Echoes (26 page)

Rather than answering, he clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“You're dehydrated. I'll just get you some water.” He spun on his heel and jogged back up the stairs.

Callie studied the two left behind. Both wore black designer T-shirts of some silky material that stretched around bulging necks and biceps. The taller had fair hair, a boxer's nose, and squinty eyes, while the shorter looked to be of Middle Eastern descent. His black eyes, lizard-like, darted constantly around the room. Callie wondered whether the movement was natural or drug induced. Neither spoke.

“Who are you?” she asked after a minute. “What do you want with me?”

“Why don't we wait for Mr. Lewis's return?” The taller man's voice matched his expression—cold, empty, and perfectly flat. Where was John? How long could it take to get a glass of water?

“So you guys work for him?” To use her diplomatic training, which she considered her best hope of surviving long enough for Mac and Nash to find her, she needed to understand what was going on. Any little drop of information she could squeeze out of these two would help, if only they'd cooperate.

The two men exchanged a glance, and Lizard Eyes smiled with sly humor. “Oh, yeah, that's it. He's the boss.”

So they were Falcone's men. She'd guessed as much but hadn't figured out how to use that fact to her advantage. Why couldn't they be Bond villains, crowing over their nefarious plans rather than staring impassively? Maybe henchmen didn't crow. A hysterical giggle rose in the back of her throat, surprising her. Concentrating on the practical aspects of her situation had hidden the level of her fear even from herself. She shoved away both the terror and the hysteria.

The upstairs door reopened, and John appeared with a bottle of Perrier. Perrier? The giggle rose up again and almost escaped before she could slam it back. As John approached, she imagined attacking him when he handed over the bottle. He didn't seem particularly strong, though looks could deceive—after all, he appeared sane. She could break the bottle, assault him with it. Would Falcone's men even care?

Lizard Eyes pulled a remote control from his pocket. “You wouldn't want to try anything funny,” he said. “That collar you're wearing has some unpleasant functions.”

Well, that answered that question.

John passed her the bottle, which turned out to be plastic, and remained standing over her. “Drink up. I'll bring you some food in a little bit. You must be hungry.”

Callie saw her own confusion and discomfort reflected on the thugs' faces before they returned to their customary disinterest.

“Why am I here, John?” she asked again. “The information I have, the information my father collected on yours, is in New York.”

This time, he seemed to hear her. “Your father? You mean Arthur Pearson? I need nothing of his. The man was a weakling. Couldn't father a single child. Not one.”

“Fatherhood—and strength—are more than biology. You of all people should understand that. Mark Lewis raised you as his own, even after Nikki, his biological child, came along. Or did he believe you were his natural child? Did you hide the truth even from him?”

“He is my father. He recognizes me for who I am and what I need. That's why he provided you.”

“W-what?” Fear strangled speech, and Callie began to shake. Sweat dripped from her nape in a cold trickle down her spine. She searched John's face for clues but saw the same serene, completely rational expression he always wore.

“You're going to help me. I just have to get everything ready first. While I do, these men want to ask you some questions. But don't worry. They've promised not to permanently damage you.”

“D-damage? What are you talking about?” She reached out a hand, willing it to remain steady, and laid it on one of his, hoping the connection would reach him. “Help me out here, John. I don't understand.”

“You're no use to me with your mind clouded or your soul stifled by drugs. Or, Father forbid, dead. I need it all—your body, your mind, your spirit, your blood.” He looked as if he actually expected her to approve.

“You're completely insane.”

He belted her across the face so hard she fell sideways on the cot. He was stronger than he looked. Way stronger. And she hadn't expected the reaction, though she should have. Her words had popped out, driven by shock, beyond her control. There was no reasoning with madness.

He leaned over, bracing one arm on each side of her supine body. “We'll see who's crazy in a few hours. We'll see who's the loser, you old bitch.” His hot breath fanned her face, scented with wine and herbs as if he'd come from a meal, and her stomach threatened to revolt. He levered himself off the cot and stalked out without another word.

Cautiously, Callie sat up and faced the two thugs left behind.

As soon as the door shut behind John, Lizard Eyes took the steps two at a time and stood guard at the top while his companion pulled a headset from his front pocket and donned it.

“Base, this is Cougar One.” He waited for a reply, then spoke again, abandoning the militaristic lingo. “Yeah, we're in the house with her. But we may have a problem. We need to get the product out, and Lewis has gone over the edge. Totally fucking batshit crazy. Doubt he'll be any use at all in getting it out clean.” He waited again, then nodded to his companion, whose eyes were darting between him and Callie. “Copy that. We'll be ready.”

“Look.” Callie tamped down her terror and forced the desperate note from her voice as the man peeled off his headset. “Lewis is insane. Your boss isn't. I have information he wants. I had a deal to trade it for my friend Erin. Falcone knows it's legit.”

