Blind Rage: Team Red, Book 4 (13 page)

Chapter Twelve

** Approx. 15:00, Friday - Jan 11
th
**

I was sitting on a chair in the center of the garage. For the time being, my wrists and legs were unbound (yes, it had been duct tape). I tried to stretch discretely to ease the soreness in my muscles. There was a slight cramp in my left leg, but remembering how disconcerting it was being numbingly cold, I decided I’d rather feel the pain than nothing. My movements were stiff and careful as I took inventory of my injuries.

Grainger had been humane enough to escort me to the bathroom. I hadn’t been allowed to close the door, but he assured me he’d keep his back turned while I took care of my immediate needs. It was embarrassing, but the two alternatives were Banner or Adamson. So I sucked it up and chose to believe he would afford me the modicum of privacy he promised. When I was done, I splashed water in my face and washed my hands, leaving them under the stream of hot water for a few minutes to take some of the chill away. I felt around for a towel bar, only to find a slightly damp, somewhat musty washrag. Nasty. I debated the pros and cons of germs for all of two seconds before using it to wipe the excess moisture from my hands. I couldn’t bring the rag anywhere near my face.

No one offered me any food, although Grainger pressed a bottle of water into my hands when we returned to the garage, where he sat me in a hard-backed chair. I wanted to suck the liquid down greedily, but my worry over who would escort me on my next bathroom trip dictated moderate sips. Who knew how long I’d be here? Last thing I wanted was a full bladder again.

“So,” Grainger began, “here’s the set up. We are in an isolated location. If you scream, no one will hear you; you will only succeed in pissing us off with your racket. There is a camera mounted in the corner of the room. It observes you 24/7 and the video feed address will be given to Preston so he can be assured you are alive and well. PreClan has something we want. You are the bargaining chip. If Preston gives us what we want, he will get you back.”

“What guarantee will they have that you’ll let me go? And what makes you think they’ll bargain for me anyway?” I had to wonder how well informed they were. They hadn’t even known I was blind, which seemed like a huge gap in their basic information. Grainger struck me as professional. Competent in the way seasoned soldiers were. But the two yahoos he worked with? No way were they military, not career types anyway. The military would have figured out Banner right away and a man with that level of instability would not have made it past the recruiters. Adamson may have been an enlisted man, but I was betting more along the lines of petty crook.

“We know you’re Preston’s girlfriend. Our contact told us he moved in to your place last October. Declan spends a lot of time there, too, so we figured they are both working out of your house full time now. We were told they have an office and computers underground, but we couldn’t see any windows to indicate a basement, which means the only way in is through you.”

Only a handful of outsiders knew about the basement. I was betting former lieutenant Devon Carpenter was involved in this. Mmm, what it doesn’t explain is why he’d neglect to tell them I’m blind. I sighed dramatically, leaning back against the hard dowels in the chair. “David and I broke up on Christmas Eve,” I confessed. “As a bargaining tool, I’m fairly worthless. You may have noticed there is an increase in guards on the property, too. PreClan video software is well-guarded.”

Adamson snorted rudely, “Lotta good the guards were when we shot you with roofies and dragged your skinny bitch ass right out from under them. Only six guards, plus Preston and Declan? No sweat if we get a team and storm the building,” he boasted.

Interesting. There seemed to be a lot of gaps in their information. Russ made a point of only letting teams of four patrol at one time. I thought it was to keep the neighbors from guessing how many people we had in the basement, but it appears Russ also wanted to mess up the numbers for any bad guys observing us. Add the fact I have my two man escort when I leave the premises, I can see how these guys would assume there were only six guards working security. Boy! They were in for a surprise if they decide to forcibly enter the house.

“But we won’t need to storm the building,” Grainger corrected. “Preston will want her back.”

“Did you not hear the part about us breaking up? He won’t trade me for money or a multi-million dollar software package. Besides, David’s in Boston, he’s no longer in Spokane.” A slight misdirection. I was beginning to think they were operating with obsolete knowledge, though, and decided to play a hunch. “If you got your information from Lt. Carpenter, it’s sadly out of date. Devon’s not very bright, and he’s ticked off at me personally, so I can see how he’d point you in my direction. The man has a gambling problem. I’m sure you understand how unreliable addicts can be. Pretty sloppy not to have mentioned I’m blind, don’t you think?”

Grainger must have pulled Adamson off to the side, as a low heated argument ensued near the door to the house. Even with my sensitive hearing, I only caught a few words and phrases. Adamson seemed to be trying to convince his boss David
was
in Spokane.

“Miss March, I’m afraid we don’t believe Preston has left the area. Adamson says you two have been cozy for the last few weeks, Preston hasn’t even bothered to leave the house during all that time,” Grainger argued.

These guys were definitely not professionals, which means I may be able to confuse the facts enough to make them doubt my usefulness as a bargaining chip. “David flew to Boston on Christmas Eve. We broke up and he decided to spend the holidays elsewhere,” I stressed. “The guy at the house is Sebastian Declan. He’s been staying with me because he’s my best friend, Janey’s, brother. I kinda grew up with Bas; his sister and I used to follow him around like stalkers until he left for the Navy. Janey’s dating my housekeeper, Ken. Since they were on vacation back east, and David and I split up, Janey asked her brother to keep me company until Ken got back. He’s the guy who’s been at the house. He and I are acquaintances, nothing more. He certainly wouldn’t be willing to pay you money to get me back.”

There were more angry voices as the two men argued. I hoped pretending to be ignorant of PreClan’s classified technology would help convince the men I wasn’t of much use to them. If I was simply a clueless now-ex-girlfriend for David, maybe they wouldn’t expect me to know what he and Bas were working on. I think it would be logical for me to assume the men were after David’s money, not government secrets.

