Pleasure’s Fury: Masters’ Admiralty, book 3

by Mari Carr

  “Keep them up. Where I can see them.” Antonio waved his gun, indicating Ciril should move away from the knife.

  He took three steps away as Antonio scanned the counter behind him and the table in between them to see if there were any more potential weapons there.

  “Dove sono loro?” When Ciril gave him a curious look, Antonio translated to English. “Where are they?”

  “You are missing someone?” Ciril asked with a smile.

  Antonio narrowed his eyes. “You were seen with Karl Klimek in Milan. You took him.”

  “I took him to hospital,” Ciril spoke in broken English. “Poor man not well.”

  Antonio had no patience for this sort of questioning. It would be faster to disable Ciril and search the house himself. Karl and maybe Leila were probably in this house. In theory, that meant Antonio could shoot Ciril and then take his time searching the place.

  But there had been booby traps on the road. There might be traps inside that needed to be disarmed before Karl could be safely extracted.

  “Where is Karl?” was only one of the questions he needed answered. Before rendering Ciril unconscious, it would be better to get those answers. Even the most expert choke hold could result in damage to the suspect that could make later questioning difficult.

  If Ciril had killed Christina, Nazario, and Lorena, then he knew things about the Domino, or was the Domino himself.

  That thought made Antonio realize he couldn’t kill Ciril.

  Shit.

  Even if he got answers out of the man, there would be other people who would have other questions. Questions Antonio might not know to ask.

  Keeping people alive was harder than shooting them in the head.

  That led to another grim realization.

  His sister Sophia had told him about the day the old fleet admiral had died. A drone fired a dart that had activated a poison. The Spartan Guard had captured the drone pilot, but the man had taken a cyanide pill rather than subject himself to questioning.

  Antonio couldn’t take a chance Ciril would do the same.

  “Sit in that chair.” Antonio pointed toward the kitchen chair closest to Ciril.

  The man started to pull it out, but Antonio shook his head. “Hands where I can see them. Use your foot.”

  Ciril dragged the chair out from the table enough that he could sit down. Antonio stepped into the room, putting his back to the wall and keeping Ciril, the window, and the door in sight.

  “Where is Karl Klimek?”

  “The hospital.”

  Antonio pointed the gun at Ciril’s knee. “I will start shooting. I don’t care if you live. I want Karl.” Half that statement was a lie, but Ciril didn’t need to know that.

  “You should check the hospital.”

  Shoot him or try another line of questioning? He really wanted to shoot him, but if Ciril moved just the wrong way, the bullet might hit an artery. With Karl’s and possibly Leila’s lives in the balance, he couldn’t risk that.

  “Are you the Domino?” Antonio asked. He was hoping to throw him off.

  Ciril’s too-calm expression slipped for just a moment and Antonio read his confusion. The word for domino was the same in English as in Croatian. Clearly Ciril spoke some of both languages. Antonio wasn’t sure about Serbian—maybe it was a language barrier—but his instincts said it wasn’t that.

  “Who do you work for?”

  This time, Ciril understood perfectly. And the question clearly delighted him. “Myself.”

  “You’re not smart enough,” Antonio goaded. He’d learned in past interrogations that insults often produced more results than brute strength with certain criminals. Ciril’s angry response proved he fell into that category.

  Ciril bared his teeth. “I will be remembered. They will speak my name in fear.”

  “Where is Karl?”

  “I am the one. I did this. All of it.”

  “Where is Karl?” Antonio deepened his voice and bellowed the question.

  “You are from Italy?” Ciril must have recognized his accent. “Did you see them? What I did to them?” Ciril licked his lips. “Do you talk about me?”

  Antonio’s vision briefly dimmed with rage, the images from the crime scene flashing in his mind’s eye. He redirected that rage. “Where did you get the painting? The coins?” The cave had been staged with art and ancient coins.

