Out of Plans (The Mercenaries #2)

by Stylo Fantome

  It wasn't too bad looking, at first. Damiano was standing up and laughing with a guard, gesturing at the door. The other guards were chuckling as well. Lily was tied into a chair, her head dropped back, and she was staring at the ceiling.

  But as he looked, he realized she was breathing heavily, her chest heaving up and down. Damiano walked closely in front of her and she jerked forward, her head flopping forward on her shoulders so she was staring straight at her lap. There was more laughter, and Marc could see that Damiano was stroking the edge of her pinky. But when he moved away, the finger stayed upright at an awkward angle.

  That's what the scream was; he broke her finger.

  “You couldn't resist the show, eh, De Sant!?” Damiano called out. Marc grimaced and banged on the door.

  “Too scared to fight a man!? Have to pick on little girls!?” he yelled back.

  “Oh, don't worry, I'll get to you next! She was too tempting to leave alone, I had to have a taste!” Damiano laughed, then grabbed Lily's hair again, tugging her head up so she was looking straight forward.

  Marc had expected fear, or pain, to be on her face, but then quickly realized that was stupid. This was Lily. She looked annoyed. Pissed off. Her lips were pressed together in a firm line and she glared at Marc.

  “If you could speed this up, I would greatly appreciate it!” she snapped. Damiano got down low, right against her side, slowly sliding his hand out of her hair, pulling as he went. She winced, then jerked free of him.

  “I didn't realize you were the kind of girl who liked to move fast,” he teased, and Marc's eyes got wide as he watched the drug lord trace his index finger down her ring finger – the one that was right next to her broken pinky.

  “Stop! Stop it!” Marc yelled, yanking at the door knob, kicking at the door.

  But the man wasn't listening to him. As Marc beat at the barrier between them, he could only watch as Damiano delicately lifted Lily's ring finger. Stretched it up, then put his own finger underneath it. Pushed it backwards. Kept pushing it. Farther and farther, so slowly. Lily's breathing picked up again, heavily through her nose, and Marc began to lose it, even backing away to shoot at the door. It did nothing, and when he looked again, her other hand was white knuckled in its grip on the arm rest. Damiano kept pushing, almost in slow motion, bending her finger at an impossible angle. She opened her mouth and a slow scream came out, matching his speed as he very slowly broke another finger on her hand.

  Marc felt like he was going insane. He and Lily had gone through a lot of shit together, but he'd never seen her like that; not alone and in pain. Not being tortured. He felt like someone was peeling his skin off.

  Having a panic attack won't save her. Move.

  Marc turned and bolted. When he'd dashed down the hall, he'd noticed a set of stairs, and he found them again. He ran up them, taking them two at a time. He had no idea where they led, or even how many flights he went up. He couldn't get Lily's face out of his mind. The pain of having her finger bent back until it snapped in half.

  Move. Move. No time to think. Just keep moving.

  He burst through a door and found himself on the roof. He'd startled a guard, who whirled around at the noise. Marc kept running, ramming into the other guy. They twisted around on the loose gravel that coated the roof. He elbowed the man in the throat, backed away, then shot him in both knee caps.

  As the guard lay wailing on the ground, Marc began running around, checking the perimeter of the building. He found the main entrance, then paused. They'd originally been kept just inside the entrance. Okay. He turned around and walked in a straight path.

  Through the double doors. Maybe fifty feet, then that door. I'm above her. I'm three floors up, but I'm above her.

  When he came to a stop, he was next to a huge boxy contraption. Where a vent came out into the open air. He turned in a circle, doing some guessing. The vent didn't lead down into her room, but it was near it. Marc was willing to bet that meant an air shaft led directly to her room. Into her room.

  A way inside.

  He ran back to the injured guard. The man was crying too much to be a threat, so Marc searched his utility belt. Found another hand gun, then two canisters of tear gas. Perfect. Using the guy's knife, Marc cut away the man's sleeve, then hurried back to the air vent.

