richard. What you got?”
“A private property on the outskirts of Henley registered to a Mr. Alan Dawes who, oddly enough, doesn’t appear to exist. No national insurance number, no nothing, and yet our Mr. Dawes is shown as having called Peter Forsythe’s office on fourteen occasions in the last year alone.”
“For fuck’s sake, is that all you’ve got?”
“No, and you need to calm down. Forsythe’s secretary remembers the calls because on each occasion he’d suddenly clear his diary and disappear for forty-eight hours. He expressly forbade her to
contact him during that time. Jack, you should know the timeline fits for the abduction and brutal killings of several young women. God, I’m so goddamn sorry, Jack.”
The tick from the clock on the wall filled the abrupt silence, each tock ratcheting the temperature of his blood to a hotter degree. “Just give me the address.”
“12 Priory Walk. It’s a private gated estate. It’s a long shot, Jack. But it’s all I’ve got…and I think you need to hurry. Those poor women—”
The pain in his chest forgotten, Jack disconnected and thrust to his feet. His bellow for Marshall rattled the windows.
“I need a motorbike now, and some extra clips for this.” Jack waved his Sig in the investigator’s face. “Got a lead, I’m going after her.”
“You know I can’t allow that.”
He crossed to his friend, got right in his face. “I know you can’t stop me. Every second counts.”
“You need back up.”
“Granted, so put out a call, but I’m not waiting. It’s going to take you at least fifteen minutes to get clearance for an op and another ten on top of that to scramble a task force. I’ll meet you there. 12 Priory Walk, Henley. Please, Marshall, I need to get to her. Right now.”
Marshall stared at his shoes for a moment, his conflict obvious, then raised his head to meet his impatient glare. “Okay, Jack, but if this goes tits up, the Commander will kill me himself. You mate, will already be dead. The bike will be out front in three. I’ll get you those clips.”
…
She focused on her breathing. Each inhale and exhale had to be even and controlled. The bag they’d placed over her head had small perforations, but if she panicked and sucked in air too rapidly, the fine plastic collapsed across her mouth and nose, and she risked suffocation.
She may have lost an opportunity to strike back, hard and fast, but she would hang on tight. There’d be another. She had to believe that; it was all that was keeping her terror at bay.
Her wrists were bound, her ankles, too. She gave up battling the bitter chill gnawing on her skin. Let her teeth chatter. Let her body shake as if gripped by illness. Maybe it would put Patient Peter off.
When he’d tied her to the chair, his hands had brushed, his fingers had wandered, and for that trespass alone she’d kill him. To hell with legal process. Sometimes justice couldn’t wait.
She heard bolts being thrown, the snick of a door opening, the hideous rasp as its foot scoured concrete—maybe tile.
“It’s been too long a time, sweetheart, since you and I last met, but I have never forgotten. Not you. Certainly not our delicious little interlude all those years ago.”
She wasn’t sure what was more terrifying. Not being able to see him because of the bag over her head, or the fact that any moment now, he might raise it, and she’d once again be forced to stare into his eyes.
“But you were a mistake, and I don’t like mistakes.”
The wave of nausea swelled in her stomach and threatened to overtake her. She clenched her muscles against it. She would show no weakness. No fear. She clamped her teeth together, sealed her lips. Nor would she respond.
The bag on her head was pulled up and free. Strands of her hair rose with it, caught in the static.
She blinked furiously, then let her eyes do the talking, her glare defiant. She punctuated her revulsion, her loathing, with an exclamation mark of disgust.
“Temper, temper, girlie. Though I confess it will be interesting to have you more responsive this time. In fact, it almost seems a shame to destroy that spirit. Are you ready for a repeat of the fun we shared, Lowry Fisk?’
She held herself stiff and swallowed the impulse to recoil when he traced his forefinger down her cheek. Which must have angered him, because he seized and squeezed her chin tight, twisting her lips.
“I wouldn’t count on maintaining that stony silence, my dear. I wouldn’t count on it at all. I will hear you whimper. I will see you weep. I will relish every scream, and I will make you beg.”
Lowry willed his fingers to edge closer to her mouth. She wasn’t unarmed. She had teeth. For a man who didn’t make mistakes, he was remarkably careless. She clamped down hard on the fleshy part his palm with her teeth and closed her ears to his wild bellow.
The pain of him bunching his fingers into her hair and yanking her head back hard barely registered. She spat and started laughing. He’d think twice about touching her again. His lesson for the day: underestimate me at your peril.
Her cheek flamed, and her lip split under the open blow he dealt to her face. She was still laughing when a heavy thud to the side of her head ignited a starburst and then plummeted her into darkness.