  Another confused look from Ciril. This time he went so far as to shake his head, as if trying to brush Antonio’s words aside. “You are a fool. You don’t know anything.”

  “You have until I reach one. Tell me where Karl is, or I’ll shoot you. Five.”

  “You will never find him.” Ciril stood, hands still up. “Never find his body.”

  “Sit down. Four.”

  “You don’t know who I am.”

  “Three.”

  “I will do things—”

  “Don’t care. Two. One.”

  Ciril turned and bolted for the door.

  Antonio pulled the trigger.

  Leila worked her left wrist, trying to slide it out of the cuff. She’d been hoping that, cold and wet as she was, her palm and fingers may have contracted enough that she might manage to slide one hand out. If her hands were free, she’d have options. So many options.

  As much as she might wish it, she didn’t think it was going to happen. Though she was drenched and shivering with cold, her hands felt swollen from being trapped behind her back for so long.

  She glanced at Karl, and despite the fact that intellectually she knew this wasn’t going to work, she redoubled her efforts to get the cuff off.

  Karl didn’t look good.

  Six had left the needle in him, though the bag had run dry a while ago. His skin around the needle was swollen an angry red. His cheeks were sunken, but with spots of color, and she could see him periodically grimace. She wondered if he had a fever. It looked like he might.

  As much pain as she was in, at least she could move. He’d been stuck, quite literally, in that chair for days.

  “I might be able to get my hand free.”

  It was a lie, but when he looked up, there was a spark of hope in his eyes. It faded as he frowned.

  “If you free yourself, run. Don’t try and help me.”

  “We’re leaving here together. Alive.”

  Karl smiled at her, the expression heartbreaking. He closed his eyes. “Leila. Named for the character in the poems?”

  “Don’t do this, Karl. Stay with me.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  This time neither of them laughed.

  “We’re going to get out,” she said.

  “I think it’s also the word for night. At first glance, that wouldn’t fit you, but your hair is so blonde it’s almost white. Like moonlight. Starlight.” Karl’s throat worked as he swallowed, and she could see how much effort it was taking him to speak.

  “Not L-a-i-l-a. L-e-i-l-a. It’s a Sami name.”

  Karl’s eyes popped open. “From the Uralic languages?”

  Though she knew very little about the native languages of the far northern parts of Scandinavia, she would happily discuss them if it would keep Karl awake. Keep him focused on staying with her, staying alive until they figured a way out of here. She ignored the way her own body was swaying, her legs numb to the point that she sometimes felt like she was floating.

  “Yes, my mother chose the name. My father’s people are from near the Gulf of Finland, and some speak Ingrian—”

  The crack sound was muffled and far away, but she heard it, and stopped mid-sentence.

  “Leila?”

  “Listen, listen.”

  She closed her eyes and strained to hear.

  “What?” Karl asked quietly.

  “Gunfire. I thought I heard gunfire.”

  Then there was another sound, and they both looked toward the small covered window. Running footsteps.

  “Help!” she screamed. “Help us!”

  “Leila, I
didn’t hear anything.”

  “Listen! Running.” Without thinking, she took a step toward the window. “Help!” The chain around her neck pulled up short. Her feet went out from under her and she dropped, hanging by the neck. She was strangling.

  Karl screamed her name, then started yelling. “Help! Help us!”

  Antonio had been aiming for his lower leg. The shot would hurt, probably break the bone. People could still talk with a broken leg. Knee cap would have been a good option, but that hurt enough sometimes people passed out, and Antonio didn’t want to have to shoot him, then revive him.

  His aim was perfect, or would have been, if Ciril hadn’t moved. Most people counterintuitively froze in place when they were threatened. Ciril did not.

  Antonio’s shot missed his calf by half an inch, embedding in the wall behind him. He dashed down the hall through the door that led to the dining room side of the house and out the back door. Antonio adjusted his grip on the gun and took off after the other man. Down the hall, out the back door.

