by Berkom, DV
“You must let me go. I have learned my lesson. I will do as you say.” His voice caught.
She walked back and grabbed him underneath his arms, dragging him to the rear of the car before she pulled him to his feet.
“Wait, no—I can’t go in there—” His eyes bulged at the sight of the open trunk, and he pulled back, shaking his head. “I will die.” The last sentence came out small and quiet.
“Sorry, Ilya. I can’t take the chance that you’ll fuck things up.”
Ilya wriggled and thrashed his head back and forth as she shoved him into the trunk.
“No—you cannot do this to me!” Ilya’s voice carried over the still night air. Leine reached inside her coat pocket for the remaining rope and cut a length with the knife. She wadded a rag Spartacus had left in the trunk and stuffed it into his mouth, secured it with the rope, and then closed the lid. The trunk vibrated with angry thudding and muffled Russian curses.
Leine leaned in close and said in a low voice, “I’m leaving now. If you continue this childishness, it’s only a matter of time before Robicheaux’s men find you. When that happens, they will torture you to find out what you know, which will obviously compromise the mission. Then, once they’ve gotten all they can from you—and I promise, it will be quite painful—they’ll kill you. I doubt very much that your uncle’s friend will be impressed. What do you think?”
Silence.
Fairly sure the young Russian idiot wouldn’t draw attention to himself, Leine sprinted across the road and skirted the fence until she came to a gap large enough to squeeze through. She wished she hadn’t left the rifle on the roof back in Amsterdam. She could have set up somewhere nearby and waited the Frenchman out.
Other than water lapping against the nearby dock, her measured breathing was the only sound. When she reached the side of the first building, she paused and peered through the night scope. The eerie green setting showed no life—only forgotten, rust-scarred equipment piled high in a makeshift junkyard.
She continued, pausing to listen as she did. She’d made it as far as the warehouse nearest the wharf when a faint clang echoed to her right. The fog had dissipated somewhat, revealing the shadowy outline of a ship moored next to the dock. Crouched low, she crept forward, eyes trained on the fishing trawler. The wheelhouse was located aft, with twin beams amidships. There was no light coming from the bridge.
The clang sounded again. She soon located the source: an unsecured winch swung back and forth, slamming against the boom.
She crossed the dark expanse between the warehouse and the wharf and was about to step onto the dock when rocks skittered behind her.
Chapter 13
Leine melted into the shadows. Moments later, footsteps crunched on gravel, growing louder. A man carrying a machine gun over his shoulder materialized, continued onto the dock, and climbed on board the ship.
From the looks of his weapon, Robicheaux’s gunmen didn’t use suppressors. If they exchanged fire it would get loud, necessitating a quick escape. She paused a few moments longer. When no one else appeared, she made her way to the boat.
Except for the occasional clang of the winch, there was no activity. No voices floated toward her, which seemed odd. Water was a great conductor of sound. Curious, Leine waited a beat before she continued up the gangway and stepped onto the deck.
She noted movement in her periphery and slipped behind a large net. The man with the gun who’d passed her before came into view, slowly patrolling above decks. He stopped and reached inside his jacket for a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and lit up. The ember glowed as he took a drag and expelled a cloud of blue smoke into the air. She waited until he turned away and then slipped up behind him with her knife.
A soft gurgle escaped his throat as blood spilled down his chest. Carefully, she lowered him to the deck and covered him with some rope. She sheathed the knife and slipped along the starboard side of the ship toward the bridge. It looked as though Robicheaux only had the one guard patrolling the upper deck. She continued along the lower section of the bridge until she came to a door.
Easing it open she listened, her breathing shallow. The faint sound of voices floated up from below, and she stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
A soft light glowed in the darkness, illuminating a set of steep metal stairs leading below decks. MP5 leading the way, she descended. At the bottom, she scanned for company but saw no one. She continued toward the voices, which she identified as male. Drawing closer, a French accent became discernible.
