by Holly Hart
The one thing I sure as hell don’t have is any idea what the password is. There’s a space for maybe four letters or numbers, but that’s all I’ve got to work with.
“Come on Kim,” I say, massaging my temples, “what would you have picked?” But more importantly: what would I know?
I take a chance. I type N – A – T – E into the little box, and tap the enter key.
Two attempts remaining.
I try Kim’s birthday.
One attempt remaining.
I slump back into the chair and think. If Kim sent this to me, then it stands to reason she would have created a password I could guess. Otherwise, what would be the point?
Of course, I think, this could all just be a red herring.
Even as I think it, I realize I don’t believe it. The email, this website – it’s all too convenient. It’s an enigma, just like Kim herself. It’s got her fingerprints all over it.
“Kiss,” I groan, “what would you –?”
I pause. I feel like a thunderbolt just split the sky apart and came crashing down into my skull. Surely it can’t be that simple? But it fits.
My fingertips hold over the keyboard. I almost don’t want to type the four letters, just in case I’m wrong. I push past the resistance.
K – I – S – S.
Enter.
The computer gurgles yet again. I close my eyes, fearing the worst. I expect to hear a chime, maybe even for the computer to go dead. But I’m wrong. I’ve never been happier to be wrong.
The screen goes white and starts to fill with information at lightning speed. My eyes flicker as they try to read, but they can’t keep up.
“What the hell is this?” I mutter, stumped. This is way above my pay grade. The filenames are all similar – like LOG20161010BORIS-PC-MONITORING.ZIP, but there must be hundreds of them. At the bottom of the screen, there’s a green icon.
It reads: monitoring program active.
“No way,” I breathe. Suddenly it all becomes clear. All this time, I thought I was the one watching Kim. It turns out that she had her own horse in the race: a backup; a get out of jail free card.
I’ve just got to figure out how to use it.
Crap.
It doesn’t matter how long I take to mull the question over in my head – every time I reach the same conclusion. There’s no way I can analyze all this information alone.
I need help, and I only know one person who can give it to me. Even though she’s the last person I want to call. I reach for my phone.
When Natalie picks up, my handler doesn’t give me a second to speak. “Nate,” she bites out, “where the hell are you? You better tell me what the hell is going –.”
I cut across her. “No, Natalie,” I say firmly. “Here is how this is going to go. I can give you what you want. I have everything Paragon wants on the cartel – names, bank records, transaction histories, everything –.”
“How –.”
“I can explain later. Now, I need your help.”
There’s a long silence on the line. I let Natalie think. I don’t second-guess my decision to go in all guns blazing. My handler is a hard woman. She respects strength; she wouldn’t have it any other way. I think.
“Nate,” Natalie says with a voice that could cut diamond, “have you forgotten who cuts your paycheck? Whatever you have, I want it. You hand it over; maybe I will forget this conversation ever happened.”
A surge of rage washes through me. It’s like a wave, seething white-hot at the top. I bite it back. This isn’t a time for ego.
“Consider this my notice, Natalie,” I say my voice even. “But I’ll offer you a deal. I’ll give you the Templars, all wrapped up on a goddamn silver platter. I’ve got every last scrap of data you could dream of. I just need your analysis monkey to turn it into something I can use: a location.”
There’s another long pause before Natalie speaks. When she does, I can tell that she’s fighting against every fiber of her being. “What do you want in return?”
“Kim,” I reply honestly. There’s no sense in hiding it now. “plus the promise that if I do this, I’m out, and so is she. No repercussions, no death squads hunting us down in six months’ time. Do we have a deal?”
I hold my breath. Kim’s life rests on Natalie’s answer. She makes me wait for it.
26
Kim
My head hurts. I open my eyes, but all I see are streaks of fiery pain shooting across my vision.
Where am I?
What happened?
The memory starts to filter back, but slowly. I feel like my brain is trudging through a thick, muddy field. I remember the man in the tan overcoat, but it’s as if it was a dream, not a memory. I remember the way he stared at me with hungry, devilish eyes. I remember the stench of desire streaming from his pores.
I ask again.
Where am I?
What happened?
I hear the murmur of conversation in the background. It’s in a foreign language, I don’t recognize it – or at least, I don’t understand it. Perhaps it does sound familiar, after all. I hear the splashing of tires speeding through rain-sodden streets. I hear the beeping of horns.
I stifle a groan, and try to bring my hands to my skull to tend to my thumping head. I can’t move them. My wrists are tied behind my back. I’m strapped to a wooden chair, my head lolling at a strange angle.
Where am I?
What happened?
