by Lynn Mason
For the rest of the show Sandoval stuck with his usual loud, raucous rock songs. Sydney danced and whooped and took several more excellent shots for Claire. After a big, cheesy final number, complete with a light show, pyrotechnics, and lots and lots of piped-in smoke, Sandoval wrapped up his set, thanked the audience, and walked backstage.
“Ra-ul! Ra-ul! Ra-ul!” the crowd began chanting.
“Hey, you!” Sydney glanced to her left and saw one of the bodybuilder-type bouncers walking over, pointing right at her.
Her stomach tightened. Maybe he'd seen her toying with the bracelet and figured out it was a camera. What if they confiscated it? She could get Wilson into major trouble, as well as herself. Maybe even endanger the whole agency!
“Come with me,” the man said gruffly.
“Why?” she asked, trying to act casual.
He looked surprised. “Don't you want to go backstage?”
Sydney relaxed. Sandoval had taken a liking to her. Visions of sleazy spandex-clad girls at Kiss reunion concerts flashed through her mind. She was about to say no. But then Claire popped into her mind. I'll get his autograph, she thought excitedly. Claire would totally rule at her middle school with that. And Wilson wouldn't believe it!
“Yeah,” she replied. “Of course.”
The man hooked his hand around Sydney's upper arm and led her down the aisle. Sydney didn't appreciate being yanked along like a preschooler, but after seeing how freaked out some of the fans could get, she didn't mind the precaution. They walked to the side of the stage, past the wall of speakers, up a few steps, and behind some black curtains. Then they meandered through the stacks of equipment cases until they reached a wooden door. The man raised his fist and knocked three times.
Another surly-looking muscleman opened the door, took one glance at them, and ushered them inside. Sydney found herself inside a long, white-walled dressing room. At the far end was a wide vanity topped with a length of mirror ringed with lightbulbs. On the right side of the room stood a cloth-draped table covered with sandwiches and chunks of cantaloupe and pineapple. And to the left several black-clad people sat talking on a pair of sofas, a cloud of cigarette smoke hovering above them.
In the middle of the room stood Sandoval himself, shoving his arms into the sleeves of a red silk shirt.
Sydney grinned. She couldn't believe she was backstage with Raul Sandoval! If only she could share this with Francie!
Sandoval turned around and spotted Sydney. “Ah, la señorita,” he said. “Hello. I am Raul. How are you?” He held out his hand.
“Fine. Thanks.” She grasped his palm and was about to give it a shake when he suddenly lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. In the mirror behind him, she could see her cheeks flame to match her lipstick.
“Jou enjoy the show?” he asked in his thick Cuban accent. He released her hand and started to button his shirt, stopping halfway up.
“Yeah,” she replied, trying hard to regain the cool, sassy edge in her voice. “Hey, could I get your autograph?”
“Of course.” He reached for the pad of paper and pen lying next to the phone on the end table. “And jou are?”
“Could you make it out to Claire?”
“Claire. Jes. Ees a lovely name.” He smiled at her and then hastily scribbled, To Claire—All my love, Raul S. Then he ripped off the sheet and handed it to her.
“Thanks,” she said, slipping it into her back pocket. All righty. Vámonos!
In the distance, the sounds of the crowd stomping and chanting his name grew louder.
“Oye. La gente me está llamando,” he said, nodding in the direction of the stage. “My fans are calling. I must go.”
“Oh. Right,” she agreed. “I guess I better take off too.”
Sandoval burst out laughing. “No, I don't think so,” he said, placing his hand on her shoulder and gently pushing her toward one of the couches. “You will stay here with my friends. I will do my encores and come back.”
“Um . . . okay,” she said, landing on the end of an overstuffed chenille sofa.
“Ahora, vámanos,” Sandoval said to his band, and they walked out of the room. The roar of the crowd grew louder as the door swung open, then muffled once again as it shut behind them.
Sydney glanced around at the rest of Sandoval's entourage. There were three Goth girls in tight black dresses and raccoon-like eye makeup, a couple of guys in dark suits and sunglasses, and another muscle-bound bouncer standing near the door—this one a big bald Mr. Clean clone. So Sandoval wants me to hang out with his crowd? she wondered. She obviously looked as if she belonged, but she certainly didn't feel it.
