by Hinze, Vicki
Though she couldn’t see a thing, and she somehow knew this wasn’t the same building, she was having the same experience now. Oddly, she was also recalling the image and feelings of seeing that photograph.
“Wait.” Beefy spun her by her shoulders. “Go right.”
Disoriented, Amanda veered right at what must be a T-section in the corridor. When Beefy ordered her to stop, she had just taken step number one hundred twenty-seven.
He removed the blindfold and she stood in a white corridor with doors lining both sides. They were all closed. “In here?” She motioned to a door off her right shoulder.
“Yes.”
She entered an office that was totally at odds with the utilitarian buildings she had seen up until now. It was plush; rich woods in the desk, gray leather wingback chairs; thick Persian rugs that cost more than her car. This had to be Kunz’s private office. And she didn’t kid herself. Her being in it did not bode well for her or her future. Men with secrets kept them, unless they felt certain revealing them created no threat.
Very bad news for Amanda.
“Sit down.” Beefy tipped the end of his rifle toward a visitor’s chair.
Impressive night scope. Seeing it on his rifle ticked her off. The bad guys had better, more advanced equipment than the good guys. Where was the justice in that? “Why am I here?”
“To wait.”
“For what?”
“Sit down and shut up, West.”
Amanda frowned at Beefy and sank down in the chair. Even under these conditions, she appreciated the creamy soft leather and couldn’t resist the urge to stroke its arm with a lazy fingertip.
Total silence enveloped the office, had her wishing she knew more about Mark and his condition. That she didn’t know drove home the reason she had chosen not to encumber herself with relationships. You care about someone else and you’re vulnerable. Your focus slivers because you’re worried about them and their condition. Sliver that focus at the wrong time or place and you wake up dead—or worse, causing someone else to wake up dead. Those kinds of complications were albatrosses, not assets, for a woman in her job.
Unfortunately, she was in the same boat as the rest of the human race. Sometimes you don’t get to choose. What’s logical falls to what is. And what is just is, and you’re stuck accepting it.
That frustrated the spit out of her. Not because it was fact, but because she didn’t know how Mark had slipped in under the radar. It was as if she’d been fine one second, and the next second she suddenly noticed their bond had changed, become more heartfelt. Never having had that kind of a connection with a man—a physical relationship was so much simpler-—she’d had no idea one could be so strong, so persistent.
Afraid, she let her head loll back, and had a serious conversation with herself. She couldn’t be open to this stuff. These were lethal vulnerabilities for anyone, much less an S.A.S.S. operative. She didn’t do lethal vulnerabilities any more than Colonel Drake did jail.
“We meet again, Captain.” A group of men stirred behind her.
She shifted her attention, but didn’t turn to look.
In her peripheral vision, she saw three of the guards stationed against the back wall near a painting that looked like an original Dali. Beefy and Maggot stood sentry at the door and another guard positioned himself just outside it in the corridor. It fed her ego that they weren’t taking any chances on her overwhelming them again. It also warned her that they were learning from her past behavior and anticipating her future conduct on that basis. First chance—any chance—and she’d mow them down to get out of here.
A blond man soundlessly walked across the office. Casual and elegant, he sat down at the desk. It was obviously his; his body language oozed confidence and control. This was unquestionably his office and his domain.
He laid a stern look on her. “I would say it’s good to see you again, Captain West, but the fact is you’ve injured yet another of my men, and I’m weary of your behavior.”
The real Thomas Kunz. She knew it. The voice matched the one in her memory. But the photographs hanging on the walls and everywhere else around here were not of Thomas Kunz. She’d thought they were, but they were not. This man, this blond, elegant, nonthreatening, sunny kind of guy was the real Thomas Kunz.
“I’m a bit weary of your behavior, too, Thomas. Two in the morning is hardly an appropriate time for a social call, and your hospitality leaves a lot to be desired.” Maggot gasped.
Apparently, she’d been a little more blunt than most with Kunz. He didn’t look angry, though—quite the contrary, he seemed pleased. “I said you’d be amusing, my dear, but don’t goad me. At the moment, I don’t have the patience to play.”
She lifted a hand. “Then why do you keep inviting me into the game?”
His affable nature died and his eyes lost their humor and warmth. “There are a few truths you need to accept.” His voice turned to sleet. “The sooner you do, the better.”
“What kind of truths?” The new life Beefy had mentioned? She didn’t flinch, but she did fear Kunz. He was too confident. Men couldn’t fake that confidence; it was second nature to them. And second-nature confidence signaled that they had all they needed to back up that cocky self-assurance with decisive force and effective action. Every bit of which was bad news for her.
“Your old life is gone. You’re no longer in it.” Bluntly put, and Kunz poured himself a drink at a bar off his left shoulder to celebrate his victory over her. It smelled like bourbon. He took a sip, his back to her—again confident and unafraid of being attacked—and then in his own good time, swiveled his seat to face her. “Your new life is here, Amanda. You will never leave this compound again. Not alive.” He again sipped from his glass. “You’ll teach others of my choosing to be S.A.S.S. operatives. If you do this well and without causing trouble, you will live.”
