by G. K. Parks
Walking purposefully in the direction of the warehouse, I tried not to seem suspicious, but I couldn’t help but look around. I wanted to know if I was being watched or followed. Less than a block away from the warehouse, the phone in my pocket vibrated. It was Mark.
“Hey, you called just in time.” I stopped my procession.
“Parker,” his voice sounded urgent, “the results just came in from the bomb and the body. It wasn’t Gustav in the car.”
“What?” I spoke too loudly, and I glanced around before slowly resuming my stroll. “Who was it?”
“The remains belong to Jacques Marset.”
“Shit, I have to go. I need to warn Ryan.” If Gustav wasn’t in the car, where was he? Was he still alive? And if so, there was a good chance tonight was a trap. Suddenly, the delivery notification for the VHS tape made perfect sense. “Gustav’s alive. The video was a fake. It was delivered a day too soon.” Even with the time difference and overnight airmail, if Gustav had been killed Monday morning, the earliest I would have gotten the package would have been Wednesday or perhaps Tuesday night, but not first thing Tuesday morning. There wouldn’t have been enough time. I didn’t realize it, and apparently neither did Mark or any of the Interpol agents. Instead, I had been blinded by Clare’s hysterical phone call and Gustav’s alleged murder. Clare, how did she fit into this? My mind raced.
Turning around, I headed back to my car. Mark was still speaking, and I needed him to stop so I could disconnect. He was discussing the bomb schematics, but his words weren’t processing in my question-addled brain. As I rounded a corner, a man wearing a gas mask stepped out of the shadow and sprayed something in my face. I stepped back, trying to make sense of the world which had begun to spin.
The phone fell from my hands as the ground teetered, and someone grabbed me from behind. A cloth was shoved over my nose and mouth, and I resisted the urge to inhale. But my lungs betrayed my resolve, and I gasped for breath. My lungs burned as a sickly, sweet smell filled my nostrils, and then the world pitched forward. The last thing I saw was a foot smashing down on the fallen phone before everything turned dark.
Nineteen
The sound of moaning roused me from my sleep. It took a moment before I realized I was emitting the noise. How the hell did I fall asleep in such an uncomfortable position? My eyes were still closed, and my head was pounding. My hands were numb, and every muscle from my wrists to my lower back ached. Opening my eyes and squinting against a single, harsh light, I slowly lifted my head. My chin had been on my chest, and just the slight movement sent sharp pains down my spine. What the hell? I thought miserably. As I focused on my surroundings, terror overtook my senses.
Calm down, my internal voice commanded. Leaning my head all the way back, I looked up. My wrists were tied with rope, and I was dangling from a metal hook, similar to ones used to move heavy objects from one conveyer belt to another. There were a good six inches between my feet and the ground. Between my bound wrists and the ground being so far away, I had no leverage. I shut my eyes and tried to think logically, pushing the frenzied thoughts away. I needed to concentrate and not panic. Start with a simple task. Moving my fingers in the hope of getting some sensation back in them would be the first step in getting myself off the hook, literally. Each motion sent the painful pins and needles up my already sore arms and through my numb hands, but any feeling was better than no feeling.
The room was dimly lit and seemingly abandoned. I turned as far to the side as possible, trying to survey the entire area. It was an old, dilapidated warehouse. Was this the same warehouse where I was supposed to meet Abelard, or was I someplace else entirely? I kicked my legs out, which made my body swing, and the thick rope cut painfully into my wrists. From what I could tell, the GPS was still inside my heel.
“Looks like our guest has awakened.” Abelard’s voice immediately drew my attention, and I froze, holding my breath.
The man, along with three of his goons, entered the room from a set of double doors directly in front of me. They made their way toward me. I recognized two of the men from the back room of the bar, and the third was Jean-Pierre.
“You son of a bitch,” I snarled at Jean-Pierre. “How could you?” I didn’t remember Mark’s conversation until now. Jean-Pierre stared at me silently. “I wish you were dead.”
