by Amy Vansant
He felt as though a cadre of tiny insects marched up and down his cheeks. He could feel their sharp little feet, pinpricking his face. A chill ran through his body, but when he reached up to touch his forehead, he found it sweaty.
“Oh no.”
He scrambled to his feet and ran to Luther’s kitchen sink. As he hurled ale and froth into the sink, Luther appeared, nearly knocking him across the stove as he slid in beside him and vomited into the same sink. This set off a chain reaction and Sean once again emptied his stomach until the two of them stood hip-to-hip, dry gagging.
Sean wrestled the spasm down and turned away from the sink, wiping his mouth. He heard Luther turn on the water.
“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen,” croaked Sean. “And I just saw a guy dying of leprosy.”
Luther scooped some water into his mouth, swished and spat. Next he splashed a little on his face and wiped it off with the kitchen towel hanging on the handle of the stove.
“Frat kids do this shit every weekend.”
Sean’s stomach spasmed a final time as he rolled his hip along the countertop to rest his butt against it. He closed his eyes and took slow, easy breaths.
Luther walked away from the sink and let Sean take his place there. He removed the woolen cloak and draped it over his cheap wooden kitchen chair.
Sean rinsed the froth from his close-cropped beard and let his gaze wander the room. He never dreamed he’d be so happy to see Luther’s crappy kitchen.
“Did I will myself here?” he asked, a little surprised he hadn’t appeared in his own home.
Luther shrugged. “I helped.”
“I felt you take my hand.”
“Yup.”
Sean sniffed. “You killed me.”
“Yup.”
“I only hope one day I get the chance to repay the favor.”
Luther grinned, his deep, rich laugh filling the room.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Back off the door. I’ve got a gun.”
The return of Paunchy Pete.
His had been the only voice Catriona heard outside their prison’s door over the hour they’d been locked in the little room. He seemed to be alone out there in the house. She’d heard him on the phone, presumably with a girlfriend. Someone who needed to get off his back already. He felt certain his shit was under control.
All riveting stuff.
At least Peter liked his meth. That could provide them with an opportunity.
Mo looked up from where she’d curled in the corner, picking at a loose hem in her tunic. Catriona reasoned the busywork kept the woman’s mind off their situation, and for that, she was grateful. Keeping herself from spinning off into a blind panic was hard enough. She didn’t know if she had the strength to soothe Mo with words of inspiration she herself didn’t believe.
Catriona rubbed her palms on the sides of her thighs, readying herself to recognize and take advantage of any opportunity.
The doorknob rattled and Peter popped his head in to ensure they’d provided him with a clear path. Satisfied with their positions at the back of the room, he entered with a tray containing two paper plates slipped beneath two thin sandwiches. A pair of bottled waters completed the feast. He kept the tray balanced against his chest with one arm. The opposite hand held a pistol.
Catriona stepped forward to take the tray and Peter raised the gun.
“Stay there.”
Catriona stopped. “Sorry, Peter.”
Peter had been lowering the tray to the ground, but he stopped as she spoke, his gaze whipping in her direction. He straightened again, glaring at her.
Catriona smiled. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to be too familiar.” She motioned to the world outside their door. “I heard you talking, earlier, to someone. They called you Peter.”
He grimaced. “That’s not anything you need to know.”
“But I do know it. I can’t un-know it. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like they’re going to let me go and I’m going to run to the police screaming Peter did it. What good would that do?”
Peter scowled, clearly unhappy with the idea that she knew his name, but not so unhappy Catriona felt confident he knew they would be released.
She felt her smile falter.
They’re not going to let us go.
She felt nerves flutter in the pit of her empty stomach. Sometimes a gift for reading people didn’t tell you what you wanted to know.
Accepting his fate as a known entity, Peter lowered the tray to the floor.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” said Catriona.
Mo perked, looking as if Catriona read her mind. “Me, too.”
Peter’s frown tightened another notch.
“Now?”
The women nodded.
He took a deep breath and sighed with a tone of resignation, his expression relaxing, as if he’d known their request would be an eventuality and there was nothing left to do but get the ugly business behind him. “One at a time.”
“Oh, I’ll go first,” said Mo.
Peter glanced at Catriona and she nodded.
“Let her go first.”
Mo rocked forward and Catriona thrust out a hand to help her up.
Peter backed out of the room and motioned with the gun for Mo to follow him. He waved it once in Catriona’s direction to be sure she understood to stay back. She considered rushing him, but he seemed awfully determined to keep the gun pointed in her direction. Even strung-out, Peter was good at his job. His hands didn’t even shake.
Maybe the girlfriend was wrong after all.
Peter closed the door and Catriona heard a bolt slide into place. The combination lock rattled and snapped shut.
Catriona stared at the closed door and then jumped up and down to get her blood moving, stretching her back with deep side bends.
It’s now or never.
She couldn’t keep hoping her chance would arise. She needed to create an opportunity. She’d be a fool to count on Alain coming through. And twice the fool to believe Volkov would let them go, even if Alain did everything he asked.