One of the Goth girls with long straight black hair stared at her from the opposite couch. Sydney nodded in greeting, but the girl simply blew cigarette smoke at her and turned away.
Charming, she thought. Oh, well. She might as well get some backstage shots while she was there. Then when Sandoval got back, she could thank him and leave.
While the others smoked and chatted about the show in bored-sounding tones, Sydney slouched back against the sofa cushions and pretended to play with her armband.
That's when she noticed it. Looking down at the bracelet, she saw that one of the stones was missing. Her panic faded a bit when she realized it was only the green stone—not the one hiding the lens or its trigger. Still, she felt bad. Wilson had entrusted her with this and now it was damaged. Most likely it had popped off when those demented fans shoved her into the stage. It was probably too late to try to find the missing piece and mend it herself.
She only hoped Wilson's disappointment might be lessened by the autograph and photos. To be extra sure, she added shots of Sandoval's guitar case, his gloomy-looking groupies, and even Mr. Clean. She figured Claire might enjoy getting the full story. Plus, she really didn't have anything else to do.
After a couple minutes, Mr. Clean opened the door and said in a gravelly voice, “All right. Time to move on to the hotel and get the party started.”
“What about Raul?” asked the smoke-blowing Goth girl.
“He's got some business. He'll join us later.”
“Fine,” said the girl irritably. She and the rest of the entourage pushed themselves off the sofas and ambled out the door.
Sydney stayed in her seat, wondering what to do. After a moment, the bald bouncer came and stood in front of her, his arms folded across his chest impatiently.
“Me too?” Sydney asked.
He looked at her as if she were an imbecile. “He gave you the scarf didn't he?”
“Um, yeah. So?”
“So, it means he chose you.” He gave her a look that said he thought she was the world's biggest dope. “You get to hang out with him tonight.”
“Oh, but . . . but I'm not . . .” She stood up and took a breath. “Sorry, but I don't think I can go with you guys.”
At this, Mr. Clean stiffened and glared at her. “Mr. Sandoval is expecting you to wait for him,” he growled, inching close enough for her to see the blood vessels in his eyes. “You got a problem with that?”
Sydney blinked at him. Her eyes took in his angry sneer, his baseball-sized arm muscles, and the unmistakable bulge of a handgun inside his leather blazer. Obviously Sandoval ran with a really rough crowd. If she said no, it might start a fight—a fight she would probably lose. Even if she didn't, she could end up being questioned by the cops, and what would SD-6 think of that? Especially with her wearing one of their government-issue op-tech devices without clearance?
“No. I don't have a problem,” she replied, meeting his stare defiantly.
His posture relaxed slightly and his mouth curled into a malicious smile. “Good. Now why don't you do like I asked and go down to the limos waiting for us?”
Sydney could tell that even though he phrased his last comment as a question, he really wasn't giving her an option. “Fine. Whatever,” she muttered as she stalked past him and strode out the door.
Okay, Syd. Think fast, she told h
erself. There's got to be a way out of this.
11
SYDNEY TROMPED AFTER SANDOVAL'S entourage as they made their way through the twisting, narrow passageways of the backstage area. The light was dim and Sydney could just make out the groupie girl's skull-shaped metal hair clip bouncing in front of her. Behind her, Mr. Clean's ragged breathing reminded her of his menacing presence.
She had to find a way out of this. Not only did these people make her nervous, she was also extremely tense about the bracelet. If she went with these guys, it could accidentally fall into their hands. And what if they discovered what it could do? Besides, she didn't want to risk any more damage to it, or to the photos inside.
But how would she ever convince Sandoval's goon to let her leave?
“Yuck. This place is the pits. That hall in San Francisco was so much nicer,” whined one of the groupies near the front.
Sydney could hear a banging noise, and then another voice called, “Roland, this door is locked and there's stuff dripping from the ceiling! Are you sure this is the right way?”
