The Warhol Incident (15 page)

Twisting and turning most of the night with pre-op jitters, I eventually rolled over and checked the time. It was eight, and I didn’t need to be up for another four or five hours. Staring at the ceiling, there was no way to shake the overwhelming feeling of impending doom. With my luck, nothing would happen tonight, and Ryan and I would continue to chase ghosts until we were old and gray. I buried myself under the blankets and tried to go back to sleep. Inevitably, I gave up and got out of bed. I did everything slow and deliberately, from showering and selecting clothes to wear to carefully slicing into the wedge heel of my boot in order to slip the GPS chip into the now hollowed out space.

I ordered lunch and ate in my room while I went over my notes on the warehouse and t
he plan of attack. I memorized both Ryan’s number and Reneaux’s because, in the event I needed to call either of them in a hurry, I didn’t want to be screwed. I was online, looking at street maps and global images in order to see what the warehouse and surrounding area looked like.

The tactical teams would be waiting in a staging area for my call before they would move in.
There were a couple of contingency plans in place, and I had been assured they would be there when I called or at the first sign of trouble. What constituted the first sign of trouble? I picked up the phone and dialed Ryan.

“Everything okay?” he asked.
His voice mirrored my anxiety.

“Yes
, I’m just running through all of it in my head. What are we going to do if Abelard’s not there?” This was my main concern.

“If everythi
ng else is there, we’ll move in and hope we can get some corroboration in exchange for reduced sentences,” Ryan didn’t sound very pleased with this option.

“And what if my cell phone is confiscated, and there is some kind of glitch with the ear
wig?” I was being a nuisance, but it was my ass on the line. He didn’t respond immediately, probably because he wasn’t sure what they were going to do in that situation. The entire mission was based upon my outgoing message.

“If we don’t hear from you within a reasonable amount of time,
we’ll move in on your location.” He swallowed the unspoken implications. “More than likely, this won’t be the case. I’ve got your back, Alex.”

“Okay.
” If nothing else, someone would at least recover my boot with the tracking chip.

“Are you psyching yourself out?
Because if you want to back out…” his voice trailed off.

“No,” I said firmly, mostly for my own benefit.
“All in, right? Just like Texas hold’em.”

“All in.
I’ll be at the raid. If you run into any trouble, I’ll verify your involvement, or Reneaux will.” Great, that was something I had forgotten about, being caught in a raid meant being on the ground and held at gunpoint, just like the bad guys. Fun times.

“Sounds good,” I responded, even though it didn’t.
“Be careful out there. You don’t know what kind of lunatics you might be dealing with.”

“You be careful.
You’re walking into the lion’s den.” Thanks a lot for the vote of confidence.

*              *              *

It was getting late by the time I got into my rental car and headed toward the address. On the way, I unsuccessfully phoned Mark. He didn’t call like he promised, and when I tried to get in touch with him earlier, it went straight to his voicemail. I was annoyed but decided to let it go and not worry about it. There was nothing I could do, and it was almost go-time. Picking up the burner phone, I dialed Reneaux and was instructed to perform an equipment and sound check once I arrived at the agreed upon destination, a few blocks away from the warehouse. Acknowledging this request, I continued the drive, running through the plan over and over in my head. Get inside, locate Abelard and the gaming tables, contact Reneaux, and keep my head down until the police raided the building. Simple enough. I took some slow, deep breaths in order to put my game face on as I pulled into a metered parking space, four blocks from the warehouse.

Performing a final assessment of my clothing and gear, I was as prepared as possible
. In a past life, I must have been a boy scout. Dressed in jeans with wedge-heeled boots that went halfway up my shin, I had my knife strapped to my ankle. Hopefully, they would miss this again, if and when I was frisked. The slice cut out of the heel was not noticeable, and the GPS chip was working properly. I was wearing a white button-up dress shirt and tucked the earwig securely in the center of my bra, hoping the underwire would mask the metallic properties in the event I was wanded.

