by Sue Wilder
When he untied her right hand he paused, looked at the extended memory line from the dream with Christan and pulled out his phone. After snapping a photo, he left without untying Lexi’s left wrist. She struggled with the gauze for several minutes before she was free.
When the Spaniard returned, he escorted her up the narrow metal steps to the deck and told her to stand near the railing. Without explanation, he did it again that afternoon. When Lexi asked, all he said was, “be glad I don’t leave you with the fish and the ice.”
On the following day, Lexi stood in the hot sun for over an hour. Idly, she studied a man with sunburned skin as he speared a live squid onto a hook, then wondered what kind of weapon the hook would make if she got her hands on one. With a wink in her direction, the fisherman tossed the line over the side. As the squid squirmed, trying to get free, Lexi thought about the hook. She thought about the bait. And wondered which role she played now as she stood upon the deck.
✽✽✽
Overhead, the drone drifted with the clouds, lazy and silent. A camera recorded the details, a visual confirmation was made, and within twenty minutes of receiving that information four men boarded the waiting helicopter. It flew them to the Amerigo Vespucci airport where a private plane waited to take them to Brindisi. From there, it was a quick charter flight to the Greek island of Kefalonia. A car with heavily tinted windows waited, but it was the tourist season and no one noticed the three tall men, two with dark hair, one blond, who walked with controlled vigilance. Or the lethal man who seemed too aesthetic to be in the same company.
By the time the car arrived at the villa, the second sighting had been confirmed. It was at three in the afternoon, and the same woman, willowy, wearing the jeans and the gray sweater she’d worn the night Luca was killed, stood leaning against the railing. Her blond hair—a shaft of sunlight in winter—lifted in the breeze as she gazed at the empty sea.
But they had eyes on her now. Christan sat in the comfortable lounge of the villa, sheltered at the southern tip of the island. He watched on a secure laptop. The images were in real time while, hundreds of miles away, the drone’s pilot once again enlarged the woman’s image. Her face was turned, but her posture was stiff when a man walked to her side. Christan sat, silent as stone, as the man gripped Lexi’s arm and pushed her toward the metal steps leading below deck. He had only one thought. Vengeance.
✽✽✽
They kept her at sea for three more days, transferring her to different boats. The first transfer occurred during daylight, the second at night. They used a rope harness with a line and pulleys to drag her across the open water. For pure entertainment, the men left her hanging between the two boats with her feet in the angry black waves and the hulls threatening to crash together. Lexi was shivering when they dragged her onto the deck.
The crew on the new boat had a dangerous look, hard and rough. Her stateroom was without heat, the blanket on the bunk so thin it was useless. The following afternoon, two men pulled her on deck and said she stank like rotting fish. They threw her in the water, laughing until she started to swim away. Lexi was thirty yards out and not slowing when they realized she was “escaping.” They came after her. An angry, pock-faced man with a black knit hat brought the rolling zodiac boat close, screaming obscenities. They snared her with a pole and noose, dragging her back like a hooked fish twisting in the wake of the outboard engine and gasping for air.
She was still gagging when they dumped her onto the deck. One man kicked her, left her retching in the heat. When there was no more sea water in her stomach, someone took a hose and washed away the mess. On the deck. They left Lexi in her soiled clothes, smelling worse than before while the clothes dried, sticking to her skin in the sun.
When they allowed her back in the stateroom, Lexi stripped in the tiny space that passed for a bathroom. She washed every part of her body, then washed the jeans and sweater. She put them back on wet, afraid of what might happen if someone caught her naked. The air smelled of mold, the blanket was as damp as her clothes, and Lexi thought of an innocent girl at the base of a cliff trying to put her friend’s broken body back together. She used the rage to heat her shivering body.
✽✽✽
That night she tried to sleep. She dreamed instead.
✽✽✽
It was the heat she recognized first, warm against her skin from the sun, and hot against her fingers as she opened the sand oven and retrieved the rounds of flatbread. For the Grandmother, her mother told her, along with the jug of goat’s milk and a small cloth filled with dates.
She looked at her bare feet and her slim brown legs, realized she was seven, old enough to help with the chores. But there were moments when she could sneak away and hear the stories while the Grandmother drank her hot black tea and ate the flatbread.
“I’ve brought you bazin,” the child sang out when she recognized the woman sitting beneath a spreading tree. Bazin meant life, food, and the Grandmother smiled and patted the ground.
“Come and sit. You want me to tell you of Kyrene again, don’t you?”
“I love that one, Grandmother. I always want you to tell me that one.”
“Gaia, have you not memorized it by now?”
“But she was so fierce, Grandmother, protecting her goats against the lion. I want to be just like her when I grow up.”
“You will be.”
“Mother says it’s foolish to believe your stories,” the child said as she picked up her practice stick and traced pictures on the sandy ground. They were the images the Grandmother instructed her to draw over and over until she memorized every line. When she rocked back to look at her handiwork, she saw a large animal with long curving horns and a square face with a black smudge just there. It was important, Grandmother said, that she get that smudge right, that the horns curved one way and not another.
