The Mercenary

by Cherry Adair

  Alex?

  She shifted restlessly on the narrow straw-filled cot. Alex?

  There was no response.

  She mentally called his name several times before she felt him inside her head again. What happened? she asked frantically.

  They’re coming your way. They think I’m your boyfriend, but it’s Marc they want. Do you hear me, Tory? They want Phantom…. Don’t tell them.

  Tory heard loud noises coming from down the hall where she knew Alex was being held and heard the key grate in the lock on her door.

  She was paralyzed with fear as three men came into the room, shutting the door behind them. “Good evening, Miss Jones.”

  She had only seen Christoph Ragno once when she was being held in Pescarna. The memory would live with her for the rest of her life. Tory swallowed the bile threatening to choke her. “Why was I brought here?” she demanded in a tone that reminded her of her grandmother. “I want to see the American consul. You have no right to hold an American citizen like this.”

  “You have no rights here, Miss Jones. I thought I had made that obvious the last time you visited Marezzo.”

  Tory forcibly pushed the memories aside, biting down hard on her lip to ground herself. Coward or not, she had to keep her head. Alex was close by and Marc was sure to figure out where they were. Eventually. All she had to do was keep as calm as possible and not incite this man to violence.

  Ragno’s head was too big for his body. His greasy hair could have been blond and clung thinly to his pink scalp, and he had ears like sugar-bowl handles. His face was florid and shiny. Tory couldn’t control the tremor that raced up her spine as his light brown eyes seemed to touch her skin.

  “You had no right to detain me last time and even less so, now. You know that I’m—”

  “I believe you already know Giorgio and Mario?” His lips stretched into a gruesome smile over large teeth as he nodded toward the two men standing against the door.

  Tory spared an unsympathetic glance at Giorgio’s swollen nose. Mario shot her a murderous look.

  “What are you doing back on Marezzo, Miss Jones? I thought you had enough of our hospitality the last time you visited?”

  “I want to see the U.S. Consulate.” Tory told him, striving to sound calm when her insides shook at the menace in his eyes.

  “We have your lover, Miss Jones,” Ragno announced in a sibilant voice that grated on her nerves.

  Did they mean Marc or Alex? Not that it mattered, she wasn’t in any position to ask without risking the lives of one or both.

  “He also says that he arrived in Marezzo for a vacation.” Ragno assessed her, his watery brown eyes sharp. “He, of course, has been enjoying our hospitality for several months, awaiting your arrival.”

  He was talking about Alex. She tilted her chin. “If some man said he’s my lover, then he lied to you. I came here on my own. I arrived this morning from Naples.”

  She screamed as he grabbed her hair and wrenched her head up, exposing her throat. He held a small sharp razor against her cheek.

  “Stop lying, puttana. There was no flight from Naples today.”

  She stared at his face, inches from hers as he twisted her hair in his fist, and tears smarted in her eyes. “I…I came on the mail boat.” Oh, God, she prayed that the mail boat had arrived this morning. She was amazed at how easily the lies were popping out of her mouth.

  She felt his hand relax slightly against her head, and she winced as he pulled her up close to his soft body. “I will check on that.” Still gripping her hair in his fist, he jerked his head at Mario. The other man nodded and slipped from the room.

  The razor came up against her cheek again, icy cold as he pressed it to her face. She felt cold sweat bathe her skin. “Where is Phantom, Miss Jones?”

  Tory looked blankly at him. “Phantom? Who…”

  Letting go of her hair, he slapped her. Hard. “Tell me where Phantom is. Now.” Spittle sprayed her face as he yelled. She flinched before his hand arced and he slapped her again, hauling her up as she slumped sideways.

  Tory sobbed. “I don’t know what you want. I don’t know anyone called Phan—”

  He hit her again, holding her head still as he wound the yard of hair in his fist.

  Her head reeled and her face throbbed as she felt darkness closing in. Just before she passed out, he released her hair, grabbing the front of her T-shirt instead. Holding her still, he brought the razor down with a terrifying stroke that slashed the cloth from neck to hem.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TORY STAGGERED BACKWARD as he held the sharp instrument up. “I’ll give you one hour to regain your memory, Miss Jones. Then I’ll let Giorgio pay you back for your little dance in the parking lot. Giorgio isn’t as fond of the ladies as I am, are you, Gio? Or perhaps you’d prefer Mario? I know he would like to prove to you that he is still very much the man.”