During equipment check, Reneaux assured me
the GPS was transmitting properly on both the tracker and the cell phone. I was instructed to turn on the earwig. We conducted a sound check, and then I turned it off and slipped it back into its hiding spot. The burner phone was in my purse, which was empty except for my pepper spray and a stack of Euros. Perhaps the Police Nationale would reimburse me for the $750 loss at the pool hall, but there was no reason to worry about that now. Locking all of the contact information and content on my personal phone, I slipped it into my pocket. If I was questioned about the two phones, I could come up with a feasible lie. More than likely, they would assume I was involved in some type of illegal activity and let it go.

W
alking purposefully in the direction of the warehouse, I tried not to seem suspicious, but I couldn’t help but look around. I wanted to know if I was being watched or followed. Less than a block away from the warehouse, the phone in my pocket vibrated. It was Mark.

“Hey, you called just in time.
” I stopped my procession.

“Parker,”
his voice sounded urgent, “the results just came in from the bomb and the body. It wasn’t Gustav in the car.”

“What?”
I spoke too loudly, and I glanced around before slowly resuming my stroll. “Who was it?”

“The remains belong to
a Jacques Marset.”

“Shit,” I interrupted,
“I’ve got to go. I need to warn Ryan.” If Gustav wasn’t in the car, then where was he? Was he still alive? And if so, there was a good chance tonight was a trap. Suddenly, the delivery notification for the VHS tape made perfect sense. “Gustav’s alive. The video was a fake. It was delivered a day too soon.” Even with the time difference and overnight airmail, if Gustav had been killed Monday morning, the earliest I would have gotten the package would have been Wednesday or perhaps Tuesday night, but not first thing Tuesday morning. There wouldn’t have been enough time. I didn’t realize it, and apparently neither did Mark or any of the Interpol agents. Instead, I had been blinded by Clare’s hysterical phone call and Gustav’s alleged murder. Clare, how did she fit into this? My mind was racing. 

Turning around, I headed back to
my car. Mark was still speaking, and I was trying to get him to stop so I could disconnect. He was discussing the bomb schematics, but his words weren’t processing in my question-addled brain. As I rounded a corner, a man wearing a gasmask stepped out of the shadow and sprayed something in my face. I stepped back, trying to make sense of the world which had begun to spin.

The p
hone fell from my hands as the ground teetered, and someone grabbed me from behind. There was a cloth shoved over my nose and mouth, and I resisted the urge to inhale. But my lungs betrayed my resolve, and I gasped for breath. My lungs burned as a sickly, sweet smell filled my nostrils, and then the world pitched forward. The last thing I saw was a foot smashing down on the fallen phone before everything turned dark.

The sound of moaning roused me from my sleep. It took a moment before I realized I was emitting the noise. How the hell did I fall asleep in such an uncomfortable position? My eyes were still closed, and my head was pounding. My hands were numb, and every muscle from my wrists to my lower back ached. Opening my eyes and squinting against a single, harsh light, I slowly lifted my head. My chin had been on my chest and just the slight movement sent sharp pains down my spine. What the hell, I thought miserably. As I focused on my surroundings, terror overtook my senses.

Calm down, my internal voi
ce commanded. Leaning my head all the way back, I looked up. My wrists were tied with rope, and I was dangling from a metal hook, similar to ones used to move heavy objects from one conveyer belt to another. Looking down, there was a good six inches between my feet and the ground. Between my bound wrists and the ground being so far away, I had no leverage. I shut my eyes and tried to think logically, pushing the frenzied thoughts away. I needed to concentrate and not panic. Start with a simple task. Moving my fingers in the hope of getting some sensation back in them would be the first step in getting myself off the hook, literally. Each motion sent the painful pins and needles up my already sore arms and through my numb hands, but any feeling was better than no feeling.

