Peak Oil (20 page)

Alexa grunted and shook her head.

He pushed himself off the wall and swaggered toward her, holding a walking cane over his shoulder. He leaned forward and stuck his face close to hers. “Neil bloody Allen, that’s why.” His breath smelled like smoke and bourbon and putrefied meat.
 

He stood back with an appraising smile, flicked the cigar to the ground, and ground it out with the heel of his boot. “What a lying bastard.”

Fitch circled around her, inspecting her the way a shark would inspect its prey. “He made a promise, Gypsy to Gypsy, which he broke, and now he is dead and you are going to get the punishment that is due to you.”

She sucked in a breath as the jarring memories caused her throat to tighten. It hadn’t been just a bad dream. She locked her eyes on his. “I’m going to kill you,” she snarled.

A bubbly laugh escaped from his mouth, like he had something wet stuck in the back of his throat. He lifted her chin with the pommel of his cane. The yellow ivory was cold, carved into the shape of a rosette. “We’ll see about that,” he said as he pulled back his arm and punched her in the stomach.
 

Alexa coughed, trying to suck air into her lungs. The pain stabbed through her shoulder as she dangled helplessly by her arms. She steadied herself and then looked up. “That the best you got?” she wheezed.
 

Fitch’s leathery features contorted into a grin, deep furrows forming half-moons on his brow. “You think you’re tough,
gorger
bitch?”

She stood doubled over and shook her head, her breath rattling in her chest. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

“You all break, sooner or later,” he said with a grin as he lifted his Stetson and brushed his fingers through his grey hair. He walked closer, swinging his cane in front of him.

Alexa growled, lifted her feet off the ground, and lashed out at him. Fitch skipped behind her as he swung back and smashed the cane into her kidney.
 

She screamed, and her body jerked forward in a painful spasm.

Fitch grabbed her by her throat, undoing the buttons at the front of her shirt while he watched her intently. Alexa felt her face redden as she struggled to breathe. Her upper lip curled up, and she tried to spit in his face. A globule of bloody mucous landed on the front collar of his jacket and his sleeve.
 

Fitch pushed her away, pulled a red handkerchief from his top pocket, and wiped the blood from his suit. He tsk-tsked, shaking his head. “How ladylike, Capitano.” He slapped her across the face with the back of his hand. Alexa gyrated around on the rope and came to a stop, facing away from Fitch.

He grabbed her wounded shoulder and squeezed, leaned in close to her, his lips touching her ear. “I need some answers from you.”
 

She whimpered, blinking away the tears.

Fitch swung her back around and ripped her shirt from her pants. He stood back and pulled her shirt open with the tip of his cane, exposing her bra. He undid her belt buckle and then ripped it from the loops. He tossed it aside, stuck his cane underneath his armpit, and with both hands grabbed the side of her pants, yanking them to the ground.
 

Alexa dangled, whimpering helplessly. He walked closer, hooked a finger inside her panties, yanked them off, and then crumpled them up and put them in his jacket pocket and stood back, nodding appreciatively. “My, my, my. Neil sure was a lucky fellow.”

She swallowed. “What do you want?”

“I need to know what Beck told you.”
 

“Nothing.”
 

Fitch raised his eyebrows. “He didn’t tell you why he was arrested?”
 

“Because you planted snuff films on his laptop.”

Fitch nodded and smiled. “Ah, yes. There are many ways to skin a cat, my dear.”

Alexa sucked in a painful breath. “You set him up.”

“I had to get rid of him. He didn’t want to play nicely. You’ll be glad to know that he committed suicide in jail,” he said with a chuckle. “He couldn’t deal with the embarrassment.”

“Liar!” Alexa shouted.
 

Fitch swung his arm back and brought the cane down on her backside with a loud smack. “Watch your tone, bitch. I’m in charge here.”

Alexa sobbed as Fitch propped up her chin. “Look at me when I’m talking to you. What else did David Beck tell you?”

She swallowed. “He said you play with your tiny dick,” she whispered, her shoulders jerking up and down.
 

“What? Speak up, I can’t hear.”

“You shout your own name while having sex,” Alexa growled.

Fitch’s lips pursed into a thin, trembling line, his steel-grey eyes sparkling mischievously. “Oh my, isn’t that cute.” Then he burst out laughing. He held on to the rope above her arms for support and slapped his leg. He finally calmed down, giggling as he dried his eyes.

“Not only does she think she’s tough, she aspires to be a stand-up comedian, as well,” Fitch said and punched a fist into her stomach. He brought the cane down on her shoulder with a bone crunching smack. “Now, what the hell did Beck tell you?”
 

Alexa sobbed. “Nothing,” she whimpered, her voice cracking.

Fitch considered her answer for a moment. “Either you’re loyal as a cattle mutt or extremely stupid,” he said holding up his walking stick in front of her face. “Do you know where I’m sticking this next if you don’t tell me the truth?” He grinned.
 

Alexa coughed, the right side of her face numb, her vision blurring as her eye puffed up. She bit her lip again and concentrated on the pain; then she slowly looked up. “Screw you.”

Fitch sauntered closer, the cane held up in front of him. He pulled back and slammed the cane down on her back and stomach, walking around her as she dangled helplessly, raining blows on her shoulders and legs, and then finally stopped when her head fell forward, unconscious.

He rolled his shoulders, propped his cane against the wall, and wiped his hands with the red handkerchief. He looked at Alexa’s dangling body, smiled, and said, “No, screw you, Capitano.” He pulled his arm back and landed a solid punch on her stomach. “And all you arrogant
gorger
bitches.”