  He shoved her—hard. She hit the bed, sinking into the filthy mattress and gasping for breath, her ears ringing from the blows.

  In the dim recesses of her mind, she could hear Alex’s voice calling her name. She pushed him away with her last scrap of strength. Her eyes locked on the pale shiny face of Ragno as he stood over her.

  Tory’s whole body shook as he leaned closer and trailed the razor down the bare skin exposed by the slashed shirt. “I enjoy playing as much as the next man, Miss Jones.” Ragno’s loathsome voice snaked across her skin as he leaned in, close to her face. “Obviously, Giorgio didn’t warn you sufficiently on your last visit. I can assure you that I have absolutely no compunction about the methods I’ll use to make you talk. I’ll give you one hour to tell me where Phantom is.”

  Straightening, he jerked his head at Giorgio and the two men shut the door behind them. Tory heard the rasp of the key in the lock from the outside, and she cradled her hot cheek in her shaking hand.

  She crouched on the bed, too weak to stand, staring unseeingly at the door. She shook so badly that she couldn’t stay upright, and she allowed her body to roll back on the bed. Curling into a fetal position, she felt the tears course down her face as she sobbed uncontrollably.

  Victoria!

  Alex! She couldn’t let him know. He’d go ballistic.

  Damn it, Victoria, answer me. Right now.

  She sat up, jamming her hand against her mouth to stop the jerky sobs she couldn’t prevent. And she blocked her thoughts as hard as she could until she was calmer.

  I’m all right. She managed, moments later. The lie held barely a tremor.

  What did those bastards do to you?

  Ragno knows that Marc’s here. Oh, God, Alex. He knows.

  Calm down. He doesn’t know anything. Do you hear me, Tory? He doesn’t know squat. He was fishing and hoping, but he doesn’t know about Marc.

  They’re coming back in an hour to get me…. Alex, I hate this.

  I know you do, honey. Alex’s warm comforting voice came through loud and clear. Did you tell Marc everything I told you?

  Yes.

  Relief bathed his words as he said calmly, Then he’ll come for us. Get yourself together and try to calm down. Can you do that, Tory?

  What’s the alternative?

  That’s my girl. Alex gave a rusty laugh. Just hang in there.

  She was hanging in there an hour later when the door opened. In the pitch-dark room, she had to squint into the light from the hallway. Her heart sank to her toes when she saw the bulky outline of Giorgio.

  The dim lighting couldn’t conceal the malevolent gaze directed at her over the swollen flesh of his broken nose. “Capo wants you. Upstairs.”

  Clutching her ripped shirt between her trembling fingers, Tory gave him a wide berth as she went through the door.

  She’d managed to close the two pieces of fabric over her bra and belt it tightly around her waist so that she was marginally covered. She shot him a dirty look when he leered at the exposed swell of her breasts as she passed him.

  “Right,” he instructed, walk
ing behind her. Tory obediently turned right down the stone corridor. She felt Alex two doors away, and drew strength from his thoughts.

  The air was stifling. Hot and humid and heavy to breathe as Tory stumbled ahead of her guard. The flashlight he held illuminated only a few feet in front of her and she stumbled on the uneven floor.

  “Left,” he directed.

  She turned when Giorgio said, “Turn.” Walked up steps on command and kept her stiff and sore back ramrod straight. She was sick to death of macho men. She hated scary, threatening men. Hell, she hated being scared period.

  There was light ahead and Giorgio turned off his flashlight. “Walk.” He pushed her ahead of him with the metal tube of the flashlight. Tory wanted to smash his broken nose a second time just for the satisfaction of hearing him scream again. She tilted her chin and kept her eyes fixed firmly ahead.

  A ten-foot-high elaborately carved mahogany door stood closed before her. She moved aside and waited while he opened it with a key, then cautiously stepped into the room.