The room was dimly lit and seemingly abandoned.
I turned as far to the side as possible, trying to survey the entire area. It was an old, dilapidated warehouse. Was this the same warehouse where I was supposed to meet Abelard, or was I someplace else entirely? I kicked my legs out, which made my body swing, and the thick rope cut painfully into my wrists. From what I could tell, the GPS was still inside my heel.

“Looks like our guest has awakened.
” Abelard’s voice immediately drew my attention, and I froze, holding my breath. The man, along with three of his goons, entered the room from a set of double doors directly in front of me. They made their way toward me. I recognized two of the men from the back room of the bar, and the third was Jean-Pierre.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” I snarled at Jean-Pierre.
“How could you?” I didn’t remember Mark’s conversation until now. Jean-Pierre stared at me silently. “I wish you were dead.”

“Now, now.
” Abelard was positioned in front of me, commanding my attention. “It turns out you haven’t been quite so honest yourself, Ms. Parker. Or is it still Agent Parker?” I glowered at him, hoping looks could kill. “If you’d be so kind as to tell me who you are working for and what they were planning on doing, then things won’t have to get ugly. If you cooperate, I promise to make this as painless as possible.”

“Bite me.”
There was only one simple truth; once Abelard got what he wanted, he would kill me.

“We’ll see if you d
on’t change your tune.” He was enjoying this. He was a sadistic piece of shit. “Claude, bring out my tools,” Abelard called to the man I met at the pool hall. Claude emerged from behind the doors, wheeling out a small cart with what looked to be a cattle prod on top. I really didn’t like where things were heading.

“Are y
ou planning on performing some magic tricks as entertainment while I hang around?” I wasn’t going to give him the benefit of showing fear. He could do what he liked, but he wasn’t going to get off on my begging or pleading. I caught a glimpse of Jean-Pierre, and he shook his head ever so slightly in warning. “What’s a matter?” I taunted him. “You pulled a disappearing act of your own, but now you’re afraid you won’t like what you’re going to see?” He didn’t reply, and Abelard flipped a few switches on the cart and picked up the humming contraption. 

“Maybe my little magic trick will make you reconsider,” Abelard suggested as he pressed the electrified end against my rib cage.
I gritted my teeth as the shock traveled through my body, igniting every nerve ending in an agonizing wave. He pulled the metal away and regarded me. I took a few deep breaths before managing to look at him defiantly.

“That was refreshing, and just how I like to start my day, with a nice jolt of energy.”
He would get no satisfaction if I could help it.

“Hmm.
” He put the device down and picked up a dagger instead. He approached menacingly, and I wondered if I could kick him. My hands were suspended in mid-air below the hook, so I was at a disadvantage. My kick wouldn’t have much force. I might be able to get my legs around his neck, but with four other men standing by, it was no use. It was best to conserve my attack strategy until I had a solid plan or no other choice.

Abelard was in fr
ont of me, brandishing the blade in an ominous fashion. He turned the knife, so the flat part was against my skin as he slowly ran the blade down my cheek, across my lips, and to my neck. Taking his time to trace the major arteries and veins with the sharp point, I swallowed and made the conscious effort not to cringe. When he grew bored of his theatrics, he dropped to my clavicle and pressed the edge of the dagger into my skin, drawing it horizontally across the top of my collarbone as he carved open my flesh. My breathing was steady, and I failed to react against the biting, razor-sharp steel. He released the pressure and continued downward to my shirt, slicing off the top three buttons, before taking a step back to admire his work. I stared at him, unimpressed.

“Who are you working for and what are they planning?” he asked again
, a bit more portentously. I tilted my chin up and spit in his face. “Bitch,” he cursed and slapped me hard enough to send me spinning around on the hook. The rope dug deeper into my wrists, and blood started to run down my arms. I needed to come up with a better game plan than pissing him off until he got bored and finished the job. Fortunately, that stunt afforded the opportunity to see the rest of the warehouse. There was a loading dock in the back of the room, and although the windows were blacked out, there was the hint of light coming from a street lamp outside. The black hole of hell had a back door. “Claude,” he commanded, and the man grabbed my hips and straightened me on the hook. I was once again facing Abelard.

