[Elizabeth McClaine 03.0] A Stolen Woman

by Catherine Lea

  Now he’d crossed the line. This was the point of no return. He had to be quick. In no time, the communications failure would alert Westrum’s IT specialists. They’d check all the systems from their third-floor office, then dispatch a tech to the basement—another event he’d pre-planned for. So he set to work disabling the mail servers, the backup servers, everything he could find.

  Just as he tugged the final cable out, the faint ding of the elevator bell sounded followed by the clunk of the doors opening.

  His heart flipped. That was way faster than he’d expected.

  He quickly exited the server room and hurried to hide behind a nearby concrete pillar. No sooner had he pivoted behind the pillar with his back pressed to it than he heard the sound of rapid footsteps and men’s voices. Two of them. Words urgently spat out in Albanian.

  He froze in place as they approached the server room and stopped short. Probably at seeing the door left open. Maybe from there they’d seen the cables dangling loose. Taking a gamble, he peeked around the pillar to see one enter the room, then quickly ducked back as the man returned to the doorway.

  Clearly sensing imminent danger, their voices dropped.

  If he was going to do it, it had to be now!

  Swiveling on one foot, he stepped out in front of them. Both looked up, surprise registering.

  On recognizing him, the first man stepped forward with a puzzled expression. “Sir, what are you doing here?”

  He ambled across to get closer. “My Internet connection failed. I came to see what had happened. When I got here, this is what I found.” He nodded at the server room.

  Both guys frowned. The explanation made no sense. Yet both of them turned to peer back into the room at the cables. In that moment, he yanked the gun from his jacket pocket and shot the first guy in the head. Before that one had even hit the floor, he shot the second guy in the chest. The impact sent him reeling back, reaching for his gun. But too late. The second shot hit him in the forehead. His head jerked back and he crashed to the floor.

  Hands shaking, breath ragged, he moved across to the bodies. Both stared blankly into nothingness. Neither of them moved. With that last blast of adrenaline still aching in his muscles, gun dangling by his side, he backed away.

  Now he had to get back to the generator. Sooner or later, someone would call the two dead IT guys to see what they’d found. He figured that would be in around one minute. By the time the first match was lit, he had around four minutes to reach the Studio, four minutes to get out of the building. That meant fast action upstairs.

  It would be touch and go. So he tucked the gun back into his pocket, collected the IT guys’ weapons and phones, then quickly retraced his steps.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  DAY THREE—7:38 PM—ELIZABETH

  Growing more furious by the minute at such treatment, Elizabeth marched into the room ahead of the two thugs, and turned to face them with purse clutched in tight, head high. As soon as they left, she’d simply call Penny and ask her to send help. But her mouth dropped open when one of the men sauntered over, snatched her purse from her grasp, and opened it. He fished out her phone, inspected it, then slipped it into his pocket.

  “How dare you!”

  As he snapped the purse closed the first man pointed to where a phone sat on the nightstand next to the bed. The other man went over, bent beside it, and unplugged it from the wall. He coiled up the cable and tucked the phone under one meaty arm.

  “May I at least have my purse back?”

  The one who’d taken it simply snorted. The two of them exchanged amused looks, then turned and left. A second rush of fury hit her when the click of the door lock sounded in their wake. In horror, she raced to the door and tried the handle—locked.

  “You bastard!” she screamed and pounded one fist on the upper wooden panel.

  Only now did the real terror of her position begin to dawn. Why didn’t she listen to Delaney? Surely, she could have simply demanded that the Boston police search for Laney. Had she been so arrogant that she didn’t believe they’d harm her?

  Determined she wouldn’t be subject to the whims of a madman, she went to the window. The floor she was on was at least four stories up and the window was fixed. No way out that way. So she began frantically searching the room.