Andy Fitch stood leaning against the wall, smoking a cigar. The captain was dangling naked, her head on her chest, her knees bent, swaying gently from side to side. Her body was full of red lesions where he had hit her with the cane. Blood trickled down her face, spattering into small pools on the concrete floor. He had given her a good work over. He hoped that the fun wasn’t over yet.

He couldn’t understand why Gypsy men always fell for the
gorger
women. They were losing their sense of identity, and he blamed their parents for not instilling the proper Gypsy traditions into their sons. He had taken it upon himself to sort out his own son’s little bastard offspring; that bitch wasn’t going to raise it the traditional way. Best thing to do was to kill it.

He examined Alexa closely. Her shoulders moved up and down as she breathed; she was still alive. He picked up her leather belt and rolled it around his fist.

“Wakey, wakey, Capitano.”
 

She lifted her head, opened her swollen eyes, and then looked up at him, a soft growl escaping her throat. He recoiled at her hateful gaze. At least the bitch seemed alert; there was still a lot of fun to be had. “The party hasn’t even started, and you’re nodding off already.”

The bitch uttered a guttural roar and lashed out with her legs, trying to kick him in the face.
 

“Oh, no you don’t,” he said and hammered a fist into her cheek. Her head dropped to her chest and her shoulders jerked up and down as she sobbed. He hit her in the stomach and her body went limp, unconscious once again.

Andy Fitch spat on the ground. “You people come and invade my town, try to get me convicted, and now you pass out on me when I punish you, bitch?” He felt her pulse. She would come around sooner or later.

He leaned back against the wall and lit another cigar. He noticed Bella saunter into the room from the tunnel, and she rubbed her body against his leg. He knelt down and tickled her chin. She purred loudly, rubbing her head against his hand.
 

My little moneymaker.

The bitch stirred and moaned. He walked up to her and pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “Now you play nice. No more passing out on me, you hear?” he said and squeezed.

She moaned. “Fitch, just stop. This isn’t how you treat an Interpol agent!”
 

“Oh, please. Who are you fooling?”

She glared at him. He took her other nipple between his fingers and squeezed hard. She shrieked and ripped her head back in pain.
 

“Tell me what you know, Capitano,” Fitch hissed. “You have other holes that haven’t received a working over. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll curse your own mother for giving birth to you.”

He saw her jaws working, gritting her teeth. She looked at him squarely, her jaws clenched. “Do whatever you need to, you prick,” she hissed. She blinked and steadied her annoying green eyes on him. “But you’re going down, one way or the other.”

This bitch was naive, he thought. He smiled. “Dear Capitano, there is much you do not know.”

She breathed deeply. “Interpol will get you,” she said, forcing her words out in short bursts. She bit her lower lip. It looked like she was going to pass out again.

Fitch grinned. “You forget, my dear Captain. I have friends in high places, as well.” He let go of her nipples, growing bored of the game. “And I pay them well.”
 

He was growing irritated with the little bitch. He had thought she would have broken by now, like all the
gorger
women eventually did. He scanned the room, thinking of a way to end this swiftly. He had left the Luger in the car; maybe he could find something to stab her with. Or maybe get Chris to do it, to prove his unwavering loyalty to him.

The bitch blinked and shook her head. A slow smile spread across her face. She sucked in a raspy breath. “You do not have a clue who you are up against.” She swallowed painfully. And then the bitch chuckled.

Fitch lifted his cane to put her out of her misery, but a powerful blow to the side of his head knocked him to the ground. He went down on his knees, supporting his body by sticking a hand to the ground. He looked up.

Joseph stood hunched over him, clutching a brick in his hand.
 

“Ryan, what the hell are you doing?” Fitch said, clasping the side of his face.

Ryan slammed the brick straight into his face. He heard cartilage crack as the pain seared through his cheek and nose.

“Why are you—” he groaned, and then everything went dark as he felt the brick slam over his head a final time.

Interpol HQ,

Lyon, France

General Alain Laiveaux poured a thumb of cognac into the tumbler and quaffed it. He was not a nervous man by nature; it was the memories of the past that usually got to him. He hated the taste of the stuff, but a couple of glasses usually made him feel better. Self-medication.
 

He filled the glass again, placed the bottle back on the silver serving tray, and then sauntered to the window, looking out on the open plan offices that the Interpol staff occupied. He inched open a blind and peered outside. The place was a hive of activity, something he still needed to get used to.
 

The French Foreign Legion’s headquarters in Aubagne used to be an oasis of serene calm; you could hear the birds twitter outside as the troops marched by. Here, men and woman scurried by like ants, carrying classified documents containing classified information on top-secret people in even more secretive locations.

His appointment had come as a surprise. The sign on his door said, “General Alain Laiveaux, Head: ISIU.”

He guessed not many people, including most of the Interpol agents, knew exactly what he did. That privilege was bestowed on presidents and some high-placed military commanders. His little unit was probably one of the best-kept secrets in the modern world.
 

He had direct access to all classified information on the Interpol database. He often used it.
 

He smiled as he remembered his first day on the job. He had searched for all the information that Interpol could find on the JFK assassination, eagerly poring over the files. After reading the CIA’s final classified report, he had slumped back in his chair with a sigh and made up his mind: all the conspiracy theorists were wrong; the young snot-nose, Lee Harvey Oswald, had assassinated the President. He’d had no outside help, he was simply a disgruntled man with a strong craving for notoriety who happened to be at the right place at the right time.
 

The general emptied his glass and poured another cognac. How different the world could have been.
 

Laiveaux’s contract said he headed the Interpol Specialized Investigations Unit. The president of Interpol had another description for what his job entailed.