“Edward, Senator Edward Kleeman.”
A senator? A politician? I’m not sure what I expected, but a politician wasn’t it. Feeling a little off balance with the information I’d so far managed to extract, I decided to do what I did best. Fake it till you make it. Pressing my shoulders back, I looked around the room.
“Well Eddie,” I purred, walking toward a picture that snagged my attention. It was a family portrait. Eddie was front and center with the rabbit I’d punched in the nose on one side, another man who had an uncanny resemblance to the idiot standing behind me on the other, and a woman resting in a chair before them, all looking pristine and arrogant, smiling down on the world as if they in fact owned it. Family. . .this was Eddie’s family. If I was his daughter, why wasn’t I in the picture?
“My name is Edward,” the man behind me corrected with impatience and anger in his tone.
“Of course it is. I’m going to assume that from the way you had me retrieved from Russia, and brought here to . . . wherever the hell here is,” I said, waving my arm about to encompass the room. “And then locked in a room with a shit bucket in the corner, we don’t exactly get along.”
Face red with anger, Eddie just stared at me.
“And to be honest, I don’t think I like you, or this place. So, if you’ll just let me be on my way, we can be done with each other and just pretend like this never happened.” Which would be incredibly unlikely. If I didn’t slay this delusional fuck, Hart would.
“You owe me,” Eddie snarled.
“For what?” I demanded, incensed that this stranger assumed I owed him anything.
“For being born!”
Storming towards me, his big meaty hand wrapped around my throat and slammed me against the wall. It took everything I had not to fight my way out of his hold. I wanted to, more than anything, but I also wanted him to know he couldn’t intimidate me.
“Your whore of a mother was supposed to be on birth control, and I paid damned good money for that fact. Then you came along and almost ruined everything. I have a reputation, a family, a wife, and you nearly fucked it all up. So, you fucking owe me. You were to be a gift in exchange for my secrets to remain just that, a fucking secret! Your virginity was supposed to be saved for him, and when you left, you fucked that up for me. Lucky for you, he still wants you though I can’t imagine why.” Spittle landed on my cheek and the grip around my throat vanished. My knees threatened to buckle, but I didn’t fall. There was no way I was falling to my knees before this motherfucker. Using the wall to hold me upright, I sucked back air greedily, my sharp gaze never leaving the furious man.
“You’re used goods, but by some small miracle, he still wants you.”
“Who?” My throat ached. My voice was rough, but I demanded to know who wanted me, the man who I’d been gifted to, no less.
“Kreshnik Erjon.”
The name fell from his lips with a strange kind of reverence and fear, yet it meant nothing to me. I’d experienced terror, been held captive by a beast, tortured, abused, and then I’d been born anew. Life had been breathed right into my heart by my very own monster. Having experienced the worst of the worst, and fallen in love with the devil himself, nothing could scare me anymore.
“Well, you should tell Kresh that I’m not in the mood to be wrapped up with a big, bright fucking bow. Tell him to go suck a dick, and please tell him those exact words. No ad-libbing.”
The door to the study flew open, slamming against the wall behind it. Somehow I managed to remain still and aloof, right up until the moment a woman was tossed to the floor in front of me. No, not a woman, a girl. Long blonde hair, pale skin, freckles dotting her flushed cheeks, her eyes red and swollen from crying.
“Ruby?” Her terrified blue eyes found mine, beseeching and hopeful, possibly finding comfort in another woman being present. I had no idea why or how she came to be here, but the fact she was, was a game changer.
8
HART
Taking a deep breath, I soaked in the smell of pine and fresh air. It wasn’t quite as comforting as the beach, but it beat the fumes of the city hands down. Standing on a large, wraparound porch I let my gaze wander over the forest. I’d slept a solid four hours, the most consecutive hours since Beauty had been taken days ago. I needed to be at the top of my game and though sleep was the last thing I wanted to do, a few shots of whiskey helped numb the pain inside long enough to get some rest.
