by Ann Raina
She cocked her head and a small, lopsided grin played around her mouth. “We are talking about your preferences and my imagination.”
“My preferences?”
Her gaze told him he should stop playing stupid. “I’ve watched you, Matthew. You’re good with ladies who want to be loved, but you get a thrill and a much better performance if you’re left no choice.”
Michael wet his lips. He wanted to ask how she knew, but she anticipated the question with a condescending smile.
“Many customers are my friends and if they had a good entertainment they’re most willing to brag about it. Be assured, I don’t need a peephole to learn about my boys.”
Suddenly he knew she was the one behind the cameras. She was the one watching her men perform and enjoyed the show. He didn’t know if he should laugh or be shocked at such an act of voyeurism. He had not thought of her to be that interested in her callboys and customers. What does that tell me about my knowledge of human nature?
“Now, tell me your decision, Matt.”
The door burst open and Kamal and four of his men rushed into the room, guns at the ready. “Stay where you are and show me your hands! Now!”
“Oh, those assholes!” Lady Summerston exclaimed in German, angry rather than shocked at the uninvited visitors. “Get out of my house, you scum! Now!” Her hands grasped the cloth of her skirt, her lips became a thin line. She stared at Kamal, who held a Walther with a silencer in his right hand. His entourage of four men fanned out to have a better shooting angle.”
“I’m with you on that,” replied Michael in German, too.
Her quick narrowing of eyes, a second to understand what he had revealed. “Five men, can you deal with them?”
“No dice. Not as long as they are armed. Try to alarm your guards.”
Kamal was there to hit Michael with the butt of his weapon. “Shut up, bastard! Take him down! Now! And you, woman, come with me!”
Michael ground his teeth. The pain was intense. For a moment, his vision blurred. He was pulled from the couch roughly. Lady Summerston stood beside him, flanked by two minions, looking angry and concerned.
“Bind his hands! I do not want trouble with him!”
“You won’t succeed, you shithead!” Lady Summerston struggled with the hands holding her. “Never!”
Kamal stood face to face. His voice was a threatening growl. “You have no idea what I can do. Your security is a joke.”
“I never thought of defending my home against assholes like you!”
Michael thrust himself in between them when Kamal raised his weapon. “Don’t hurt her!”
“Out of my way!” Kamal backhanded Michael that his head was knocked sideways. Without the other men steadying him, he would have fallen.
Lady Summerston cried out in horror. “You bastards! You’re nothing but scum soiling our country! Insulting the people who grant you shelter! If I could I would gut you!” She spat at Kamal. His eyes widened in fury, but the same moment, his minions dragged Lady Summerston to the door and Kamal turned to Michael.
“You’ll pay for what you did! Take him away!”
* * * *
Outside, Peter Donahue lay on the ground, bleeding from wounds at his head. He was still breathing. Two of Kamal’s men were about to drag him into Lady Summerston’s living room, moaning with the effort.
“You bastards!” Lady Summerston, reddened as if she had run a mile, was not to be guided downstairs gently. She turned and twisted her head to watch what happened to Peter.
It is quite a picture, Michael thought. The lady of the house, flanked by terrorists and still standing her ground. Reality wasn’t quite as amusing. Michael was pushed downstairs, stumbling, fighting nausea. His head throbbed. He couldn’t use his arms and the goons made sure he didn’t come up with fancy kicks or twists. When he stumbled, one of them jerked him back on his feet, not bothering if he twisted his arm. Michael bit his lips and tried to think of a way out. He looked out for the other guards, for guests who might alarm the police, for David, who might watch the scene and rush to a telephone.
The stairway was deserted, not even another callboy was on his way. It was the back of the wing, a part of the house the lady reserved for her staff and private quarters. Michael couldn’t expect visitors to stroll by when there was much more to do at the restaurant and recreation area. He cursed under his breath. Kamal and his men had checked out the whole building and daily schedule meticulously. There was no flaw in his planning and Michael wondered how he had found out about his true position. Alyssa? “What’s this about? Why do you take me hostage?”
The men didn’t answer.
It was up to Michael to make an educated guess how Kamal knew he wasn’t just a callboy.
* * * *
Kamal pushed Lady Summerston into the basement office. She stumbled and fell, stopping the impact with her hands on the dusty floor. Her breathing was ragged, but her look full of rage when she turned. “Bastards!”
“What’s this about?” George Summerston stood up behind his desk, puzzlement and shock clear on his face. “Kamal, are you out of your mind?”
“Conspiracy! Liars! All of you!” Kamal spat on the ground. “Our mission is almost complete. And I will not allow any of you to ruin it!”
“You have no right to act like this!” George was halfway around the desk when Kamal raised his weapon. George stopped and lifted his hands. All color drained from his face. “You don’t intend to shoot me! So what’s this about?”
“Traitors!” His stare hit Alyssa, who had gotten up to help Lady Summerston stand. “None of you will leave this room!” He nodded toward a short, slender man with a SMG. He took position near the wall, between the two desks where he could keep an eye on the three persons. “Cebrail, you guard them! I will talk to this Matt.” He turned on his heels, left and turned the key in its lock.
