Kiss the Enemy (Slye Temp)

by Dianna Love

  Tattoo’s annoying voice shouted at Lurch.

  Lurch’s nicotine rasp snarled something back then she heard the sound of a fist or foot hitting a body. Dragan was making them expend energy to move him and Lurch was kicking him.

  Don’t, Dragan, you have to live...

  The door slapped shut and the silence threatened to destroy her.

  Please come back.

  She had to think about something other than being left alone. More alone than she’d ever been in her life.

  She turned her head again and the throbbing almost blinded her.

  Light struggled to sneak through the narrow horizontal window above her.

  Not a window.

  A slot cut into a metal door. Too high for anything except observation. Another slot at the bottom should be for shoving food through.

  When was the last time she’d eaten? No idea. What about her last drink of water? A lifetime ago. Who had captured her? She searched her lethargic mind and came up with the Trophy Room.

  She’d gone upstairs with the bodyguard. He turned out to be Dragan. Or so he said.

  Four men attacked from two directions. She’d held her own in spite of no weapon and that damn dress.

  Then what?

  A hypodermic needle was shoved into her neck.

  Everything blurred again. Think dammit.

  There was more. She had to dredge it up, but thinking hurt like a mother. Her brain had never liked many drugs beyond aspirin or Tylenol. She did recall throwing up on her guards here when they’d dragged her to her feet. Bonus.

  The attackers could have killed them at the hotel, but she and Dragan had been brought here for interrogation. Questions about the Banker, over and over again.

  Did the kidnappers work for him or were they trying to find the Banker too?

  She’d asked. Got burned on her hand for that one.

  Way in the back of her mind, thoughts of Slye Temp huddled, biding their time to get in her face and tell her how badly she’d fucked up. But that would have to wait. She didn’t have the energy to push her mind beyond this moment and survival.

  She and Dragan would survive.

  They needed water. She wasn’t sweating.

  Her hair stuck to her shoulders and back from when she’d been soaked with sweat, but it wasn’t wet now. She hated the smell of her hot skin baking in this hut. Not a breath of air. But the little bit of light outside was dimming, which meant night would come soon.

  Events from last night—or had it been during the day?—slammed into her thoughts, jumbled up, but she deciphered enough to catch the warning.

  Relief wouldn’t come with nightfall.

  The guards would.

  Dragan was right. They took him first. Then her.

  Her headache turned into a dull pulse. Her eyes fluttered. She forced them open. They fluttered again. Darkness closed in.

  Lurch tossed her against a wall, scraping her skin as she slid down. Her hands were tied behind her. He unzipped his pants...

  She snapped awake, shouting, “No!” But the word had been a harsh sound too quiet to scare a rat. She looked toward the slit in the door. The room was fully dark except for a thin stream of moonlight.

  Where was Dragan?

  She turned back to the hole, a lifeline she couldn’t lose. “Hey?” She waited. “You there?” Don’t panic. He might not be dead. “Sugar?”

  She quieted her breathing and listened.

  No sound. He was still being interrogated. Still alive. Keep believing.

  Her head still pounded, but she was more lucid than last time she was awake.

  Their captors had begun with simple beatings, which were nothing more than a starting point for breaking a prisoner to gain information.

  Tonight the bastards would take it up a notch.

  By tomorrow neither she nor Dragan would be able to fight back. They had to get out now.

  Just like six years ago when she’d escaped on the run from another mess.

  One that had involved another sexy man on the wrong side of the law. Starting to see a pattern here. She hadn’t thought of Pierre in a long time. He’d been the one she’d fallen hard for, the one she’d been sure was not a criminal. She’d missed that one by a mile.

  Had he escaped capture in France?

  The last time she’d seen him, he’d left her in their tousled bed after taking a phone call that had ended hours of the best sex she’d ever had before or since. He’d hurriedly dressed, promising to call later, and rushed out.

  Oh, he’d called all right.

