Mark (In the Company of Snipers Book 2) (20 page)

Castor cowered, leaning his face into his knotted fingers.

“Man up!” Alex stepped to his side, and slapped Castor’s hands away from his face. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

He obeyed, facing Alex and blinking through the sweat in his eyes. “Yes, sir. I’m—”

“And don’t call me sir again,” Alex hollered. “I’m not your commanding officer, and I’m not your drill sergeant. They might have cared about you. I don’t. I’m just the man who’s gonna watch you hang.”

Castor nodded once.

“You’d better listen, you stinking excuse for a man.” Alex continued badgering. “Your friend’s on his way to GITMO, and so are you if you don’t cooperate. Right now, you’re the same as him. DO YOU HEAR ME, MARINE?”

Castor could barely sit still in his chair. “I hear—”

“You what?”

“I HEAR YOU!” This time Castor screamed back. Growling with frustration, he yanked the chains at his hands and feet, thrashing as if he could shake himself free. He couldn’t. Angrily, he kicked his shackled feet. Chains rattled. His efforts made no more difference to the table bolted to the concrete floor than they did to Alex.

“WHERE IS SHE?”

“No!” Castor glared back at Alex. “You hafta do what Yuri said. Get the opium. Dig it up. Then he’ll tell you what you want to know. Just do it.”

Alex leaned into his prisoner’s face, one hand on the table, the other at the back of his chair, and his nose nearly touching the side of Castor’s head. “You need to understand one thing. You’re a dead man if she dies.”

Castor nodded vehemently. “Yes. I ... I understand.”

“I don’t think you do,
Mikey
. Guantanamo is no place for an ex-Marine. You know that? You think those guards down there are going to understand a jarhead working for a Russian mob boss? Hell, you won’t even make it to your cell before they throw you a party.”

Fear glittered in Castor’s eyes. His tongue darted out of his mouth to dampen his lips again and again.

“And trust me, Marine. GITMO will be a freaking vacation if that little girl dies. I’m only making one deal. It goes to whoever talks first. Where is she?”

Michael Castor was falling apart. Even Mark could see that. Sweat poured off the man’s face and neck. He blinked to keep Alex in his line of sight, his hands raised protectively between him and his tormentor, like that would prevent more abuse. Castor was the weak link, but Mark knew better. Even a weak link had to be strong enough to know when to break.

“Round one looks like it’s going to Alex,” Zack commented quietly. “Castor’s falling apart.”

Mark didn’t answer. Alex might take round one, but Libby was still missing. He saw it clearly now. Zack was wrong. Castor was in a no-win situation. Either way, he was headed for a death sentence. GITMO or Seinkevitz, it made no difference who did the deed. He was the epitome of a dead man walking. He’d never talk. Neither would Yuri.

“You’ve got one minute.” Alex slammed his fist onto the table.

Castor jumped. He blinked big, wide, scared-to-death eyes while tears trickled down his face. “I can’t,” he sniveled. “I just can’t.”

“Then you’re no damn good to me.” Alex turned on his heel and exited the interrogation room.

Mark’s heart sank.

It’s happening again.

Mark’s mind was a million miles away.

It was the same scenario all over again, an instant replay of an earlier tragedy he couldn’t prevent either. The dark eyes of his sweet mother gazed back at him from her deathbed. Once again, time ticked away exactly like it had all those years ago. The only difference was that he got to hold his mother’s hand while she died. He had time to tell her how much he loved her. She must have tired from hearing it so many times, but right up to the end, she had held onto his hand. Each time he’d cried, she told him to be brave, that he was the best part of her life.

She still died.

“I love you, Markie,” she had rasped, her breath sour and old in his face. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I do, Mama.” He had tried to be brave. He didn’t want to scare her in case she didn’t know she was dying. It was hard. She was everything.

Pulling her only child to her breast, she had kissed his eleven-year old forehead one last time. “You’re a lucky little boy.”

He was sure he’d heard wrong. How could a child with no mother be lucky? How could being left behind with his father, a cruel man who couldn’t be bothered with his wife dying in his bed, ever equate to being a lucky little boy?

“Why?” He had stifled his tears.
Big boys don’t cry.

“Because ... now I’ll be ... your guardian angel ... mama.”

The memory chilled him all over again. Life had left her body so slowly, like a bicycle tire with a leak, so slight it might go unnoticed until the rider was left stranded in the middle of nowhere. And he’d been stranded ever since.

Until the Marines.

Until Jon Wells.

Until Libby.

With his jaw clenched, Mark watched the end of the useless interrogations of two cold-hearted men by another cold-hearted man. Only this time there was no hand to hold, no way to say good-bye, and no final breath to hear. No one had a clue where Libby was, and the men who knew would not tell.

Mark hated the world of men. They were cold like his father, heartless like Alex, liars like Jon, and murderers like the Russian. And he was one of them.

