Wallbanger

by Sable Jordan

  Disgusted, he spat on the floor, then turned from her and hopped from the platform, stumbling to land although the lift wasn’t high. Kizzie took the time to tug, stopped once he’d faced her again. Another tool came from the table, and he returned with lightning quickness.

  Talking in a lilting tone he said, “You are not the perfect puppet. Every one of you has to be molded, sculpted.” He brandished a scalpel, holding up the tiny blade for her to see. “I will cut out those bad parts of you, the parts that make you disobey. The parts that made him think you are better than me, syestra. And when I am done, you will be…so pretty,” he whispered in a voice gone soft and hazy. “You will stay on your knees and bow like a good bitch.”

  Movement in the hallway caught Kizzie’s eye. Xander? Oh, please, God, be Xander. Now would be a really good time for “caring Dom” to show up.

  The figure came in stealthily, and her heart dropped. Two against one made already slim chances slimmer. Didn’t mean she wouldn’t fight.

  She pulled harder at the restraints, and Sacha’s raging increased. “What did I say? I said don’t move! Do you want the prod again, father?” He jabbed the sharp knife into the biceps of her left arm, the incision swift and surgical. It took a moment for the blood to spill, but the pain that followed finally made her scream.

  “Yeeeeeeeeessssss!” Sacha announced. “Fear! Bleed it out!”

  She didn’t quit, went back to swinging the airplane controller, hearing the rope strain. The skin at her wrists was raw, hands fully numb, but she had to keep trying.

  He was in front of her again, yelling, raging. He blocked her view of the person behind, busy with the task of sliding the tip of the scalpel along her belly. “Must be careful not to take out too much too soon, yes? We’ll go slow.”

  Gripping the tool in his fist, he lifted his arm high, prepared to slash it downward when something stopped him. Kizzie knew that blessed sound—the wet retort of flesh suction. Sacha jerked forward, eyes widened with surprise. He turned, showing Kizzie his back, and the handle protruding from his shoulder blade.

  A frightened Zlata stood just below the low riser, steadily inching back toward the wall. Sacha lurched at her, and then he seemed to register there was a knife in him. He tried to reach it but failed, the movement causing him to yell.

  Zlata raced to the lift controls, and moments later Kizzie’s right foot was on the ground. She didn’t know it yet—it was numb. Feeling streaked through like a million tiny needles, bringing awareness to her foot. Arms lowered, the pain of feeling so intense it paralyzed, but she had never been more thankful for the burn. She crumbled to the ground, able to shift her limbs but not her stiff digits, and, bracing her elbows against her sides, she shook out her hands to speed up the process. The threat of the bomb Sumi mentioned lingered in the back of her mind. They had to move.

  The other woman was in a panic, eyes darting constantly between Kizzie and Sacha. She tried working the knots, but the extended hang time made them impossible to unfasten in the short reprieve they had. With shaky hands Zlata grabbed a knife, started sawing through the rope.

  One arm free, Kizzie took the blade and Zlata tried pulling against the line around her foot. “Go! Get out of here!”

  “You don’t know the way,” Zlata insisted.

  “Bitch!” Sacha charged, knocking the girl over and she shrieked. “Why are you off your knees?”

  Zlata cowered, putting up a hand to block a punch. It landed against her forearm and she hissed. He threw another, this one connecting with the girl’s chest, rocking her thin body back. He stalked to his table and grabbed another blade, returned to her. “More cutting for you, puppet!”

  Feeling returned to Kizzie’s body, hot and hard, making her aware of the ache in her shoulder. Both arms freed, she made the final cut through the rope at her foot and stood.

  Hurt like hell.

  She pushed it aside.

  Sacha’s back was to her, so focused on attacking his puppet he’d forgotten she was there. The adrenaline in her veins slightly countered the drug in her system, and, only a bit fuzzy, she charged, hand landing on the hilt of the knife, pushing it in deeper. He roared and arched his back, and Kizzie yanked it out, twisting on the way. “Run!”

