Afraid of the Dark (34 page)

Chapter Eighty-one

T
he outburst from beyond the closed door—
“Tell him!”
—stopped Jack in his tracks.

Rushing inside the old hotel had been an instinctive reaction to the scream, and he’d raced up three flights of stairs hoping that the Dark had already fled with the money and left his hostages behind. Clearly, that was not the case, and as Jack stood frozen in the dark hallway, not sure what to do, he wished he was packing that gun Reza had offered him. He didn’t even have a cell phone, but hopefully the police were on the way. Surely Chuck had called them. Or the cabdriver. He inched closer to the door, stepping carefully on floorboards stripped of carpeting, and listened.

“Shada, do it
now
!”

He stopped and put his ear to the wall, trying to hear other voices inside the room. What he really wanted to hear were police sirens wailing on Brick Lane. If they didn’t come soon, Jack would be forced to make a move—either bust down the door or run for help. A wrong decision could be disastrous, and he was deep in an anxious state of disbelief over the fact that he was in London tracking down a psychopath when his week from hell—everything from Jamal’s murder and the loss of his friend Neil to the lack of sleep and Jamal’s uncle in the hospital—suddenly caught up with him, propelling him to do
something
.

“Do not harm the hostages,” he shouted. “I have a gun!”

The crack of gunfire was the response—a bullet exploding through the wall just inches from Jack’s nose. Jack dove to the floor.

Brilliant bluff, Swyteck.

The door swung open, but no one came out. The dim lighting from inside the room spilled a faint glow into the hallway, and Jack crouched low in the shadows. The rain continued to beat down on the roof of the hotel, and his only hope was that nature’s hiss would drown out the sound of his own panicked breathing.

“Toss your gun into the room,” the Dark said, calling out into the hallway. “Then step into the doorway where I can see you.”

Jack bit his lip, not quite believing that his bluff was going this badly. It was almost comical—until Shada screamed in pain.

“Do as I said, or the next scream is her last.”

Where the hell are the cops?

“He’s serious,” said Shada. “He already stabbed Vince!”

The fear in her voice was palpable, and the thought of Vince down and perhaps dying raised the stakes yet again—if that was possible. But he stayed put.

“One,” said the Dark, counting down.

“Jack, please!”

“Two.”

It was a split-second decision, but all Jack could do was buy time. “I’m stepping toward the doorway,” he shouted from the hallway, “and I don’t have a weapon.”

The Dark stopped counting, and for the next few seconds, there was only the sound of falling rain on the roof.

“Hands up where I can see them!” the Dark shouted.

Jack took a deep breath. This was definitely
not
the plan. Jack moved into the doorway with hands up over his head. The sole source of light in the room was a battery-powered lantern on the table, but it was sufficient, and the sight took Jack’s breath away—especially the blood on the floor beside Vince. Shada was on her knees at his side. The Dark stood behind her with his gun pressed against the back of her head.

“I swear I don’t have a gun,” Jack said.

“It wouldn’t help you anyway,” the Dark said. “Come out, McKenna.”

Jack did a double take at the name “McKenna,” but when the girl from the fish market stepped out from the shadows in the corner of the room, he knew it was just more of the Dark’s sickness.

“Everyone is going to do exactly as I say,” the Dark said. “Show them, McKenna.”

The girl opened her coat to reveal what she was wearing underneath. Even in the dim lighting of a boarded-up hotel room, it didn’t take an expert to see that she was wired for explosives. Her earlier exchange with Jack—when she told Jack that the Dark
didn’t
have to find her in order to kill her—hadn’t been paranoia. Now it made sense.

The Dark showed Jack the cell phone in his free hand. “Remote detonator,” he said. “Something I learned from Jamal’s father. Life’s funny, isn’t it?”

“Nobody else has to die,” said Jack. “Just take the money and go.”

“I’ll go,” he said, shoving Shada’s head forward with his pistol, “but I’m taking this slut with me.”

“You don’t need Shada,” said Jack.