Keeping my gaze on the serene world around me, my mind ticked over the plan, making sure I had a backup to plug any unforeseen holes we might encounter. This plan was based off the assumption Edward was at the hunting cabin. From what we had been able to establish, he had left Washington D.C. and headed north for some recreational time with his family. If he wasn’t where we hoped he might be, we’d begin searching again. I wasn’t leaving the sodden country without Beauty.
“Everything okay jefe?”
Raul yawned and stretched his arms toward the roof.
“Did you speak to Sylvie? She is cranky at you for not ringing last night.”
“She phoned you?” He asked, clearly surprised.
“You don’t think she would phone me?” I asked, feigning disbelief.
“She is angry with you for dragging me out of her warm body four weeks ago. I only had a window of forty-eight hours and we were making the most of it.”
“Too much information, Raul. And no, she didn’t ring me, she rang you, and I answered your blasted mobile. That ringtone drives me barmy, you need to change it.”
“Barmy? What does that even mean? Who speaks like that?”
Shaking my head, I turned to face my friend. He had just climbed from bed, his hair speaking the language of slumber and spiking upwards and outwards, every which way. His eyes still looking puffy with sleep, and a gun rested in one hand as he checked the chamber and slid it into the back of his jeans.
“Everything in place?’
His face turned serious, and he nodded.
“The last two of Jamison’s men will be here soon. The weapons are loaded into the van, everyone knows the drill. We go in quiet, but we go in hard, like usual.”
Jamison appeared in the doorway with a cup of tea, the tea bag still resting over the lip of the mug. Handing it to me, I took it with a grateful nod. He was our U.S contact whenever we were working in the country. Jamison had an army of men at our disposal, more weapons than we could ever possibly hope to need, and his finger on the pulse of every big player in the world of rotten fucking human beings. Like Henry, he was quiet. His calm and efficient order was what my mind needed right now.
Raul and Jamison disappeared to finish preparing as we waited for the rest of the team to arrive. Impatience nipped at my heels, urging me to leave now. My heart was hammering as if I’d taken a shot of pure adrenaline, and I couldn’t stand still. My feet traced an invisible line across the front of the porch and back again. Henry’s plane had arrived, and when Raul had last spoken to him he was in the process of hiring a car. He wouldn’t make it in time for the attack though, and there was no way I was waiting a moment longer.
For the hundredth time, I went over the plan in my head, my mind showing me images of the maps we’d studied on the kitchen table over the last two days. Christopher Kleeman’s cabin sat on twelve hectares of forestland, the nearest neighbor more than fifteen miles away. On a perfectly still day, those neighbors would easily detect the sound of gunfire. One or two gunshots might be passed off as a hunter, multiple gunshots would raise suspicion. While I didn’t really care about the mess we made rescuing Beauty, it would be Jamison and his team cleaning up. We needed to go in quietly, though I wouldn’t finish this day without Beauty in my arms and her family’s blood soaking the earth, and their bodies rotting under a pile of dirt. The thought almost brought a smile to my face.
Eventually a dark SUV crawled its way up the long drive and I entered the house, making my way into the room I’d been using. Grabbing my already packed bag off th
e end of the bed, I paused as my eyes caught the red leather book sitting on the side table. Beauty’s book. It felt like my only connection to her and unable to be parted from it, I grabbed it and left the room.
There were no orders given, the men already assembled outside the house had climbed into their vehicles. Raul sat in the driver’s seat of a dark SUV, his game face firmly in place, all signs of his usual playful demeanor put away for another time. My bag was slid into the back seat, and I clutched the book of poetry in my hand as I slammed the door shut and stared out the windscreen.
“Let’s go get your belleza back, jefe.”
And with that, the cars pulled down the graveled driveway in single file. Four in total, ours bringing up the rear, as we followed the men who knew this part of the world much better than we did. The sun cracked through the thick canopy above us, shooting beams of light to the ground below. It was quite a majestic sight.
“I think it’s a good day for bloodshed,” I murmured, as the forest engulfed us.