  Inside the bedside cabinet she found a Bible, and a selection of brochures. Each of the shiny pamphlets advertised a different girl posing in a revealing costume. Sickened, Elizabeth flicked through them until she came to one that caught her breath in her throat. The girl was strawberry blonde, long hair cascading over her shoulder, freckles dotting her nose and cheeks, pale almond-shaped eyes. And according to the short description beneath, she could be ordered to the room by dialing number 420 on the bedside phone.

  Elizabeth didn’t even need to read the description to know this was Wendy O’Dell. Since her last photograph, she’d clearly changed. Her cheeks had hollowed, and a look of despair and dread radiated from her blue eyes.

  A scowl of contempt tweaked at Elizabeth’s upper lip. “You disgusting…” she spat out in utter contempt. She flicked through a couple of others, then realized that each of the phone numbers on the brochures related to a room number. So, if she was on the fourth floor, there was a chance she could expect to find Wendy O’Dell on the same floor. If that was the case, there was a chance—infinitesimally small as it might be—that she might also know where Laney was. If so, then perhaps she could get them both out of here. So she began to search.

  In the top drawer of the nightstand was the Bible. The second was empty, as was the third. In the opposite nightstand was a ready supply of condoms in packets, along with massage oils and instruments Elizabeth pushed to the back of the drawer with the edge of a brochure. Nothing she could use to get out of this room.

  But a desk over by the window caught her eye and she went straight to it. In the top right drawer, she found a pen, a writing pad, and a dagger-like letter opener. She touched her finger to the tip. It wasn’t sharp, but the blade was narrow enough that it just might work.

  She returned to the locked door and tried to insert the blade into the gap where the latch bolt crossed into the opposing plate. Finding the blade was too thick, she tried the blade in the keyhole. No use. In frustration, she stabbed the knife tip repeatedly at the edge of the lock. With her arm aching, she stood back to inspect the damage, and groaned. All she’d achieved were a few gouges in the surrounding wood.

  But she wasn’t done yet.

  After searching the closets and bar, she returned to the desk, wrenching out the remaining drawers and leaving them open. Still nothing. Next, she went to the bathroom. Nothing in there except the usual small packets of shampoo and soap.

  In rising agitation, she yanked all the drawers open. Still nothing. Then she remembered Stacy, one of her clients, telling her how she’d once taken the handle off a locked door to escape. Elizabeth went back for the letter opener and inserted it into the handle screws—but couldn’t turn it.

  The nightstand.

  In furious determination, she brushed the clock and brochures to the floor and hoisted the table with both hands. It had some weight, but not so much she couldn’t swing it. Back at the door, she hoisted it precariously over her head and slammed the edge of the tabletop down on the door handle. The handle held, but now a small gap had opened at the upper edge of the plate. So she raised the table and brought it down again and again until her arms ached and exhaustion doubled her over, and she dropped the table.

  She rattled the handle. Still, the lock held. Infuriated, muscles twitching, her mouth dry, she growled in frustration and drew back. Overcome now with fatigue and emotion, her face crumpled and all those regrets for her foolish decisions washed over her.

  Why didn’t she listen to that tiny voice of warning in her head? How had she let herself get into this situation?

  Was this it? Would she die here? Never to be found?

  Would she never see her beloved Ho
lly again?

  She squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to shut out the rain of self-recrimination. But just as she folded over with her face in her hands, a black cloud of hopelessness pressing down on her, a tiny knock came at the door.

  Elizabeth’s head jerked up. Had she really heard it? Or was it her mind playing tricks on her?

  “Hello?” said a voice from outside the door. A girl’s voice. She sounded young. And frightened.

  Elizabeth flew to the door and hammered on the wooden panel with the side of her fist. “Hello! I’m locked in here. Please, I need to get out.”

  “Wait there,” said the voice. “I’ll be right back.”

  “No, please don’t leave me!” Elizabeth screamed. “Please! Let me out!”

  But the girl had already gone.