“Don’t tell me what I need,” he said, his anger rising. “We’re talking real Internet porn-star potential—right, Shada? Let’s give your friends a little sneak preview. Tell them who made you into such a slut.”

She didn’t answer. The Dark only berated her further. His voice turned into that same abusive rant that Jack had heard on those unwatchable P2P videos.

“Who did it, huh?” he said, getting into role. The pistol forced Shada’s head forward, and again he shouted: “Who did it to you?”

She answered in a weak voice. “Not Chuck,” she said. “He was number six.”

“Then who? Tell me!”

“Not the men in college. Not number five. Or four. Or three.”

She looked up just enough to catch Jack’s eye—and Jack had a double epiphany. The Dark’s interrogation of Shada was like a replay of his final moments with McKenna before stabbing her to death. He was forcing her to go back to that first lover, the one who had taken her virginity and—in his twisted mind—turned her into a slut. For McKenna there had been only Jamal, and it suddenly came clear to Jack. When Vince found her on the bedroom floor, dying and delirious, and asked her that same question—
Who did this to you?—
McKenna had been conditioned to give him the answer that she’d given the Dark:
Jamal.

“Not that boy on the beach,” Shada said. “Number two.”

She paused, again catching Jack’s eye, and the second half of the two-part epiphany was confirmed. Shada wasn’t just counting down her lovers.

“Definitely not two,” she said, making sure that Jack was with her as she counted down like mission control toward a synchronized launch time for a simultaneous attack.

“One!” she said, and they sprang into action.

Shada jerked away from the gun. Jack dove at the Dark and knocked the phone—the detonator—to the floor. His momentum carried them both all the way to an old chair against the wall. Their combined weight smashed the chair to pieces, their bodies hit the floor, and the gun discharged. The girl screamed as the errant bullet splintered the door casing behind her.

“Run!” Jack shouted.

He heard someone racing toward the door as he and the Dark fought for control of the gun. They rolled hard to Jack’s left and slammed into the radiator. Jack got hold of the Dark’s wrist and smashed his hand against the pipe until the gun dropped to the floor. The two men were still locked in a wrestling match as Jack swung his leg around and kicked the gun across the room. Jack saw it disappear somewhere in the shadows—but he didn’t see the broken chair leg coming at his head. The blow stunned Jack, and as much as he tried to fight through the pain, he could feel the Dark slipping out of his grasp. Only then did Jack see the cell phone resting in the center of room. He knew that if the Dark got to it first, they would all be blown to bits. He tried to pull the Dark back to him, but his strength was gone.

The Dark reached for it.

“Freeze!” Shada shouted, and the crack of a pistol stopped everyone. It was her warning shot. The gun that Jack had wrestled free in the struggle was now in her hands, and the Dark was in her sights. The Dark didn’t move, but his open hand hovered ominously over the cell phone on the floor.

“Put the gun down, Shada,” the Dark said.

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

With tentative steps, and with her gun aimed at the Dark, Shada slowly crossed the room to check on Vince. Her warning shot seemed to have roused him. Shada knelt at his side, but he didn’t speak.

“Shada, I’m talking to you,” said the Dark.

Jack struggled to focus, fighting off the blow to his head. “Don’t listen to him, Shada.”

“Quiet, everyone!” she said.

Jack backed off, but the Dark continued in a chilling tone. It was the strong, almost hypnotic voice of control.

“Shada, this isn’t what you came back to do.”

“Yes, it is. I want you dead.”

“Only I can help you now.”

“You deserve to die!”

“You need me, Shada. That’s why you brought me the money.”

“You killed my daughter, you monster. I brought the money so I could get close enough to kill
you
.”

Jack could see the anger on his face, but the Dark continued in the same even tone that almost seemed to cast a spell over Shada. “And then you were going to make a run for it, weren’t you?” he said.

She didn’t answer.

“You don’t have to run alone, Shada. We can run together.”

“Shut up!”

“Tell Jack why you have to run, Shada.”

“Quiet!”

“If you kill me and let Jack live, it’s only a matter of time before he figures out that you were in Miami when Ethan Chang was killed.”

“Stop it!”