Her back against the wall, she inched closer to an open doorway. She could make out three distinct voices—two French speakers and one other with an indeterminate accent.
“Have they identified the bomber?” one of them demanded, obviously angry. Leine assumed the voice belonged to Robicheaux.
“No. Our contact was as surprised as we were,” a deep voice replied. “The Russians lost one of their best operatives in the blast.”
“And we almost lost you,” said the Frenchman. There was a pause. “Set up a meeting. I need aircraft. The shipment to Liberia is in danger of being canceled, and you know what that means.” The man’s voice dripped with menace. “Oscar, I want you to find out who placed the explosive in the café and deal with them accordingly, no matter the cost.”
“I would consider it an honor.”
Leine moved to the other side of the doorway. She could use the element of surprise and enter the room now to take them all out. This appealed to her impatience to get back to the States so she could find out what had happened to Carlos, but she didn’t know how many guards were in the room or on the ship, and she hadn’t positively identified the Frenchman.
As she weighed her options, the door at the top of the stairwell banged open. There was a short scuffle before heavy footsteps descended the stairs. Leine slipped into a dark room opposite the stairwell as a man with a gun appeared, dragging someone behind him.
Ilya.
Shit. How’d the little idiot get caught?
The man shoved the young Russian ahead of him, hastening his progress by jabbing him in the back with his gun barrel. His hands were still tied, but the rope binding his ankles had been cut, allowing him to walk. Leine caught a glimpse of Ilya’s bruised and battered face before he disappeared through the doorway. One eye had swollen shut.
What the hell? Leine had locked the car. She doubted Ilya would be stupid enough to make noise if he heard someone nearby.
Or would he?
“Who have we here?” the one she thought of as Robicheaux asked.
Ilya didn’t answer.
“I heard loud thumping coming from the grove of trees across the road. He was inside the trunk of a car. He’d kicked out the backseat. Look what else I found.”
“Hmm. What would such a young man be planning to do with a cache of weapons, do you think?”
A muscle in Leine’s eye spasmed. Apparently they found the pack Leine had left on the back floor of the BMW.
“Do I know you?” the Frenchman said. “You seem familiar.”
The man’s question gave Leine more reason to believe Robicheaux was in the room. Don’t say anything, Ilya. It would do no good to remind the Frenchman of who he was.
The Russian’s capture complicated things. Ilya wouldn’t hold out long when it came to the Frenchman’s interrogation techniques. In fact, she was certain her presence would be compromised within minutes of Robicheaux’s first attempt at retrieving information. Her choices had just narrowed considerably. Now, Ilya would most certainly be caught in the crossfire. As annoying as he was, she didn’t relish the idea of killing the kid.
Time to move.
Leine sprinted along the passageway, forward past the fish hold, searching for the battery panel. She found the switch box on her second circuit. The battery on-off switch was the kind that required a T-handle to operate. Counting the seconds, Leine scanned the floor and checked between the batteries with no luck. She was about to jur
y-rig something else to force it when she noticed a metal tool-box pushed into a corner several feet way. She walked over to it and lifted the lid. The T-handle was inside. She returned to the battery panel, inserted the handle, and threw the switch.
Everything went black. The constant hum of the ship’s engine seemed to increase in decibels. Leine waited a moment in case a backup generator kicked on. Satisfied there wasn’t one, she removed the T-handle and slid it out of sight before navigating back toward the ship’s stern.
Footsteps pounded toward her, echoing the length of the corridor. The erratic beam of a flashlight bounced wildly in the dark. Leine stepped into a recessed doorway and flattened herself against the wall. The gunman hurried past, focused on the corridor ahead of him. Once he cleared her location, Leine stepped into the passageway and shot him twice in the back of the head. He crumpled to the deck. She relieved him of his weapon and hurried toward the stern, using the night scope on the MP5 to find her way.
As she neared the stairs leading to the upper deck, Ilya’s muffled cries erupted from the room where they’d taken him. She didn’t have much time.
