by Ty Patterson
Socks on her feet, but no shoes.
She raised her head, feeling like she was swimming underwater. Everything felt woozy, as if in slow motion.
Her jacket and jeans were still on her. Holster, empty. No cell phone, no wallet, nothing on her other than her clothing.
She looked over at her sister.
Beth was on another gurney. No shoes on her, either. No gun.
She fell back and lost consciousness.
A man was standing over her when she came to.
Average height. Dark hair. Watchful eyes. Clean-shaven.
Her mind felt clearer, cool air coming from somewhere, flowing over her face, reviving her. They had stopped somewhere, with the vehicle’s rear doors open. Darkness outside, from what she could see.
‘You are awake,’ the man stated. He checked her bonds. Went to Beth’s side and did the same.
He was wearing an FDNY uniform.
‘You came early. I wasn’t expecting that.’ The man came over to her. ‘I had to move fast. All the moving parts in my plan … had to move them forward.’
Was that a faint Russian accent or was her mind playing tricks?
‘Who are you?’ she asked, even though she knew. Anything to keep him talking. Her mouth felt like … rubber.
His eyebrows drew together. ‘You don’t know?’
‘Razor?’ she swallowed.
‘You know me as Rufus.’
‘Stop wasting time,’ a voice yelled from the cab. In Russian. ‘Kill them.’
‘Not here,’ Razor replied in the same language, his eyes on her.
‘Why not?’
‘We might need them as hostages. Besides, I want to rape them.’
His eyes drilled into her as if expecting a reaction.
She didn’t twitch a muscle. She and Beth knew Russian, among several other languages. Zeb had gotten them to start learning in the first week of their joining the Agency.
Is he testing me? Checking if I understood him?
Hidalgo didn’t say anything about Razor and rape.
She almost snorted. It wasn’t as if they knew anything much about the killer.
‘That money we brought, it’s got trackers.’
‘No, it hasn’t.’ The answer was indifferent, almost bored, the dark eyes piercing her as if reading her mind. ‘No one knows where you are and what happened to you.’
Our jackets have trackers on them. Zeb and the others will know.
‘No signal leaves this vehicle,’ he said, dashing her hopes in the next moment. ‘And in a few hours, it will be so your bodies will never be found.’
‘Why did you stop?’
‘Yuri,’ he jerked his head at the man in the cab. ‘He wanted to take a leak. Good help is hard to find, which is why I work alone. But for this assignment, I had no choice but have him as a partner.’
‘Let’s go,’ Yuri yelled from the front.
Razor stepped out without a word and slammed the door shut. The vehicle started moving.
Meghan lay back, taking deep breaths, letting cool air fill her lungs, clear the fog in her mind. They would die if she and Beth didn’t act.
However, what could they do?
Her sister was still out. They had no weapons. No, that wasn’t right. She remembered suddenly and raised her head and tried to look down her body.
The cuffs around her wrist felt like plastic, standard ties that they themselves used. She bent the fingers of her right hand down her palm, searching, praying.
There. She nearly groaned in relief when she felt the delicate thread at the cuff of her jacket. The filament was barely noticeable; it looked like the stitching on her jacket had frayed and was unraveling. Even the best operatives ignored it, if they even spotted it.
She caught the thread with her middle fingers and started drawing it out.
It slipped.
She cursed under her breath and tried again. She trapped the filament against the fleshy base of her palm this time and dragged it upwards. Sighed in relief when she got hold of it between thumb and forefinger.
And pulled.
There was resistance, initially. That was by design. It gave way at a firm tug, and the thread drew out.
The fiber extended and broadened to a few millimeters as it came out of the cuff. It was coated with a ceramic alloy and, by twisting it to a particular angle, turned into a cutting tool.
She got the angle right after several attempts, her forehead beaded with sweat, her nails chipping and cracking with the effort.