“Did I say anything about anyone named Falcone?” Blond goon looked at Lizard Eyes, who shrugged.

“Okay, so we won't talk specifics.” That suited Callie just fine, since she didn't actually have any. She ran over the little information she'd gleaned from conversations with Nash in her head. “Someone—anyone—might be interested in what I uncovered in Nash's files pertaining to a DEA operation that went badly, resulting in casualties. Particularly casualties of women and children.”

“Yeah, right,” scoffed Blondie. “Like anyone's interested in some drug bust.” But Lizard Eyes took two steps down the staircase and focused on her.

“Give me the information. I will evaluate it.”

“No deal. Get me out of here, and I'll discuss it with your boss.”

He pointed the remote and pushed a button.

Pain ripped through her. Her jaw snapped shut as her muscles convulsed, catching the inside of her cheek, and the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. For a stuttering heartbeat, the agony seemed to lessen, allowing almost a full breath, but then a second wave crashed through her. She fell forward off the cot, knees slamming into the cement floor just before the current switched off.

She stayed there, gasping for breath, spitting out her own blood, until she could drag herself back up to the cot. She wanted to stand, to defy them, but her muscles wouldn't cooperate.

“Tell me.”

Her body still quaking with aftershocks and fear, Callie shook her head. She could live through this. They wouldn't kill her.

But the second jolt was worse. Fire tore down her spine and blew apart every nerve. She felt her head slam into the wall behind her as the violent spasms took control. In her mind, she screamed, but her jaw had locked tight. When the pain subsided, both Falcone's men stood over her, their outlines blurred by the tears streaming down her face.

“Tell me what you know.”

Callie's brain had stopped functioning. Clouds rolled through her thoughts. The dark man's command barely registered. What did he want? She could not quite grasp his meaning. The inside of her mouth had swollen, both tongue and cheeks, and she was certain one of her teeth had broken. Surely he didn't expect her to answer when he'd never be able to understand a word? She closed her eyes.

“Shit, man,” she heard the blond, the American, say. “You hit her too hard. I told you the traditional way is better than all those high-tech gadgets. Give me a chance at her when she comes around.”

“She knows nothing,” said the dark one. “She would have given it up if she did. Leave her for Lewis.”

“What's the plan?”

“We need to get the shipment out of storage. Falcone is sending assistance in case things do not go as planned.”

“How long do we have before they get here?”

“Eight.”

“Three hours is plenty of time for me to see what I can get out of her.”

“I tell you, she knows nothing. First, we try removing the shipment ourselves. If that fails, you can come back and have your fun.”

Mac hated nighttime water drops with a passion. He'd learned to do them without flinching like a good soldier, but as he leaned out of the chopper and stared at the black surface of the Caribbean, roughened to white peaks by the rotors, he couldn't help remembering all the deadly creatures who made their home beneath the waves.

The sun would rise shortly, after which they'd be able to see what lurked in the clear, blue water, but Mac couldn't wait. The beacon had been activated mere minutes after they'd landed in San Juan. It was broadcasting from John Lewis's home. She was there, on the island, in the presence of at least one killer. And an hour ago, she'd been alive.

Mac suggested calling Michel Vichy, believing Callie would be safer in police custody, but Nash disagreed. The gendarmes, he pointed out, were army. And Henry Falcone dealt with armies all over the world. Vichy would likely not be able to get into the Lewis home without the equivalent of a warrant, and while he was getting one any bad actor on Falcone's payroll would have a chance to remove her. Better to go for a covert recovery, then turn to the police with a fait accompli.

“Go!” Nash shouted, and both he and Mac pushed their overboard bags from the Jayhawk, then jumped after them. It sped away, headed for St. Kitts per its original flight plan. Each man grabbed a floating duffel filled with clothing and weapons and began swimming for
The Tramp
bobbing a few feet away, its lights doused. Travis guided them in using the beam of a flashlight. Nash climbed aboard first, Mac close behind, and Travis opened throttle to head back to St. Martin.

“What's the word?”

“They're holding her at Lewis's place. We should head for his private dock.”

“No can do.” Travis shook his head. “He brought in private security on Tuesday morning. Said the gawkers and paparazzi were getting to him. The island's been packed with them ever since Nikki's body was positively identified. There are boats anchored as close in to the Paradis grounds as they can get. I'm going to have to drop you off down the beach and have you go in via the road. It's not convenient, but it's safer than trying for the dock or the beach.”

“How much security?” Nash asked.

“No way to tell. I've seen four on the property. Big 'n' dumb, which is probably what he wants if he's holding a hostage inside the house. You can't have anyone too honest or too smart—they might ask uncomfortable questions.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” said Mac. He stripped out of his wet clothes, toweled off, and dragged on fresh jeans and a clean shirt. Pulling his Sig from the bag, he checked to be sure no liquid had seeped into the waterproof bundle during the brief swim. Next to him, Nash went through the same motions. Nash handed him a headset from his duffel, and Mac slid it into place. A brief sound check showed the headsets hadn't suffered from the impact with the sea.

