by Cap Daniels
The driver stopped the carriage a few feet in front of them and announced, “Your chariot awaits.”
Tony didn’t notice me. “No, thanks. Our friends are picking us up.”
I raised my champagne flute. “Cheers, guys! Get in. You’re gonna love this.”
“Ha! I didn’t even see you back there, Chase. What’s this all about?”
Skipper and Tony climbed aboard, still holding hands.
“Kirsten, meet Tony and Elizabeth. I think you two talked on my phone earlier.”
Skipper blushed. “Oh my God. I’m sorry for being such a bitch on the phone.”
“Forget about it. I understand. I wasn’t exactly nice to you either, so . . . poof . . . forgotten.”
Tony stuck out his hand. “Hey, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you both,” Kirsten replied.
The driver passed back another pair of flutes and a third bottle of champagne.
I opened and poured Skipper’s glass three quarters full, but Tony shook his head. “I ain’t much on champagne. I’m more of a Miller Lite kinda guy.”
Skipper slugged him in the shoulder. “Come on. Have a glass with us and stop being such a redneck.”
“Hey,” Kirsten said. “There’s nothing wrong with rednecks. I like Miller Lite, too.”
“See?” said Tony. “There ain’t nothing wrong with rednecks. Thank you for stickin’ up for me, Kristen.”
“It’s Kirsten. But I do agree with Elizabeth—or Skipper—that you should have a glass of champagne with us.”
“All right, all right. Pour me one. I ain’t never been one to disappoint a lady.”
I filled Tony’s flute, and he gave it a try.
“Hmm.” He surveyed the bubbling amber liquid through the glass. “That ain’t half bad. Maybe I’ve been missin’ out.”
Fifteen minutes later, the driver dropped us off in front of the Columbia, and out of the carriage we poured.
“Wait here a minute,” I said to the driver as we headed inside. When I found the maître d’, I asked, “Do you sell gift certificates?”
“Of course, sir. How many would you like, and in what denominations?”
“It’s for a friend whose wife has always wanted to eat here, but they can’t really afford an extravagant night out. What amount would you recommend?”
“Five courses with wine for two would be slightly less than two hundred.”
“Make it two fifty then. Our carriage driver made our reservation half an hour ago . . . party of four.”
The maître d’ whispered to a young lady beside him and she vanished. He pulled four menus from the stand and motioned for us to follow him.
“I’d like to wait for the gift certificate, if you wouldn’t mind, but go ahead and seat the three of them.”
The young lady was back in thirty seconds with a very nicely embossed envelope with the gift certificate inside.
“Thank you.” I took the envelope from her hand. “Please add this to our dinner check.”
I walked back out to the street and handed Enzo the fare and tip I’d promised, as well as the gift certificate. “Take your wife to dinner. It’s on me. You were right. My lady friend enjoyed every minute of the ride.”
Enzo handed me a business card. “Call me anytime. My carriage is at your service. Thank you so much, sir. Maria is going to be so happy.”
I joined the others at our table to discover a magnificent young lady squeezing limes into a pitcher. Her smile was infectious, and her practiced technique of creating pitchers of tableside mojitos was incredible. I watched her work and laughed at how she danced while she stirred with her wooden spoon. I took my seat beside Kirsten.
“You almost missed the mojitos,” the lady said.
“It looks like I almost missed the mojito show,” I returned.
“You can expect an encore performance whenever you’re ready. I’ll be here all week, and you should see the things I can do with a pitcher of sangria.” She took an exaggerated bow.
I read the small white name tag on her shirt. “In that case, Liz, let’s see those sangria skills of yours.”
“As you wish.” She danced away from our table and toward the kitchen.
We’d won the waitress lotto. Liz had every reason to brag on her cocktail prowess. As good as the mojitos were, they couldn’t compete with her sangria.
We ate, drank, laughed, and talked for two hours. Every time Liz showed up at our table to deliver some new culinary masterpiece or intoxicating libation, we found a new reason to love Liz and to celebrate.