Angry footsteps stomped toward me. “What’s Preston’s cell number? We’ll call him and see what he has to say about your supposed breakup,” Granger’s anger gave his voice a harsh, intimidating tone.

My mind drew a blank. “Without my cell, I have no idea,” I replied, honestly. “Janey programmed his number into my phone. I can’t see to use the scroll features, so I memorize speed dial numbers.”

“How fucking convenient,” Adamson snarled. I got the impression he’d shifted closer to me, and I had a crazy impulse to lean in the opposite direction.

“No, no. That makes sense,” Grainger conceded. “She met Preston after her accident. There wouldn’t be a reason to memorize a phone number if she speed dials everyone. How do you suggest I get a hold of Preston, Miss March?”

I sighed, they simply refused to believe me. “David is not in Spokane. But you can call the house. I know my home number. Bas or Henry will probably answer the phone and they will confirm David is gone.”

I heard a few button tones, suggesting Grainger had pulled out a cell phone. “What’s the house number?” he asked. I recited the digits slowly. When the phone started to ring, I realized he was using speaker mode.

“Hello. March residence,” Henry’s steady voice announced.

“I need to speak with David Preston,” Grainger replied.

“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Preston is out of town at the moment. Can anyone else help you? May I take a message?”

Grainger paused, obviously surprised to have my story validated. “Is Mr. Declan available?”

This time the silence was on Henry’s side of the phone. There would be no reason for anyone to contact Bas at my home. I’m not sure if Henry realized no one would call David on my house phone either. “I’ll get him for you. May I tell him whose calling?”

“Certainly,” he said, matching Henry’s politeness, “Mr. Smith. John Smith.”

I can’t help it, I rolled my eyes and I think I snorted in disbelief. It was under my breath, so I’m sure Henry would not have heard me, but Adamson’s clawed fingers latched on to my arm in a cruel grip, silently warning me not to make noise. The man was enjoying permission to cause me discomfort. He squeezed a little tighter, assuring me of more bruises later.

“Declan,” Bas answered, short and abrupt. Oh yeah, he knew what this call was about, and he was pissed.

“Mr. Declan, do you have access to a computer at the moment?” Grainger asked, without resorting to formalities.

Without directly answering Grainger, aka: Mr. Smith, I could hear Bas direct Henry to grab his laptop off the desk. “I’ll have a computer in a couple moments,” Bas confirmed. “What’s this about?”

“While you’re waiting, maybe you can get a piece of paper and a pen to write down a website address,” Grainger suggested, ignoring Bas’ questions. “The link will direct you to a video feed.”

Ahh, I get it now. The camera Grainger told me was mounted in the room. He was going to prove I was safe, or at least alive. When Bastian indicated he was ready, Grainger rattled off a lengthy URL address, ending with, “I’ll wait a moment while you establish the connection.”

“Son of a bitch!” Bas swore, less than a minute later. “Babe, the camera is behind you over your right shoulder. Look back and up so I can see you’re okay.” The echo in the room, or perhaps how Grainger was holding the device, probably clued Bastian the phone was on speaker. Obediently, I started to turn, but Adamson’s hand tightened painfully, and I let out an involuntary moan as his fingers dug in.

“Get his fucking hands off her. Let me see her face.” Bas’s voice was cold, harsh.

“Mr. Jones, please release Miss March’s arm so she can face the camera,” Grainger directed. Geez, Smith and Jones. I wonder what name they have for Banner. The grip on my bicep loosened.

“Teresa, push your hair back so I can see you. Lift your face a little more, the camera is mounted high,” Bas directed gently.

My arms were still stiff from being bound behind my back for so long, and my ribs protested my slightest movement; my hand reflexively pressed to the injured area in an effort to relieve the discomfort. I cautiously twisted my torso in the chair, discovering I would not be able to turn far enough. I swung my legs around toward the camera, so I was sitting sideways on the seat, my back to Grainger. My movements were slow and clumsy. My short braid had become partially unraveled, leaving loose strands tickling my face. It took two attempts to get my hair smoothed back from my eyes. I lifted my head toward the ceiling.

“Mother. Fucker.” Bastian’s tone when from harsh to threatening. “Who cut her face? Did one of you
hit
her? Take off those ski masks you cowardly fucks, let me see the faces of gutless assholes who beat up blind women.”

I lifted my hands to my cheeks, running fingertips over my features to find the cut he spoke of. There, high on the cheek. My mind flashed to the fuzzy moment in the abduction when my face hit the semi-frozen ground. A little pressure along that same cheekbone reminded me of Adamson’s little love slap.

Ignoring Bastian’s indignant questions, Grainger said, “Mr. Declan, Miss March informs me she and Mr. Preston are no longer an item. Really a shame, as her apparent value as a bargaining chip is greatly diminished. Luckily, Mr. Jones has taken quite a liking to her, so all is not lost if she’s of no value to you and Mr. Preston.”

“She has value,” Bas gritted through clenched teeth.

“Yes,” Grainger said, apparently smugly satisfied. “Apparently Miss March is a fast worker if she has moved so seamlessly from one partner to another. Mr. Jones, I believe Miss March lied to us when she said Mr. Declan was a family friend.”

“All women are liars,” Adamson agreed, his hand once again gripping my arm.

“I
am
a friend,” Bas confirmed. “Teresa and my sister Janey have been inseparable since they were five.” Bas was starting to realize what story I had concocted, but I think it was too late to back pedal and claim there were no feelings between us. His rage was overwhelming—his concern tangible.