Adrenaline raced through Mac's system as he watched the shoreline approach, but even so there was a comforting familiarity to the setup. How many times had he, Nash, and Trav moved in concert, headed into danger as a single unit? How many high-stakes games had they played together?

But the stakes here were higher than any he'd faced in the past.
Hang in there, sugar; the cavalry's coming.

Travis guided the boat into its slip and handed over a backpack, along with a couple of small keys and helmets he pulled from a storage locker.

“Pack has standard necessities. I rented you motorcycles. Easier to get around, faster, and the helmets hide your faces from local law. Mac, I know you're good on one. Nash?”

“Can do.”

Travis gestured to the parking lot at the top of the marina. “There they are, under that streetlight. Get going. And good luck. Call if you need anything.”

Mac nodded and gripped Travis's outstretched hand in his own for a moment. Then he took off at a jog for the motorcycles, hearing Nash's footsteps right behind him on the macadam.

He didn't dare drive all the way to the private road that led down to the Paradis and the Lewis homes. Instead, he and Nash pulled into the parking lot of a small strip mall a half mile down the main thoroughfare.

The sun had risen, but the roads were still almost deserted. Both he and Nash checked to be sure their T-shirts covered the guns holstered at their backs; then they continued on foot. A few yards before the turnoff, Mac stopped and Nash went on to see whether the guard would let anyone down the road. He wouldn't. With a glance in either direction to be sure no one would see them, Mac dropped to his stomach and began to crawl through the wild tangle of bush and brush that lined the road. He'd kept the helmet on, which helped him move considerably faster. He couldn't see, but he didn't need to. He just forced his way through the underbrush in the right direction. Sooner or later, he'd come up against a fence, the private road, or unfenced backyard. Any of the three would do.

“What's the Lewis place layout?” Nash's voice crackled in his ear.

“Place faces pretty much due south, on a private road off the road to the Paradis. Wrought-iron fence around all sides. Nothing we can't handle. Front faces the road, and the driveway's only maybe twenty feet long. Hot tub on one side of the house, with entrance into the kitchen, small yard on the other. Back's the biggest problem because he's got a massive, totally flat lawn with nowhere to hide.”

“Where would he keep her?”

“Probably the basement. I've been in that house. I can't think of any place else safe.”

“Windows?”

“No. Fully below ground.”

“Entrance?”

“Through the kitchen.”

“Kitchen at the back of the house?”

“Yeah. So we go in that way if we can.”

Nash assimilated that, then spoke again. “Bugs the shit out of me I can't figure out what he hopes to get from keeping her alive.”

“Right there with you.” Because if Mac could believe Lewis would keep Callie alive, he could focus. As it was, he didn't feel as if he'd taken a full breath since she'd left him at the hotel in New York.

“We will get her out. When you run an international security company, you do a fair amount of hostage recovery. We prefer to do straight ransom delivery on a K and R case, but sometimes the kidnappers decide not to turn over the hostage.”

It was Mac's turn to consider. “Getting all soft and touchy-feely on me?”

Nash snorted, but his tone remained serious. “I'm not your commanding officer on this one, Brody. Your woman, your op.”

“She's not my woman.” But the response was automatic, and both men knew it. Callie had reached something inside him he hadn't even known existed, and he wouldn't let her down, no matter what.

“Hold up,” said Nash. “Something's coming through.”

Mac waited while Nash unhooked his cell phone, which he'd set to vibrate, from his belt holster and read through some text messages.

“There's a big-ass yacht anchored offshore near Anguilla. You know where that is?”

“Ferry ride away.”

“Okay. Yacht is owned by one of Falcone's known associates, and Lexie thinks Falcone is either aboard or came to St. Martin after being aboard. It would have been easy enough to get there from his island retreat in the Grenadines.”

Mac began crawling forward again. “Which means there's something here that's important to him. The weapons shipment?”

“Looks like.”

“Fuck. This is gonna get real ugly real quick.”

Mac could feel Nash's familiar, grim smile beneath his reply. “Only if we let it.”

***

Get out of here!
The thought cut through the fog in Callie's mind. How long had she been lying on the cot, staring up at the brad beams of the ceiling since Lizard Eyes and Blondie had departed? Time tangled, stretching out and snapping back. Her body ached, and a throbbing pulse emanated from the swelling in her cheeks and tongue where she'd bitten them, breaking the skin.