  While he sliced open the seam and wrapped the shirt material around his neck, he examined the vent. It was bolted to the roof, but it was flimsy. The building had been hastily constructed. Marc rammed up against the metal, causing it to bend and warp, but not break. He shouted curses into the open air. What was happening in there!? How many minutes had he been gone? How many fingers were broken now?

  He whipped out a gun and shot out the bolts, then slammed all his weight into the vent. With a groan, the contraption fell over to the side, revealing a shiny duct that went straight down for three floors.

  Marc moved above it, his feet braced on either side of the hole. He took a couple deep breaths and made sure his weapons were secure. He would brace his feet against either side of the vent and slide down. It would be quick and dirty, he'd have to be careful. Three flights was a long way to fall. He couldn't fuck it up.

  I won't fuck it up.

  With that last thought, he held his breath and dropped down the shaft.

  *

  Her finger wasn't quite broken when Marc ran away from the door. He ran because she'd started screaming, she knew. Lily didn't think there was any shame in screaming. It released pain, and releasing it meant she could get over it quicker. She wouldn't beg, however. She would scream and curse and shout, but she would never beg, and she would never cry.

  Damiano would have to wait a long time for that to happen.

  “You are an exceptional opponent,” he whispered as he kept bending her finger. Her whole body started to shake and pull against her restraints.

  “You know what my favorite part of this is?” she managed to breathe as sweat broke out all over her body.

  “Being this close to my exceedingly good looks?” he guessed, glancing up at her once before going back to watching her finger.

  “Alright, my second favorite part,” she amended her question.

  “No, what?”

  “Imagining all the different things he's doing to do to you, once we get out of here,” she hissed at him. Now it was Damiano's turn to chuckle.

  “There is no other way into this room, except through that door, and that door can't be opened from the outside. I have guards stationed all around the perimeter of this building, so he can't leave, and reinforcements are already coming from the house. He can run around all he wants, it won't amount to anything. It's a pity, they'll all kill him on sight, which means he won't get his turn in this chair,” he told her.

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  He didn't respond, but put an extra inch of pressure on her finger. The last bit needed to actually break the bone. She shrieked again, jerking in her chair, her body trying desperately to get away from him. Her mind stayed strong, though. She tried to focus. Tried to keep her mind on the situation at hand.

  Kingsley's law: in a crisis, if you're not thinking about what is directly in front of you, then you should probably be thinking about what you'd like to wear when you're buried, because that's the next stop.

  God, it sounds just as stupid in my head as when he says it out loud.

  She knew a couple things. She wasn't going to die, at least not any time soon. They'd been in the room for at least ten minutes, and he'd only broken two of her fingers. Five minutes a finger, if he did all of them – that gave her a lot of time to think of a way to get out. A lot of time for Marc to figure out a way to get in.

  “When I first heard about you,” Damiano began, standing up and circling her chair, “I was intrigued. Rumors of a beautiful redheaded assassin, traveling through Central America. Making quite a reputation for herself.”

  “That does sound intriguing, though I'm not an assassin, and I think 'beautiful' is
being generous,” she managed to laugh, not bothering to look up at him.

  “And now you're here, and working with the famed Marcelle De Sant, nonetheless!” Damiano's voice was soft.

  “I'm not working with him,” Lily replied. “And again, I think you're being awfully generous with your adjectives.”

  Her hair was pulled again, and if she was honest with herself, she would almost prefer it if he just got it over with and broke another finger. He forced her to look up at him, put his face down close to hers.

  “Anatoly Stankovski wants revenge. He wants his diamonds. Tell me what we want to know, and I might spare your life,” Damiano offered. Now she burst out laughing.

  “Is that a joke?”

  “I'm being generous, Ms. Lily. There's nothing I can do about De Sant, he must die. I want his head on a platter,” he continued. She nodded.

  “He kinda brings that feeling out in people.”

