Renner turned away, headed for the elevator and a quick way out. “Thanks, Ember,” he called over his shoulder.
“Anytime,” she sing-songed back.
Renner hightailed it out of the office to parking at ground level. He had one more thing to do this morning. Feed his dog. Make that two things. Three. A shower and nap would’ve been nice. Until his cell buzzed. Without checking the caller ID, he answered, “I said she’s a client, Ember.”
“Renner!” Kelsey screamed in his ear. “He’s got her! He took Tara!”
“Kelsey? Who took her? Where are you?”
“Don’t worry about me. She’s still got my phone! Track her, Renner! Find her! He’ll kill her!”
She didn’t have to ask twice. “I will,” he said as he disconnected. All agents’ wives were protected under the same protocols that ruled The TEAM. Renner thumbed the app that would allow him to hone onto any TEAM member’s GPS signal. Including Kelsey’s.
Pissed that he hadn’t been there to keep Tara safe, he promised her now, “I’m coming, baby. Be strong. Hold on for me. I’m coming.” And when I get there, I’ll kill the son of a bitch who kidnapped you with my bare hands.
Chapter Fifteen
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
God, please let Kelsey be safe. Let her be alive.
The dark place she found herself in smelled like blood. Probably hers. As much as she wanted to scream, Tara lay still, listening to the sound of tires humming on the pavement. Her head hurt and a couple teeth were loose. Crap. She was in a trunk with her hands and feet bound and a bag over her head. A plastic bag that sucked against her nostrils every time she inhaled too hard.
Tara had no recollection of what happened, not to her or to Kelsey. Kelsey had just made her first successful flight. She’d stuck the landing. It was a great morning. Tara had just finished her first phone call home in nearly two years. Mom had sounded so happy. Tara hadn’t understood what Kelsey said. Until now. She’d screamed, “Run!”
It had finally happened. Jorge had found her. And now she would die.
Shaking with fright at the nightmare that lay ahead of her, Tara forced her mind to Colorado and her favorite ski run at Breckenridge. Crazy Ivan2, so named for its forty-nine-degree slope. Man, she loved skiing. The cold. The thrill of launching off a deceptively smooth cornice, dropping straight down. The icy wind in her nose and her hair. The shit-eating grin on her face. The sure knowledge that she’d faced danger and death and spit in their eyes—once upon a time.
The vehicle taking her to hell slowed and then turned left. Tara straightened her legs and braced her head against one padded trunk wall, her boots against the other, to keep from being tossed around. Jorge had struck her head when he’d captured her. She’d never seen him coming.
Tears sprang to her eyes. This was not the way she’d envisioned her life ending. Back when she’d been an Olympic hopeful, she’d lived for the adrenaline rush during the day, the bars, hot-tubbing, and beer parties at night. Yes, she’d been wild, but she’d also been sure she’d die on the slopes after any number of disastrous falls. Maybe from a concussion or some other bizarre injury. Reckless skiers courted death, and she’d been one of the most reckless. Brash. Arrogant. Stupid…
The vehicle jerked to a full stop. The engine died. Tara shook her head to buy some room to breathe. But the plastic bag seemed to have a life of its own. It clung to her cheeks and nose. It covered her nostrils.
And then it was gone, jerked away, and Jorge was breathing in her face. “You think you can run?” he hissed. “From me?” He reached in and grabbed her jacket collar. “What did I tell you would happen?”
She would’ve answered if he’d removed the tape over her mouth.
He slapped her face anyway. “I will kill you!” he spat, his eyes wide and his mouth twisted with venom. “That’s what I’ll do! Only first we’ll play games, you and me.” He had her hanging half-out of the trunk by then, still fisting her collar. “And when you’re done entertaining me, when I’m good and sick of you, only then will I let you die. You hear me?”
Tara nodded through the brain-rattling shake he was giving her, his fist hard against her throat, and her heart clamoring like a gong in her ears. Man, he’d gotten uglier these last few months. His black beard was long and shaggy, filthy. His hair was the same.
“Speak, you disgusting whore!” he commanded like an idiot. Another shake. Another slap. He banged her skull on the trunk edge.
Yet she tried, mumbling through what felt like duct tape covering her lips.