  Zlata hesitated a second before darting through the closest exit.

  Sacha recovered quicker than she’d expected, now standing between Kizzie and that exit. Three others to choose from, but the girl was right—she’d be lost. She hadn’t seen anything on the way in; he’d overtake her quickly. As crazy as it seemed, the best tactical option given her current condition would be to stand and fight until the man was down.

  Or she was.

  Battered and bruised but at least on the floor, Kizzie was once again alone with the demented puppeteer.

  * * * *

  The wound was nothing. Sacha knew he had the upper hand. This bitch did not know the routes. That’s why she stood there like a cornered rabbit. She would panic and then he’d finish playing with her. Might not even take the time to string her up.

  “Come, syestra.” He jumped at her, just to make her flinch. She didn’t waver; arms down, knife held out to her blood-streaked left side. It would only make things interesting. He liked when his puppets had life.

  He could wait her out. Eventually she would make a move, and then he’d attack.

  She didn’t rush him. Her gaze briefly strayed to an exit, returned.

  It angered him further. Even in this she was disobedient! She should have attacked—lesser creatures would do that. Lash out in a frenzy.

  With a maniacal scream, he charged, swinging the knife wildly, trying to strike anything he could. He just missed slashing her stomach, but she dropped to her knees, rolled out of the way. She was up and behind him in a matter of seconds. Her blade scratched him at the same moment he made a wide, backward arc with his, the quick zip of his ripped cloth nothing compared to the satisfying drag that let him know he’d found flesh.

  She recoiled and he followed with a kick to her middle. The bitch stumbled backward, landing on the ground with a thud.

  Sacha laughed. “This is what disobedience earns you, syestra.” His foot found her ribs—her hip, her arm—kicking over and over until she’d curled onto one side to get away, moaning in agony. “Next. Time. You. Listen.”

  He lifted his foot to stomp down on the side of her head. And screamed when the blade sliced cleanly through the sinew of his arch.

  Sacha fell to the ground, and she staggered to her feet making a wild swipe at his leg before hobbled through an exit.

  That slash connected; a fiery burn erupting over his flesh and he screamed. “I will still find you!”

  It took a few moments to regain his footing, and once he had, the pain was nothing more than a dull prick masked mostly by the cocaine and adrenaline in his system. Hobbling, he pushed it to the back of his mind and decided to take a different path to block her. Only one way in or out of the chateau. She was trying to get out—he’d meet her there.

  The cunt had cut him. She would pay.

  12

  Gun at the ready, Xander stood pressed against the wall of Sacha’s office, waiting for both the software to finish and to hear back from Marchande. He wasn’t sure how many guards had been dispatched to kill him. Leaving the room at the moment wasn’t exactly an option. His current position gave him the advantage should anyone come in. He’d simply turn and shoot. Didn’t plan on sticking around for the ask questions part.

  A soft beep and the computer was done with its work. He hurried to the machine and removed the jump drive, not bothering to turn it off. The phone vibrated and relief swept through him.

  “All clear?”

  “Just the outside. Still have two in the house with you. Want them dead?”

  He did; wanted to do it himself. But anger is louder than necessity. He could just as easily avoid conflict and go out the window, work his way to the front. “No. Be out in—”

  A loud crash
to his left made his head snap up, and Xander spun and raised the weapon, finger on the trigger. The bookcase had fallen over.

  “He…You come! Gigi…” the ghostly shadow shrieked in English so broken he could hardly make it out. Her thin body materialized before him, ignoring the pistol in her face and approaching directly. “He kill…”

  Zlata? He lowered the gun a hair, trying to follow the wisps of conversation while keeping in mind she was Sacha’s sub and could have been sent to take him out.

  “You…” She was breathing hard, struggling to get the words out.

  “Na Russkom,” he commanded.

  She seemed to snap to attention, switched to her native dialect. “Gigi. In the dungeon. Hurry or Sacha will kill her!”