…
Jack throttled back and held the bike to a more sedate hum. No need to alert anyone to his arrival. He coasted fifty yards more toward the shadow of a large copper birch, then hit the brakes.
He paused to assess the darkness before kicking at the bike’s stand and dismounting. He unfastened the strap beneath his chin, lifted his helmet clear, and scoured the area once more.
He’d already rejected parlaying with the guard on the gate. No time. The fifteen-foot wall would be easy to breach. If the privacy and the security of the residents were so important, they should have insisted the perimeter of their exclusive existence be cleared of trees.
Dropping his helmet to the ground, he launched himself upward, his hands catching hold. He swung one leg up and over and hauled himself into a seating position astride the branch. Alternating toe and handholds, he edged higher. Gaining his balance, he walked the length of the thick bough stretching clear above the wall.
He dropped, his legs folding to absorb the impact as he hit the ground.
The pseudo-mansions had been built in a crescent line, sweeping drives to the front, sprawling lawns to the sides and rear. He’d go in though the back. Use the gardens for cover. All he had to do was count off eleven dwellings. Lowry, if she were here, would be in the twelfth.
He tossed a handful of gravel against the darkened window, hard enough to trigger the alarm if one was set. He’d work with chaos if necessary, though he’d prefer the element of deadly surprise.
The heavy silence stayed unbroken. No lights flicked on. Excellent.
He withdrew a tiny canister from his jacket pocket and sprayed the surface of the window, then jammed his elbow against it in a sudden short, sharp jab. Heard the crack.
The adhesive plastic held the pane in place. He peeled at a corner, drew the covering down, squares of the fractured glass clinging to its surface. He knocked free the few stubborn strays still embedded in the frame. Made a mental note to endorse the recently developed material for further use by the Service.
His spine folded, he fed himself backward through the window and dropped to a crouch. The silence didn’t unnerve him; the eye-watering stench of disinfectant did. Damn, but someone had a heavy hand when it came to cleaning up. He crooked his arm, used his elbow to protect his nose and mouth.
It took him less than ten minutes to establish that the ground floor and two upper levels of the house were clear. Were it not for the God-awful stink of cleaning product, the place would be a veritable show home, inhabitant-free.
But Lowry was here. No one made the hairs on the back of his neck twitch like her. No one had the ability to fire his instinct for potential danger quite like her. She had to be close.
He ran his fingers through his hair and forced himself to think, then checked his watch. Fifteen minutes, he estimated, before reinforcements arrived en masse, sirens blaring, lights flashing.
Panic would make Patient Peter unpredictable, doubly dangerous, and there’d be no negotiating with him.
He had to find Lowry fast.
Where the hell was she? Jack looked at his feet. If she wasn’t up, then the only place she could be was down. Logical place for a cellar door—underneath the stairs.
He tried not to imagine why the hell anyone would completely tile a cellar—the walls, floors,
and ceiling. Or why the space should have been converted to hold six stalls, each big enough to accommodate a metal autopsy table. Three brass-headed faucets projected from the wall opposite the sinister compartments, a hosepipe neatly coiled beside each. A dark outline of drains, black and ominous, like empty eye-sockets, pockmarked the floor. He suspected the forensic boys would have a field day.
With the fingertips of one hand tracing the surface chill of the tiles, Jack edged his way along the wall toward a door at the end of the walkway fronting the stalls.
No lock. He inched the door open. His heart kicked. His breathing grew more rapid. He clamped down on both. The sheerest slither of light sliced the foot of yet another door, an arm-length ahead. He prayed he’d find Lowry behind it. There was nowhere else to look.
No matter what sight assailed him, he was going in to negotiate. For the first time in his life he’d try diplomacy, beg if necessary. If it saved Lowry’s life.
He tucked his gun away, crouched, and patted his calf to make sure his knife was secure. Dropped his hand lower to double check on the small holster strapped just above his ankle. He might have talked himself into a softly-softly approach, but he hadn’t lost his mind completely.
He sucked in a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then expelled it. He raised his hand, curled a knuckle, gave a sharp rap, stepped back, and kicked the door with every ounce of power coiled in his hip.
It took just a nanosecond for his eyes to adapt to the light.
His heart stuttered. He couldn’t silence the strangled groan lodged in his throat.
Lowry lay strapped to a double bed, her arms and legs splayed wide, one limb arrowed toward each corner. Someone had wrapped her in a kimono, the same misty-green color of her eyes. Embroidered crimson song birds rose from the hem and took flight toward her breasts. Jesus, but her breathing was shallow.
And she wasn’t alone.
Patient Peter, obscene in a blue-striped, button-down shirt, red silk boxers, and black socks held up by a pair of those ridiculous sock-garters, reclined in a wing-chair, one leg crossed, his ankle balancing on a knee.