“Now, now.” Abelard positioned himself in front of me, commanding my attention. “It turns out you haven’t been quite so honest yourself, Ms. Parker. Or is it still Agent Parker?” I glowered at him, hoping looks could kill. “If you’d be so kind as to tell me who you are working for and what they are planning on doing, then things won’t have to get ugly. If you cooperate, I promise to make this as painless as possible.”
“Bite me.” There was only one simple truth; once Abelard got what he wanted, he would kill me.
“We’ll see if you don’t change your tune.” He was enjoying this. He was a sadistic piece of shit. “Claude, bring out my tools,” Abelard called to the man I met at the pool hall. Claude emerged from behind the doors, wheeling out a small cart with what looked to be a cattle prod on top. I really didn’t like where things were heading.
“Are you planning on performing some magic tricks as entertainment while I hang around?” I wouldn’t give him the benefit of showing fear. He could do what he liked, but he wasn’t going to get off on my begging or pleading. I caught a glimpse of Jean-Pierre, and he shook his head ever so slightly in warning. “What’s a matter?” I taunted him. “You pulled a disappearing act of your own, but now you’re afraid you won’t like what you’re about to see?”
He didn’t reply, and Abelard flipped a few switches on the cart and picked up the humming contraption.
“Maybe my little magic trick will make you reconsider.” Abelard pressed the electrified end against my rib cage.
I gritted my teeth as the shock traveled through my body, igniting every nerve ending in an agonizing wave. He pulled the metal away and regarded me. I took a few deep breaths before managing to look at him defiantly. “That was refreshing, and just how I like to start my day, with a nice jolt of energy.” He would get no satisfaction if I could help it.
“Hmm.” He put the device down and picked up a dagger instead.
He approached menacingly, and I wondered if I could kick him. My hands were suspended in mid-air below the hook, so I was at a disadvantage. My kick wouldn’t have much force. I might be able to get my legs around his neck, but with four other men standing by, it was no use. It was best to conserve my attack strategy until I had a solid plan or no other choice.
Abelard stood in front of me, brandishing the blade in an ominous fashion. He turned the knife, so the flat part pressed against my skin as he slowly ran the blade down my cheek, across my lips, and to my neck, taking his time to trace the major arteries and veins with the sharp point. I swallowed and made the conscious effort not to cringe. When he grew bored of the theatrics, he dropped the blade to my clavicle and pressed the edge of the dagger into my skin, drawing it horizontally across the top of my collarbone as he carved open my flesh. My breathing remained steady, and I failed to react against the biting, razor-sharp steel. He released the pressure and continued downward to my shirt, slicing off the top three buttons, before taking a step back to admire his work. I stared at him, unimpressed.
“Who are you working for and what are they planning?” he asked again, a bit more portentously. I tilted my chin up and spit in his face. “Bitch,” he cursed and slapped me hard enough to send me spinning around on the hook. The rope dug deeper into my wrists, and blood ran down my arms. I needed to come up with a better game plan than pissing him off until he got bored and finished the job. Fortunately, that stunt afforded me the opportunity to see the rest of the warehouse. There was a loading dock in the back of the room, and although the windows were blacked out, a hint of light came from a street lamp outside. The black hole of hell had a back door. “Claude,” he commanded, and the man grabbed my hips and straig
htened me on the hook.
“Ali,” Jean-Pierre spoke from the corner of the room. He was observing the exchange but not partaking in the festivities. “Just tell him what he wants to know.”
I glared at him. “Don’t you dare call me that. It’s your fault I’m here. Whatever happens is on you,” I warned.
Before Jean-Pierre could reply, Abelard repowered his cattle prod device. He pressed it against my newly exposed skin, and I gritted my teeth, waiting for the onslaught to stop. At some point, I began screaming as wave after wave of fire ran through my nerve endings. My muscles contracted, and I had the briefest desire to give up when, finally, the torment stopped. My entire body went slack, and my head slumped against my chest. I wondered if I was actually smelling burnt flesh or if it was just in my head.