The man was crazy. Serious, but crazy. “And if I refuse?”
He smiled. “Then, of course, you die.”
Like Joan Foster. Only in Amanda’s case, far less effective. “You’re overestimating the value I put on my life, Thomas.”
“Perhaps, but perhaps not.” He sipped from his glass. “You see, Amanda, I do realize that you don’t fear death. But I also realize that you do fear the box.” He rocked back in his chair, tipped his chin to his chest then looked over at her. “So my power is in keeping you alive and in the box, not in killing you—which I will do, if I so choose. Imagine it. You’d be like a rat mired in a maze. How intriguing it would be for me to watch you living in a box, day after day. How would you keep track of the years? You’re quite a long way from death due to old age. Year after year, just you in the box—you and your memories of life beyond it.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
He laid a look on her that could melt steel. “It will happen, if I choose for it to happen.”
“It won’t.”
“I’ll put you on a feeding tube and IVs to keep you alive, Amanda. You’ll die on my terms and at my pleasure, not your own. Believe it.”
Inside she fought a battle between fury and fear, but outside she let neither show. “What about Captain Cross? Do you have similar intentions planned for him?”
“He doesn’t fear the box.” Kunz looked at her a long moment. “I realize you feel an affinity to him because you were together when joining us, but I also know that you’ve only just met the captain, so don’t pretend your concern is greater than it truly is to slant my plans for you. It won’t work.”
So much the better. “I simply asked a question about a professional associate. Is he alive?”
“Of course.” Kunz looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “What good would he be to me dead?”
“Well, I don’t know, Thomas. How could I know your plans on anything?”
Kunz frowned. “You’re testing my patience. A woman of your intelligence should not try to appear stupid. It’s neither believable nor flattering. You now know what I’m doing he
re.”
“I have no idea what you’re doing here—or where here is, for that matter.”
“Don’t lie to me!” He cracked a hand down on his desk. The smack popped her ears, echoed. “You do know. You knew in the interview room with Harding. You knew or you would have fought my men. You’re totally predictable. You always fight.”
Not true. She never fought when she would lose more than she gained. Or when she couldn’t win. She was a woman who had a healthy respect for odds. “Okay, so I know you’re kidnapping intelligence operatives, drugging them, discovering everything you can about them and then cutting them loose.”
“Very good.” Kunz refilled his glass, set the bottle on his desk and nodded to her. “Have you decided to be civil?”
“I don’t seem to have much choice. Though the audience isn’t necessary at this point, Thomas.”
That she had the audacity to repeatedly address him by his first name clearly amused him. “Leave us,” he told the guards. “Captain West has elected to be rational.”
Only until I find a way to bust your chops, Kunz. Only until then, and until after I kill Paul Reese for hitting me.
He poured her a shot of bourbon, passed it over. She threw it back, downed it, setting her throat on fire.
“You haven’t asked about Paul,” Kunz said. “I would have thought you’d be interested in knowing how he is doing.”
“He’s scarred,” she said, her voice flat and unemotional. “That tells me exactly how he’s doing.”
“There’s my astute Amanda.” Kunz laughed. “He wants you dead, you know.”
“And this is news because...?”
“Touché.” Kunz sipped from his glass. “Have you determined why I cut you loose in that tomb? Why the three-month absences?”
“I’ve speculated,” she admitted. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain by cooperating with this line of discussion. She could learn valuable information. “You choose the operative you want to black market, create a double for him or her, and then lure in the operative to study and probe. That takes about three months. Afterward, you turn them loose, to avoid anyone finding any unexpected differences in them. Time as a hostage has residuals. It’s normal.” She paused then added, “But you need the time for another reason, too.”
“What’s that?”
“To substitute the double’s identity for the real operative’s. X rays at hospitals, medical and dental records, blood types, fingerprints, biometric scans—and of course plastic surgery on the doubles, not just to insure they look exactly alike, but to add imperfections also.” Another thought occurred to her so she threw it in the mix. “That lapse gives you time to substitute the double’s identity in the system and to prepare the double for the infiltration. For all intents and purposes, the double becomes the operative.”
“I’m impressed.” Kunz lifted his glass to her, rocked back in his seat. “It normally takes much longer for selected operatives to put the pieces together.”
“Most operatives probably don’t run into their double face-to-face in their own kitchen.”
“No, most don’t.” He smiled. “I admit it. I wanted to speed things up with you.”
“Why?”
“Mainly because Paul wants you dead and I want to minimize the attrition rate on my guards before he kills you.”
Possibly true, but Kunz’s reasons were more self-serving than that, and she’d bet on it. “So do you actually sell the black market double, or just the information they provide you.”
“Why would I sell the double when I can continue to earn on the information?”
“You wouldn’t.” Amanda twirled her glass. “Granted, the plan is diabolically clever and wickedly devious, but you do know it’s doomed to fail.”
“Why is that?” He seemed genuinely amused.
He must have more than the four of them in the field already. He knows his scheme is working. “There are too many little details about a person and their life to duplicate.”