It must have registered with the dumbass that she couldn’t answer. Growling, he lifted her head and tore the tape off, taking a snarl of her hair with it. Another shake. Another vicious slap. And she would’ve told him anything if he’d just stop battering her.
But she’d been here before. Jorge didn’t want answers. Wouldn’t matter if she told lies or truths. All he wanted was her pain and her blood.
“I’m sorry,” she cried out.
He almost looked surprised, like he actually believed her.
“I’m sorry I ever met you!” Why lie?
He dragged her out of the trunk then, dumped her hard onto her shoulder on the ground and slammed the trunk lid closed. Tara rolled to keep from breaking her neck, then sucked in a gut full of cold air, thankful for that smallest of small things. Until he knotted her hair in a fist and dragged her backward through the dark alley like a bag of garbage, and into the back door of…
Oh, shit. A butcher shop. Heavy wooden chopping blocks. Long stainless-steel countertops. All dirty. All previously used and worn and… Shit.
Her stomach pitched at the smell of rancid meat and decay. This wasn’t just any butcher shop. This had to be where all bad wives of terrorist assholes ended up. Dead. Chopped. Flushed down the sewers.
Lifting her onto her feet, Jorge balanced her on a tall wooden stool with no back. More duct tape fastened her already bound feet to the bottom rung. Another half-dozen layers fastened her thighs to the round wooden seat. And Tara was thankful she still had her clothes. She hadn’t always been allowed that small privilege.
At last, Jorge stood before her, his hands on his hips and an evil light in his eye. To think that she’d once thought him handsome. All that dark wavy hair. His dark skin. Those full lips that had once tasted of decadence, rebellion, and the clove cigarettes he favored. He’d been a striking male the first time she’d seen him, ultra-polite and gentlemanly.
Man, she’d been wrong. So damned foolish.
Slowly he turned to the counter at his left, drawing her attention to what lay in store for her. Large metal hooks. A gleaming set of polished knives, all sizes. A drill. Drill bits. Other things she couldn’t name. “We start now, heh?” he asked, grinning like this was going to be fun.
Tara could barely sit upright by then. But when he stepped into her space with a knife in his hand and cut the jacket off her shoulders... When he smiled as the blade slithered under her sleeves and reduced them to nothing... When he set the knife aside and put his hands on her Under Armour t-shirt and ripped it down the center, baring her bra and her breasts...
She let her tears fall. It wouldn’t matter if she screamed or begged or cried for her life.
By the end of this day, she would be dead.
Renner pulled into the alley in Deanwood, one of the worst neighborhoods, located in the Northeastern part of the District. The app on his phone pinged loud and clear that he was within twenty feet of Tara—if she still had Kelsey’s phone. If only he could see through walls. It was early afternoon, yet this alley was dark, closed in by project apartments built back in the 1980s. No lights glimmered from windows or doors on the solid brick walls to his left or to his right. No dark sinister figures skulked in the shadows. His only lead was the rusty Ford sedan parked alongside a row of industrial-sized trash receptacles up ahead. And that was good enough.
Renner left his leather cut behind. He neede
d to be able to move fast. Out of his vehicle now and on his feet, he didn’t waste time looking over the Ford, searching for clues. Clues had nothing to offer. Not now. Whoever had taken Tara might’ve left evidence of her abduction behind, but that wasn’t what Renner wanted now. He had a woman to rescue. Once she was safe he’d call for reinforcements. They could bag the evidence.
His soul came to scary, brilliant life at times like this. His cell still pinged in his rear pocket telling him he was on track. And now the weight of cold hard steel graced his dry palms. His body hummed, drawing on all five heightened senses, as well as his sixth—his sniper sense. Self-reliance kept a man alive. But those uniquely sharpened senses made him the hunter/killer he needed to be.
Renner became the night as he advanced toward one of two metal doors, spaced twenty feet from each other, on the brick wall to his left. What’ll it be? Door A or Door B? He zeroed in on Door A. Most thugs were arrogant assholes who thought they were invincible. They didn’t think they’d get caught, so they didn’t take precautions, like parking a car full of forensic evidence farther from their man cave—or whatever this place was.