  “I'm being very serious,” Damiano hissed, getting even closer to her, his nose brushing her own. “I will make you feel pain in ways that you didn't even know were possible. Give me those diamonds.”

  “Baby, you have no idea who you're dealing with, do you? I live for pain, and you can torture me all day; you'll never get those diamonds,” she whispered back, then she spit in his face.

  That earned her a backhand, which she thought was very passé of him. Two guards rushed forward, standing in front of her as if her spitting was an indication that she could break free at any time. She wiggled around, testing her restraints. Nope. Tied tight. Though she did notice that the chair was definitely loose. If she was left alone, she could probably break it very easily.

  “This is ridiculous. Do you think I like torturing beautiful women?” Damiano asked her. She shrugged, wiggling her jaw back and forth.

  “Based on your attitude right now, I'd have to say yes, I think you do.”

  “Not when they haven't done anything to me. I have no quarrel with you. I am trying to close a deal with a very powerful man. He has an issue with you, and you are in my territory. That makes you my problem. I get the diamonds, I close this deal. End of story. I don't want to have to hurt you. I just want to finish my business,” he explained.

  Lily stared at him. He was glaring back at her, but all the malicious glee was gone from his face. He looked like a man who was doing something that he really didn't want to be doing. She took a deep breath.

  “Then I'm sorry, but I can't give you what you want,” she replied, speaking carefully. Maybe there was a human underneath that scary facade. His flirting had seemed real enough. Maybe Damiano Ledo had a soft spot for her.

  “And why not? You obviously haven't sold them; you're working to earn your money. They are of no use to you. Mr. Stankovski has a very large bounty on your head – I'm sure he could be persuaded to remove it, if you simply returned his property.”

  It all sounded so easy. She narrowed her eyes.

  “Those diamonds aren't his property. He hired someone to steal them from people who had stolen them from somewhere else.”

  “A mercenary doesn't have the right to be judgemental.”

  “Maybe not, but the sister of a woman murdered by Stankovski does.”

  Silence again. A small smile played across Damiano's lips.

  “Ah. Vengeance. I see. And De Sant? What is his role in all of this? What is he, to you?”

  “He's … a bump in the road. Look, you're right, we have no quarrel with each other. Maybe I did this all wrong. Maybe I should've arranged a meeting with you, told you my problems. But we'd still essentially be in the same position – you want something I can't give you. I want something you're not willing to give me. Where does that leave us?” Lily asked.

  “I think it's what you would call a 'stalemate', correct?” he checked his word usage as he walked back to her.

  “Correct. Before you torture me and kill De Sant, can I give you a message to give Stankovski for me?” she asked. He nodded.

  “Of course.”

  She leaned as close to him as could.

  “Remind him that the last man who tried to get those diamonds wound up losing his head. Tell him those diamonds are resting at the bottom of the goddamn Mediterranean. Warn him that I am coming for him, and this time, I won't be stopped.”

  That earned her a second backhand and her ears started ringing. Damiano looked like he was ready to yell something at her, but then a terrific screeching noise filled the room. Everyone covered their ears, except for Lily, who wasn't able to; all she could do was grimace and turn her head away from the sound. It seemed to be bleeding from the walls.

  What the fuck is that!? Is sounds like … rubber. Rubber on metal.

  “What is happening!?” Damiano was yelling. As if to answer him, the screeching stopped, but was closely followed by a loud thumping sound. Something heavy falling onto something hollow. Then there was more thumping, but on a lighter scale. She lifted her head to look at the grate on the wall.

  Took him long enough.

  “Sweetheart!” Marc's voice came through the wall. “If you're still tied up, do me a favor and go ahead and free yourself. Shit is about to hit the fan.”

  No one was looking at her, they were all staring at the vent. Damiano was yelling in Spanish, gesturing wildly, obviously telling them all to do something. Do anything. But everyone still seemed confused.