Anya didn’t cross my mind the whole time. I was surprised I didn’t think about her, but the psychologist in me believed it was a sign of healing.
Liz sashayed back to the table with our check, and I slid my card into the leather folder.
Tony shoved his credit card toward me. “Chase, you don’t have to buy our dinner.”
I pushed his hand back. “It’s my treat, but you’re buying drinks at the salsa club later.”
Tony grinned from ear to ear. “Damn straight I am.”
Kirsten fidgeted with her earring. “But I don’t know how to salsa.”
“Sure you do,” insisted Tony. “If you can count to eight and wiggle your butt, you can salsa. You’re gonna love it.”
I agreed with Tony. “If I can do it, anyone can do it.”
“Okay,” Kirsten said. “It looks like we’re going salsa dancing.”
I signed the check, and we walked back out onto the crowded cobblestone street. The sun had disappeared beyond the western horizon, and the Old City had come to life. It reminded me a little of Key West without the unicycle-riding, banjo-playing Darth Vader.
I loved people watching. Maybe it was my psychology education, but most likely it was the fact that I liked watching people do ridiculous things. I’d made a habit of scanning crowds for potential threats as well as comic relief, but what caught my eye sent a chill down my spine and a dagger through my heart.
Fifty feet away I saw a tall, fit woman with long blonde hair crossing the street. She had her back to me, but she was wearing a pair of cutoff blue jean shorts, white sandals, and a white cotton shirt over an orange bikini top . . . what Anya had been wearing the first time I saw her on the beach in St. Thomas.
“Anya!” I started across the street in a sprint.
The blonde woman glanced back over her shoulder then sprinted down an alley, showing a barely noticeable limp. I gave chase, sprinting with all of my strength down the alley, but I was too slow. She disappeared.
I reached for my pistol but realized it wasn’t on my belt where it belonged. That was out of character for me. Why did I leave the boat without my pistol? Disappointed and disgusted with myself for the oversight, I found a piece of a broken broom handle and started cautiously down the alley. There was no way the woman could’ve been Anya. My mind had obviously transformed her into Anya because she was who I’d wanted to see.
I still wasn’t taking any chances. It was foolish of me to believe I could take on Anya with a broken broomstick. If it was her, she’d be well armed and ready for a fight.
I was being ridiculous. It couldn’t have been her. But why did the woman run when I called her name? I threw down the broomstick and headed back to the others.
When I found them, embarrassment burned within me. “I’m sorry, guys. That was stupid of me.”
With disappointment and anger on her face, Kirsten lowered her head and pressed her lips into a rigid line.
I took her hands. “I’m really sorry.”
She pulled her hands away. “I’m going back to the inn. You obviously have some issues to work through. Thank you for dinner and the carriage ride. That was very sweet of you, but I think you need to—”
“No,” I said, “don’t go. I’m sorry.”
It was too late. She said goodbye to Skipper and Tony and walked away without looking at me.
“What the hell, Chase?” demanded
Skipper. “Anya’s gone. What were you going to do if you’d caught that woman, huh? Were you gonna say, ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were a dead Russian spy’?”
“It was stupid,” I confessed. “You guys go dancing. I’m going back to the boat.”
“Oh no, you’re not. You’re going to stop chasing ghosts, and you’re going after Kirsten,” Skipper scolded.
“It ain’t none of my business, man, but I’d rethink that whole goin’ back to the boat idea. If my brother’s on that boat alone with some girl like you said, you probably don’t wanna be walkin’ in on that action.”
They were both right, but I wasn’t going to be a third wheel. “You guys go have fun. I’ll find something to do with myself.”
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll catch up with Kirsten and apologize for real,” Skipper said.
I focused in the direction of the B and B. “You’re right.”