Neither did Ilya.
Leine fished the flashbang from her jacket, pulled the pin, and tossed it inside the door. A second later it detonated and she moved inside, keeping low and sweeping the room with the MP5. Two guards flanked Ilya, who was tied to a chair. From a crouch, Leine fired through the smoke, killing one. His hearing and sight compromised, the other gunman fired blind. A stream of bullets peppered the metal wall above her head, pinging wildly. She returned fire, shooting the second guard in the chest. His gun dropped from his grasp, clattering to the floor as he slid down the wall.
She raced across the room to Ilya.
“It’s me,” she said. Unsheathing the knife, she bent down and sawed through the rope holding him to the chair. She removed his gag and pulled him to his feet.
“Where’s Robicheaux?” she asked.
“On the bridge,” Ilya replied. “They have the passports,” he added.
She picked up one of the dead guard’s AK-47s and handed it to Ilya. “Here,” she said as she led him to the door. She stopped to scan the passageway and stairs.
A man descended the stairwell and Leine fired. The body toppled forward but jerked to a stop near the last step, his arm wedged in the railing.
“Climb, but watch the door at the top,” Leine instructed, and gave him a push. Ilya did as he was told, and Leine followed him up the stairs backward, sweeping the passageway below. Once they reached the door, she took first position and inched the door open. The upper deck and path to the gangway was clear.
“Go. I’ll meet you by the car.” She opened it wide enough for Ilya to slip through and then covered him as he disappeared down the walkway to the dock below.
Leine sensed someone behind her, and her body tensed for combat. She ducked and pivoted, her hand reaching for the knife.
Stars exploded behind her eyes. And the world went black.
Chapter 14
North Sea Trawler—location unknown
Drip.
Drip.
Leine fought her way back to consciousness. Her ears rang, and the back of her skull throbbed. She tried to raise her hand to rub the base of her neck but found both hands already above her, the numbness in her shoulders and arms just beginning to register. She leaned her head back and opened her eyes. Her wrists were tied with thick rope to a large metal hook hanging from a chain attached to the ceiling. She glanced at her feet. Her ankles were tied together, and her bare toes struggled to touch the floor as she tried to find purchase.
What the hell?
Icy water hit her face and she inhaled sharply, sputtering at the shock of cold.
“Fuck.” She shook her head and blinked the water from her eyes.
A giant of a man with a thick bandage on the side of his head and deep scars on his face stood in front of her in the stark, cold glow of a wall-mounted light, his expression bland.
The man from the café bombing.
The lone bulb on the back wall had a wire cage around it, and the greasy smell of diesel and oil were prevalent, telling her she was most likely still on the trawler. Dull gray paint covered the floor and halfway up the wall, abruptly changing to a dirty off-white. Rust poked through the paint in several places.
Conscious now, the past twenty-four hours came back to her in a confusing rush of images and smells: the acrid smoke and sickening odor of burned bodies and melted plastic from the café bombing; Spartacus lying on the floor of his secret room in a pool of his own blood; tourists jockeying for position at the window in the Red Light District and the innocuous-looking package of explosives; Ilya’s beaten and bruised face; the gunmen on the trawler.
An involuntary shiver shook her, and she looked down at her bare legs. At least they left her panties on. Her shirt wasn’t doing her much good even for modesty’s sake—she was soaked to the skin. Her jacket, pants, and shoes lay in a heap in the corner of the steel-walled room.
The man with the scars walked to a console sitting on a rolling metal table and fiddled with the knobs. He then picked up two long wires with alligator clips on each end and approached her.
Not good. Steeling herself for what would come next, Leine grimaced as he squeezed open one of the clips and clamped it over her shirt onto her left nipple and then did the same with the other to the right. She sucked in a breath as pain lanced through her.
“You know,” she said, forcing herself to speak in an even tone, “people pay a lot of money for this.” She managed to smile.
The man ignored her as he tweaked the clips. She gasped as pain spiked through her.