“Come, sit down here, milady.” Alyssa steadied Lady Summerston to sit on her chair. “Are you hurt?”
“Only my pride.” Lady Summerston shook her head. She glared at Cebrail. He was young, dressed in the uniform of a doorman that fit him loosely. His black hair was short, his brown eyes held fierce determination. However, his clean-shaven face and the too soft mouth denied thinking of him as a brutal terrorist. He was but a flunky taking orders. She shook her head. “What a fucking mess!”
George came up to her, but before he could utter words to soothe her, she fixed angry eyes on him.
“You better not try to explain or excuse any of your doings, you miserable bootlicker! You’re one foul apple in my orchard! Inviting the enemy we all try to smash!”
George opened his hands. “How should I’ve known? Are you unhurt?”
“If you had any common sense, you’d have known, but you only think with your wallet. That’s what you always did, no matter how big the fortune was you got. How much money did he pay you to keep you in line when he started shooting innocent people?”
George was aghast. “He never shot anybody!”
“But he will. Be sure he will if we don’t do anything about it. So, again, how much?”
“Let’s not discuss this here.”
Lady Summerston gave a harsh laugh, leaving her ladylike mannerism behind. Even her face appeared harder than usual. “Not here! Listen, I don’t buy your piss-poor performance! Don’t try me to believe any of your lies anymore. I bet, you lost a million bucks over some poor investment of yours and thought about getting it back with the help of terrorists!” She snorted and briefly looked at her dust-covered hands. “Now, isn’t that a fine expression of your face, Georgie? You’re a pathetic!”
“I miscalculated some of my investments, that’s all.” George leaned against the desk as if he needed something solid to remain upright. He looked ashen.
“That’s all!” She barked again, an infuriated laughter that echoed in the small room and made Cebrail nervous at the gun. “Did it ever occur to you that I have people watching your so-called invest
ments? Don’t you know that your portfolio is checked on a regular basis? I know what you did!”
George’s expression turned bitter. “And why didn’t you stop me from getting into contract with Kamal?”
Lady Summerston looked ready to jump into George’s face. Her voice was sharp enough to cut. “Because I’ve never thought it necessary to have you checked 24/7! Your contract seemed valid, the background legitimate.” She shook her head when George was ready to contradict. “Don’t throw tantrums now that I didn’t stop you! You dug that hole for yourself all alone!”
George pursed his lips, angry lines in a furious face. “Did you ever ask yourself why I struggled so badly to make my own money?”
She lifted her chin, arrogance at its finest. “Because normally, grownup men do that. Or so I heard.”
“No, Katherine, all I wanted was to get rid of your daily statements that it was just because of my deceased brother that I was allowed to stay! I was determined to leave at the end of this year, take the money, take the vinery and find some new place just for me.”
“A new place for you. Oh, please! That’s a schoolboy’s dream right now. You’ll never get rid of Kamal like this.” Without waiting for his reply, Lady Summerston turned to Alyssa. “And how do you fit in here? Kamal’s bedtime solace?”
Alyssa stared at her, mouth half-open. “Never!”
“But you won’t try and lie to me that you’re just the humble secretary trying to make ends meet. Answer me!”
Alyssa took the stand. It was hard and she needed all her courage to not blink when she answered. “I helped him to stay in contact with his people.”
“What a charming gesture!” Lady Summerston was angry beyond belief. “You dare working in my house and help terrorists get their flaks ready? What are you? A Middle East fundamentalist by nature? Should I have you checked for Muslim background or if your parents were associated with terrorists?”
Alyssa was so pale she looked gray. “I had never anything to do with terrorists! I…I was thrown into this! I swear!”
“Don’t look at my dear George for help! He’s next in line for prison.” And when George’s eyes widened, she added, “If we make it out of here in one piece.”
Chapter 20
The dungeon looked the same—dark, gray, offering the means for a fantastic experience if you were up to the ride. Faint music underlined the dramatic effect of steel cages, an Andrew’s cross and numerous contraptions meant to keep man or woman from escaping. What promised to be a sexual challenge for lovers was stripped the thrill down to instruments of torture. The illusion of a game between a sub and a dom was gone, washed away in the harsh reality of men using it with brutal determination. Kamal’s minions forced Michael into the center of the room. They hauled down a chain with a snap hook attached to it. The handcuffs were hooked in and the chain pulled up again until he could only stand on tiptoe.
Michael grunted under the strain, knowing damn well it wouldn’t take long until his sinews ached and his body weight caused muscles to cramp and hurt like hell. One more pull and he was off the ground.
“What do you want from me?” he tried again when the two strangers turned away. “What will you do with me?” He didn’t need to play he was afraid. He had seen footage enough to know what extremists did to their prisoners. His guts twisted as he failed to wash away the images forming in his head. “If you just asked, I might help you!”