She pulled and started sawing desperately. Wincing whenever the sharp edge caught against her skin. Felt movement by her side. Turned her head. Beth. She was awake, watching her with wide eyes.
There might be cameras in the vehicle. Razor might lip-read.
She stared back at her sister, hoping she could read her mind.
Beth moistened her lips, and Meghan bit back the gasp of relief when she saw her sister’s fingers work at her cuff.
She felt the vehicle turn as it navigated, and the knifing tool nearly slipped out of her fingers. She bit her lip, closed her eyes in concentration, and worked hard. Felt something warm and sticky on her wrist. Knew that she had cut her wrist.
It didn’t matter.
The ambulance slowed and jolted as it drove over uneven ground.
We must be getting closer. No sounds of traffic outside.
Something brushed against the sides of the vehicle. She cocked her head, listening.
Branches.
Forest? Some place remote, with thick undergrowth?
Staten Island? Had they crossed the bridge and entered its woods?
She worked furiously, knowing what the slowing down meant.
They were nearing their destination.
Looked across at Beth and saw the realization in her eyes.
She tugged at her wrist. Felt the tie loosen. Pinched the tool between her fingers and sawed furiously.
Indistinct conversation from the cab. Jolting and swaying of the vehicle. Which helped, making the tool bite deeper. At a harder shake the restraint broke.
Let there not be cameras, she prayed. And even if there are, let Razor not pay attention to us.
She yanked the tool free of the sleeve with a hard jerk, raised her back, twisted her right hand beneath it and worked on her left wrist.
Looked at her sister, who mouthed, right, free.
The vehicle stopped.
Chapter Forty-Three
Meghan lay there, heart thumping, watching from the corner of her eye as Beth worked desperately.
Doors slammed at the front. She held her hands to her sides, willed herself to look scared. Which wasn’t difficult.
Let them not inspect the ties.
Footsteps sounded.
A handle cranked at the back and doors flung open.
A large man stood framed in the door: Yuri, she guessed, from the dim ambient light falling on him.
His face was in shadow, but she got the impression of wild hair on his head and a thick beard.
‘Pull them out.’ Razor, not visible to her.
He’s probably holding a weapon, covering us as we exit.
‘Da,’ Yuri grunted. He bent, fiddled with some equipment, and a ramp lowered. He stood in between the two gurneys, unlocked their wheels, grabbed their sides with each hand and pulled at them.
The gurneys slid out, guided by his hand, and came to a halt on the ground.
First impressions were registering on Meghan. They were in a small clearing. Trees everywhere. Foliage overhead, but sufficient light to see Razor to Meghan’s right, four feet away.
Something glinting in his hand. A stubby weapon pointing in their direction.
Yuri to her left, two feet away, one hand on each gurney.
The large man, relaxed, not expecting any trouble. Razor alert, his gun aimed a few inches over her body.
Beth, now! she telegraphed silently without looking at her sister.
Her sister seemed
to read her mind.
Beth reared up. Her right fist punched Yuri in his throat.
Meghan threw her weight to her left. Sent the gurney crashing to its side, its bottom presenting itself to Razor, who fired.
Rounds struck the gurney. She yanked her feet savagely, groaning as the plastic ties bit deep. Another superhuman pull. Something bent. Not the ties but the metal railings they were fastened to.
She didn’t have much time. Razor would move back. Wait for her to show herself and pepper her. Or he could approach and fire over the temporary shield.
She pulled hard, crying out, and felt the tubular railing break. Probably weak from use and age. It didn’t matter why. She was free. That was important.
Something hit her in the back. She risked a quick glance. Yuri, who was grappling with Beth.
The firing stopped. Razor changing magazines.
She took the opportunity. Raised her left elbow in a wicked jab. Caught Yuri at the base of his neck. Brought her knees to her chest and kicked out explosively.
The gurney went sliding towards Razor. She raised her head a fraction. The killer stumbling back, his gun hand rising.