  Two hours later, she’d answered the phone, prepared to tell him she was still nude, when he told her to get as far away as she could. Men were coming for him and would go through her.

  Leave the apartment? she’d asked.

  The country. Get out of France. Hide.

  But she’d gone to France to hide.

  That was her life. Always looking over her shoulder and trying to stay one step ahead of capture. But she’d missed a step this time and it might prove to be her last.

  A noise outside the hut triggered a spike in her heart rate.

  Not outside her door, but Dragan’s.

  She held her breath, her spirits spiked at the sign that he was still alive. They wouldn’t carry his body back here, right? What little Margaux had seen of the camp looked like an abandoned location for drug runners.

  The slap of a door bouncing open next door came first, then the sound of something being dragged and dropped with a thud.

  Were they coming for her now?

  Her heart thudded in her ears while she waited. That was part of torture. Anticipation. Don’t feed into it. She closed her eyes and calmed herself to retain all the energy she could.

  Ten minutes passed slowly while she waited for the two guards to come for her, but the next sound she heard was Dragan sliding across the floor of his hut.

  Not dead. Still capable of walking?

  If he couldn’t walk or run, how would they escape?

  “Sugar,” came out on a hoarse voice.

  She smiled at the silly term, but grimaced at how thin his voice sounded. “How bad?”

  “Shitheads are amateurs.” It came out “shithads ur emters.”

  She swallowed and it hurt. She had no saliva to soothe her raw throat. “Why are they late tonight?”

  “I kept ‘em longer.”

  What? “Explain.”

  “Figured ... wear them out on me. Too tired for you.”

  You dumb fuck. Why would he take more beatings—or whatever they did to him—for her? “That was stupid.”

  “No. Strategic.” He was silent a moment and she waited while he had to be drawing enough saliva to keep talking. “They bragged about ... plans for you. For tonight.” More silence. “Get out. Know you can do it. Go.”

  He was telling her to escape without him, and that he recognized her skills. He’d taken their abuse to give her an edge. Damn him. She needed him strong enough to go with her. That was assuming she could even figure a way to escape. Her heart was having a throw down with her conscience.

  “Sugar.”

  She wanted to yell, but kept her voice low. “No. I’m not leaving without you. Stop taking my beatings. You have to be able to walk.” She paused, hoping he’d boast about being able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Nothing. She asked, “You can still walk, right?”

  “I’m good.”

  Liar. She dropped her forehead down to the floor.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Sugar.”

  Margaux lifted her head and turned to the hole Logan spoke through. “What?” came out loaded with frustration.

  He chuckled, a raspy sound. “Wish we’d met ... some other time.”

  “Why?” She knew why she wished they’d met under different circumstances, but couldn’t imagine why he would after she’d blown his meeting with the Banker. Had that been why they were captured? She’d been interrogated about who she worked for and who to
ld her about the Banker. She’d given them nothing and they’d given her more beating.

  Margaux squeezed her eyes against the flood of anger. Anger at these assholes, at the Banker, but more than anything? At herself. She should have brought Sabrina and the team in on this back in the beginning when she’d first gone after the Banker. Indulging her vendetta for so long might end up costing the lives she went to San Francisco to save.

  She’d blown her only shot at meeting the Banker and finding out where he planned to attack.

  She’d let a lot of people down and had no way to gain Sabrina’s trust again, but she had bigger concerns than thinking about everything she’d lost.

  Dragan had to get out of here soon. He wouldn’t last another round.

  He hadn’t answered her. She repeated, “Why do you wish we’d met some other time?”

  Dry cough then, “Because ... you’re one hell of a woman ... and a mystery.”

  His compliment shouldn’t mean so much, but it did. He had every reason to hate her, but instead his words had warmed her, stroking her battered ego. But she was a mystery she had no intention of allowing anyone to solve.

  Speaking of puzzles, if they were going to die, she wanted answers. “Are you really Dragan?”

  “Yes.”