* * * *
Kamal entered the dungeon with confident strides. He was not happy, no, far from it, but the first coup had worked as planned. Compared to mistakes done before and his ill decision about George Summerston’s greed and his misjudgment concerning the man’s stamina, he was in good mood to accomplish what his boss wanted without disclosing the whole cell. True, the cover of working on a wellness farm was blown and he would have to kill the people who had seen him, but aside from that, he had established a suitable network and enough men and women in good positions to strike whenever the great leader demanded action. There would be deaths in double digits in a single day. Industrialists, politicians, lawyers and judges. The country would be crippled within hours, bereft of men able to make decisions and be heeded. There would be minor politicians coming into power and he, Kamal, would be there to threaten them on time to make sure they would stay in line or follow their predecessors.
A faint smile was on his face, thinking a country changed within a week—from glorious leadership to headless struggle. There would be outrage, there would be confusion, there would be disorientated people crying for a new leadership. Kamal didn’t care what other revolutionary groups had tried and how they had failed. He would win. He knew it.
He approached Michael and the smile vanished. That man had done more harm in a few weeks than others in months. He had snooped around. He had put his nose into happenings he shouldn’t have seen. Kamal was certain that he was behind the raid on his enemy’s main quarters, which meant that he worked for the FBI. There had been too many details not adding up about the attack in the alley. Maybe he wasn’t the source, but he would know that soon enough. And Alyssa? He shook his head. Alyssa had been a liability from the beginning. He would deal with her. But the callboy was first in line.
Kamal took a whip from a hook at the wall and quickly, without time for his victim to brace, he struck Michael’s torso. The shirt split open along the stomach.
Michael bit his lips to keep from crying out. One more strike and blood trickled down his abs.
Kamal cocked his head. “Take his clothes.”
* * * *
The air was sticky, too warm to breathe and filled with an unpleasant mix of sweat, perfume and air freshener. Lady Summerston frequently glanced at Cebrail, who stood like a good soldier close to the wall, Uzi at the ready. She thought of the children soldiers sent to fight for a cause they didn’t understand. Cebrail had to be at least eighteen, yet he was by far too young to be a flunky for an asshole like Kamal. She knew there was no sense in any attempt to convince him to give up, to talk to him about human rights, about the wrongness of taking hostages and killing people. His indoctrination had probably begun before he turned seven and by now, he only believed Kamal to be leader and god in one person.
She should be frightened about the present danger, but her fury about George’s idiotic decision to form a pact with Kamal outweighed the fear of being maimed or killed. “For how long is this going on here?”
George had slumped on his chair again, a cup of cool coffee in his hands he didn’t drink. “You know it’s almost a year now.”
She squinted at him, angered that his voice sounded tired. “You knew they were planning an attack on the United States?”
“You make this sound like an international bomb threat. I don’t know what he does and why he gathers his people.” He shrugged. Coffee splashed over the rim. “For Christ’s sake! Right what I need!” He put down the mug on the stained table.
“What you need is a good thrashing. And the more you need some years in prison to think about how you gave away your country!”
“Don’t exaggerate, for God’s sake!” He got up to fetch some paper tissues from a small table near the door.
Cebrail raised his weapon immediately, alarmed.
George lifted his hands. “Hey, I just want something to wipe my pants, okay?”
Cebrail backed off a step and nodded curtly.
“Thank you.”
Lady Summerston watched her brother-in-law with open disgust. “God had nothing to do with this. You did this all by yourself! Tell me, since we sit here together like marionettes waiting to be pulled for the shooting, when did you decide to become a terrorist’s assistant?”
George turned, face flushing red. “I never thought it would turn out like this!”
“Oh, then what did you think it would turn out like? A barbeque in the backyard?”
“We agreed to employ foreign staff, Kate. You knew that.” He retreated to his desk. “It was the sole reason Kama
l was allowed in here.”
“He never worked here.”
“No, he instructed his men and trained them in English and—”
“And how to build bombs and use weapons.” She briskly turned to Cebrail. “Am I right? Did Kamal teach you how to use a weapon?”
Cebrail tried to look intimidating. “He is no concern of you. He is a great man.”
“Ah, right. Sure. And this great man told you to use weapons against us? Against the very people, who offered you shelter and a job?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “So you would shoot Mr. Summerston here if he made a wrong move? The very man who helped you into this country to work and live here?”
“Kamal tells us that his way is the only right one.”
Lady Summerston watched his rigid posture. She had seen in all before—the religious fanatics, the followers of violent priests in the sixties and seventies. There had been men around the world, preaching for a better tomorrow by means of destruction.
“You follow his way, no matter where it leads to?”
“His way leads to a great goal. He is a great leader. I follow him with my heart.”
“I don’t doubt that.” Behind her, Alyssa cleared her throat and Lady Summerston felt something cold touch her elbow. She spoke on, not even lowering her gaze. “He has chosen you well, Cebrail, to be one of his followers. The US is a big place. Our way of life could influence you in a way he has not foreseen.” The cold thing was a glass paperweight, big as an apple. Alyssa pushed it under her arm slowly. The feisty flesh was a good cover. Lady Summerston almost smiled. “But you stay true to your cause. That’s something I admire.” She managed to look at him as openly as she looked at new customers. “I’m sure he will reward you later on.”