I caught up with Kirsten a block from the B and B and took her by the hand. “Kirsten, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done what I did. It was stupid and insensitive, but I didn’t think. I reacted. It’s a really complicated story, but—”
Again, she yanked her hand from mine. “I know, Chase. Men always say it’s a complicated story. You’re not over your ex, and there’s clearly more to it than you told me, but I felt like shit standing there on the street watching my date run after some girl who’s supposedly dead. That was a real classy move on your part.”
I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t defend what I’d done. I’d broken every rule of first dates and covert ops. If the woman I’d chased had actually been Anya, she would’ve killed me in the alley. If I hadn’t reacted, I could’ve looked at the woman with a sensible head and realized she wasn’t Anya.
I’d been taught that reactive action is almost always dangerous, while proactive movement is much safer and far less likely to result in blood on the street. Why was I so quick to forget everything I’ve been taught?
“There’s more to the story, but I can’t tell you. I’m not allowed to tell you.”
“Oh, bullshit. It’s obvious. You’re some trust-fund-rich-kid playboy spending Daddy’s money, and you’re hooked on some girl from your past who you claim is dead, and yet you still go chasing after her on the street.”
“No,” I said, “it’s not like that at all.” I sighed and tried to decide how much I could tell her. I liked Kirsten. She was smart, beautiful, and funny. Even though I’d probably never see her again, I didn’t want to ruin her vacation.
I surrendered. “Let’s go someplace quiet so we can talk. I’ll tell you as much as I can.”
She frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think it would be better to say goodbye and go our separate ways. You seem like a nice guy, but you’ve got some stuff to deal with. I get that, but you really don’t have any business taking girls on a date before you get over your ex and get your head straight. That girl really screwed you up.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “This wasn’t a date. It was—”
“Oh, really, Chase?” she hissed. “A carriage ride, champagne, and a big fancy dinner followed by salsa dancing. That’s not a date, huh? Yeah, Chase, that’s a date. That’s the very definition of a date, and it was going to be one of the best dates of my life right up to the point where you ran off down a dark alley chasing your dead ex-girlfriend.”
“I’m sorry.”
Tires screeched to a stop on the cobblestone street a few feet behind me. The side door of a black van slid open, and from inside, two men lunged at me. They were on me before I could react. They were small but quick, moving like leopards and working perfectly together. The first man shoved Kirsten into the stone wall of the building behind her, and simultaneously threw a sidekick into my gut that sent me bending double and gasping to catch my breath. The other man wrenched my left arm behind my back, forcing me forward toward the van. I felt a pair of flex-cuffs sliding across my clenched fists and cutting into the flesh of my wrists as my right arm was forced into the small of my back. More intense than the pain was the echoing of the collision of my head with the floor of the van. I didn’t go out, but I was dazed and in serious trouble.
Kirsten screamed.
Through the thundering in my head, I yelled to her. “Run!”
6
Resistance is Futile
My abductors grabbed at my ankles. I kicked and bucked with all of my strength, but the speed and violence of the attack was more than I could overcome. Soon my ankles were shackled and tied to my wrists. Blood was pouring from my mouth and my head was pounding, but I had to keep my wits about me. Remaining conscious and piecing together what was happening was my only hope for staying alive.
I heard the door of the van slam as one of the men pulled a black bag over my head and taped it tightly around my neck. It was difficult to get enough air in my lungs to continue resisting, but it wasn’t tight enough to kill me. I was dealing with professionals. Whatever awaited me at our destination would not be pleasant.
I’d been trained to resist until there was no strength left in me, and then to resist some more until I was either free or dead. So I bucked, twisted, and pulled at my restraints until I’d pushed my body to its physical limits. I’d been counting time and turns in my mind, drawing a mental map of where we were going. We had turned away from the river, crossed two sets of railroad tracks, and driven four and a half minutes past the second set of tracks. I thought we must be on West King Street. If I was right, I was in for what could become not only the worst night of my life, but also my last.