My senses start to return. The conversation is louder, now, and I recognize the language. It’s Spanish. Now I remember an arm like a tree trunk living under my chin. I remember it beginning to tighten around my throat. I remember the look on the face of the man in the tan overcoat.
Satisfaction.
I lift my head up, alert. Every sense is firing now. Adrenaline is flooding into my system. I remember what happened. The brute with the silver tooth strangled me unconscious. They must have carried me here, and tied me to this chair.
But, why take me? Tendrils of fear creep into my veins. The seat of the chair crawls beneath me. It feels alive. Why did they bring me here? What do they plan to do to me? Do they want answers, or my body?
…or both?
The questions fire too fast for me to keep up. I can feel panic beginning to overwhelm me, but I fight it.
I was always the weird kid, the odd one out. I had to learn to master my emotions. When you’re bullied, like every weird kid knows, you have to learn to not react. The second you do, you give your tormentor an opening.
It’s the same here. I master my fear. I know that if I give into it, then all is lost. If I let myself become a sniveling, whimpering wreck, then I may as well just give up now.
You’re better than that.
I know I am. And besides, all isn’t lost. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, no matter how faint it might be. I watched tan overcoat destroying my phone. If he did it right, then Nate…
My breath catches in my throat. Then Nate what? For a second, my doubts attack me again. I start to think about all the hoops that Nate will have to jump through: receiving the email; not ignoring it; figuring out the password; then figuring out what to do with it…
It’s a stretch. But it’s hope. And if anyone can do it, I know Nate can.
I just have to do my part. I have to be alert, aware. If I see an escape, I need to take the chance. I can’t rely on anyone else. I never have, and I’m sure as heck not about to start now.
I control my breathing. I take stock. I try to figure out where I am.
I glance left and right. I’m in a room, alone. The door is open just a crack – just wide enough to hear snatches of conversation, though I can’t understand a word. I wish I had paid attention to Spanish class back in high school, instead of dropping it the second I got the chance.
I never was good at languages.
I strain to take in every inch of the room. It’s dark and gloomy, but what light there is filtering in through the window is
bright and orange. From the sound of traffic washing through the rain outside, I figure I’m still in the city.
That’s a good thing, right? I wonder. Surely they won’t kill me here. It would be too loud, make too much of a scene.
I know it’s a false hope, but I hang on to it anyway. My mind races on. I can’t have been unconscious for very long. Not unless they drugged me, anyway, and I don’t feel groggy. It’s a good sign. It means I can’t be far from where I was taken.
I can’t be far from Nate.
I keep thinking, keep trying to figure my own way out of this mess. The second I stop trying, stop moving, stop thinking, I die.
I yank against the cords binding my wrists to test the knot. The chair groans underneath me. I freeze.
“You hear dat?” A heavily accented voice says, in English. Another one replies.
“De bitch is awake.”
I hear the scraping of chairs, the thud as glasses smash down against the surface of a wooden table. I hear them coming for me.
For all my bold statements, my stomach shrinks with fear. These men attacked me. They kidnapped me. They strangled me unconscious, and they dragged me here, to do God only knows what to me.
I’d have to be crazy not to be scared.
“Wakey, wakey, rise and shine,” tan overcoat snarls, kicking down the flimsy wooden door. It smashes against the wall, and I half expect it to splinter into shards.
I call him ‘tan overcoat’, but he’s not wearing it anymore. Just a linen shirt rolled up over thick, corded forearms dark with tattoo ink. His two minions follow close behind their master, evil grins stretching out across ugly faces.
“Who are you?” I ask, shrinking back into my chair. There’s a trace of fear in my voice, but it’s mostly firm.
“You don’t ask the questions, bitch,” he snarls. “I want answers. Where de hell is my boss’s money? You answer me quick, I let you die quick. You mess me around…” He holds his arms up as if to say: I’m not responsible for my actions.
I don’t let him bully me. I can’t let him bully me. Fighting back is a risk, but it’s one I have to take. I know his type. If he gets into his stride, then things will get very bad for me, very fast.
“Who are you?” I repeat through gritted teeth.
CRACK!
My face stings from the impact of the slap he gives me. My neck wrenches to the left, and for a second my vision goes black.
Tan overcoat leans in so that our faces nearly meet. He is attractive, in a dangerous kind of way. Not to me, not right now, but I wonder how he chose this path in life.
“I ask the questions,” my tormentor growls. He pauses, as if delighted with the effect his reeking breath has on me – though I doubt he would be quite so happy if he knew exactly why my nose is wrinkling. “Bitch…”
I grimace. I hate that word. But I don’t let it throw me off my game. I know that is what he wants. “Not,” I say, rolling the word around my tongue, “if you ever want your boss to see a dime of his money…”
Tan overcoat slaps me again. I see it coming this time, and I steel myself for the pain I know is coming. I can feel how red my cheeks are. I don’t blink.