She picked one of the paper plates off the ground and smelled the sandwich, lifting the bread to inspect the contents. One piece of baloney split two slices of bright white bread. She didn’t smell anything suspicious, but there were plenty of drugs and poisons undetectable by smell. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.
She put down the food. Better not to chance it.
The water seemed safer. The caps were tight and untampered with. She couldn’t find any sign of leaking, or any hole possibly caused by an inserted syringe. No sign they might have resealed the cap. She cracked open the bottle, sniffed it and took a swig.
Tastes like water.
She gulped down the rest of the bottle. She could go longer without food but it would be unwise to grow dehydrated.
“Get back.”
The door rattled again and Mo entered looking more relaxed. She’d taken the time to clear the mascara streaks from her cheeks, though her eyes remained swollen and red. She glanced at Catriona, but didn’t appear to possess any new information.
As she passed, Catriona whispered to her. “Anyone else out there?”
Mo appeared frightened to be asked. She slid to her seat in the corner and shook her head without looking at Catriona again.
“Let’s go,” said Peter, motioning to Catriona. The look on his face struck her as odd. No longer perturbed over the reveal of his name, now he looked at her with...pity?
He looked away. As if it pained him to consider her.
Catriona swallowed.
What does he know? Does he know why they’re keeping me?
The moment Peter turned his head, his gun began to lower. Panic growing, Catriona pushed away the fear by kicking the weapon from his hand.
She hadn’t planned it.
The gun clattered against the wall and skid somewhere behind the open door.
Mo screa
med, covering her head.
Peter jerked back his hand, grimacing in pain, and then moved for the gun. Though she’d caught herself off-guard by kicking at the gun, Catriona had counted on him diving for the weapon. Only sheer will kept her from doing the same thing.
She remained standing, arms quivering at her sides with restraint.
As Peter’s head dipped, she kicked him hard in the face.
Peter straightened like a bloom searching for the sun and then stumbled back against the wall, his nose streaming blood. His eyes locked on hers. Springing off the wall like a spider, he roared, charging at her. He led with his fist and Catriona used his momentum to deflect the punch. He caught only the edge of her arm and flattened against the wall, catching himself with his other arm before his head could hit.
Jumping on his back, Catriona wrapped her arms around his throat. Leaning back, she put the full weight of her body on his windpipe as he thrashed to break free, bouncing, pinball-like off the walls.
Mo squealed, doing her best to stay out of the way as they crashed around the room. Peter slammed Catriona against every wall, growing increasingly desperate to dislodge her. She clung to him like a bronco rider.
“Get out. Run!” Catriona screamed as her spine struck another wall and the wind pushed from her lungs.
Mo tried to move to the door, but Peter crossed her path, blocking her. As Catriona and her captor twirled like copulating dogs in the opposite direction, Peter finally fell to his knees. He hovered there a moment and then face-planted to the floor, unconscious.
Catriona held on a little longer. She could feel Mo in the room beside her and turned her head to confirm it. Catriona grimaced. She wanted the woman out before she let Peter loose, just in case he was playing possum.
“Go—”
She looked up and saw Mo staring at something in the doorway. Catriona followed her attention to the hard man who had done all the talking at the warehouse.
The man who had cornered them in the Chinese kitchen.
Volkov.
Volkov reached out and grabbed Mo by her hair. She yelped and held up her hands, begging him to let go as he pulled her head down and towards him. With his other hand, he raised a gun to Mo’s temple, glaring at Catriona, a maniacal glint in his eye.
“You like to fight?”
Catriona jerked against Peter’s throat. “I’ll kill your man.”
Volkov laughed. “I don’t even know his name. Plus, I’ll shoot her and you before you can finish him.”
Catriona grimaced. Her leverage on Peter’s throat was the only leverage she had, and it was no advantage over Volkov’s weapon. The gun behind the door was too far away to be of any help.
She slid her arm out from under Peter and sat up, still straddling his lower back. “Don’t take it out on her. I was the one. She didn’t do anything.”
Volkov smiled. “I love your fire.”
Unnerved by Volkov’s wolfish leer, Catriona stood. Volkov motioned to her with the gun.
“Move to the corner.”
She did as she was told. Volkov dragged a whimpering Mo closer to Peter’s still form and kicked the boy in the ribs.
Peter groaned. Volkov kicked him again.
“Get up.”
Peter looked up, bleary-eyed and sputtering. He raised himself to a sitting position and glared at Catriona, rubbing his throat as he tried to catch his breath.
Volkov tapped Peter’s knee with his boot. “Hey. What did she do to you?”
Peter coughed his response. “What?”
“How did she get the better of you?”
Peter grimaced, still struggling to breathe. “She sucker-punched me—kicked—”
“She kicked you?”
Peter nodded, his eyes rolling in the direction of the gun still laying behind the door. Volkov followed his attention. He clucked his tongue in disapproval.
Peter knew his mistake had been spotted and his voice grew whiney. “She kicked my hand—”
Volkov cut him short by shoving Mo at him. She stumbled and Peter raised his hands to block her from falling on him. Mo twisted, trying to disentangle herself from his flailing arms and then landed hard on her ample rear end with an expelling of breath. She slid into her familiar corner looking equal parts mortified and frightened.