“I can and have. It works.” His voice blunted like a dull knife. “You see, that’s why you’re here. All the operatives we’ve duplicated are at one of my compounds. So they’re available for consultations when those little details crop up, so to speak.” One of his compounds. So he had more than this one and the one in the Middle East. If he actually had one in the Middle East, that is. Extremely bad news. She guffawed. “And as an operative, my incentive to do this for you is...what?”
“Life, Amanda.” He spoke simply, softly. “You and the other operatives who are my permanent guests get to live.”
Amanda understood now what Kunz was doing and how, and it certainly answered the mysterious question of how he obtained such accurate intelligence to broker on the black market. “You’re definitely overestimating the value some put on their lives, Thomas.” She motioned to the bar. “I’m not crazy about bourbon. I’d like a whiskey, please. Neat.” She turned back to his program. “That’s a serious flaw in your program.”
He poured her a double shot of whiskey then slid the glass across the desk to her. “Others don’t share your eagerness to die. You never have feared it.” He set down the bottle, adding, “That’s one of your most appealing traits, by the way. It fuels your willingness to take enormous risks. That makes you a formidable asset to S.A.S.S. and, frankly, to me.”
So he would be reluctant to kill her—to lose the asset. But life in the box on IVs and a feeding tube...?
There were fates worse than death. In that one, she’d have to kill herself.
“However, don’t foolishly overrate your value to me.” Kunz refilled his glass at the bar. “You’ve established that you’ve suffered memory lapses and you’re in your job only because you’re being protected. That protection can be withdrawn at any time I choose. Or used as I see fit. Never doubt it.”
Was that a backhanded way of saying he could manipulate Colonel Drake? Impossible. Only God and the president of the United States could manipulate her—God alone, without protest. “I don’t doubt your ability to kill, Thomas. It’s well documented.” Amanda stood up. “I’m ready to take a look at this new life you have planned for me. If I like it, I’ll keep it. If not, you won’t be able to keep me alive.” She gave him a matter-of-fact look. “No man uses me. Not unless I issue him a personal invitation to do so.”
“Ah, yes. Your father.” Kunz’s level tone sharply contrasted with his gentle expression and the respect in his eyes. “Being a victim is tough, isn’t it?”
“Truthfully, I’ve forgotten.” He might as well get a grip right up front. She wasn’t giving in or up or going to be content following his rules for his purposes. She was going to do her job and rescue Mark. If possible, she’d also like to survive. “I haven’t been a victim in a long, long time.”
Uncertainty flickered in his eyes, and Amanda was glad to see it. He didn’t know all he needed to know about her or he’d be certain she meant exactly what she said. She wouldn’t be a victim. Not his, not anyone’s. Not without a fight.
And in the years since her father’s first beating, she’d become adept at fighting. Excellent at it, in fact.
“Guards!” Thomas called out.
The door swung open and Beefy came through, into the office. “Yes, sir.”
“Take Amanda back to her apartment,” Kunz said, then looked at her. “Get used to your new environment. You’re no longer a captain in the U.S. Air Force. You’re no longer an S.A.S.S. operative. Actually, you’re no longer anything I don’t specifically order or grant you to be. That’s your inevitable reality now. You can make it pleasant, or your worst nightmare. I’m up for either. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to decide which you prefer.”
Her wisest response was no response, though a scathing rebuttal had her throat burning like a five-alarm fire. It cost her dearly, but she set her glass on the edge of his desk and headed toward the door without a word. Beefy read her mood accurately and backed up out of her way, giving her lots of room. Sh
e stunned him by smiling. “Thank you.”
Having no idea what to do with that, the man backed up another step and shot a questioning look at Thomas Kunz, who issued him a solid frown.
Amanda decided right then Beefy was weak and vulnerable. He would never be won over much less become an ally, but he shouldn’t be too difficult to neutralize—without her threatening to do him bodily harm. True, that held less appeal than cleaning his clock, but Kunz did seem to take particular offense to her inflicting injury on his men, and having Beefy guard her could be far more productive than someone she hadn’t physically beaten. She’d have to prove herself all over again. Beefy already had a healthy fear of her.
As well he should.
As well they all should.
* * *
Meet me at S.Z. at 12.
Amanda read the note printed on a tiny scrap of paper, twice. She’d found it in the ice bin in her kitchen. Joan had been clever to put it there. As hot as it was, ice was an often-used and appreciated commodity. Okay, so she wanted Amanda to meet her at the safe zone at noon. Hopefully—please, God—she had arranged for Amanda to see Mark.
She really needed to see Mark. Her insides twisted like a knotted mass of whipped hot wires. What Kunz was doing—the potential scope of it—was horrifying, even for a seasoned operative who had experienced a lot of horror during her career. This program of his left her staggering. She needed Mark’s grounding.
Okay, maybe she didn’t need it. She stared out the window at a blue jay perched on a tree limb. But she wanted it.
She would kill Paul Reese, who had been avoiding her like the plague—whether by his own choosing or under Kunz’s orders, she didn’t know, nor did it matter. She would get out of here, and she would bring Kunz down. But she wanted to bring Mark out with her.
And she would. She’d do whatever she had to do to make it happen.