“I’ll let you think about that for a little while,” Abelard said as he and his group of merry mercenaries disappeared behind the double doors.
I needed to get free, especially before Abelard’s little toy made my heart stop, but I couldn’t move. Every part of my body ached, and my nerves were too raw and damaged to properly transmit signals. Hanging there, lifeless, I tried to come up with a plan. I feared I might be drifting in and out of consciousness. Wake up, Parker, my mind screamed.
Was the knife still strapped to my ankle? If I could get to it, I could cut myself down. That was the best idea I had. It was also the only idea I had. Slowly, I lifted my knees upward toward my chest. As I did this, the rope cut deeper into my wrists, and I could see the once white sleeves on my shirt turning red. I lowered my legs, and the pressure eased. If I could swing, I might be able to get my legs high enough to wrap around the chain holding the hook and retrieve the knife from my boot.
Before I could attempt this, Abelard, Claude, and Jean-Pierre returned. The GPS chip should still be active, and I wondered how long I had been here. What was the timeframe for the police to move in on my location? Had the electricity shorted it out? Most likely, the earwig was fried, but there was no way of reaching it either. Things were starting to feel hopeless, but I had to keep trying. Buy time, I thought frantically.
“Once again, who are you working for?” Abelard asked, sounding bored.
“No one.” Maybe my conversational skills would get him to ease up on the electric shock treatment. Hostage negotiation tactics often indicated attempting to humanize the victim, but with Abelard’s sadistic tendencies, I didn’t think that was a good idea. “I came here to hunt down Jean-Pierre’s killer. Guess what, he’s not dead. Case closed. You can let me go now.”
Abelard looked skeptical. “Forgive me, but I don’t believe you.” He sneered and picked up the cattle prod, taking his time to intimidate me with the implied threat of another round in the hopes I’d cave and give him the information.
“Maybe you should try turning that on yourself. It might make me feel sorry for you, and I’ll talk out of pity.”
His face contorted into a wicked smile. “I never imagined you would be this much fun.”
My screams were deafening. Wherever we were, Abelard wasn’t worried about noise. I prayed for unconsciousness to overtake me and free me from the lightning storm that was trying to make my nerve endings explode from the inside out.
“Stop before you kill her. If she’s dead, we won’t know who she’s working for or what they have,” Jean-Pierre said in French. The electric current stopped, and I went limp against the rope. My body twitched and convulsed. I wouldn’t survive another round. “Please, let me speak to her alone,” Jean-Pierre said quietly.
Did they think I passed out or was incapable of understanding the language? Either way, whatever I was going to do, I needed to do it as quickly as possible. Abelard and Claude retreated from the room.
“Ali,” Jean-Pierre spoke in a hushed tone. His fingers were on my neck, checking for a pulse.
“I hate to disappoint, but I’m not dead yet,” I retorted, taking a few slow breaths.
“You were never supposed to pursue me. I told you to go on with your life. I sent you the tape so you would know I was gone and leave it alone,” he whispered angrily.
“You sent the fucking tape, and I came back to Paris to avenge you. Clare called, hysterical over your death.” I shut my mouth. I needed to stay quiet in case I let anything slip. “You’re worse than Abelard. You’re a goddamn traitor.”
“Clare?” He faltered at her name.
The anger helped kick-start my adrenaline. I just needed a few minutes alone to free myself. Where the hell were Ryan and the rest of the Paris police?
“So you’re working for Sparky now? Son of a bitch would take you out in a heartbeat if he thought you were going to turn on him. Then again, you turn on everyone, just like a rabid dog.” I didn’t think I would be able to win him over to my side, and even if I did, there was no way I could trust him.
“I know. Ali, who are you working for? Why aren’t they coming for you?”
“He’s going to kill me.” I had no other play to make. “It doesn’t matter if he finds out or not. He’s going to kill me.” The words sunk into my subconscious and became a known reality. A random memory of Martin interrupted my thoughts, but I pushed it aside. “Why should I make his life easier?”