A yell burst from her as she leaped. Diving over the equipment, hands reaching out. Not going for Razor’s face or neck, but at his gunhand, which was coming down, straight at her.
Fingers of both hands opening. Finding his wrist. Grabbing it and forcing it up, sending rounds skywards. Her body crashing into him, its weight not quite succeeding in dislocating his shoulder.
The gun fell.
Meghan landed. Lost her grip on him. Felt movement. Rolled desperately and caught a kick in her ribs.
A groan burst out of her, and then Razor was on her, raining punches on her. No time to think. Muscle memory and training took over. Blocking, sliding desperately on the ground, rearing with her head, connecting her forehead to Razor’s nose, feeling it break, spray on her face. The blows disappearing as the killer fell back. She got to her knees and then to her feet.
Yuri and Beth were fighting barehanded behind Razor. Even as she watched, the Russian lifted her sister bodily and flung her against a tree.
Meghan heard ribs snap. An agonized cry. Shock and anger flooded through her.
Use your emotions.
She charged at Razor with a bloodcurdling yell, catching his chest with her left shoulder, flinging him backwards. Something that felt like a block of concrete hit the side of her head. She staggered.
A punch to her neck left her gasping and sobbing for breath. The killer moved in front of her. Weaving and dancing, face dark from the blood flowing from his nose, eyes impassive.
He tested her with a blow. She ducked, heard the slap of flesh, Beth still fighting with Yuri. That split-second of distraction was the opening Razor needed. The side of his palm caught her neck, sent her reeling and falling to the ground.
Fire and heat raced through her at the force of the blow. She landed on her right side, a rock gouging her ribs. Felt it move. Felt blood trickle down her face.
We’re going to die. But not without causing serious damage.
And with that, cold determination spread through her, compartmentalizing the pain.
She grabbed the rock underneath her as Razor approached, dancing.
She got to her feet and held it up.
He stopped.
She pulled her hand back, preparing for a throw. He started to duck.
She let the missile fly.
At Yuri.
The rock hit the large Russian square in the lower back. He groaned and stumbled back. Beth shoved him back and kicked at him.
And then Razor was flying towards Meghan, something sharp flashing in his hand. A blade.
He slashed at her face. She weaved out.
He thrust again. She deflected the blow.
Realized her mistake too late. It was a feint.
His hand curved back wickedly and the knife cut a thin line across her belly.
She jumped back, felt the warm trickle of blood.
Not serious.
Razor came again. Knife dipping in and out, moving side to side, lips curled tauntingly.
He jabbed. She snapped a blow to his neck. He sidestepped. And attacked, and this time kept coming, and all she could do was block and defend as much as she could.
Her foot slipped.
Razor lunged forward. His left hand came up.
Slapped her across the face, a brutal, insolent blow that sent her head rocking.
She brought her arms up to defend.
Gave him the opening he wanted.
The blade sank between her ribs on her right side.
She felt no pain. Felt her eyes widen.
The next moment, his left hand was around her throat, squeezing the breath out of her.
And then the pain appeared. Dark and hot, searing and lancing as the blade bit deep, Razor’s eyes unwavering, only his lips lifting in a grin.
And that enraged her.
She summoned her strength, gritted her teeth and, instead of trying to draw away, surged forward.
The knife went deeper. Razor’s eyes showed emotion for the first time.
They widened as the thrust brought Meghan close to him.
She snarled, even as she saw blackness starting to appear. Opened her mouth wide, lunged forward, bit his right ear and pulled savagely.
Razor screamed. The grip on the knife eased.
She didn’t let go. She clamped her jaws tight and reared her head back.
Razor howled.
The hand around her throat fell away.
She brought her knee up and into his groin.
Razor groaned.
Headbutted him.
The killer stumbled back.
The knife in her body remained.
She grabbed at it with her right hand.
Meghan was rage. She was death. She was darkness.