She examined the contraption attaching her to the cot but found no weakness. The supplies—a simple combination lock and length of coated stainless cable—could be bought at any hardware store or bike shop, but their ubiquity in no way cheated them of effectiveness. The shackle itself she couldn't figure out. Had he had it made specifically, or was it merely adapted from something else? It fit loosely around her ankle, snapped shut and locked with the same lock that attached it to the cable. She pulled off her shoe and tried to squeeze her foot out of it. No luck. No matter how hard she pointed her toes, she couldn't force the cuff down over her heel.

Fear rose as acid in the back of her throat. They would kill her. Either John, for some insane reason she couldn't fathom, or Falcone's men, who believed her intimately connected to Nash Harper's organization.

Could she play them against one another? For whatever sick reason—and Callie forced her mind away from any consideration of what that might be—John had instructed the goons not to hurt her. If she pretended a more severe injury, would he wait for her to heal? How bad would it have to be? And how bad could it get before he would decide she was no longer useful and kill her on the spot?

She studied the cot. Most of the edges were rounded, but the feet were sharp and square. She could get her shoulder under the frame, pick it up, then let it down so the corner of the foot sliced her leg. Would it be enough? And what if the cut went too deep and John did not return in time?

She heard movement overhead, and the door reopened. John skipped down the stairs, his gleeful appearance more frightening than the goons' dour coldness. In his hand, he held the remote control for the collar.

“All ready,” he said to her. “Now, let's go upstairs. I am going to tell you what the combination for that lock is, and you are going to come along quietly.” He held up the remote. “This has some very nifty capabilities, and you won't like them. So just do as you're told.”

As soon as she'd freed her leg, Callie stood. “Falcone's men have gone after whatever you're holding for them.” Her speech came out a bit garbled from all the swelling in her mouth, but she could see understanding in John's eyes. “They intend to get it without you, then come back here and kill you.”

John frowned. “They can't get it without me. They have no way into the storage compartment.”

“That's not what they said. Why do you think they're not down here questioning me? They decided I wasn't so important after all.”

“You're lying.”

“Why would I lie?” She kept her tone nonconfrontational. “As you said, our father, Mark Lewis, left me here to help you. And they . . . hurt me.” She touched her face.

“You don't believe in Father's work.”

Okay, so he was crazy, not stupid. “I believe we have a better chance fighting Falcone's men together than we do apart. I heard them talking; they'll kill both of us the minute they have whatever you're storing for them. That's not belief; it's fact.”

His gray eyes narrowed on her, evaluating, and she allowed herself a moment to hope she'd gotten through. But then he shook his head.

“Once you help me, I'll be able to handle them.” He backed away from the foot of the stairs and gestured for her to ascend. He remained several steps behind her on the way up, and were it not for the collar, she'd have made a break for it.

On the main floor he directed her to the office. Of their own volition, Callie's eyes went to the couch where she and John had sat flipping through photo albums. How could she have been so completely deceived? How could she have missed the insanity in him when he was so close?

Lewis, it seemed, was remembering the same evening.

“Your friend Brody was here that night, you know. I checked the monitor on my cell phone when it went off during dinner, and again while I was pouring our wine. He was hiding in the closet, waiting to come to your rescue. I could have called the gendarmes on him the minute he tripped my secondary alarm system, but I didn't feel like interrupting our fascinating conversation. Besides, he might have piqued their curiosity. I assume he was looking for Nicole?”

What was the best answer? What would keep him talking the longest? “Actually, he said he was going to the Paradis that night to check for evidence my parents had been guests. He didn't mention breaking in here. If he had, why would I have agreed to come over?” She swallowed. “But now that you mention it, was Nikki here that night?”

“Naturally. I didn't move her until after I brought you back to Port de Plaisance and checked the security cameras to be sure Brody had taken off. I'd arranged for you to be safely out of my hair for the rest of the evening, so I showed my face down at the hotel, had a drink with the night manager, then took Nicole home.”

“Without one of her hands.”

He shrugged. “It was worth a try. And the ring, at least, proved useful. But the freezing—or some other factor—worked against me. I won't make the same mistake with you.” He sidled over to the bookcase and removed several books, revealing a lever. He cranked the lever down, and a section of the bookshelf shifted back, then slid sideways.

“Inside.”

As slowly as she figured he'd let her, Callie inched toward the gap in the bookcase, simultaneously fascinated and terrified. Might there be some sort of weapon in the hidden room she could use against John? It would have to be long, like a broomstick or mop, something she could use to attack him quickly, disabling him or at least making him lose his grip on the remote before he could hit her with another charge.

What she saw shocked her to a standstill. The small space had obviously once been a security room and still had monitors on the back wall where video feeds of various parts of the property ran silently, casting a flickering light through the space. But the rest had been converted to an operating room, complete with tiled walls, a drainage grate in the floor, and a table with gutters on both sides. And stirrups.
Stirrups. What the hell?
She'd seen enough CSI shows to know that some of the other devices laid out on tables along the sidewall shouldn't be used on living patients.