by Jianne Carlo
Satan ran back the events Rutger had reiterated. “When did you meet with Angel?”
“Christmas Eve.”
The meeting that would affect the rest of her life. “What happened after you saw the recording?”
“She asked me to identify a photograph. I did. I confirmed that the picture she had was one of Malik Mansoor. I hauled her down to the base, and we questioned her for over two hours. She didn’t give us a fucking thing. All we know is that she had received a ‘misplaced’ letter from her brother that contained a photograph of Malik Mansoor. All we got was that two weeks before I met with Angel on Christmas Eve, someone emailed her the recording of me taking Martin out, and on that same day, she ‘found’ the misplaced letter.”
Satan focused on schooling his features into a neutrality he didn’t feel.
Rutger glanced at him. “We know you took out Malik. You left a calling card. What a cluster fuckup.”
“It was a warning,” Satan growled.
“Didn’t work. The whole village was slaughtered on Christmas Day.”
Satan stared at Rutger certain he hadn’t heard correctly. “Say again.”
“Aw, shit. You didn’t know. Sorry. It was on the evening news. I figured you’d make the connection.”
On Christmas Day at that time, he had been wallowing in self-pity. A prickle of self-disgust swept over him. He shoved the emotion aside and concentrated on dissecting all the data Rutger had shared.
Rutger stabbed a few buttons, shifted the joystick, and the jet banked to the left. “We began tracking The Ghost three years ago because of his rapid ascent up the ISIS command rankings. He was the man behind the idea of posting public executions. As you probably know, ISIS receives huge capital injections after each one.”
“The Ghost is part of the same cell as Malik and Angel’s brother?” Satan scrubbed his jaw, slouched, set his booted feet on a smooth part of the console, and scanned the now-darkening sky.
“We now believe so. At any rate, about six months ago, a transaction at Caribbean Worker’s Bank triggered an alarm. One of our overseas colleagues hacked into the bank and found a surprising pattern. It appears the bank’s become the primary wash for a majority of ISIS funding.”
Satan ran a few quick calculations. “This would be after Angel’s brother left Trinidad to join ISIS?”
“Yeah.”
His cell vibrated. He fished the phone out of his pocket. Lucifer. “Yo.”
“I’ve been watching tapes of the local news in Trinidad.”
How had Luce managed to obtain those tapes?
“The lunchtime news today mentioned that one Merylle Maharaj reported her friend, Angel Dare, as missing. Merylle said she and Angel had made plans to have dinner at seven at the Hilton Hotel on Thursday. She’s some sort of local artist and—get this—a well- known mystic. Doesn’t look as if the police are taking it seriously, but because Angel was Trinidad’s Channel Ten’s evening anchor, they’re plastering her picture all over the media.”
Satan ran through the timing. Today was Saturday. “She was last seen at eleven-forty-five when the bellman at the Trinidad Hilton hailed her a cab. That mean’s they’ve had her for a minimum of twenty-four hours.”
“I’m hunting down this mystic’s contact information. As soon as I speak with her, if it’s not all magic and mumbo-jumbo, I’ll call.”
“Thanks Luce.” For long seconds, Satan focused on his phone’s dimming display. He smacked his forehead, thumbed the email icon, and searched through his Inbox.
“What’s got you all fucked up?” Rutger demanded.
“Angel couriered a letter to Jess. Jess sent me a pic. I forgot about it.” Satan clenched his jaw when he found the email and prayed the letter held a clue as to Angel’s whereabouts. He opened the attachment.
The shot of the letter was grainy and difficult to read.
I expect to be dead by the time you read this, Jess. I want someone to know the whole story in case things get screwed up. The enclosed key opens safe deposit box #12187 in the Citibank branch on 5th Street. I put you on as a signer for the box. Sorry, but I had to snitch a copy of your driver’s license to do so.
Also enclosed is a letter from my brother, Martin, written when he was in Iraq “fighting” with ISIS. During his time there he overheard a conversation that led him to believe that Yaman Moses, a prominent Trinidadian businessman, is also the ISIS terrorist known as The Ghost.