  * * * *

  Halfway through the tunnel, the warrior raced to untie the ropes she’d donned for so long, replaced them with the clothes she’d stashed almost a year ago. There were two such extension tubes outside of the main labyrinth cut in the event of an emergency, just wide enough for a man Sacha’s size to pass. He’d given her the perfect out and never even suspected.

  Sumi affixed the beautiful collar around her neck and added the padlock, tucking the jewelry beneath her clothing. A nice present for her Mistress. Maybe she’d let Sumi keep it for the work she’d done. She tried to smile at the thought of going home, but her tongue was swollen in her mouth. It hurt so badly, swallowing was a problem, and she could feel the saliva pooling at the back of her throat. Nevertheless, she was free, and that earned a little grin.

  Dressed in jeans, shirt, coat, and tennis shoes, she jogged the last hundred meters to the exit, which ended in a locked metal door. She pulled the key from her pocket and let herself out—or in, as it were, stepping into one of the city’s underground parking caverns. The door swung closed, resuming its look as an unremarkable janitorial closet.

  At a locker bank not far away, she located box 299 and unlocked it, removed the contents—clean passport, cell phone, and enough cash to see her home safely. According to the digital clock on the opposite wall, she had about ten minutes until the next metro train arrived. There were so few people at the station this time of morning that getting lost in a crowd was impossible. She kept her head down—an easy thing to do—and walked toward the self-serve ticketing booth to pay her fare. Once she was safely aboard the train, she’d make the call.

  Sacha Sokoviev would finally be dead; Xander and that bitch Gigi would join him.

  And the warrior would fade away like mist.

  * * * *

  Circles.

  No matter which way she turned it seemed she’d already travelled that path, and the deep breathing did nothing to keep away the panic.

  He was behind her, or maybe in front of her now. Kizzie wasn’t sure anymore. Every channel appeared the same. She stopped to listen, hoping to hear Sacha thrashing along after her, but the only sound was her own blood thundering in her ears.

  Fear, she thought, recalling Xander’s voice during their training, Sacha thrives on fear.

  That’s why the tunnels looped round and round; why she couldn’t seem to get out of them; why she couldn’t hear him behind her.

  He wasn’t chasing.

  He was waiting.

  Letting her run ragged until she was consumed by it.

  Then he’d strike.

  Fear was a potent drug.

  Debilitating….

  Or motivating. Just a matter of perspective.

  She ignored the pains in her body, the deep slice and bruised side, and stopped in the center of the path. One eye had already begun to swell; closed so tightly only a sliver of sight could be gleaned through it.

  She shut it and relied on the other.

  Her breathing slowed, but her heart did not stop pounding. He was out there, stalking her. He’d catch her—she might as well get used to that fact. But he didn’t know how she’d react.

  And he didn’t know about Sumi’s bomb….

  Another step forward and her knee wobbled, nearly buckled, but held. She took another, and another, hobbling along with a hand on the rock wall for support. A few feet ahead, the tunnel opened up, dropping her in a new cubby. She’d chosen incorrectly the last two times. At least that’s what she assumed, because she wasn’t out from under, and her internal compass clued her in that she’d travelled east to southwest already.

  Paused for a breath, Kizzie felt her skin tingle—behind you!—and immediately turned and swung, fist connecting with flesh. Her adrenaline spiked, and she followed with her right arm, remembering too late the dislocation, and it dropped like dead weight at her side. She was too hurt to scream, kicked out with her good leg and stumbled to the floor.

  “…me!”

  The voice barely registered, the tight grip holding her up by her shoulders doing more harm than good. She caught a brief glimpse of his face and stopped fighting.

  “He back there?” Xander asked, turning to move the way she’d just come.

  She latched on to a fistful of his shirt and tugged with what strength she could. Then Kizzie started walking again. Didn’t matter that she staggered, so long as she kept going. Didn’t know if he understood her or not. She had to move. Survival at all costs.

  Zlata overtook her. Xander scooped her up, loping the dead weight that was her arm over his shoulder.

  She grit her teeth. She wouldn’t give in to it now.

  They traversed another set of tunnels and ducked into an anteroom she’d never have found on her own.