9
BEAUTY
They’d done it again, drugged me, bound my wrists, gagged me, and tied something around my eyes. I still felt groggy and sick, but the faster the drugs wore off, the more the sickness leeched away and rage took its place. Nobody would tell me where Ruby was, and my fear for her almost outweighed my fury . . . almost.
Ple pink walls greeted me upon waking from the drug induced coma I’d been sent to. There were no windows, but instead skylights on a peeked roof. A grimy mist coated them though, which obscured my view of the sky. A rustic style wrought iron single bed was pressed against one wall, a faded pink blanket covering a thin, lumpy mattress. Opposite the bed was an old, worn looking timber wardrobe, and beside it a dresser that I think had once been white. Now it was a funky faded beige with paint flaking off its corners. The oval mirror sitting atop it had been framed with little press on diamanté stickers in blue, red, and clear. The only other piece of furniture was a wooden chair that sat in one corner. Adding to the mismatch style of the lonely, sad room was an abstract painting on the wall above the bed, the image capturing my attention and making my heart pound. It was familiar. More than familiar. It was mine. A ballerina with an almost sad and wistful expression sat against a grey and turbulent backdrop. Her back was deeply arched, her head and arms flung backwards, neck taut. Above her hovered a pair of ghostly hands and from the fingers hung pieces of string that were attached to the dancer’s limbs. She looked like a macabre puppet. Her dress stained with what might have been old blood and dirt. It was so sad and breathtaking all at once.
As I lay on the musty bed sheets, my body still fighting the lethargy from the drugs, I continued to stare at the beautiful dancer wishing I could simply cut the strings that bound her and set her free. Shuffling footsteps from outside the door caught my attention, and I finally tore my eyes away from the painting and stared at the door. I hoped it was the little fucking rabbit. My anger needed an outlet, and he was an easy target while I was still weak. The clicks of a key in a lock echoed in the silence, followed by the drag of a deadbolt out of its casing. Then the door gently pushed open. The woman who walked through it left me stunned, the air in my lungs caught as I took her in.
“Chiquita,” she breathed almost reverently. Little girl . . . me, she was talking about me. She had always called me chiquita. How I knew that I didn’t now, it just was.
Her Spanish accent was thick before her words were cut off by a muffled cry. One hand came up to touch her forehead, then chest, followed by one shoulder, then the other. The father, son and the holy spirit. I remembered her doing this before. Tears clouded her dark eyes as she watched me watch her. Wrinkles lined her round face, and grey filled every strand in her hair. Her body was stout, shoulders stooped. As she shuffled further into the room, memories slammed into my mind, quick snapshots of this woman laughing and singing. Her resonating kindness filled my tarnished heart.
“Marisol?”
“Qué te han hecho?”
What have they done to you? Unlike the sporadic Spanish I recognized when Raul spoke, I knew every fluent word Marisol said.
Then I was in her arms. She scooped me up and held me against her ample breast, her tears landing one by one on my shoulder as she held me close and cried. I remembered this. I remembered her hugs, I remembered the lingering smell of sage and lavender on her skin, I remembered her. Eventually she pulled away, cupping her coarse palms around my cheeks, astute eyes roaming over my face, seeing too much. There was heartbreak in her gaze, as if she knew how I’d suffered.
“I prayed for you,” she coarsely whispered. “Every day, I prayed for you to be safe. But you weren’t, were you?”
I didn’t answer, there was no point in sharing the last three years, they’d hurt her gentle soul beyond repair. Leaning forward, she peppered my face with kisses, dragging a smile to my lips. When her eyes dropped to the dress I was wearing, she scowled and began cursing in Spanish about the filthy garments I’d been left in. Lifting her body from my bed, Marisol moved to the dresser and slid open drawers, pulling clothing out while muttering to herself the entire time. I could understand every word, the angry curses, the soul deep sorrow, the painful grief. And the guilt, it was like poison in the air. I was sure she had nothing to be guilty over, but my memory was not my friend right now. Could she have betrayed me in some way? I had no idea and until I knew otherwise I’d keep those thoughts to myself. Once Marisol found what she was after, she signaled for me to follow.