“And that you were also in Miami when his friend was killed.”

She didn’t deny it. She wouldn’t even look at Jack, and her connection to Neil hit Jack like a sledgehammer.

“You tricked me,” said Shada. Her gun was trained on the Dark, but Jack could hear in her voice that she was beginning to crumble.

“Nobody tricked you, Shada. You knew the truth.”

“You made me think Jamal was out to kill me, and you said Chang could lead him to me.”

“That was true.”

“
Not
true!” said Vince, groaning. It startled everyone. It was the sound of a dying man, and Jack wished he would save his strength.

“Don’t listen to Paulo,” said the Dark. “You did the right thing, Shada. Chang was a blackmailer.”

Her aim was turning unsteady, even as her voice quaked. “You said it would only make him sick, not kill him.”

Jack felt chills at the thought of Shada disguising herself and jabbing Chang with the toxin. He suddenly grasped the degree of control the Dark exercised over her.

“Shada, I want you to do exactly as I say,” the Dark said. “Take it slow now. I want you to turn the gun away from me.”

“I . . . can’t.”

“Turn it away from me and aim it at Jack.”

She shook her head, but without much conviction. The Dark continued to work on her. “Shada, the police already know that
two
people went to Neil Goderich’s office the night he was shot.”

That was news to Jack, and he wasn’t sure if the police knew it, either. But Shada’s silence confirmed that it was true.

“Run with me,” said the Dark. “That’s all we can do, Shada.”

Tears were streaming down her face. Shada’s voice was barely audible, and even though she was staring at the Dark, Jack sensed that she was speaking to him.

“I was just the lookout,” she said. “Neil wasn’t supposed to get shot.”

“Aim the gun toward Jack,” said the Dark.

Her hand was shaking. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the barrel of the gun began to move.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Shada’s betrayal—and the pain of Neil’s death—caught in Jack’s throat. He could barely speak.

“Shada, don’t do this.”

The gun continued to move in Jack’s direction.

“Shada, please,” said Jack.

Slowly and steadily, the gun kept moving—and then it jerked toward Shada’s face.

“No!” shouted Jack, and his cry seemed to jar Vince into action. He catapulted up from the floor and knocked the barrel away from Shada’s mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Vince and Shada going down as the explosion of another gunshot rattled the room.

The next few seconds passed like minutes, as events suddenly seemed to unfold in slow motion. As the Dark’s fingers wrapped around the phone, a boot came down on his wrist, clamping it to the floor. Jack looked up to see the business end of a pistol that looked exactly like the one Reza had offered him. It was aimed straight at the Dark’s head. In a flash, Jack realized that Chuck had not called for help, and that he had never intended to involve the police under any circumstances. He realized that there was no outstanding arrest warrant for Chuck Mays that prevented him from traveling to the U.K., and that Chuck had been in London at least as long as Jack had.

And Jack totally understood that it was time for a father’s justice.

“This is for
my
McKenna,” he said, and the crack of his pistol shook the old hotel.

Chapter Eighty-two

A
ndie gasped for breath.

She was bent at the waist, essentially upside down in the back of the limo. Her head was hanging off the forward edge of the leather seat, and her hair splayed across the carpeted floor. Her knees were pointed at the ceiling, flexed over the headrest so that her feet dangled through the open partition and into the cockpit. Bahena held her legs still. Her arms were outstretched, each wrist tied to a door handle.

“I’ll ask you one more time,” said Littleton. “Who are you?”

Her lungs burned, and she could barely force out the words. “I told you,” she said. “My name is Lisa Horne.”