  Then the ground shook and the tunnels collapsed.

  13

  Marchande yanked a beanie down over his ears, dampening the sole sound of the hot air blowing through the vents. He stepped from the car, boots crunching in the snow as he headed toward the lit building.

  He walked in like he owned the place, heading past the empty receptionist’s desk to the back of the ward, and slipped inside a dark exam room. With a handy penlight, he made quick work of the lock on the narcotics cabinet, located several vials of morphine. Lidocaine and suture kits were pulled from a nearby drawer along with saline, gauze, syringes and needles. A handful of packaged sterile gloves joined the rest in his coat pockets before he sauntered out of the unit, winking at the confused attendant back from her cigarette break.

  The procedure took place behind a nearby gas station. Like most things in Helsinki at that hour, the place was closed. By the dim light in the cab Kizzie lay naked in the cramped back seat of the Rover. The wounds were cleaned with efficiency, but she fought against the lidocaine injection.

  “No…No nee—”

  Her wounded side and arm were stitched with precision. She grunted then cursed when her shoulder was forced back into the socket with a sickening pop. Another fight against the morphine shot, but since then she hadn’t made a sound. Her body covered with Marchande’s coat, the group continued toward their destination. They were taking a risk, and if it didn’t pan out, Kizzie would be the only one who suffered.

  Two miles later, Marchande checked the rearview. Zlata shivered in Xander’s suit coat, her skin pale as the snow on the ground. Fear was clear on her dirt-streaked face, but to her credit she hadn’t shed a tear since leaving the collapsed tunnels of the chateau. Five seconds slower and they’d have been buried in the rubble.

  Zlata cradled the other woman’s head in her lap, wiping the sweating forehead. Kizzie was feverish—whether from an infected cut or from the intensity of the ordeal they didn’t know. Either way was a problem.

  Phil glanced at Xander, seeing the blank look on his friend’s face. “We can leave her here if—”

  “Not an option and you know it. How would she explain it?” Xander said. “She’ll be fine.”

  By the way Xander crushed the square of white leather in his fist, Marchande was certain he was trying to convince himself.

  A red light was up ahead. He ran it.

  And the next one.

  “No way he got out.” Xander didn’t respond and Phil
said, “I know that look, X.”

  “What look?”

  “That look you get when you’re about to do something stupid.”

  “There’s no look, Phil.”

  “No, no—that’s the look. It’s not to be confused with your usual stup—”

  “She still breathing?” Xander asked in Russian, interrupting his buddy’s rambling. Zlata nodded. He addressed Phil again. “Pull over.”

  Marchande kept driving. “You’re too close to it, X. Let me—”

  “Gde tvoya sem’ya?” Xander opened the glove box, hand delving into the depths.

  “Sertolova, north of Saint Petersburg,” came the response in the same dialect.

  Xander bobbed his head, frowning as he searched the box again. He turned in his seat and reached out toward Zlata’s chest. The woman inhaled sharply, muscles stiffening at the impending contact.

  “Easy, sweetheart,” Xander soothed. Moving slowly, he avoided her body and slipped his hand into the breast pocket of his coat. He removed the bag; transferred it to his pants’ pocket. Then he picked up again in Russian. “How’d you end up there?”

  This she tried in English. “I am payment…for debt my brother owe to Sacha. He is not nice man.”

  Understatement. “Once this is over, you and your family leave Sertolova. Phil will make sure you’re someplace safe. Understand?”

  She nodded. “Spasibo.”

  “How about you do that and let me go be stupid?” Phil offered, the truck moving at a faster clip through the streets. “You always get to be the stupid one while I have to sit around and tend the hearth.”

  “Make sure Kizzie lives. Take her home.”

  “Panama?” Phil eased off the gas a bit to take a left.

  “No.” Xander reached under the seat front; checked the side pocket.

  “Back to—You’re sure? Shit…you’re sure.”

  “Pull the goddamn truck over, Phil.”

  “’Cause it’s personal? Just like—?”