Satan reread the paragraph. Jesus. The Ghost had kidnapped Angel.
Martin also discovered that Yaman was the one who ordered my parents’ killed and orchestrated the “home invasion.” Apparently, Yaman wanted to take over my parents’ bank, Caribbean Worker’s Bank, to indirectly fund ISIS. Yaman kidnapped my brother, he forced him to sell his shares in the bank to an investment firm—SwissMed Investments, and then Yaman had him sent to ISIS where he was coerced into executing prisoners. Yaman’s son, Bassel, who goes by the name of Malik Mansoor, was in command of Martin in Iraq.
I’m convinced Yaman owns SwissMed and I intend to find proof. Yaman’s been trying to get me to sell him my shares in the bank. I pretended to agree to do so after finding my brother’s letter two weeks before Christmas. I moved back to Trinidad to do two things:
1. Find out who owns SwissMed.
2. Destroy Bassel and Yaman Moses.
Bassel Moses, aka Malik Mansoor, has vanished. No one seems to know where he is. I have a hunch Bassel is dead because twice now, Yaman, his father, has referred to him in the past tense.
Enclosed are two pictures. The first is the one Martin took of Bassel wearing his disguise when he was in Iraq. The other is one of Bassel without his toupee. Amazing the way a full head of hair and a heavy beard and mustache can so easily change a face.
I’m planning on poisoning Yaman and as many of his men I can identify before Carnival. I expect that one of Yaman’s men will find out what I’ve done and they’ll kill me for revenge.
If by chance I disappear or die and Yaman Moses is still alive, I’d appreciate it if you get all the information and proof to the appropriate authorities.
You’ve been a wonderful friend to me and I’ll treasure that to the grave. I have one more favor to ask. When he’s ready to hear it, please tell Satan/Lorcan that I really did love him and I’m sorry for everything.
Love always,
Your friend,
Angel
Chapter Twenty
Angel tried not to move a muscle, not to blink, not to show any signs of being awake. She hated regaining consciousness because the pain of all the punches and the burnings mushroomed with each ticking aware second. Her burnt flesh throbbed, but the spots on her breasts were the worst. And being naked didn’t help because she scraped the sides every time she moved.
She listened, but heard nothing but parrots quarrelling somewhere in the distance. The blindfold had been removed, but her hands and feet were still bound.
She slotted one eye a tich open. No boots or sandals in the vicinity. A fleeting peek revealed an empty room. Not wanting to alert her captors, she kept still, and scanned the tiny chamber. The three windows opposite where she lay were covered in dust, but she glimpsed the sun hovering above a steep hill. Blue skies, no hints of a cloud, and from the globe’s position, she guessed the time to be afternoon. So the room faced west.
It hurt like hell to roll onto her side. If she could get to the wall, maybe she could sit up. Her sense of time had become skewed.
When was the last time they gave her water or fed her?
Before the beating.
She grimaced when recalling Yaman’s first punch to her solar plexus. The water had come right back up. She hoped the vomit went all over him.
Her throat ached with dryness. It was humid and hot, and she would sell her soul for a drop of water. She spied an empty opened can in one corner and glimpsed red liquid in the bottom. Her stomach gnawed at her. She took a deep breath, decided to get the pain over and done with in one bur
st and rolled until she hit the wall.
At least this time they’d tied her hands in the front. She pushed to sitting, eyed the distance to the can, and butt-crawled to it. Her fingers were numb at the tips, but she managed to grab the can. A hysterical giggle escaped her mouth when she peered into it.
Baked beans, and almost half a can left. She had to lie down to get the beans to her mouth and didn’t even notice the pain she was so desperately hungry. Cold, stale and sour pintos with bits of bacon, she chewed each bite slowly, and savored each mouthful.
Why hadn’t they raped her?
Every time they came to get her, she braced herself for a gang rape. She hadn’t anticipated the beatings. Or the cigarette burns. Yaman Moses was a nasty sadistic animal. He had a torture room in the basement of Dolphin Paradise.