Mr. Clean, aka Roland, grunted loudly and began pushing his way to the front of the pack. “Hang on. I've got the key,” he grumbled.
As the others pressed forward, Sydney hung back. This was her chance. She quickly glanced around for a place to hide and noticed another corridor off to her left. As quietly as possible, she darted through the shadowy threshold and tiptoed away.
Sydney found herself in a tunnel-like hallway. It was almost completely dark and seemed to be sloping downward. Luckily, light from the floors above was shining through seams in the ceiling, slightly illuminating the path. She carefully made her way down, wondering what the party crowd would do when they discovered she was gone. Would they try to find her? Sydney doubted any of them would miss her much. Except maybe Sandoval. She got the feeling a pampered rock star like him was used to getting anything, and anyone, he wanted.
For close to twenty minutes, Sydney groped her way through the near-darkness, trying to locate an exit, or at least someone who could lead her to one. It seemed strange that she hadn't run into anyone yet. Either she had strayed into some deep, unused area of the concert hall, or the entire arena staff had already gone home for the night. She considered turning and going back the way she'd come, but she didn't want to risk bumping into someone from Sandoval's pack. Besides, she probably couldn't trace her exact path anyway since the passageway had already forked a few times.
She was getting tired and hungry, and her feet ached inside her boots. Eventually, she perched on a crate and pulled them off.
“Much better,” she said as she flexed her toes and slowly rotated her ankles. How people could act tough when their arches were caving in was a major mystery.
Just then, she heard a noise. Down the corridor in front of her came the sound of muffled voices. Finally! She grabbed her boots and followed the light up ahead. Something that resembled a large truck-loading bay was coming into view. The voices grew louder, and she realized one of the people talking had a thick Cuban accent. It was Sandoval.
Sydney hesitated. Here was an exit, but she couldn't exactly go prancing past Sandoval without an explanation. Maybe if she waited long enough, he would leave.
She carefully crept forward and peered around the corner of the corridor. Sandoval was standing in the middle of the bay. Next to him was a heavyset man in a dull gray suit. The gentleman looked too old and well-dressed to be a fan or a security guard. As she watched, the man lifted his right hand and took a puff on a thick brown cigar. Something was jarred in the recesses of Sydney's memory. She'd seen this guy somewhere before.
The man turned, exposing his profile to the light. Sydney suddenly felt a chill run through her. She knew exactly who he was now. He was Josef Levski, one of the ringleaders of the Mercado de Sangre—the Bloody Black Market.
Sydney remembered reading several files about them. They were a group of former Cold War operatives from all over Europe and Cuba. During the chaos that ensued after the fall of the Iron Curtain, they had raided the military arsenals of former Soviet satellite nations and sold their spoils to the highest bidder. They dealt with anyone, selling arms and intelligence to rogue militant groups and terrorists. Lately their operations had grown to include hunting intelligence officers and bringing their severed heads to enemy agencies for a cash reward. These guys were hard-core. They were loyal to no country and no leader, and there was no negotiating with them.
But why is Sandoval talking with them? she wondered. Instinctively, she raised her wrist and snapped a picture of the two men. Maybe Wilson could help her sort it out later. If she ever got out of there.
A paralyzing numbness suddenly shot through her body. This is no coincidence, she told herself. SD-6 sent me here on purpose. The ticket, the camera . . . it was all just a setup to get me here!
“There you are!” came a voice from behind her. All of a sudden, Sydney found herself being yanked backward by her upper arm. She stumbled but managed to regain her balance. Twisting around, she saw Roland sneering down at her, the top of his bald head gleaming in the half-light.
Without thinking, Sydney jabbed him in the breastbone with her free elbow. An expression of surprise crossed his features—and hers. I just freaking hit a guy the size of Schwarzenegger! she thought wildly as his hand automatically released its grasp on her arm. Before he could do anything further, she whirled her right leg around and kicked him in the ribs. He was still stumbling backward when she turned and ran away, her bare feet slapping against the concrete floor.
She didn't feel fear. In fact, she didn't feel anything. She was simply reacting. If I get out of this, she thought as adrenaline pumped through her veins, I'll have to tell Yoav what a good job he did training me.