Volkov backed until he could retrieve Peter’s pistol from behind the door, his own gun pointed at Catriona.
“Would you say she’s a kickboxer?” Volkov asked, throwing the gun at Peter.
He bobbled the weapon and then secured it, taking a moment to stare at it as if he expected it to leap from his hands again.
“A kickboxer?”
Volkov rolled his eyes. “Would you say she’s a kickboxer? Or did she just happen to kick you? Was there skill in what she did?”
“I—” Catriona tried to interrupt. Volkov’s obsession with her fighting style made her uneasy.
Volkov’s eyes flashed in her direction as he raised his finger to shush her. His annoyance seemed so deep and genuine, words failed her and she fell silent like a scolded little girl.
Volkov turned his attention back to Peter.
“Maybe in her heart she is more of a street fighter?”
Peter’s eyebrows slanted like an opening bridge and he stammered. “I, I don’t know, she just...I didn’t see...”
Volkov’s disappointment in Peter’s inability to describe Catriona’s attack felt like an entire other being in the room. He looked to Catriona.
“It feels unfair to ask, but are you a boxer?”
Unfair?
Catriona didn’t understand Volkov’s interest. At first she’d thought he was performing a little play for his own amusement. She’d guessed the final act would be the utter humiliation of Peter for being bested by a woman. But now, he appeared to have lost all interest in Peter.
“No.”
“A kickboxer?”
Is he looking to hire me?
Catriona shook her head again.
“...No.” She stiffened. She hadn’t meant to pause but she could see Volkov saw the lie.
He smiled, nodding his approval. “You are a kickboxer. Very good.”
He kicked Peter’s thigh, this time much harder. “Get up. Get out of here. You are useless.”
Peter stood and with a last smoldering glare at Catriona, left the room. Volkov lowered his gun and, instead, pointed a tightlipped smile at Catriona.
“Good,” he muttered once more before leaving and shutting the door behind him.
Mo’s hand shot to her mouth to stifle a sob. “Why did you do that?” she asked from behind her quivering fingers.
Catriona leaned against the wall and rubbed her arm where Peter had clipped her. “I was trying to save us.”
“You just made him more mad. You almost got me shot.”
“That part might be inevitable.”
Mo glared at her. “Alain will save me.”
Catriona tucked back her head, struck by Mo’s vitriol.
Ouch. There it is again. My expendability shoved in my face.
She took a step towards Mo. “You’re so confident Alain will save you? Where is he then? Your gangster-wannabee husband?”
Mo crossed her arms against her chest and looked away. “He’ll give them what he has to.”
Catriona grunted and moved to the opposite corner to sit. “Well, I’m sorry. I’m not going to sit in this cell and wait to die.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Broch and the party women arrived at Gold, singing a Scottish drinking song he’d taught them along the way. At some point he’d been able to convey to the designated driver the name of the hotel where he wanted to be left and she’d been gracious enough to roll him to the door.
“Thank ye fer yer help,” he said to the driver as they came to a stop at the doors of Gold.
She looked at him through the rearview mirror and rolled her eyes. “Thank you. You kept them distracted for me so I could concentrate on driving for two second
s.”
The blonde on his lap had fallen asleep on his chest and he eased her back to the others as he slipped out from beneath her to a rousing chorus of goodbyes.
With a final wave of thanks, Broch entered the lobby and walked directly to the elevator. He again rode it to the level beneath Alain’s penthouse planning to climb the last flight. As the great metal box rose, he tapped the keyhole next to the button for the penthouse, remembering how Catriona had.
He’d thrown himself into singing with the women during his ride to keep from freezing in fear for Catriona. Left alone in the elevator, he could feel his anxiety looming, tapping on his shoulder, whispering in his ear that he’d never find her. Telling her the things that would happen to her when he failed.
Na.
Hold the anger.
He needed to stay sharp. Fear couldn’t help Catriona. Dread and regret would only drag him down.
He pounded again on the door to Alain’s level.
Philip had his gun drawn when he opened the door to the stairwell, making it clear he had no intention of falling for the same trick twice. An angry red knot bulged on his forehead where Broch had smacked his skull into the ground.
Philip pointed his gun at Broch and shook his head. “No way, man.”
Broch raised his hands. “Ah need tae talk tae Alain.”
“No way. We sent the boy home—”
“It’s aboot Mo. She’s been taken.”
Ripples rose on Philip’s forehead. “Taken?”
“Taken. By bad men.”
Philip lowered his weapon and sighed through his nose, his jaw clenching.
“Fine. Follow me, but no funny stuff.”
Broch followed him to Alain’s door, where Philip knocked and Dez answered. She seemed surprised and not overjoyed to see him.
“What do you want?” She tilted to look past him at Broch. “Have you lost your mind letting him in again?”
Philip grimaced. “He said something happened to Mo.”
Dez scowled as she returned her attention to the Highlander, but Broch thought he saw a flash of surprise in her expression.
“Where’s your bitch?” she asked.
Now it was Broch’s turn to frown. “Ah’m goan tae let that gae. Where’s Alain?”