  They pounded across the dusty yard, Ciril headed for the garage, Antonio in pursuit.

  “Help!”

  The cry was faint, but he heard it.

  Antonio skidded to a halt.

  “Help us!”

  Antonio looked at Ciril, who’d dashed into the garage. He had to choose. He could go after Ciril and trust that whomever was calling for help would be okay until he could subdue the other man. Or he could focus on finding whoever was yelling and help them, possibly letting Ciril get away.

  He started for the garage. His blood was up. He wanted to take down Ciril and beat answers out of him. He wanted to make the man pay for what he’d done to the trinity from Rome.

  Later, Antonio would look back and hate himself for the mistake he’d made in that moment. He’d let his own desire to engage in battle become more important than the safety of someone calling out for help.

  It was the wire that stopped him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a wire tacked along the side of the house. The U-shaped tacks holding the loose wire in place were shiny and new compared to the wood they were nailed into.

  Antonio turned and raced for the house, his heart in his throat.

  He’d been right. Ciril had booby-trapped not only the road, but the house. He had to find Karl—he hoped whomever was yelling was Karl—and get him out. Now.

  From inside, he couldn’t hear the calls for help. The windows—those small ground-floor windows—must have been where the sound was coming from. They were basement or cellar windows.

  Was that the smell of petrol?

  Antonio started throwing open doors, looking for stairs down. If he didn’t find them, he’d start kicking in the walls.

  He got lucky on the third door.

  “Help!” Karl yelled again, as loudly as his hoarse, painful throat would allow. “Leila, put your feet down, stand up! Stand up!”

  She was dangling by the neck, her legs limp. He didn’t care who heard. They needed help.

  “Stand up,” he told her, with as much authority as his failing body could muster.

  He nearly sobbed when she twitched and managed to get one foot flat on the floor, pushing herself up.

  He jerked at the sound of something crashing.

  It was possible Leila had been hearing things. Possible there hadn’t been a gunshot, and that the sounds of running they’d heard were just Six. Maybe Six would walk down those stairs and torture them some more.

  It didn’t matter. Leila couldn’t stay like this. She was going to die, and he would have no choice but to watch it happen. Karl hoped he could convince Six to at least let her sit for a while. If he wanted them alive until he kidnapped a third victim, they could use that to their advantage.

  Karl was too weak to do more than shake when the door opened. He squinted as dim light filled the room. Heavy steps pounded across the floor, but Karl couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t see what was coming.

  “Merda.”

  The male voice was deep and speaking Italian. Not Six.

  Karl watched as a dark-haired stranger rushed across the room, wrapping his arms around Leila’s wilting body, heedless of the cold water still sluicing over her.

  The dark-haired man squinted up at the water, then lifted Leila with one arm. With the other, he reached up and yanked the sprinkler off the ceiling, tossing it away.

  “Please,” Karl said in his very poor Italian. “Please, she needs help. A hospital.”

  “Where are the keys?” their rescuer asked.

  “Six had them.”

  The dark-haired man turned, still holding a limp Leila. “There are six of them?”

  “No. I—”

  “Speak French,” the man said in that language.

  Karl sagged in relief. He was fluent in French.

  “The man who took us. He has the keys. We called him Six. Jersey number.” Each word was a struggle for Karl.

  Leila came back to consciousness in that moment and jerked in the man’s arms. She screamed and tried to pull back.

  “Calm down,” Karl called out in English. “Calm down. He’s rescuing us.”

  The dark-haired man switched languages, too. “Leila.”

  She looked up, blinking through her film of wet hair. “Who are you?”

  “Antonio Starabba.”

  “Antonio?” Leila’s voice was a hoarse whisper. Her eyes slid closed. “We’re safe.”

  Karl had no idea who the dark-haired man was—and some deeply disturbed part of him was jealous of the way she looked at the newcomer—but if Leila said they were safe, they were.

  “Not quite,” Antonio said grimly. “Stand up.”