She pulled it out savagely, uncaring, unheeding, pounced on Razor and sank it deep in his neck.
The killer fell.
Meghan landed on top of him, her hands welded to the blade, keeping it buried in him.
He rained blows on her.
She absorbed them.
He punched her neck. Her head swam, but she didn’t let go of the knife.
A punch loosened a tooth. She didn’t budge and put all her weight behind the knife and held on and would continue holding it there until the earth stopped turning and time slowed and came to a standstill and until …
Razor’s eyes flickered. His breathing slowed. He gasped. He went still. He died.
Meghan trembled and shivered but still didn’t move.
A moan came to her.
Her head lifted as if it was a great weight.
Yuri, bent over Beth, methodically striking her.
Meghan didn’t know from where she got the strength. She was moving before she realized it.
Racing towards the large Russian.
Crying, snarling, as she leapt on his back, plunging the blade repeatedly into his neck until Yuri fell back, almost crushing her underneath him.
She crawled from beneath, went to her sister, whose face was bloodied, lips cut, forehead bleeding, neck bruised, arm twisted.
‘Beth?’ she whispered.
Her sister’s eyes opened.
‘I’m —’
‘Don’t talk.’ Meghan squeezed her shoulder. She searched Yuri. No phone on his body.
Sobbing in desperation, she went to Razor. Found a cell in his pocket.
It fell to the ground. She couldn’t grip it in her slippery fingers.
She cursed and prayed as she picked it up again. Jabbed at buttons, turned to look at her sister, who had raised her head.
Felt darkness coming on.
‘Bwana!’ she cried and didn’t remember anything more.
Chapter Forty-Four
Someone was hovering over her when she came to the second time. The face was blurred and made soft sounds. Meghan thought she might
be in heaven and gave a contented sigh and faded back.
The face over her was definitely not that of an angel when she woke up for the third time. Bwana, grim-faced, lines around his stern mouth, which relaxed into a broad smile when she blinked.
‘I’m not in heaven?’ She licked her dry lips.
He supported her as she sat upright and gave her a glass of water. His laugh rumbled through the room. ‘Nope. I’m with you. That’s better, isn’t it?’
She swallowed gratefully and looked over his shoulder. They were in a spacious room, a hospital for sure, judging by the equipment by her side and the tubes sticking out of her.
‘Beth’s in the next room. She woke up an hour back … she’s fine,’ he said, reading her anxious expression. ‘Both of you have broken ribs. She’s got a dislocated shoulder, broken fingers, mouth needs surgery … Hey!’
He put down a palm the size of a shovel and pushed her gently back on the bed. ‘You aren’t going anywhere. She’s in good hands. She’ll get back to normal.’
‘She’ll be fine?’
‘One hundred percent. I promise.’
She relaxed and closed her eyes. Bwana never gave his word lightly. Her eyes flew open.
‘What about me?’
‘Ribs, like I said. Two of them. That knife wound is bad. A fraction of an inch deeper and it would have punctured your lung. Your neck will take some time to heal —’
‘Will I recover?’ she stopped him.
‘Yeah,’ he looked at her in surprise, as if it was never in doubt. ‘Rog’s already laid out a recovery plan and a training schedule. The two of you will be kicking ass in no time.’
The door swung open and Roger entered. He winked broadly when he saw her. Behind him, Bear and Chloe, Broker with a bunch of flowers. No Zeb.
‘He’s with Beth,’ Bwana told her. ‘You know how he is.’
She did. She blinked rapidly to keep her tears away when her friends gathered around her. She didn’t have to ask how she came to be in the hospital. Bwana would tell if she enquired, but she knew.
They would have searched the city the moment Werner lost contact with Beth’s GPS tag and her own. They would have arrived at the last signal point. Heavily armed, grim-faced, a group of people who could, and had, waged war all by themselves. They would have searched in ever-widening circles, hands near their weapons, ready to reduce the city to ashes and dust.