There were other images the Grandmother insisted that she draw, of mountains and a curving line she thought must be a stream, or perhaps a river. While she liked the large animals the best, Gaia would learn whatever the Grandmother asked as long as she kept telling her favorite story.
The woman leaned forward and directed the hand of the child to correct one image. “I do not waste time on foolish things,” she said. “But the stories are important.”
“You know more stories than anyone, even the traders who come with camels.”
“I have lived a very long time.”
“Have you always been named Grandmother?” the child asked as she shifted on her heels and tipped her head, studying the drawing in the sand. It didn’t look right, and she smudged it out and began again. “I can’t imagine being called anything else besides Gaia.”
“Your name means of the earth. Did you know?”
“Mother said so once, but I didn’t know what she meant.”
“At one time, my name was Zal. It is an ancient name.”
“How old?”
“Before time recorded itself.”
“Did you have family?”
“Yes, child.”
“But you’re alone now. Did a war come?”
“No.” Grandmother became so quiet the girl reached out and touched her hand.
“I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
“You didn’t, Gaia.”
“It’s sunny today. Would you like to see my goats?”
“You go,” the Grandmother said as she patted the child’s head and smoothed back the pale blond hair that was so unusual, a trace back to the original inhabitants who’d come from Thera, the island across the sea. “You’ll come back tomorrow? I have much to teach you, little one.”
“I will,” Gaia said, giving the Grandmother a quick hug before racing out into the sun.
She skipped through the dry grasses that grew between the broken gray and white marble slabs, past the stone lions she loved and the columns that still stood, bright in the afternoon sun. She paused at the top of the hill and stared out at the ocher and gray landscape spread be
low, listening to the lonely cry of a hunting bird and the whisper of the wind.
When it was time to return home, she made one last stop, sitting on the rocks by the cave where the fountain of Apollo bubbled to the surface. The water was shimmering. The reflected light was so bright it burned until tears filled her eyes and she was no long Gaia of the earth.
She was Lexi, on a fishing boat, in the dark.
✽✽✽
For the next transfer they tossed her into a white container used for transporting fish and closed the lid. Water sloshed and fish entrails filled her nose with such a stench Lexi tried breathing through her mouth. It didn’t help. The container dropped to the deck, hard, and when one man let her out she recognized the boat. It was the original boat that carried her away from Ancona. The fisherman who had baited the hooks looked at her with surprise as he helped her to her feet. Then she was back in the stateroom with the pea-green walls and the bunk with the silver, welded rails where her wrists had been tied.
The Spaniard allowed her time to shower but stood in the door, rubbing himself as his eyes grew dark and avid. He held the towel, smirked when she had to ask, made an obscene gesture near his crotch, what he expected her to do if she wanted to be dry.
Lexi refused to beg. She lifted her hand, sucked her finger deep into her mouth and pulled it out again, feeling Christan’s power vibrate within her. The Spaniard felt it too, she supposed, because he left and locked the door, taking the towel with him.
Lexi had no other clothes than the ones that reeked of fish and puke. She washed them again, tugged the wet jeans over her hips, the sweater that was stiff and heavy, and then she curled on the bunk and tried to sleep. The night felt like winter. Empty. Lexi shivered in the dark, sorting through the memories one by one, pausing on the face of every man who’d ever touched her on this boat and all the others. Seared the images into her brain. Ordered them according to how painful each death would be once Christan found her.
And as her skin dried in the damp night, Lexi realized that for five days, she hadn’t dreamed of Christan.
CHAPTER 19
Christan pushed off the bed with a roar of frustration. He'd given up on the satellite feeds; the enemy moved her so many times Christan no longer trusted her location, and for an instant he was back on a moon-shot road while a girl called Gemma stood beyond his reach. She suffered that night because he failed to save her, and Christan had vowed never again to fail in his responsibility. But he had been trying for over an hour to use their telepathic connection and break through her mental shields. He’d gotten nowhere. He could feel her, had hovered at the edge of her consciousness but no further. Christan knew she protected herself against psychic intrusion; perhaps she had enough power, now, to keep him out.
“Well?” Arsen had changed into black fatigues. A sidearm was snug against his thigh; warriors were not hampered by gunshot wounds, but tonight, they were dealing with human mercenaries.
Christan lifted a Baretta 9mm automatic pistol from the low table beside the bed, releasing the magazine with a smooth swipe of his thumb. He checked the rounds and then slammed the magazine home. They’d been on Kefalonia watching drone feeds and satellite data, tracking Lexi each time they moved her from boat to boat and never having enough time to mount a rescue. They had been unable to get eyes on her since the day two men threw Lexi in the water and she swam away. Christan had been so enraged he began to shift as vengeance flared. Phillipe met him, force against force, and warned against actions driven by emotion. Darius agreed while Arsen had been ready for the fight. Christan accepted the decision then, but it felt good to be doing something. Anything was better than the waiting.
“I couldn’t break in,” he said as Arsen followed him from the shadowed bedroom.
“They might be shielding her.”