  A magnificent Persian carpet, in shades of cream and burgundy, stretched over a dirty and aged white marble floor. As Giorgio marched her across the carpet, she could see several black heel marks scuffed into the light-colored fibers.

  Overhead was a frescoed ceiling. On the walls hung priceless paintings. Their elaborate gilt frames, however, were adorned with cobwebs, and the delicate brushwork was muted by dust. A magnificent gilded table stood against one wall, where a three-foot-high Venetian glass vase held what must have been an artistic arrangement of cut flowers. Long-since dead, brittle and brown leaves and petals were in piles on a tabletop thick with dust. The whole place smelled musty.

  Their footsteps were muffled by the thickness of the carpet as they passed white Carrera marble statues and other incredible objets d’art, all of which needed dusting. Tory held back a sneeze.

  At the far end of the room, seated on enormous burgundy velvet couches, sat three men. One to each sofa.

  Giorgio prodded her with the base of the flashlight again as her footsteps lagged. The closer she got, the more Tory’s apprehension grew. Her heart lodged in her throat, and her nerves were raw.

  She recognized Ragno, but the other two men had their backs to her.

  “Eccola,” Giorgio said nasally.

  Ragno rose, his expression hidden from the men behind him. The pale hand he wrapped around Giorgio’s upper arm trembled with fury. “Grazie, Giorgio,” he said loudly, then continued in a furious undertone. “Your timing needs improving. Can’t you see that we have unexpected company?” His sibilant voice sent a shiver up Tory’s spine. She winced as Ragno’s thick fingers dug into her bare arm.

  His pink sausagelike fingers looked ridiculous holding a delicate crystal wineglass. He took a sip and looked at Giorgio over her shoulder. “Did she give you any trouble?”

  “Nessuno, signor.”

  “Buono. Wait outside until I call for you.”

  Tory heard Giorgio’s muffled footsteps as he walked away.

  The fingers on her upper arm tightened. “Watch what you say, Miss Jones. If our visitor suspects anything unusual, you will both die.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the men cross his legs. She kept her eyes warily on Christoph Ragno. His scalp reflected the light from the gigantic chandelier overhead.

  Grasping her arm in what could look like a solicitous gesture, he led her toward the three couches. Tory’s skin crawled at his touch, and she tried to pull her arm away. His fingers squeezed her upper arm warningly.

  She glanced down at the man seated on the sofa.

  And almost fainted.

  Marc.

  His expression was politely blank as he inclined his head in greeting, but his pale eyes blazed with warning.

  “Come and sit down, my dear Miss Jones, and let me introduce you to my companions.”

  Tory shrugged off Ragno’s hand as he led her to a sofa. She sank down, and accepted a glass of wine. She was sure all three men could see the pulse throbbing in her throat. She dared not look at Marc, who sat across from her.

  “This is Samuel Hoag.” Tory turned a stiff neck and looked at the other man. He was tall and painfully thin, with black hair that was parted neatly on one side. A small mustache cut across his thin upper lip, giving him a sinister, movie-villain look. She righted her wineglass as it slipped on her knee. There was something repulsively hypnotic about him.

  His eyes, behind rimless glasses, looked deceptively benign as he stared back at her without expression. He had enormous pale hands that stuck out of his jacket sleeves like a nightmarish character from a Tim Burton movie. Tory shivered, the stem of the glass pressed into her palm.

  “And this is our new friend, Sir Ian Spenser.”

  Marc toasted her with his wineglass, his face bland. “Charmed to meet you. Miss Jones, is it?” His British accent was so plummy it belonged in a Christmas pudding.

  Tory took a hasty sip of wine and choked back a response.

  She had absolutely no idea where or how Marc had procured the fabulous suit he wore. It was expensive and Italian designed, in a lightweight fabric that flattered his long legs and hung beautifully from his broad shoulders. A slim gold watch was barely visible beneath the correct half inch of white Egyptian-cotton cuff. The finishing touch was a conservative old-school tie.

  He looked absolutely, mouthwateringly wonderful. He also looked slightly bored as he sipped his wine and watched her as he would a stranger.

  Tory didn’t want to know what was going through Marc’s mind as he looked at her bashed-up face and ripped T-shirt. She wondered just how Ragno was going to explain her odd appearance to “Sir Ian.”