And this wasn’t even the main event.
“Look, you won’t get anything out of me that I wouldn’t voluntarily give you anyway. Really.” Leine tried to catch his gaze. “Ask me anything. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
Scarface stepped back and raised his eyes to hers.
“We know who you are, that you were sent to kill the Frenchman.” He smiled, revealing perfect white teeth—oddly discomfiting when viewed with his scar-ravaged face. “There is nothing further we need from you.” He walked back to the console. A jolt of electricity seared through her. Leine clamped her teeth together as her body convulsed like a marionette on crack.
A few agonizing moments later, he shut it down. A wave of relief coursed through her followed by a deep, wretched aching in her shoulders and wrists.
Play for time, Leine. Dying this way will take a while.
“So,” she said, gasping, “where’s Robicheaux? I’m sure he doesn’t want to miss this.”
At that moment, the steel door at the back of the room swung open and a man with a goatee walked in wearing perfectly tailored slacks and an expensive shirt. Wiry of build, he was light on his feet and moved with purpose. What he lacked in stature he more than made up for in intensity.
He came to stand next to the much larger Scarface and patted the giant on the arm.
“I see you have met Oscar.” He smiled at his henchman and then returned his attention to Leine. “I asked him to begin our little session before I arrived. A sort of a pre-torture, you know?” He ambled closer to Leine and circled her slowly.
“I must say, I am disappointed. When I’d ’eard that they were sending the Léopard to kill me I imagined a feral, terribly dangerous she-cat.” He brought his hands up and clawed the air. “Rawr.” He snorted. “Obviously, I’ve been misinformed, because to look at you now you are nothing—a petite chatte—a little pussy, oui?”
His laughter echoed off the walls as he twirled his index finger mid-air. “Oscar.”
This time the jolt lasted longer and was far more robust. Leine fought against it but soon lost consciousness. The ice water revived her, but when she tried to lift her head, her neck muscles refused to obey. Robicheaux drew closer and wrapped his hand around her chin in a savage grip, then forced her head up to look at him. His eyes flashed w
ith anger.
“And the bomb at the café?” He shook his head. “Really, mademoiselle. Such amateur work. I expected better.”
He let go and her head dropped. “I need a strong adversary. One who will challenge me. One I can proudly say I vanquished. Not this—this sad excuse for an assassin.”
The temporary paralysis began to subside. Leine lifted her head a fraction of an inch. Robicheaux snapped his fingers, and Oscar rolled the cart with the console over to him.
The Frenchman picked up a long knife that was sitting on the table and turned to Leine.
“Unless, of course, you didn’t plant the bomb that almost killed my friend.” He ran his thumb across the blade, testing its sharpness. “I’ve heard that the Russian mafia tattoo members who fail to live up to expectations. I thought it only fair that you suffer the same consequences. A quick death seems so—” Robicheaux looked at the ceiling as though searching for the right word, “—unfair to those who don’t pull their weight. And you, mon amie, have most certainly not pulled your weight. I barely needed one bodyguard, let alone a security team as your reputation suggested.” He sighed and shook his head. “I relished having a professional with which to play this game. A chance to sharpen my claws. Oh.” He covered a smile with his hand. “There it is again. I have referenced felines.”
Oscar walked behind her and wrapped his arms around her thighs as Robicheaux slid the knife beneath the lowest button on her shirt. He flicked the blade and the button flew off, skipping across the cement floor. Using the tip, he folded back the two sides of her shirt, exposing her midriff. Leine concentrated on the far wall, willing herself to relax.
At first the blade stung, but the Frenchman continued carving into her skin, and the pain intensified. Oscar’s body heat was matched only by the warm blood running down her abdomen from the cuts Robicheaux made. Leine forced herself to compartmentalize the pain, to isolate it, reducing its effect on her. She continued to breathe deeply, her eyes glued to a dark spot on the wall, convincing her body to ignore what was happening. Perspiration spilled down the sides of her face.