It had been impossible not to cry out when they stripped her. The horrible humiliation, shame, and embarrassment had been replaced by sheer, terrified dread when they chained her hands and feet to rungs built into the walls. When they put the noose around her neck, she had peed herself.
But that had been nothing compared to the excruciating helplessness she felt when they blindfolded her. That first cigarette burn she screamed her lungs off. She cried and begged incessantly after that. Yaman taunted her by taking a long break, and just when she figured the torture was over, he started again.
A vague memory surfaced. Yaman had spoken to his henchmen right before she passed out. What had he said? He’d sent two men to meet Satan’s plane. They were to bring him here. But there was something else. Something about Malik Mansoor. And killing Satan would be revenge.
Revenge for what?
She heard the murmur of conversation. Two men speaking in low voices. But the murmurs didn’t come from the door, but from the windows. She noticed one pane was missing and smelled cigarette smoke.
“I told you Yaman’s losing it. He’s becoming a liability. This is going to come back and bite us in the ass.”
“Agreed. She agreed to sell her shares. Yaman should have left it at that.”
Angel froze. She stared at the window, her heart thump-thumping against her ribs. Yaman. A liability. Oh shit, oh shit. She’d dared not hope.
“I’m telling you that Yaman planned it this way from the start. He was the one who sent her that letter from her brother. And the fucking picture.”
Yaman had sent her Martin’s letter? And the picture of his son, Bassel, aka Malik Mansoor? Why? Nothing made any sense.
“Yaman’s not a stupid man. He wouldn’t blow his cover.”
“I’m telling you this is all because McGuillycuddy took out his son Malik. Yaman ordered the village destroyed and all the villagers killed. It was bad PR for ISIS. That plus the firing of the Jordanian pilot’s turning the youth of the world against us.”
Angel held her breath. Satan? Had killed Yaman’s son? She couldn’t think but for the tidal wave of confusion crashing over her.
“But, it did send the correct message in one way. Cooperate with U.S. forces and you die.”
“That’s the problem. McGuillycuddy acted on his own. He wasn’t enlisted when he killed Malik. The man’s a retired SEAL. He owns a security firm that works with Homeland Security. If he goes missing, we’ll have the U.S. Navy right up our ass.”
She recognized the man’s accent as upper class English, possibly educated alongside royalty with that stiff no-lips moving elocution training. The voice sounded familiar.
“You were right to call me in. While I understand Yaman’s need for revenge, this is not a well-planned operation, but it’s too late. Let Yaman kill the two of them. I’ll take care of Yaman. Has the woman signed over her shares?”
“Not yet. Yaman’s been playing with her.”
“Get it done now.”
A phone rang. “Hello.”
Silence.
“Okay, I’ll tell him.”
A brief pause and a click.
“They’re here. They have McGuillycuddy. He’s in the dungeon. What do you want me to do? Besides get the woman to sign the documents?”
“Make sure the bodies won’t be found. Stick to Yaman like glue and call me when you’re back in Port-of-Spain. Tell Yaman to meet me for dinner at the Hyatt at seven tonight.”
Shuffling followed by muted footsteps, then nothing but silence. She began counting the seconds. Her trepidation ratcheted, and the waiting took forever. Finally, she heard clomping, and a couple of minutes later, the door opened not with a bang as per normal, but softly as if not to draw attention.
He was hooded like all the others besides Yaman, who flaunted his visage with unleashed fury. In his gloved hands were a manila file folder and a pen. He squatted right next to her and offered her the pen. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Makes no difference to me.”
“My fingers are numb. I don’t know if I can hold the pen.” Her voice shook. She wasn’t sure what she hoped to gain with the delay.
He blew out a sigh, dropped the envelope and the pen, and untied her hands. He chafed them between his and said, “Piece of advice. Try to escape. They’ll have to shoot you, and it will be over in a snap.”
She hated him touching her and was nauseated by his surreal “advice.” “I think I can hold the pen now.”
He gave her the pen, opened the folder, and flipped back pages. “There.”