Ember’s voice crackled to life inside his head the second his palm hugged the rusty doorknob. “Hey, Renner. I’ve got news on that Tara Tumulty.”
“Speak,” he whispered.
“Are you okay?”
“Just tell me what you’ve got.”
“I ran her through facial rec like you suggested. Her name’s not Tumulty. It’s Shanahan, as in Tara Shanahan. As in Olympic hopeful, downhill skier, Tara Shanahan.”
“Copy that,” he answered, his brain filtering, sorting, and judging all he knew about Tara Shanahan. Not much. He tended to follow Olympic shooting events. Air rifle, rapid fire pistol, skeet, and trap. Summer sports.
“She’s lost weight and her hair used to be short and bleached blonde. Another thing. She married a man from Indonesia, Jorge Poerbatjaraka, over a year ago. But this is where it gets really bad. He’s got ties with ISIL, specifically Ahmed Al-Yousif in Syria. I’m tracking the money trail between the two, as well as their latest texts. He’s a recruiter. He funnels angry, impressionable young men and women to Al-Yousif, and Al-Yousif makes sure he stays in business. They’ve worked together for years, Renner. Years.”
“Shit,” Renner hissed under his breath. “What else?”
He knew about Al-Yousif. The bastard was the infamous former NFL running back Anderson White. Born in New York City to hardworking, African American, middle-class parents, he betrayed his country and his family when he’d joined ISIL. Hit all the international ten-most-wanted lists. Made a name for himself by kidnapping two Kuwaiti politicians, then bragged via live-streaming egotistical rants that every nation had twenty-four hours to release his imprisoned ISIL brothers and sisters, or he’d execute the politicians. Which he’d known would never happen. The man was a flaming narcissist. Twenty-four hours later Al-Yousif filmed two cold-blooded beheadings, then wiped his bloody sword on his robe and laughed into the camera.
“She divorced him seven months ago and disappeared off the grid until the security video from your mom’s place surfaced.”
“What do you mean surfaced?”
“It’s on YouTube, Renner. Produced by anonymous. It claims to have located the missing USA Olympic hopeful, Tara Shanahan. It’s already gotten over fifty-thousand hits.”
Ouch. Renner bowed his head at what he’d done. He’d outed Tara. Not intentionally, but by taking her to what he’d thought was a safe place. Apparently, her buddy Jorge had the means to hack into Crazy Eights’ security cameras. Or someone did.
That frightening detail had Renner rethinking his strategy, which until Ember’s call, had been to kill the bastard, call for clean-up on aisle Jorge, and whisk Tara off to safety. Only now, the better way forward might be to take Jorge into custody in order to glean additional information on Ahmed, aka Andy White.
“Are you still there?” Ember asked quietly.
“Yeah,” he answered, his voice stuck in his throat and his common sense online. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m in the middle of something.”
“I can send help,” she told him. “I know where you are.”
Of course, she did. Ember had her pretty fingertips on the pulse of every TEAM agent. She knew exactly what he was doing and where he was.
“No,” Renner ground out, his ear to the heavy steel door, but no sound came from within.
“Copy that,” she whispered before disconnecting.
Tara Shanahan, huh?
Chapter Sixteen
Tara sagged on the stool, fighting to stay upright, dizzy and beaten and bloody, but not out, not by a long shot. At least not yet. Jorge wanted from her what every conceited man wanted from a woman, for her to grovel at his feet like some lovesick idiot and beg his forgiveness. Like she was the bastard in this twisted relationship. He kept calling their marriage ‘sacred’ as if he were the saint. As if she’d forsaken her vows, and he was the poor innocent slighted one she’d left behind. As if he hadn’t made her married life a living hell.
He had hold of her hair again, twisting his fist, pulling her head back and threatening to cut her neck. He had yet to stab her with that curved blade he seemed to favor, but he’d done enough cutting to keep her on edge. She could tell he’d sliced her throat, but just deep enough to scare her into submission. Just enough she felt her blood trickling down her chest.
But the small surface slices he’d traced down her arm to her tattoo stung worse. He’d said ink offended his higher sensibilities. As if a man who cut women had any.
“No proper woman would adorn herself with such disrespectful art unless she wants her husband to beat her every day for the rest of her worthless life,” he told her again. “Is that what you want, wife? A whipping every day?”
