Blue Knight (34 page)

The door opened. Gomez waddled in, carrying a small tray with a white cloth draped over it. There were small lumps under the cloth. Just the sight of them made Olivia’s heart hurry along faster.

Gomez had a stool in his other hand. He put the stool down next to Ibarra and placed the tray on top of it. He gave a short bow, more of a nod of the head, to Ibarra and moved to one side. The door shut and locked with a heavy thud of the metal.

“Serrano wanted me to use Pentothal and hot mental pincers and all sorts of crude and barbarous modern tools and approaches. As I said, no imagination. I once had the dubious pleasure of working with Colonel Zalaya for a few months. Now, there was a real creative genius, when it came to extracting information.” He glanced at Olivia. “You think Nemesis is good at using whatever is at hand? Zalaya was an inspiration. I watched him once, using nothing but a razor blade and a bottle of household bleach, reduce a girl to a bloody pulp. It took him thirty minutes and she sang like a bird.”

Olivia shuddered. She couldn’t help it. This cheerful fireside conversation about such a gruesome subject was sickening. She knew Ibarra was doing it to soften her up. He was trying to make her afraid, to get her halfway to caving in before he even began to start in on her. The problem was, it was working. The imagery he was painting in her mind, when she knew that all this pain and blood was in her immediate future, was sucking out her courage.

She was afraid.

Ibarra held up his neat hand, the one he had been fussing with. “You never think much about the fingernail, do you?” he said. “But there’s a massive number of nerve endings right under the nail. They once used the fingernails all the time on subjects. Such a classic art, fingernails. Quite a lost art. I thought I’d start there.” He lifted the cloth off the tray. There was a small bottle labeled ammonia in Spanish and a beaker full of flat wooden spatulas with pointed ends.

Olivia curled her fingers into tight fists and put them behind her.

“Gomez, your assistance, if you please,” Ibarra murmured. He picked up a spatula and a little silver hammer from the tray.

Gomez walked over and grabbed her arm.

Olivia began to struggle. She knew there probably wasn’t any point in it, that they’d win in the end, but there was a little clock in her head, counting down seconds and minutes. She didn’t know how many seconds and minutes but they all added up, and she just couldn’t passively let them do this to her. The fear wouldn’t let her.

Gomez cursed under his breath and tried to pick her up and haul her over to the stool. She punched him in the lower stomach.

He whooshed out his breath, barely keeping a hold on her arm.

Ibarra made an impatient sound and grabbed her ankle. Gomez, breathing heavily, caught hold of her other calf. They lift her up off the floor altogether and carried her like a carcass over to the stool. Gomez threaded her arm between his legs and leaned all his upper weight onto her wrist, holding her hand down on the surface of the stool.

The only way Olivia could move her arm was to wrench it out of its socket.

Fear was a runaway train in her chest and her mind. Panic was closing down her throat.

Ibarra leaned around Gomez’s legs and she felt him lift her forefinger and slide something beneath the nail. He tapped.

The pain exploded in her brain. She felt it running through her neck and back, down her arms and legs. Silvered. Cold. Hot.

She heard someone screaming and realized it was her.

Ibarra was looking at her calmly, twirling the little hammer. “Tell me who Nemesis is,” he said softly.

Olivia let herself cry, then. She would never give Daniel to Ibarra, but she was so afraid that she could not withstand more of this.

Ibarra sighed. “The bleach, then,” he said.

* * * * *

After the third fingernail and bleach, Olivia left the meat cutting room. She found sunshine and a warm pair of arms around her. “I have you,” Daniel whispered.

“I know,” she whispered back.

And there she stayed.

* * * * *

“Is she unconscious? Or is she dead?” Ibarra demanded, looking down at the blonde’s body. She was motionless, lying on the floor with her eyes open.

“I don’t think she is either. It’s hard to say,” Gomez said. “I haven’t seen anyone do anything like that before.” He dropped the woman’s wrist, letting the hand fall back to the floor.

Ibarra frowned. “What is that sound?”

Gomez cocked his head, listening. “Helicopters?”

Ibarra went to the window and strained to look out one of the broken chinks. He was in time to see the first of the Black Hawks sweep into view at a hundred and eighty miles an hour, scream into position and hold right over the top of the front compound of the hotel. The noise of the vehicles was deafening.