Behind her, Sydney could hear Roland let out a bellow of rage. She scrambled around a nearby corner only to find that it was a dead end. Meanwhile, Roland's heavy tread was coming closer and closer.
Sydney veered behind a stack of speakers and held still, trying desperately to quiet the sound of her breathing. She heard Roland's rapid footfall echo off the nearby walls, then stop altogether.
“You better come out!” he yelled angrily, calling her every curse word in the book. “You can't hide for long!”
Sydney remained frozen, straining to catch each tiny sound. She could hear Roland's panting and the shuffling of his boots against the floor. Her heart was hammering, but she forced herself to stay still as a statue, concentrating on every noise. Eventually the steps grew nearer and Roland's heavy breathing seemed only inches away. . . .
Wham! In a flash of vicious fury, Sydney threw her weight against the stack of speakers, causing them to fall. A tremendous rumble echoed through the hall, followed by a cry of surprise. Then all was quiet.
Sydney dashed around the fallen stack. Roland's unconscious doughy form lay beneath the heap. For a moment, she stood there, paralyzed. I totally did it, she thought, a smile flickering over her face. Then she sprang to life, pouring everything she had into a race to the loading bay. But no sooner had she rounded the corner than something jumped out of the shadows. Sydney thrust out her arms in defense, but it was too late. A bare-knuckled fist collided with the side of her head, knocking her flat. Sydney caught a brief glimpse of Sandoval's dark, angry eyes swirling above her.
Then everything went dark.
“Mmmm. Close the blinds, Francie. I have a headache,” Sydney mumbled. She must have eaten something that didn't agree with her. Her gut was clenched, her neck was stiff, and it hurt to look at the light. Plus, some idiot was working a jackhammer in the distance.
She opened her eyes wider and realized she wasn't in her dorm room at all. The jackhammer was pounding inside her head. And instead of Francie lying curled up in the next bed over, America's reigning pop idol, Raul Sandoval, was leering at her from a nearby sofa.
They were back in the dressing room. Only this time they were alone. Sydney was sitting hunched over in a high-backe
d wooden chair, her arms pulled back and secured behind her. Wincing slightly, she looked back and saw he had bound her wrists together tightly with guitar strings, the wires cutting into her skin.
“So I meet jou again, Claire,” Sandoval muttered. He pressed his palms together as if in prayer and raised them to his mouth. Then he shook his head, making tsk-tsk noises with his tongue. “Jou should have gone to the party, niña. How come jou didn't go?”
“I got lost,” she lied, gazing at him with a wounded expression. She knew now that Sandoval was dangerous. Not only was he mixed up with bad people, he was one of them. Her only hope of getting away alive was to keep up the frightened-bystander act. “I'm sorry if I went into some restricted area or something,” she continued, blinking back tears. “Please, just let me go.”
Sandoval narrowed his eyes at her. “Why did jou attack my bodyguard?”
“I . . . I thought he was trying to attack me,” she replied meekly. “I was just trying to protect myself.”
“Jou are very good at protecting jourself.” He rose up and walked over to her, grabbing her chin roughly. “Too good.”
Sydney's gaze darted to his eyes and away again. She couldn't believe she had ever thought Sandoval was attractive. Now he just looked menacing. His mouth was twisted sadistically, blue veins jutted out from his forehead, and his stare was cold and hard.
She had to keep up the innocent act. If he even suspected she worked for SD-6, he'd kill her for sure. “I took a self-defense class,” she whimpered.
He scowled at her and let go of her chin with a rough toss. “That's some class, I think,” he said. “Jou must learn fast.”
“I've been taking it for months,” she explained hoarsely. “Please, you've got to believe me. I didn't mean to do anything wrong.” She stared at him imploringly, making her lower lip tremble for effect. Damn Wilson and his “Oh, could you get a picture for my Claire? It's her birthday, Sydney. Please?” And damn SD-6! How could they actually send her after a vicious rock-star anarchist without even a word of warning? All for a few lousy photos?