There was nothing west of St. Augustine on King Street except thousands of acres of pine trees and the St. Johns River. I felt the van turn from a paved road and right onto dirt. We were headed into the pines.
We bounced and slid our way down the dirt road for three minutes and came to an abrupt, skidding stop. I heard the door slide open and felt two pairs of strong hands lift me from the floor of the van. I was being carried facedown by my elbows and ankles. From that position, I was defenseless and powerless to resist. I was being delivered somewhere, or to someone. We climbed five steps on a weak, creaking wooden set of stairs, and twisted our way through a door. Several strides beyond the doorway, the men who’d been carrying me suddenly released their grip and dropped me to the floor. I’d fallen from too high, and the men were too powerful to be the same two small men who’d snatched me off the street.
I could smell cigarette smoke and coffee, but there was no way to have any real idea where I’d been taken. I cursed myself for dragging Kirsten into whatever this was. If I’d never gone after her, she’d be fine, but one of the grab men had violently shoved her into the wall. I felt sick knowing I’d gotten her hurt. I wondered if she still thought I was a trust fund playboy.
The sound of a switchblade knife springing open filled my head, and I forced myself to remain calm, while at the same time fearing I was about to be cut from crown to crack. I hated knives. I felt the blade touch the skin of my neck over my spine. My captor could drive the point of his switchblade between the vertebrae in my neck, and I’d never feel a thing beyond the initial prick of the steel.
Why have they driven me all the way out here just to plunge a knife into my spine? They could’ve killed me anywhere.
I held my breath, believing it might be the last breath I’d ever take, but when I felt the blade slice away from my neck and through the tape holding the black bag in place over my head, I exhaled with temporary relief. Someone yanked the bag away, leaving me blinking against the sudden light and trying to get my eyes to acclimate as quickly as possible.
When focus finally came, I saw a man sitting in an armchair with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. I didn’t recognize him, but I knew his look all too well. He was a warrior. He wore an expression of cold determination on his scarred, weathered face. He was dressed in khaki cargo pants with a Makarov pistol in a leather holster on his left hip, black boo
ts, and a black t-shirt. Whoever he was, I knew he and I were not on the same team.
The man stared at me for several minutes without saying a word. I returned his stare, refusing to blink or look away. Even in my precarious, nearly helpless position, I would not be intimidated.
The men who’d carried me in from the van pinned me to the floor. I tried to resist but didn’t have the strength. These two men lacked the quickness of the men who’d snatched me from the street, but they were bigger and much stronger. The man stared past me at a wooden chair.
The switchblade opened again, sending the same shiver up my spine, and I felt the flex-cuffs being cut from my wrists. The instant my feet were free, I kicked like a mule, hoping to find purchase on the wooden floor, but one of the men drove his knee between my legs with such force I thought I’d vomit from the pain. My will to continue kicking disintegrated. The two men lifted me to my feet and frog-marched me toward the wooden chair. After shoving me onto the seat, they immediately went to work duct-taping my arms, legs, and torso to the wooden frame. Refusing to surrender, I continued to resist, kicking and jerking as violently as I could, but overcoming the two dominant men was not in my future.
When I’d been thoroughly bound and left incapable of escape, the man with the cigarette rose from his chair and slowly approached me. Each thud of his bootheel striking the floor echoed like an exploding mortar inside my head.
“Do you know who I am, Chase Fulton?”
The man spoke in a smoker’s raspy voice in flawless, practiced English, but English clearly wasn’t his native language. Although he didn’t have the typical strong accent, I immediately knew where he was from, and why I was his prisoner.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know who you are. You’re the man I’m going to kill before the sun comes up. That’s who you are.”
“Ha! How arrogant you are to believe you can make threats, Mr. Fulton. You are taped to a chair in a dacha in the middle of nowhere. You have no weapon, no hope of escape, and no possibility of surviving the night unless you tell me everything I want to know.”
“I don’t know what you think is in my head, but I’m not telling you shit.”