Alex slammed the door of the interview room behind him, oblivious that Mark stood watching. He flipped his cell phone open and stabbed a button, as usual, abrupt and rude.

“Mother. Get that bastard Seinkevitz on the line. Now.”

He paced a tight circle, his face hard as steel. Alex Stewart was a complex man. Gentle with his wife and Libby, yet tough enough that he had killed all those men at Spencer. He looked the part of a predator, stalking, his fingers squeezed to his temple while he planned more death.

I’m as bad as he is. I would kill them all again.

“Seinkevitz?” Alex actually chuckled when he spoke the man’s name, but Mark heard the tension in the levity. “I think we got off on the wrong foot, because THERE IS NO WAY IN HELL YOU’LL GET YOUR DOPE.”

Alex stilled only as long as it took the man in Afghanistan to answer. “You don’t get it, do you? I don’t negotiate. Shut up and listen for a change.”

Any other time, this would have been a moment of entertainment to watch his boss take on the psychotic monster across the world. Not today. It made Mark sick. Neither Yuri nor Castor had given any indication of Libby’s whereabouts. Mother with all her high tech satellite images couldn’t find her. Threatening the man behind this nightmare would not get her back.

“Yeah. I’ve got ‘em. What’s left of them. Yuri the best you got?” Alex’s voice poured acid into the phone. He was taking no quarter.

The nasty tone set Mark on edge.
She’s dying. Don’t make it worse. Can’t you see? You’re letting her die.

“Well, listen up. There is no ransom. You got that? Nothing. Not one ounce of your hundreds of kilos of opium, and I’ll do you one better. I’ll personally kill all you can send. Hell! Send ‘em all!” Alex punched his fist into the air as he spit the last words into the phone.

Mark gulped. The tension in the hallway choked him. This was not negotiation. This was ego on steroids, plain, simple, and proud.

“You think you’ve got the balls, you just try me.” With his final insult hurled, Alex snapped the phone shut, but then he froze. For a second he stood stock-still and stared at the phone in his hand. He combed a hand through his hair like he’d never seen that cell phone before. Then he stabbed it again. Without any preliminary greeting, he verbally attacked the person he had just dialed.

“Find out where that bastard came from.”

It had to be Mother who Alex was barking at again. Poor Mother.

“No. I don’t want a new phone. Do what I asked! I want to know where Seinkevitz lived before he turned up in Afghanistan.” Alex paced a tight circle from one side of the hall to the next. “I’ve already got the intel from Mark and Harley. I need more. Now! I need—”

He scrubbed a hand over his head again in silence as he listened.

“Where? Are you sure?” He resumed pacing. “That sonofabitch!” he hissed.

More tight circles in the hall and Mark could not understand what had just happened.

“Okay, good,” Alex muttered. “Yes, Mother. Send me all you’ve got. Tell Ember thanks.”

His tone calmed, but all Mark saw was the man who’d just signed Libby’s death warrant.

It wasn’t until Alex hung up again that he noticed he was not alone in the hall. Instantly, his countenance changed. He glared at his junior agent. “We are going to find her.”

Mark stared back, helpless, used, and just plain scared to death. There was no way to find Libby now. They had no leverage—they had nothing. Like a dumb ass, Alex had just thrown it all away.

“No ransom?” he bellowed. “How will we find her then? Where is she, Boss? If you’re so damned smart, where is she? Who’s the real asshole here?”

Alex crossed the few steps between them, and grabbed Mark’s shoulders. “Now you listen. You need to trust me. I am NOT going to lose Libby. Neither are you. Understand?”

Mark couldn’t answer. He didn’t trust Alex. He had no reason to believe him either. Worst of all, there was nothing he could do to help Libby. The last time he had stood at this grave, he’d lost everything. His mind played a wicked trick as the smell of chrysanthemums floated around him. Funeral flowers.

Alex’s blue eyes flashed.

“Don’t you dare give up.”

Mark turned away.

It’s happening all over again.

I’m bleeding.

Libby tasted the salty metallic flavor on her tongue. It was a good thing. Bleeding and pain meant life. Besides, she was thirsty. Cold too. All signs that she could still feel, that she was alive, and life was good.
Wasn’t it?

Her stomach gurgled.
Oh yeah, I’m hungry to, but that’s okay. I don’t need food. I would probably just throw up.

The silence of her tomb deafened her as much as her screaming had earlier. The hours crept by. She had already wrestled with the demons of suffocation and claustrophobia. With all her might, she’d tried to stay calm, and focus her mind on something good. Sometimes it actually worked. Still, it was hard to slow the freight train of panic that rolled over her time and time again. Her mind pinged from desperation to terror and back to desperation again with very few rest stops in between.

Hysteria will drive me insane. I don’t want to be insane, do I?

She didn’t know anymore. Her mind worked in curious ways under this extreme condition. It lied to her one minute, telling her there was hope, but the next, it convinced her that insanity wouldn’t be so bad after all.

How will I know if I go insane?

Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the night in Kelsey’s back yard. That was real. It had happened, didn’t it? Taking slow breaths in, she forced herself to exhale just as slowly out.
Think of Mark. Think of Mark.
So she did. His Camaro key came to mind and his dog tags too. They still hung at her neck. She clutched them in both hands now. With that tender image of him locked firmly in her mind, her brain stopped running in panic mode.

Think of Mark. Think of Mark.

Libby took a long cleansing breath, determined she would not give into hysteria anymore. Repeating the mantra got her heart rate to slow. The panic subsided.

Good. This is better. I’m ... going to be rescued pretty soon and ... I’m going to be rescued pretty soon. Mark will save me like he did at Georgetown. I’m going to be rescued pretty soon. Think of Mark. Think of Mark. Inhale slowly. Exhale slowly. Okay. I can do this.

She went over the events of the day, talking out loud as calmly as possible. Even the slightest hint of fear could toss her self-control away. She focused and tried to remember every little detail.

“I flew with Murphy and Roy. We had first class seats. Murphy sat in the aisle seat, and made me sit by the window so I could see everything, only I think he wanted the aisle seat so he could go to the restroom.” She recalled the smooth landing at O’Hare and the crush of people in the terminal. Murphy had steered her off the jetway to the nearest restroom. He promised he would wait for her.

Poor Murphy. What he must have gone through when he discovered she was gone.
He’s probably going out of his mind. Like me.
Pushing that bleak impression back into the depths of her soul, she focused again. Another deep breath in followed by equally deep exhalation out, and she tried again.

“How did I get out of that bathroom? Oh yeah, that cleaning woman was a man, and she – he punched me.” The sweet cloying odor of chloroform reminded her of exactly what had happened. And the garbage can. That must have been how he got her out of the bathroom. He had dumped her in with the trash. That mean man wheeled her right out of the women’s restroom under Murphy’s nose. Poor Murphy.

“But why? My parents aren’t rich. They can’t afford to pay ransom.” It had to be related to the cartel Mark had warned her about.

Panic peeked around the edges of her very rational argument, like a thief come to steal her momentary hold peace.
Deep slow breaths. There now. I’m cold, but I’m okay.
She quelled the suffocating feeling that accompanied fear and focused on analyzing why this had happened.

If the drug cartel had done this, then Mark and his team were surely searching for her. They might even be close to finding her at this very minute.
Think of Mark. Think of Mark.

“I can make it. I know I can,” she encouraged herself. “Focus, Libby. Breathe. Relax. This is hard, but Mark is coming. I know it. I can hold on ‘til then. Yes. I can.”

But her mind worked against her as much as it worked for her. Will it be painful to suffocate?

“No,” she answered her question out loud. “I don’t think so. When oxygen is depleted, I’ll keep breathing only I’ll be breathing carbon dioxide. I’ll get sleepy, and then ....”

I’ll die.

“Okay. That’s not helping,” she scolded herself. “I’ve lived a good life. I’ve been blessed with a lot. Think positive, Libby.”

Stifling a sob, she forced herself to concentrate again. But there was so much more she wanted to do, so much more life she wanted to live. Her pulse quickened. What were her mother and father going through? A huge hiccup wrenched out of her. Every good thought turned toward death.

Think of Mark. Think of Mark. Think of Mark. Oh, God, help me think of Mark.

Tears came even as she chanted her calming mantra. He had felt so strong and warm under her hands. When he set her on the bathroom counter, her heart all but stalled. He’d never even slipped a finger under the waistband to her pantyhose. She bit her lip. Tears slid freely down the sides of her head. If he would’ve hinted just a little bit that he wanted more, she would have complied. Libby knew it to her core. She would’ve made love with him, right then and there. Willingly. Happily. Anywhere.

That knowledge brought another wave of panic. All they had done was kiss and hug. She wanted to do a lot more with Mark. To Mark. She wanted—more.

“I’m not done yet,” she whispered to the cold, dark silence.

Be thankful for what you already have before you go asking for more.
Her mother’s words came back to her now. Sweet Rosemary, as practical as she was loving.

That thought gave Libby the shred of hope she needed to control her hysteria. She took a deep breath.
Okay then. All I have to do is stay calm. Mark is coming. I can do it.
She squeezed her eyes tight.
I know what I’ll do. I’ll close my eyes and pretend I’m home again. I’m in my Mom’s kitchen. We’re making cookies.

The warm memory of her mother’s kitchen came to mind. So many happy moments were spent there. Libby took a deep breath and let her mind rest in happier days spent canning cinnamon applesauce, baking pumpkin pies, and Christmas sugar cookies, all done to the backdrop music of sisterly chatter with Faith and Marie.

Faith ….

“My sister’s dead.” The hole in her heart hurt so bad that she wanted to die, too. “Why me? Why my Mom and Dad? Why is this happening to us?”

The fragile bubble of hope she had fooled herself into believing popped.