Again, Littleton covered her face with the wet cloth. Andie couldn’t see, but she heard the jangle of the crystal carafe as he pulled it from the slot in the liquor cabinet. The fact that it wasn’t liquor was of little consolation. A steady stream of water began to flow again, soaking the cloth. Andie tried to hold her breath, knowing how painful it would feel. The cloth became thicker and heavier on her face, absorbing more and more water. She needed air and finally drew a breath, but it was like trying to breathe through a wet sponge. The burning sensation was in her nose first, and then it shot down her throat and tore at her lungs. Her body lurched and twisted until she coughed up the water into the wet cloth. She wanted to scream—
Stop!—
but the flow of water from the carafe was seemingly without end, choking off all ability to speak. Again she struggled to hold her breath, but the lack of oxygen was making her dizzy and borderline delirious. She knew if she blacked out they would revive her, and then she would face the tough questions about her true identity. Her head seemed on the verge of explosion, but she tried to focus on who she was, who she was supposed to be. Her name was Willow, and she was part of a cult in the Cascade Mountains. No, she was Andrea, and her best friend Mallory was married to a high roller on Wall Street. Her past undercover rolls were bleeding into the present, and it was impossible to think straight.

Air! I need air!

She breathed in, but she only sucked water into her lungs. The pain this time was like a knife to her chest, a rope around her neck, and a hammer to her head—all at the same time. It was impossible to focus, and her thoughts ran wild—until everything stopped.

She was suddenly coughing and gasping for air again. She was sure she had blacked out, but she had no idea how long she’d been unconscious. The wet cloth was gone—
Thank God!—
but her pulse rate was off the charts, and she was breathing with the desperation of someone plucked from the ocean moments before drowning.

“This is the last chance,” she heard a man say. “Who are you?”

The question barely made sense to her. No answer came to mind, but she wasn’t physically capable of speaking yet anyway. Desperate for air, she drew in a series of short, noisy breaths.

“Who
are
you?” he said, shouting at her now.

Andie had no idea where she was. No clue
who
she was. But the man shouting from somewhere above was demanding an answer, and in a brief instant of lucidity, she heard another voice in her head. She heard her supervisor, Harley Abrams, telling her that he had a team on alert in case things went badly, and she knew that to stay alive, she would have to buy time.

“We know you are not Lisa Horne,” the man said.

Buy time, buy time.

“Tell me who you are!” he shouted.

The name “Andie Henning” came to mind, but she flushed it.

Littleton draped the wet cloth back on her face, and the mere sensation sent her into a panic. She was sure that her supervisory agent was on the way, and her only chance of survival was to stall until help arrived. She had to tell this interrogator something—anything but “Andie Henning, FBI.” She searched her mind for an alias, but none of the FBI covers rang true enough for her to beat another round of waterboarding.

The carafe rattled, and she knew that in seconds the water would again begin to flow.

“Tell me!” Littleton shouted.

For reasons she couldn’t comprehend, her mind was suddenly in another time period, decades before she was even born, and she could see herself walking in the shoes of a woman she’d never met. A woman she’d heard about only a day or two ago, but whose horrible story made her seem so much more real than any FBI cover.

“My name is Katrina Petrak,” she said.

He pulled away the cloth. “Petrak? You work for the Czech government?”

“No,” she said, barely aware of her own voice, her mind awhirl as she fought to remain conscious. “The resistance.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The assassination,” she said. “Not everyone was to blame.”

“What assass—”

The explosion of a single gunshot cut his question short, and pellets of glass from the shattered window rained down on Andie. It came with another blast of wetness, but it was unlike the waterboarding, this time hot and thick as blood. She had nowhere near enough time to fear if the blood was her own. Almost instantly the dead weight was upon her, telling her it was Littleton’s.

From then on, the amount of time that passed was impossible for her to gauge. Perhaps she’d even blacked out again. The next thing Andie knew, the rear door of the black limo was open, and she was sitting up in a normal position on the door sill. Blue lights from surrounding squad cars swirled in the snowy night sky. A few yards away, a pair of FBI agents in full tactical gear led Danilo Bahena to a SWAT van. Andie was looking into the warm eyes of her supervisory agent.

“Are you okay?” asked Harley.

Andie glanced over her shoulder. Littleton’s body was behind her, slumped over in the back of the limo. A shot to the side of the head had taken him out.

“Better than he is, I guess.”

“I just heard from London,” said Harley. “Jack’s fine. You can call him now.”

He handed her a phone, and the sense of relief almost made her smile.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’d like that.”