  Ragno cleared his throat noisily in the silence. “Sir Ian will be our guest tonight. He came to see his old school friend, Prince Draven Visconti, who is vacationing in America this month with his family. Unfortunate that you missed each other, Sir Ian.”

  “Most unfortunate, old chap.” Unfortunate indeed, considering that the prince had been assassinated several months ago. Marc rose to go to the bar. “May I?” His pant leg brushed Tory’s ankle as he strolled by her. “More wine, Miss…Jones?” He held up the decanter, pouring his own before turning to the other two men when she mutely shook her head. She’d seen the nerve ticking in his jaw as he walked past her.

  He was mad as fire, and Tory didn’t have to be a mind reader to figure that out. The last person he was expecting to see here was her. Well, wasn’t that just too bad! She certainly would have preferred being back at camp waiting, too!

  Samuel Hoag sat stiffly in the corner of his sofa, his long legs stretched out. She fixed her eyes on the pale, hairless skin of his shin above his socks.

  Hoag said, “No more wine,” in a curiously mellifluous voice, while Ragno accepted, allowing Marc to refill his glass.

  “Miss Jones was in a small accident at the marketplace this afternoon,” Ragno said, smoothly accounting for her appearance. Savoring the wine, he shot Tory a warning look. “Mr. Hoag and I felt it best to offer her our hospitality in the absence of the royal family.

  “I’m sure the princess has something suitable for you to wear for dinner, Miss Jones.” He looked at her torn shirt with distaste. He called for Giorgio.

  “Take Miss Jones to the family suite,” he directed. “See that she is suitably dressed for dinner.”

  Tory managed not to look at Marc as she was removed from the room. But she could feel his gaze burning into her back.

  When Giorgio opened the double doors, she noticed a man standing sentry outside—a blond version of Giorgio, with a gun holstered on his hip. The guard glanced curiously at her, and she edged her way past him, following Giorgio up a narrow circular stone stairway and along a dimly lit corridor.

  The farther along they went, the more elaborate and elegant the furnishings became. They turned a corner and Giorgio gestured toward a gilt-and-ivory inlaid door.

  “Princess’s room.” He took her ar
m, opened the door and roughly pushed her into the room.

  She glanced over her shoulder as she shrugged his hand away. “How’s your nose?” she asked with false sweetness.

  He backed up, his fingers tenderly touching the grotesque swelling, and narrowed his eyes malevolently. “Signore Ragno said get dressed.” He walked backward to the door, as if he had to watch her every movement. “Get dressed,” he warned. “I’ll come to get you.”

  “Don’t hurry back on my account,” Tory said to the closed door, as she heard the key turn in the lock.

  She made mental contact with Alex to let him know what was going on, then did a quick inventory of the room.

  It was quite beautiful, decorated in shades of lavender and purple with accents of white. Like the room downstairs, it was covered with a thick layer of dust, and the once-fresh flowers were dead and crumbling.

  Tory caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror and groaned. Her hair was a wild, tangled mess, her jaw sported the bruise from Giorgio’s fist, and her cheeks were streaked with dirt and tears.

  She headed for the opulent gold-and-white-marble bathroom. Filling the enormous tub would take up half her allotted time, but she didn’t care. After sprinkling violet-scented crystals into the churning water, she went back into the bedroom to find something to wear.

  When Giorgio opened the door a short time later, without knocking, Tory was ready. She’d washed and dried her hair and used the hot rollers she’d found on the dressing table. The princess’s gigantic walk-in closet was filled with fabulous clothes for all occasions.

  She’d wasted precious moments pulling out a few pieces of casual clothing, hiding them for a later escape. Then her fingers had lingered on several stunning evening dresses.

  It was irrational, she knew, under the circumstances, but she wanted Marc to see her in something sophisticated, something…sexy. Marc, yes. The terrorists, absolutely not. She chose the most conservative gown she could. The princess hadn’t had a modest bone in her body apparently. The dress Tory chose was probably for some formal state function. With apologies to the absent princess, Tory had managed to pour herself into the dress and pull up the short zipper at the back just as Giorgio walked in.