Gomez clapped his hands over his ears at the beating sound. “Sir?” he shouted.

Ibarra straightened up his tie. “Assemble the troops. We’re under attack,” he ordered.

“From whom?”

Ibarra shook his head. Black Hawks were used by dozens of armies in the world, but the one army that didn’t have them were the loyalists. From this angle, he couldn’t see any identifying colors or flags. There was a mystery to be solved. He followed Gomez out of the room, leaving the American woman on the floor. His priorities had shifted.

For now.

* * * * *

Sharpshooters at the open doors of the aircraft immediately spotted all the sentries and watchdogs Daniel had warned them to watch out for. They took them out with laughable ease and gave the thumbs-up.

Immediately, dozens of ropes tumbled down and black-clad soldiers slid down to the ground while the sharpshooters kept them covered.

Daniel, wearing a borrowed overall and headset, was part of the first wave as he knew the layout and because there was no fucking way he was going to sit on his ass and wait while others went ahead of him.

They swarmed into the hotel through the dozen or so entries Daniel had been observing and mentally mapping for weeks. He had spent an hour sketching a full map of the hotel, all four floors. His sketches had been scanned and reproduced for everyone, including the Americans. They’d all studied the plans and hopefully memorized them.

Now the special ops guys took point position. This was their specialty, this type of work. Besides, they were spoiling for some fun, they’d said. They were all volunteers, willing to run into a burning building because Colonel Davenport asked them to. The lieutenant colonel, an Army Ranger called Elkson, also said that it was known, on the QT, that Davenport’s daughter was in that building and that really didn’t sit well with anyone at all. There were Navy SEALS, Rangers, a Marine or two and other hard-looking, closed-mouthed military personnel who didn’t feel it was appropriate to name their affiliation, but had come along for the ride anyway.

When Elkson had suggested the U.S. personnel take point, Duardo had considered it for about two seconds and agreed. Elkson’s people had the equipment and expertise. Duardo’s didn’t and he was wise enough to acknowledge that, but he’d pulled Daniel to one side afterward. “You’re going in with them,” he murmured.

“I wasn’t planning on being anywhere else,” Daniel said.

Duardo rolled his eyes. “This is still nominally a Vistarian operation. I want your foot to be the first one to hit the ground.”

Daniel hesitated. “You know I haven’t been active in the field for years, right?”

“You just said you planned on being on point anyway.” Duardo shoved his SIG into Daniel’s arms and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll pick it up.”

He was picking it up fast, all right. Just sliding down the rope was bringing back basic training with a vengeance. Being under fire tended to reboot old skills in a hurry. Daniel fired from the hip as he ran across the car park, aiming at the guard hiding behind the closed half of the double door at the top of the grand staircase. The bullet went straight through the door with a quiet “whomp”.

The guard toppled backward and was still.

The SIG was a beautiful piece of lethal equipment. Daniel decided that Duardo was never getting it back.

He kept running up the steps and heard the others behind him.

Once inside the hotel, he headed straight for the dining room. It was breakfast time. If the
insurrectos
were true to form, then everyone would have been rounded up and herded into the dining room by now to be force-fed their morning meal.

His mission was personal; to find Olivia. The others had their own assignments.

Daniel had four others assigned to him as backup and they followed him like ghostly shadows.

Duardo and his team reached the dining room at the same time, from the rear entrance. Jesus, Duardo was good.

Both teams hit the dining room together, like it had been rehearsed. The guards all reacted, bringing their machine guns up. Daniel took one in the shoulder, bringing him down. Duardo took one with his Colt, a stomach shot, which was just plain mean. The lieutenant who followed Duardo everywhere took a third guard in the shoulder, as the black clad invaders spread out into the room, circling, their guns trained.

Almost in concert, the
insurrectos
dropped their submachine guns and held up their hands.

“Dear lord, Daniel, look at you, boy!” It was Hans’ deep voice from among the hostages. He was standing up, staring at him.

Daniel looked around the tables. “Where is Olivia?”

Hans frowned. “She isn’t here?” He looked around. “She isn’t here!”

Daniel pushed through the tables. “Where is Olivia?” He grabbed Theresa’s arm. “Do you know?”