“You’ve watched them, Arsen. They’re pushing her to total exhaustion until she shuts down her emotions and we can’t track her energy. Then they move her.”
Walking shoulder to shoulder, both men exited the villa and joined Darius and Phillipe on the tiled terrace. From there it was a short walk to a rocky beach where an inflatable zodiac waited, ready to take four lethal-looking men out to the waiting private yacht. On board a party was ramping up, full of music and loud, laughing voices, the wealth class of indulged and shallow people in expensive yachting attire and designer gowns. One had handpicked the actors. The immortal reacted out of guilt for unwitting role she played, but her efforts were appreciated, Christan decided, and he would tell her when Lexi was safe.
It was well past nine in the evening. The air was cool and the night black as the zodiac bounced over small waves toward the yacht decked out in lights. The instant they were on board large engines rumbled to life. Couples clustered at the railing, laughing and waving to imaginary friends on shore. The yacht swung away from the island, gaining momentum as a waiter in a white suit refilled wine glasses. Music announced the departure and one more glitzy celebration sailed along the Grecian coast.
In the main salon, Christan leaned toward the screen of the laptop, the angles of his face sharpened by the blue-white glow. He switched between the satellite views sent by Ethan and the feed from the drone. Arsen paced. Darius sat in a chair, his hands on his knees, unmoving. Phillipe stared out into the dark.
The target was a small blip that appeared to be circling within a twenty-mile area between several small islands. The satellite data was hours old, but the drone captured images in real time and had switched to infrared imaging. A few seconds later the image wavered with static, and for several minutes there was nothing but electronic interference. Phillipe’s phone chimed.
“Normal,” he explained as the video feed sputtered back into full resolution. “They sent a new drone that was late on scene. The cameras are on-line now.”
“I see it,” Christan said, but still felt a sense of unease. “We have several heat sources nearby.”
“Night fishing,” Arsen said. “Illegal, but too hard to control.”
Christan zoomed in and studied the white figures, fuzzy edges tinged with blue as they moved about. He could read three people on deck; the remaining images clustered as a group and judging from the lack of definition they were below deck. This was their “best guess.” The closest fishing vessel was two miles away, with four men in the open, and several below.
“I need information.”
“Ethan’s on it,” Arsen answered.
Christan turned toward the dark water visible through the panoramic window framing the yacht’s main salon. He sensed Lexi’s distress, but she refused to respond until he pushed hard against her resistance.
“Cara,” he commanded, his telepathic voice calm and reassuring, “answer me.”
“Christan?”
“Yes. We’re not far. A few hours.”
“Okay.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“The first boat.” She sounded utterly defeated and part of his heart broke.
“What did he do?”
“Trust me, Enforcer, you don’t want to know.”
“Lexi…"
She was gone, but not beyond his reach. Lexi had dropped the mental shield long enough for him to slip in. And their best guess just became their target.
✽✽✽
The drones continued their surveillance. As the southern tip of Kefalonia disappeared on the black horizon, Christan sat in front of the laptop, studying the tiny white blips dotting a deep blue sea. He adjusted the resolution for the third time, searching for the odd detail. There was nothing. He clicked a different icon, opening Ethan’s satellite feeds and zooming in, taking in the Italian coastline, then shifting to study the larger islands along the Greek coast. Arsen stood across the room.
“What are you looking for?”
“The move I least expect.”
“We’ve covered every possible scenario.”
Christan scanned another image without expression. “We asked her to trust us, A
rsen. To let Jago take her to Cyrene when we don’t fucking know where Kace is right now.”
“We’ll find him.”
“The way we found her?”
“You think they let her up on deck for our benefit?”
Christan nodded.
“I don’t like obvious any more than you do,” Arsen agreed, “but they might not know we’re watching.”
“They know.”
Christan increased the resolution on another image, studied the details in silence.
“We know where she is,” Arsen said. “We’ll keep eyes on her.”
“I know we’ll keep eyes on her.”
“Then what worries you?”
“That I won’t get there in time.” And history would repeat itself.
CHAPTER 20
It was one in the morning when the switch was made.
Lexi jerked awake when the Spaniard entered the stateroom and ordered her to strip out of the stained clothes. He tossed a pair of jeans and dark blue tee shirt in her direction.
“Relax, chica. Maybe the memories come back before you have to leave.”
“Where are we going? To Cyrene?”
His laugh was not pleasant. “Shahat. The town is Shahat now, with lots of terrorists. You wouldn’t like it if you ended up there.”
The Spaniard refused to turn away while Lexi dressed, then told her to sit on the narrow berth where she remained, her arms wrapped around her waist while he gathered up the discarded clothes and backed out of the room. Lexi’s mouth was dry. The bottle of water was empty, and she couldn’t stand the fishy taste of water from the tap in the head, so she waited. It wasn’t long before the boat slowed and settled into a rhythmic rocking. There were noises against the hull, voices on the deck, a sudden thump and a recoil. Lexi gripped the edge of the bunk, staring at the narrow pea-green door. Nerves screamed when the energy touched her. As the stateroom door opened Lexi prepared for the confrontation.