“I am sorry. I’ll do as much as I can.” He headed toward the double doors.
“Think about Clare,” I called after him.
For all I knew, she was on the other side of those doors, working with Abelard too, but she was the only weakness I knew to exploit. Jean-Pierre didn’t respond as he continued out of the room.
“Okay, Parker,” I spoke quietly to myself, “you took all those damn yoga classes for a reason.” Gritting my teeth, I swung my legs back and forth, slowly gaining momentum. My wrists were most unhappy by this, and I tried to lessen the pressure by grasping at the ropes. It didn’t help. Pulling down on my restraints, I let out a whimper as I swung my legs up and over, finally gaining enough height to cross my ankles together over the chain.
My bound wrists and locked ankles contorted my body into a circle, and I slid my ankles down the chain until they rested on the hook, just above my hands. Barely, I got my fingertips into the space between my boot and my shin and maneuvered my middle and pointer fingers to find the button securing the knife in place. Pulling downward, I unsnapped the button and grasped the knife. My wrists screamed in protest against the rope, which currently felt as if it were cutting through my bones, but I maintained a firm grip on the knife’s handle. Mission accomplished, I thought, dropping my legs.
Sawing away at the ties holding me in place, I pondered my next move. If I could get off the hook and on the ground, then I would worry about getting the rope off my hands. As I sawed, I alternated my gaze toward the double doors. Any second, Abelard would be back. It was a sobering certainty. The rope was severely frayed, so to save time, I stopped sawing and tugged as hard as I could. I bit my bottom lip to keep from screaming as the rope gave way, and I crashed to the ground.
Scrambling up and barely able to move, I did a quick assessment, looking for a hiding spot or weapon. There were a few crates in the back corner, and I crouched behind them while I finished cutting my hands free. My sleeves were red, and my wrists were swollen, burned, and bloody. Keeping the knife poised in my right hand, I reached into my bra for the earwig. It was worth a shot. I turned it on but heard nothing but static. Fuck.
The double doors opened, and Abelard barked orders in French. I needed an escape plan. Going straight to the loading dock provided no cover. I would be spotted immediately. The warehouse had been used for storage of some kind. It was large, and I ducked behind some long-abandoned crates. Glancing around, I had a decent shot of moving from crate to crate until my means of escape seemed more plausible. But I needed something better to fight off my attackers than just a knife. How come people didn’t leave loaded machine guns lying around?
Creeping around the edge of the warehouse, I moved from one set of crates to another, remaining out of s
ight. Abelard’s men desperately hunted for me. Searching for other exits, I didn’t see any air ducts, windows, or anything that might lead to the outside world. Staying inside was a death sentence. The only plus was each of the men searched for me alone, and as far as I could tell, none of them were armed. In the dim lighting, I stayed in the shadows to prolong the inevitable. Everything from here on out was about buying time.
As I slunk around a corner, I stumbled on a metal object. The resulting clang drew attention from two of Abelard’s men. I reached down and located the metal pipe I tripped over. Scurrying around the corner, I pressed myself against the wall and waited. One of the men peeked around the corner. My swing connected with the man’s jaw, and he went down instantly. Maybe I should have been a baseball player. It was a much safer job. A second goon saw the attack and grabbed the end of my pipe before I could connect with him. I gave it a hard tug, and when he pulled back, I let go and lunged for him.
We rolled on the ground, and I attempted to land as many well-placed punches and kicks as I could. I was acutely aware that I needed to finish this and find another place to hide when the man got to his feet and threw me against the wall. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my knife and stabbed him just below the ribs. His grip loosened, providing the perfect opportunity to regroup. Finding the discarded pipe in the darkness, I took out his kneecap. He was kneeling on the ground, howling in pain, when I swung again for his head. He was either dead or unconscious, and at the moment, as long as he didn’t get back up, I didn’t care.