She signed her name in trembles and twitches because of her stiff fingers.
“Initial here.”
In total, she signed and initialed seven sheets and had to repress a hysterical sneer. Her lawyers had a document on file that said she had been coerced into selling her bank shares by Yaman Moses on pain of death. She had deeded her shares to Haven under Jess’s control. That would put a sinkhole in their sinister plans.
He retied her hands in front of her again. He cupped her breasts and shook his head. “Such a waste. I suggested he sell you, but he wants McGuillycuddy to see you suffer.”
Anger sharp and heady surged through her, she gathered her saliva, and spat.
“Bitch.” He backhanded her.
She knocked her head on the cold bare concrete, saw stars, and then nothing.
Angel awoke disoriented.
Was the sun still up, or had another day dawned?
How long had she been out?
Dazed, she arched her neck and scanned the room. They had moved her. The walls were wooden not concrete. And thin, because she heard male voices and a humming engine.
“Bring her out.” Oh shit, she knew that voice. It was Yaman Moses.
Immediately, she slumped back into her original position and tried to will her muscles slack and breathe evenly. They would slap her awake like they had before, but feigning sleep and having them believe it, felt like a huge victory.
She was such an ass. Yaman had played her like a maestro. She should never have agreed to have lunch at Dolphin Paradise, and had known from the time she stepped onto the boat something was drastically wrong. But it was daylight, there were tons of witnesses and never, not once, had she thought he was kidnapping her.
The door slammed open, she didn’t flinch or flicker an eyelid, not even when someone picked her up and rammed her over his shoulder. She opened her eyes when he walked out of the room and tried to absorb everything in her path, a narrow, dark corridor that smelled of fungus. One, two, three steps and then weak sunlight replaced the gloom. She blinked, raised her head, and peeked. It was dawn. The man stumbled, and the cigarette burns on her breasts scraped against the coarse shirt he wore. Her nose bumped the small of his back—he stank of stale sweat and smoke.
The man carried her up a steep incline. Shadows danced when he weaved his way through trees and trailing vines. The humidity spiraled and by the time he halted she was coated in sweat.
“Where do you want her?” The man pinched her bottom. A vicious twist, and she couldn’t repress a reflexive shudder.
“Dump her next to him.” Yaman Moses.
The man dropp
ed her. She landed face-first on packed dirt intermeshed with reedy weeds.
“Make her stand. Him too.”
Angel now hated Yaman Moses with a venom she hadn’t realized she was capable of. She wanted to watch him die a tortuous, lingering death.
Someone grabbed her by the breasts and rammed her into a standing position. The lancing pain had her eyes misting, but she would not cry in front of them, she would not. She swayed and fixed her concentration on a rough boulder next to…she blinked—a hole, about six feet deep and maybe four feet wide. A huge wooden box about three feet wide and six long lined the bottom of the hole. Her gut cramped.
You were in a coffin. In the ground. Buried alive. Merylle’s words reverberated in her throbbing head.
“Meet your final resting place McGuillycuddy.” Yaman Moses sneered.
She prayed Satan hadn’t come for her, bargained furiously with God, traded her life for his. Make this one of Yaman’s cruel taunts.
Bile welled up her throat, she lifted anchor-heavy lids, gasped, pressed her lips together, and tried not to let the horror she felt show.
Satan was hunched over and barely able to stand. He was on the other side of the hole in the ground and two hooded men stood behind him, all armed with machine guns. Three men thronged her side of the hole and Yaman Moses stood at the head.
They’d beaten Satan badly. His nose looked broken because it listed to one side. One eye, already purpled was almost swollen shut, and his bottom lip was split. He trapped her stare with his. She read no fear, no alarm in his expression, just ice and steel, and an astounding calm.
Like the calm before a volcanic eruption.
“Everything’s going to be okay, my Angel.”
Elation rang through her. The soft, menacing tone in which he delivered his assurance and those two words, my Angel, were spoken with such tenderness that tears pooled at the corners of her eyes.
Yaman Moses stepped forward, grabbed a shovel from one of the two men behind Satan.