“I’m not your wife,” she rasped. “Divorced, remember?”
“I never signed those piece of shit papers your lawyer sent me!” he spat into her sweaty face. “It was not true! None of it! You told them lies! All lies!”
“It was legal,” she shot back at him, wincing as the knife lanced her bicep, shaking to keep from screaming. Whimpering excited Jorge, but she couldn’t help it. She cried, choking on her real crimes. Wishing she knew what happened to Kelsey and hoping her mother could forgive her wayward daughter for always thinking she was smarter than she was. Smart women didn’t end up married to ISIL operators, did they?
Blood trickled down Tara’s arm to the floor, and it was hard to keep her eyes on the prize of dying with dignity. This was torture, and yeah, there was gallows humor in this rat bastard’s ranting while he scraped her beloved cat tattoo off her skin. Which hurt!
A hysterical laugh bubbled up from her gut. Don’t laugh! Don’t giggle! And now she was talking to herself. Which meant she was dehydrated and losing more blood than Jorge realized. She wouldn’t last much longer. He’d either have to get serious about the torture schtick he kept bragging he was so good at, or he’d have to do something to keep her alive, so he could… yeah. Kill her slowly.
“Oink, oink,” she breathed at the man she hated.
“You dare insult me?” He bellowed like an animal in pain. “Your husband!”
“I dare insult Porky Pig…”
The knife bit into her throat. Finally. He was angry enough to kill her. Okay, good. The words Yul Brenner said in that old-time movie about the ten commandments flashed out of the archives of her dizzy mind. ‘So, let it be written. So, let it be done.’
Yeah. That. I’m ready.
“I hated you then,” she whispered, the sweat dripping in her eyes making it hard to see his ugly face. Or maybe it was her blood. Could have been. She’d been slapped and punched enough. It was getting hard to tell. “B-b-but…”
He leaned in closer like he expected a confession or something.
She let him have it. “But I hate you more now.”
“No!” Jorge roared
again, but who cared? Not—
BANG!
He let loose of her, and because Tara was weak and unprepared, her neck snapped backward. Still taped to the stool, she fell. There was no way to keep from hitting the floor. She landed hard. Oomph! The fall knocked the wind out of her. Her poor head bounced. One big star exploded into a thousand smaller streaming stars that seemed to be falling over her. She blinked when the fireworks faded, but there she was. Still in the same dark place. Her eyes crossed. Her head split open, and damn… Just let me die.
She turned to the side when he bellowed another dramatic, “No!” All she could see was Jorge’s legs and boots. But yes. Tara could also see someone else across the room, someone facing Jorge. A man. How had he gotten inside this hellhole? Was he stupid? She blinked, trying to clear her vision. It couldn’t be.
“Renner?” she breathed, her voice lost as Jorge bellowed, facing Renner like an angry bear protecting his kill. Scraping his boot soles on the floor like a bull. Snorting like a pig. Jorge always was an ass…
Tara would’ve laughed at the imagery her scrambled brain had just conjured up—if she could’ve seen through her tears. “Don’t kill him,” she cried from her front-row seat of what would surely be Renner’s death. “Please. Don’t kill him...”
Jorge was a massive monster. Yet while he ranted, Renner stood there poised and lethal. He wasn’t wearing his leather jacket, and his skin-tight t-shirt looked lacquered to his chest. She’d never noticed before how his biceps bulged, nor how thick veins roped up the muscled granite of his arms to the tight edge of his sleeves. How black his eyes were. How his lip curled. How his nose flared. Heat curled around him. Fire and death and revenge.
Renner wasn’t as big a man. Jorge outweighed him by a good hundred pounds, but Renner still struck lightning fast. So fast Tara didn’t see him move, but then he was in Jorge’s face. Smashing a fist into Jorge’s eyes. Chopping his throat. Slapping his ears.
Jorge screamed as bodies collided. Renner’s lightning fast rabbit punches connected with Jorge’s thick gut in a blinding sequence that dropped him to his knees. He’d barely scrambled to his feet, when Renner leaped sideways at him. His powerful kick sent Jorge backward into the concrete wall.
Renner (In the Company of Snipers Book 19) Page 13