  ***

  The Associate

  Back at the generator room once more, he opened the screw cap on the side of the gasoline-driven machine, then tapped the side until he found the level. It was only about half full. But that would be fine. He took off his tie, then fished out one of his two handkerchiefs. Tying them together at the ends, he twisted them into a rope. Dangling one end of the tie into the tank, he jiggled it up and down, then withdrew it.

  The tip came out wet and oily with gasoline. Perfect. So he lowered it back into the tank, flared the exposed end of the handkerchief out so it would ignite quickly, and gently positioned it down the side of the tank. Once that caught, the whole machine would go up in one blast. The perfect Molotov cocktail. The trick would now be to set the seat of the fire far enough away that he had time to escape.

  Adjacent to the machine, two large tanks stood side by side. A disaster waiting to happen. Even after he’d warned the conceited idiot, the tanks were still in the same perilous location.

  Not for long. The explosion from the generator would rapidly take out one tank after the other. From then on, there would be no stopping the blaze.

  With nothing else to fashion a fuse line from, he took off his jacket and tore a sleeve from the shoulder. A gasoline canister used to fill the generator stood rusting in the corner, so he snatched it up, and held the plastic pipe steady as he screwed the cap off. Fumes rose from the liquid, stinging his eyes as he sucked on the end of the hose. When the putrid taste hit his mouth, he switched the tip of the hose into the canister. As soon as he had enough, he extracted the hose and screwed the cap back on.

  Now, where to start? The obvious place was back along the rear wall where the wooden framework of the old wine cellar formed a grid backing onto this area. The downside was that the alcohol from the wine would escalate the path and increase the intensity of the fire, and this was directly below the floor of the main lobby. That could make escape more difficult.

  So he’d have to move fast.

  After dragging an old table covered in drop cloths into place, he jerked the can at the surface, sloshing gasoline over the table and cloth. Satisfied he’d washed it with enough fuel, he reversed towards the exit to the stairway, angling the can and splashing the remaining gasoline in a line. At the stairway door, he took out a book of matches and struck the first.

  “Adios, asshole. May you burn in hell.”

  He tossed the lighted match. A tiny line of blue flame sputtered before taking hold. It followed the path to the first puddle, and suddenly the PHWOOF of flame and heat burst into the room.

  He backed up, wiping his face on the remaining sleeve of his shirt, scooped up his jacket, then hurried for the elevator.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  DAY THREE—7:59 PM—LANEY

  “How long’s this guy gonna be?” Laney complained. Whereas in the cage her knees were killing her, now the restraints were cutting into her wrists. “I’ve been strung up here so long I can’t feel my fingers anymore.”

  Patently fed up with the time he’d been there, Fatso looked at his watch for the millionth time, checked it with the clock on the wall, and huffed.

  “You could have let me out hours ago. We could have both been long gone by now. But no, you wanna stay and get treated like shit. That’s your business. You coulda let me go.”

  Once again, he turned his back on her and strode to the far side of the room, up the steps, and checked the door lock.

  “Can you just loosen my arms? I’m gonna wind up with arms like a gorilla.”

  He cut her an acid look, licked his lips, and followed the line of the rear wall around to the corner, only to start back again.

  “And I’ll bet you must be really hungry by now…” She was about to run off a list of her favorite foods to tempt him into action when the door clicked open.

  Fatso spun around and snapped to attention.

  Still in his shirtsleeves, still looking cool and dapper, Jerko reentered followed by the two thugs. He skipped down the four steps then sauntered across to the surgical table without acknowledging either Laney or Fatso. After selecting a pair of white rubber gloves, he stretched them in a line, shook them out, then slipped them on. This time, he turned and smiled.

  Laney’s heart skipped into double-time and her knees went weak.

  “My apologies for the delay,” Jerko said. “We’re waiting for my colleague. He tells me he’s in the building.”

  She didn’t want to know but she had to ask. “Why? What’s he gonna do?”

  Jerko strolled across in a leisurely manner to stand in front of her. “He tells me you have some valuable information.”