“Come, come, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Cautiously, I followed the woman from the bedroom, half expecting to be attacked for leaving. The fight would have been welcome. Instead I was greeted with an empty staircase which we quickly descended. A few doors down a wide hallway, Marisol opened the door to a small but clean bathroom. While I showered, my new companion continued to prattle on throwing about names that were met with images in my mind. I knew these people, I knew Marisol, I think I knew this damn bathroom. Once my fingers were prune-like, I stepped from the shower and began to dry off.
“Chiquita, what’s this?” Marisol asked, noticing the scabbed over cuts on my thighs.
“Oh, pain relief,” I casually explained. “I don’t suppose you have a knife on you?” Marisol shook her head with a rather horrified expression. “I probably wouldn’t have used it on myself anyway. I’m not really in the mood. Would have been handy though, I could get stabby with the assholes out there.”
She still looked horrified as she passed me my clothes. Underwear – fist pump - a pair of black yoga pants, a long sleeved, plain grey top and thick socks. While I stared at my gaunt reflection in the mirror, Marisol towel dried my long strands of hair, then took her time to brush it free of knots, talking the entire time. She spoke of her fear when I disappeared, she thought Eddie was behind it. He wasn’t, because he was angry that I didn’t come home that evening, angry like the staff had never seen. He wasn’t upset the way a man should be when his daughter goes missing though, more afraid of something else. Whenever the old Spanish woman would look at me her big eyes would fill with tears again, and she would begin to mutter her frustrations. Back in my room, Marisol disappeared down the stairs, however the door remained open. Staring at that void into the unknown, I contemplated walking through it and going to find Ruby. I even rose from the bed to do just that when I caught sight of a man standing outside. His resemblance to Eddie was uncanny. He was the man from the picture . . . Eddie’s son. Handsome, with a strong jaw, just like his father, blue eyes not unlike mine, and a strong physique, he was the complete opposite of his brother, the scared little rabbit. When he smiled, it was quite disarming with its brilliance.
“The prodigal daughter returns,” he mumbled. “You broke Jacob’s nose.”
“I know,” I said with a smile. “I meant to.”
“You won’t be pulling that shit with me.”
Tilting my head to one side, I considered the slightly manic gleam to his eyes,
his perfect white teeth showing a perfect smile. Eventually, I nodded in agreement.
“You’re right. I think I’d rather get a little kinky with you.”
Sick lust filled his features, pupils dilating, and a heavy-lidded look taking over. The familiar deviancy I’d been exposed to over my three years of captivity was easy to recognize.
“Oh yeah, I’d love to play with you,” I crooned, playfully. “Ever heard of enucleation of the eye? It’s where the eyeball is removed, but the muscles and orbital contents remain intact. Your eyes would literally hang from your head. Hart taught me that.” I fondly recalled the blunt instrument he’d used to pluck out a rapist’s eyes right from their sockets. It had been sublime. “I’d also indulge in a little knife play, perhaps slice into your cheeks to make your smile wider, you need fixing, you’re far too perfect.”
The lust was completely gone now, his handsome smile fallen, a look of disgust in its place.
“They said you were different.”
My brow creased with confusion. “Different how?” I asked, genuinely wanting to know.
“Crazy . . . well, crazier, you always lent toward mania and weirdness, but now . . . you’re really fucking insane, aren’t you?”
“I am,” I agreed with a proud smile. “But do you know what you get when you place insanity on the shoulders of someone strong?”
“Really fucking insane?” He offered.
“Really fucking badass.”
His laugh was loud and obnoxious, and abruptly cut off as Marisol reappeared, waddling past with a plate of food in her weathered hands. Upon entering the room, she kicked the door shut, cursing under her breath and calling the man now standing back outside a useless cabrón. I knew I liked this woman, I could feel it in my heart. But her aversion to my predicament and the asshole outside only made my heart warm further for her.
“Who is he?”
BEAU2Y (Beauty Part 2): Blaire's World Page 6