  Ignoring the pain in her hand, Lily gripped her armrests and lifted the chair up as best she could before dropping all her weight onto the front two legs. The old wood practically exploded, the legs busting away from the chair and almost disintegrating around the ropes that bound her to them. The guards in front of her started to turn around but she kicked both of them, at the same time, as hard as she could. Almost more like she was kicking off of them. As they went down, she flew almost halfway across the room before tipping over backwards. She hit the ground hard, then fell to her side. She'd been hoping that the fall would break the rest of the chair, freeing her arms, but no such luck.

  She heard the vent grate clatter to the floor, then gun shots rang out. A moment later, and something else fell to the floor. Something metal, she could hear the ping for a second, then all hell broke loose. Men were screaming and running around her, tripping over her and each other. Smoke began filling the room and she coughed at first, then quickly started gagging.

  Tear gas. He could've warned me.

  She wasn't sure how long she laid there. Long enough to feel like she was never going to be able to breathe again. Then out of the fog a figure appeared. Through teary eyes, she saw that it was Marc. He had a scrap of material wrapped tightly around the bottom half of his head, protecting his nose and mouth.

  She wanted to thank him, but she was choking and crying too hard. He felt around her restraints for a moment, then just picked her up, chair and all, and hoisted her over his shoulder. It was painful on her arms, but she didn't care. She just wanted to be out of that room. Out of that building.

  The air in the hallway felt amazing, and outside the building it was like spring water mixed with crack. She couldn't get enough of it, but she was still coughing too much to take enough of it in to quench the burning sensation in her lungs. Marc kept moving, not bothering to put her down so they could dispose of the chair.

  “Are you alright!?” he yelled out. She managed to nod, then realized he couldn't see her.

  “I will be! Just get me the fuck out of here!”

  He started sprinting, heading for the tree line. She was surprised at his eagerness to comply, and couldn't figure out why he didn't just put her down and untie her. But then she heard something, a sound that was familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. Like a loud firework being shot off. That was ridiculous, though, who would be shooting those off? No, it was much more likely to be some kind of weapon, like a ….

  The rocket hit the ground close enough to them that she could feel the shock wave. She'd had no chance to brace for impact, wasn't even sure how close the ex
plosion actually was to them. Close enough that Marc was lifted off the ground and sent flying. A wave of dirt went with them, as well as pieces of a Jeep that had been parked nearby.

  Lily was alive when she hit the ground, though she almost wished she wasn't. She screamed as her broken fingers were mashed against the ground while she rolled over and over, landing in some bushes.

  Her ears were ringing. Her lungs were on fire. She wasn't entirely sure which direction was up or down, but she managed to push herself upright. The chair was kindling now, so she yanked the ropes free from her wrists and stood up, scanning the area for Marc. While she looked, she saw what the explosion had been – a man was standing on the roof of the building, reloading a rocket launcher.

  A bazooka. That motherfucker just fired a bazooka at us.

  Marc hadn't made it to the treeline; he must have actually thrown her before the rocket had hit the ground. He was laying on his stomach, facing away from her, and he wasn't moving. Lily hurried over to him, dropping to her knees at his side. She gripped onto his arm and yanked and pulled, forcing him onto his back. He groaned and pressed a hand to his chest.

  “Off,” he coughed out. “Get this off.”

  She ripped open his dress shirt, revealing a lightweight bullet proof vest. It was peppered with shrapnel, though whether it was from the vehicle or the actual rocket, she couldn't tell. She could only use her right hand, so the going was difficult, but she eventually yanked apart all the Velcro straps. Marc gasped and sucked in air when she pulled the vest off and tossed it away from his body.

  “Okay, it's off. Time to move your ass!” she yelled, not relishing another hit from Mr. Rocket Happy on the roof.

  It took him a while to climb to his feet, and he was slow as he jogged to the tree line, but Marc picked up speed as they ran. Lily had no clue where they were going, but he seemed to be heading in a specific direction, so she trusted him. There was no time to do anything else, to question anything they were doing.