  Leila braced her legs and looked at Karl. They exchanged a glance. Antonio looked around then went to the cabinet.

  “Why aren’t we safe?” Karl asked.

  “Where is everyone else?” Leila added.

  “Just me. And this house is about to blow up or catch on fire.”

  Chapter Five

  Antonio shoved away his feelings of shock and horror at the state of Leila and Karl.

  Focus on the problem. Solve the problem.

  Shooting something probably wouldn’t help, so he tucked the gun away as he scanned the dark, grim space. The only furniture besides the chair Karl was strapped to was a cabinet. It was locked, but with a hard yank, he snapped the doors open.

  “Blow up?” Karl asked.

  “Fire doesn’t sound so bad right now,” Leila said through chattering teeth.

  Karl laughed. It was a weak sound, but it gave Antonio hope that they might not have been mentally broken. Physically though, they’d suffered greatly.

  Their health, both mental and physical, only mattered if they survived. With each second that passed, he was painfully aware that it might already be too late for him to get them out.

  Or, worse, he’d only be able to rescue one.

  Tick, tick, tick. The seconds passed, each one borrowed time.

  The cabinet had shelves and bins. Everything was a jumbled mess, similar to what he’d found in the house upstairs, but at odds with the precise and uncluttered torture chamber of a basement. He grabbed tin snips, heavy gardening shears, and a crowbar.

  Running back to Leila, he scanned her body with the dispassionate detachment of a doctor. He couldn’t focus on the bruises and abrasions that covered her. The way her skin was blue-tinged and trembling. Thinking about what she’d endured would risk the rage taking over.

  Rising up on his toes, Antonio jammed the dovetailed end of the crowbar between the top of the eyebolt and the ceiling. With a few wrenches, it broke free. He reached out and grabbed the chain as it fell so it wouldn’t hit her.

  “I have to leave it on you for now.” Antonio dropped it around her shoulders with quick, jerky movements. He wanted to free her from the cuffs and neck chain, but that would take time.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  “Help Karl,” she begged.

&nb
sp; “No, take her and get out.” Karl was watching them with too-bright eyes. “I’ve been here…too long.”

  “No!” Leila took a step toward him and started to fall.

  Antonio hadn’t noticed the hobble chain on her legs.

  He had to make a decision, and make it now. He glanced at Karl. Their gazes met, and he saw the answer to his unanswered question.

  Antonio scooped up Leila in his arms, ready to run out of there with her.

  She was so damned cold.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  “No. No! We are not leaving him!” Leila threw her weight, rolling out of his arms. The move surprised Antonio, and though he grabbed her, Leila’s knees hit the floor with an audible crack. She hissed out air.

  “We’re not leaving him.” She panted the words and turned her head to look up and back at Antonio. “I’d rather die here than leave him.”

  Arguing with her, explaining that they didn’t have time to fight, would just be another waste of time. Antonio released her and grabbed the garden shears.

  He tried not to think about what Ciril might have planned to do with them.

  Normally the sheers wouldn’t have been enough to snap chain, but Antonio was desperate, and that lent him strength. He snipped through the hobble chain on Leila’s ankles.

  “Karl,” she commanded.

  Antonio grabbed the tin snips and ran to Karl’s chair.

  “What are you doing? Take her and get out!”

  “We’re all leaving.”

  “This is stupid. This is how you fail the Kobayashi Maru.”

  Antonio ignored the nonsense words and slid the snips under the plastic restraint on Karl’s left wrist and cut it off.

  Leila staggered up beside them. The thick chain around her neck and thinner ends of the hobble chain dragged on the ground, adding a creepy soundtrack to an already grim situation.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Antonio snipped the restraint near Karl’s elbow then went to his other arm.

  “What do we fail?” Leila leaned against Karl’s chair. With her hands still behind her back, she wasn’t particularly steady on her feet. Maybe she wouldn’t have been steady on her feet even with her hands free.