  Laney’s eyes cut to the door. Hadn’t she told him that? But what information did she have that was so secret even she couldn’t put her finger on it?

  Finally, the freezer door swung open and there he was—the old guy from the house in Cleveland.

  “You again,” she said with a groan. “What do you want from me? I don’t know anything.”

  “Did you get the things I asked for?” he asked Jerko.

  “You’re late,” Jerko told him.

  The old guy spread his hands and cast a look down at his crumpled suit. “My rental car ran out of gas. I spent twenty minutes walking to the next gas station.”

  Which probably explained the faint whiff of gasoline that had accompanied him into the room.

  “How unfortunate. We’ve been waiting,” Jerko told him, then swept a hand in her direction. As if to say, She’s all yours. The gesture looked gentlemanly, almost gracious. But it crackled with menace.

  Another flash of heat burst on Laney’s cheeks. “What’s going on? What do you want?”

  “Let me get my briefcase,” the man said, and turned to leave.

  A thug who’d been standing behind him stepped into his path.

  Jerko frowned, fake bemusement radiating from his smile. “You left it behind? How very remiss of you.”

  The old guy turned to face him, sweat beading his flushed face. Even from here Laney could practically hear his heart pounding in his chest. Suddenly, inexplicably, she feared for him.

  What the hell is going on?

  “Tell me,” Jerko said, walking casually over to him. “Do you think I am stupid?”

  The old guy’s gaze flicked to the thug in his way, then back. “Not at all. I needed to be sure you were here.”

  Oh, no. The old guy’s gonna get it.

  Laney wanted to shut her eyes. She wanted to disappear, but it was like watching an impending train wreck and she had to see what happened next.

  The silence that followed hung in the air like a poison cloud. Jerko dropped his head as if considering his options, then nodded. “Then I will have Grigori accompany you.”

  The old guy looked back at the seven-foot-tall thug, who nodded down at him with a self-satisfied smirk.

  “Sure. Whatever you want.”

  “And perhaps if the information is as I expect, I’ll allow you some time with Katarina.”

  The man’s face switched in an instant from flushed pink to a mask of pale gray. He looked ill. “Katarina? Where is she?”

  “She’s downstairs, waiting for
you.” A wide grin on Jerko’s face. “Your reward for your loyalty.”

  Almost the moment his words were out, a vibration cut through the building. It shook the floor and the walls like a shockwave, followed by the sound of an alarm.

  Jerko cut a questioning scowl to his thugs, who shrugged in wide-eyed wonder.

  “Go see what it was,” Jerko shouted, then spat out a string of orders in his own language.

  “I’ll go,” the old guy volunteered.

  “You stay here,” Jerko ordered.

  An expression of terror froze on the old guy’s face. His horrified gaze switched from Jerko to Laney.

  “I’m sorry,” he told Laney. In that split second, he spun, drew out a gun, and shot the thug behind him once in the chest, the second in the thigh In a cacophony of shouts and gunfire Jerko did a duck-and-run out of range, pulling a gun as he moved. As the old man snatched the lock from the door and ducked back, Jerko fired three times. The bullets hit the door with three metallic cracks, leaving only three small dents in the steel as it slammed shut. He raced up the stairs and grabbed the handle and yanked, but the sound of the lock clicking into place beat him to it.

  ***

  The Associate

  With his heart thudding painfully in his chest, the burning sensation from the bullet that had grazed his wrist, and the sting of sweat on his brow, he hurried back to the twentieth-floor elevator.

  Damn his stiff old joints. Damn his decrepit body.

  Pausing at the elevator to catch his breath, he pounded on the button with the side of his fist and swiped the sweat from his face. The second the elevator doors opened, he shouldered his way in and thumped the close button. But just as the doors met, a figure in his peripheral vision made him physically jump. In the mirrored walls of the car, the aghast expression of a gray-haired, parchment-faced old man stared back at him. From nowhere, a rush of reality hit him like a train.