Theresa shook her head mutely.

“Señor?” A waiter behind the buffet lifted his finger.

Daniel rounded on him. “What?”

“Daniel!” Duardo said. His tone was one of warning. He’d taken off his helmet and balaclava. The guards were all rounded up in one corner and one of the non-coms was taking away all their guns and piling them on a table.

The hostages were standing up, staring.

“Does this mean we’re free?” Theresa asked slowly.

“Yes,” Duardo told her. “But we’ll need you to stay here for just a few more minutes while we clear the rest of the hotel of
insurrectos
.”

“Who are you?” Hans asked.

“We’re real Vistarians,” Duardo said simply. “I am Colonel Eduardo Peña y Santos of the Army of La Vistaria de Escobedo. We are here to make sure you can go home today.”

Theresa began to cry, big tears running down her cheeks as she stared at him.

Daniel turned to the waiter. “What is it?” he asked, reining in his impatience.

“I don’t know,” the waiter said in soft Spanish. “But during the night, very late. I thought I heard screaming. A lady screaming. And now, Ms. Olivia is missing.” He licked his lips and looked at Daniel, his eyes troubled.

“Where do you sleep?” Daniel asked, just as softly. He suddenly didn’t want to rain on anyone’s parade. The hostages were all looking at Duardo like he was their savor. In a way, he was. Daniel didn’t want to spoil that.

“On the second floor, above the service areas.”

The earpiece in Daniel’s ear gave a quiet electronic blip. “Daniel, you need to come down to the basement, pronto.” It was Nick Escobedo’s voice.

Daniel pressed the intercom switch. “Kinda busy.”

“Now. No arguments.” There was a whiplash authority in Nick’s voice that made the hairs on the back of Daniel’s neck stand up. “Ask someone for directions to the old meat cutting room.”

The earpiece gave a second blip that said the one-to-one communication had been cut.

Daniel looked at the waiter again. “Any chance you know where the old meat cutting room is?”

The waiter’s face paled. He nodded.

“Colonel. Sir.” Daniel barely glanced at Duardo. “I, ah, need to go.”

“Go,” Duardo said.

* * * * *

Daniel’s four shadows were still with him, but he barely noticed. The corridor seemed to be filled with people, whom he pushed and shoved aside.

They were just rolling her into a blanket when he got there.

Nick rose to his feet and got in Daniel’s way, holding him back. “She’s alive, Daniel. She’s alive.” He wrenched Daniel’s chin around so he was looking at Nick. “I’m right. That’s Olivia Davenport, yes?”

Daniel managed to make himself nod. “What…did they do to her?”

Nick blew out his breath. “Shivs under three of her fingernails, followed by bleach. That’s the only physical damage we can see. But she’s in some sort of coma….” He shrugged.

One of Daniel’s shadows pulled off his helmet and balaclava. “I’m a field medic, sir. I’ve seen this before. If you’ll let me treat her?”

“Let him,” Daniel said hoarsely.

Nick stepped aside.

The young sergeant knelt by Olivia’s still body and pulled a flat, wide pack out of a pocket on the thigh of his coveralls and unclipped it. When he opened it, it was a full, well-equipped medical kit. He pulled out an already-filled syringe, broke the seal, pulled back the blanket over Olivia and plunged it into her thigh.

For the first time, Daniel got to see the damage to her hand and that she was naked.

He sank down next to her and gently pulled the blanket back over her.

The sergeant picked up the wrist of her undamaged hand and looked at his watch. “Yeah, it’s working,” he said, watching her face. “Right about…now.”

Olivia drew in a breath and blinked her eyes, looking around. Fear and pain filled them almost immediately, but then she saw him.

“Daniel,” she breathed. “You came. I knew you would.”

She smiled at him.

That smile knocked the stuffing out of him. She was the one in pain. She was the one who had survived god knows what to be here for him.

Nick’s hand squeezed his shoulder. “We have to get her home.”

Daniel boxed up his reaction and held it tight inside him. He picked up the hand the medic had been holding. “We’re getting you out of here, Olivia.”

“That would be nice,” she breathed. Her eyes fluttered.

“I gave her a pain killer. A strong one,” the sergeant said softly. “She’ll be mostly out of it for the trip home.”