  She waited for him to ask how she knew him and why she’d been in the Trophy Room, but he didn’t. Instead, he told her, “Don’t ask anything else. Less we know about each other ... the better.”

  Was he worried that she’d break or that he would? She heard footsteps crunching the ground outside. “Shh. Someone’s coming.”

  Dragan’s whispered with more power than before. “Get out if you can.”

  “We will escape together.”

  “No, too dangerous to ... ”

  “Just shut up, okay?” She had no plan, but she didn’t want to be distracted by Dragan while she made it up as she went.

  “Listen, Sugar,” his voice was scratchy, coming fast. “They’re going to gang rape you then they ... ” The dry cough that interrupted him sounded painful.

  He didn’t have to explain. Their captors had something even more heinous planned for tonight’s torture.

  After the gang rape.

  She’d counted six men in the camp so far, all disgusting examples of the lowest level of humanity. Her clammy skin chilled at the visual of being dropped in the middle of them.

  She’d survived that once.

  Didn’t mean she wanted to again and she wouldn’t be the only one suffering if they gave her an opening.

  Dragan’s voice faded, but she heard, “Go ... before you can’t.”

  She was done talking. It would only waste what strength they both still had. At least, she was praying that he still had some. No one had answered her prayers in the past, but the Big Guy might answer one for Dragan.

  Margaux crawled across the floor, grinding her teeth at the new raw spots being rubbed on her knees. She sucked in air to appease her lungs then lay down and forced her body to relax.

  The scrape of a board as it was removed from across the outside of the door shoved everything out of her mind except concentrating on her next move. Find a way out of here. She’d only get one chance. After that, she’d be in no shape to try again because they would punish her.

  She curled into a fetal position, turned so that she could peek between her lashes, feigning sleep.

  There was a heavy bump against the hut. Lurch had dropped the board and Tattoo would be opening the door ... now.

  Nighttime seeped into her hut. More hot air to drag through her painful lungs, but she felt the first burn of adrenaline pump through her and pleaded with her body to give her one solid push.

  Lurch walked in and set down a kerosene lantern. His weapon belt drooped on one side with a machete stuck through a leather loop and a Vektor SP1 9mm automatic in his holster.

  Oddly, Tattoo was the one in charge each time, which might account for his carrying the radio in addition to his arsenal that also included a Vektor pistol. But Tattoo had a fixation with knives. One was in a leather sheath hooked to his belt and hung half the length of his thigh. He had a shorter K-bar knife that he wore on a lanyard and he had that blade out picking his teeth at the moment.

  Tattoo paused long enough from his dental hygiene to order Lurch, “Get her.”

  Lurch lumbered over to Margaux and clamped meaty fingers around her arm, yanking her up.

  She hung like dead weight, eyes half open. “Wh... what ...” She groaned.

  “Get up,” Lurch yelled at her.

  She slid a knee up and tried, then flopped down, shaking. She sniffled and made incomprehensible noises between pleading, “No. Please.”

  “También, puta.” Rough fingers grabbed one of her breasts and squeezed.

  You think I’ll beg, huh? Tears would have come naturally at that moment if she weren’t dehydrated. She wanted to reach up and drive his eyes deep into his head, but that wouldn’t get her out of here. Keeping up the show, she keened a pitiful sound and trembled harder.

  Lurch let go and she slumped to the floor. He rattled something in Spanish that sounded like he complained that she was too big.

  Never capture something you can’t handle, Lurch.

  Tattoo’s Spanish flew even faster in reply.

  All she caught was that the little man was pissed. He shoved his knife into the sheath, spitting words out the whole time he strutted over to her. He reached under one arm and Lurch caught her beneath the other one, both of them lifting her to her knees.

  Tattoo wrinkled his nose.

  Hooray for stinking. The little prick didn’t like getting her stench on his clothes. The jungle was not the place for an OCD personality. When she made an effort to get to her feet, Lurch must have been happy, because he loosened his hold. That allowed her to lean into Tattoo, who recoiled from her.