“You will give me de money,” tan overcoat snarls, “ev’ry last goddamn cent – or I’ll make your last hours on this planet more painful dan you can imagine.”
I let my head fall back. I don’t have much – any – experience with the criminal underworld, but this guy isn’t building my faith in their collective intelligence. I groan.
“I don’t have your money,” I hiss. “You think I’d be here if I did? I’d be on some island, a nice hot, sandy one, with a piña colada in my hands and someone massaging my shoulders.”
Tan overcoat stares at me with beady eyes. “You’re lying.”
I shrug – or at least, try to. The rope holding my wrists behind my back makes that harder than it should be.
“Believe what you want,” I say, marveling at my bravery, “it means nothing to me. I got screwed just as bad as you did. I want revenge just as bad as you do.”
I can’t tell if tan overcoat believes me or not. His gaze burns into my cheeks. Even if he does accept what I’m saying, I don’t know if he’ll act like a normal human being and talk about it.
“Jefe,” the big brute with the silver tooth grunts, “gi’ me te’minit wi’de beesh. She gi’u wha’u want.”
It takes me a second to understand what he’s saying through the accent. I know he’s only speaking in – broken – English to scare me, but it’s working.
I shake my head.
Tan overcoat laughs a humorless laugh and looks over his shoulder. “You’re one sick puppy, you know that Carlos? I let you have this puta, she’ll be in no state to talk…”
The big man shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Please,” I mutter. My teeth are chattering. It’s taking everything I have to stay in control. “Just tell me your name.” I don’t know why it’s so important to me, but it is. I feel like everyone should at least know the name of their killer.
Tan overcoat looks back my way. His lips are peeled back, revealing his gums. I hate the way he stares at me. It’s like I’m not a person – just a curiosity. I guess to him, that’s all I am. He throws his arms wide with exasperation.
“Jesus, she’s less than my mother,” he groans. “If it gets you to talk, fine. Call me Felix.” He grins. “It means lucky. You feeling lucky, bitch?”
I ignore his threat. I’m dead already, I think, and you can’t scare a ghost.
“You want your boss’s money, Felix?” I asked. I know better than to rise to the man’s barbs. That’s what he wants. Besides, an angry Felix is an unpredictable Felix – and that’s the last thing I want.
He claps his hands together. “Finally, we are getting somewhere.”
Felix leans in, again. I gag on his breath – again. “Where did you hide it, Kim? This is nice, isn’t it – all this first name shit. It’s what friends do. Now, can you tell your friend your secret?”
I jerk my head, just a fraction of an inch. Felix brings his ear so close it’s almost touching my lips. I could lean forward and bite it off. For a second, that’s all I can think about. I wouldn’t mind the metallic taste of Felix’s blood on my lips, or the fact that it would be the last thing I’d ever do…
It would be worth it.
“Like I told you,” I whisper, “I don’t have it. I never did…”
Felix spins, rage swelling on his face like a bruise. He grabs my neck, but before he squeezes, I gasp the words that surely save my life.
“But I know who does!”
My throat wears Felix’s fingers like a necklace. It burns with the heat. My breath is pouring out of my lungs in short, ragged bursts, like the chimney of a steam engine. I don’t even remember what it was like to not feel fear.
“Carlos, come here,” Felix orders. The big man does as he is told. Felix thrusts his free hand out, palm up. “Give me your gun.”
I gulp. Even while I’m doing it, I realize that with his fingers caressing my neck, Felix can feel my throat clenching. He can sense my fear.
A rasping, metallic click fills the room as Carlos fulfills his master’s wishes. Felix glances at the weapon in his hand, and his fingers curl around the grip. His arm moves slowly through the air. Maybe it just feels that way.
He presses the barrel against my forehead. It’s cool against my skin.
“Speak,” he growls, his voice seething. “You’ve got sixty seconds to give me one good reason to keep you alive.”
I close my eyes. I have a feeling that Felix isn’t going to like what I’m about to say.
“Do you have a laptop?”
27
Nate
I’m so tense I doubt you could cut through me with a sword. It’s twisting my shoulders: my neck; my back; my everywhere. Everything is tense. I roll my neck, and it clicks half a dozen times. It feels good to move – even that little bit. I hate waiting.
&nbs
p; I hate it even more when Kim’s life is on the line. The thing is, right now I don’t have any other choice. I made a deal with the devil – or Paragon, as they are otherwise known – so I’ve got to suck it up and wait. That’s why I’m leaning on a stolen car in a parking lot somewhere in East London. Natalie sent a text – just an address, and I drove like the wind –