  This had to be fast and quiet. No bullets.

  Had to take Lurch out first.

  Her only advantage was the element of surprise.

  Margaux reached deep inside for all the power she could wield and swung an underhanded fist with everything she had, slamming Lurch in the groin. That threw her weight forward. She landed on one foot and shoved off, spinning around to forced all her weight behind a fist to Tattoo’s jaw.

  His head snapped back. He hit the floor.

  She stumbled sideways.

  Lurch was making a sick gargle noise and heaved backwards. His head banged the wall with a solid crack before he slid down into a crumpled pile.

  The whole thing happened in seconds.

  She lunged to her feet, moving faster in her mind than in reality. Lurch was down. She turned to Tattoo. He was coming to his feet, shaking his head and blinking as he reached for his weapon.

  Hate raged in his black eyes.

  Kicking again would send her off balance. She dove at him, knocking him backwards and landing on top of his body. The pistol flew from his grip. The impact stunned him. She shoved up, gasping for breath, and reached for his head. He yanked a knife up with quicker reflexes than she’d expected and swung it at her as she wrenched his head hard, snapping his neck.

  The blade sliced her upper arm, then dropped from his hands.

  Dead eyes stared up at her in shock.

  She fell over to the side in a heap, sucking in air.

  Get up.

  Not happening.

  “Sugar. You okay?”

  She couldn’t answer Dragan. Get up. Never stay down. Had to go.

  Lurch groaned. He was too big to take down a second time.

  Hearing him rally was the motivation she needed to force her body to move again.

  Going on automatic pilot, she struggled to her knees once more, shaking for real this time. She picked up Tattoo’s K-bar knife and crawled over to Lurch. He had one hand cupping his balls and tears streaming down his face. His other hand struggled to withdraw his pistol that was pinned between his body and the ground.

  He was snarli
ng unintelligible words as he rocked to one side to yank his weapon free. She didn’t need a translator to know how many ways he planned to abuse her.

  You’re never touching another woman.

  He gripped the pistol, finger moving toward the trigger as he pulled the weapon out.

  She drove the blade tip into his throat.

  He dropped the gun to grab at his neck. Those dull eyes finally lit with realization.

  Die, you miserable piece of shit. And he did.

  She pulled the knife out, wiped it on the ground then dragged his pistol close. She checked to make sure a round was chambered, then laid it beside her to keep handy as she started removing his boots and clothes. The real possibility of escape gave her a surge of energy. Her fingers fumbled with boot strings and buttons, but she kept moving, the pistol next to her foot where she could reach it without looking. She listened for a sound, expecting to have company any minute.

  It felt like it took an eternity to strip Lurch and Tattoo of their shirts, pants, boots and weapon belts.

  “Sugar!”

  “Shut. Up,” she hissed back toward the hole. If Dragan alerted one of the other guards right now, she’d kill him herself. Anger was good. It fed more power into her movements. She yanked off the wife-beater undershirt Tattoo wore. That had to be the cleanest piece of clothing here. She used it to wrap her arm.

  Hurry. Every second counted.

  Sure, she had a pistol, but there were at least four more men who had more firepower. She was waning physically by the time she managed to get Tattoo’s clothes on. They stank with body odor. You’d have thought someone with OCD would use deodorant. But she thanked him for the long sleeves he’d worn that covered her bandaged arm even if the sleeves did stop halfway down her forearms.

  When she had his size-too-small boots on, belt around her waist and every weapon tucked back into place, she gathered Lurch’s clothes and boots in one armload and inched her way up the rough wood wall to stand.

  God, she needed water. Her head spun. When her vision cleared, she kept putting one foot in front of the next.

  She eased out into the night, leaving the lantern in the hut and the door open in case someone in the Quonset hut ninety yards away was watching to see when the light would move. As long as the lantern stayed in her hut, they might think Lurch and Tattoo were taking their time, toying with her.