“Ali,”
Jean-Pierre spoke from the corner of the room. He was observing the exchange but not partaking in the festivities. “Just tell him what he wants to know.” I glared at him.

“Don’t you dare call me that.
It’s your fault I’m here. Whatever happens is on you,” I warned. Before Jean-Pierre could reply, Abelard had his cattle prod device repowered. He pressed it against my newly exposed skin, and I gritted my teeth, waiting for the onslaught to stop. At some point, I began screaming as wave after wave of fire ran through my nerve endings. My muscles were contracted, and I had the briefest thought to give up when, finally, the torment stopped. My entire body went slack, and my head slumped against my chest. I wondered if I was actually smelling burnt flesh or if it was just in my head.

“I’ll let you think about that for a little while,” Abelard said as he and his group of me
rry mercenaries disappeared behind the double doors.

I needed to get free, especially before Abelard’s
little toy made my heart stop, but I couldn’t move. Every part of my body ached, and my nerves were too raw and damaged to properly transmit signals. Hanging there, lifeless, I tried to come up with a plan. I feared I might be drifting in and out of consciousness. Wake up, Parker, my mind screamed as I slowly began to try to move again.

Was the knife
still strapped to my ankle? If I could get to it, I could cut myself down. That was the best idea I had. It was also the only idea I had. Slowly, I lifted my knees upward toward my chest. As I did this, the rope cut deeper into my wrists, and I could see the once white sleeves on my shirt turning red. Lowering my legs, the pressure eased. If I could swing, I might be able to get my legs high enough to wrap around the chain holding the hook and retrieve the knife from my boot.

Before I could
attempt this, Abelard, Claude, and Jean-Pierre returned. The GPS chip should still be active, and I wondered how long I had been here. What was the timeframe for the police to move in on my location? Had the electricity shorted it out? Most likely, the earwig was fried, but there was no way of reaching it either. Things were starting to feel hopeless, but I had to keep trying. Buy time, I thought frantically.

“Once again, who are you working for?” Abelard asked, sounding bored.

“No one.”
Maybe my conversational skills would get him to ease up on the electric shock treatment. Hostage negotiation tactics often indicated attempting to humanize the victim, but with Abelard’s sadistic tendencies, I didn’t think that was a good idea. “I came here to hunt down Jean-Pierre’s killer. Guess what, he’s not dead. Case closed. You can let me go now.” Abelard looked skeptical.

“Forgive me, but I
don’t believe you.” He sneered as he picked up the cattle prod and approached, taking his time to intimidate me with the implied threat of another round in the hopes I’d cave and give him the information.

“Maybe you should try turning that on yourself.
It might make me feel sorry for you, and I’ll talk out of pity.” His face contorted into a wicked smile.

“I never imagined you would be this much fun.”
My screams were deafening. Wherever we were, Abelard wasn’t worried about noise. I was hoping for unconsciousness to overtake me and free me from the lightning storm that was trying to make my nerve endings explode from the inside out.

“Stop before you kill her.
” Jean-Pierre was speaking in French to Abelard. “If she’s dead, we won’t know who she’s working for or what they have.” The electric current stopped, and I went limp against the rope. My body twitched and convulsed. I wouldn’t survive another round. “Please, let me talk to her alone,” Jean-Pierre said quietly. Did they think I passed out or that I was just incapable of understanding the language? Either way, whatever I was going to do, I needed to do it as quickly as possible. Abelard and Claude retreated from the room.

“Ali,” Jean-Pierre
spoke in a hushed tone. His fingers were on my neck, checking for a pulse.

“I hate to disappoint, but I’m not dead yet,” I retorted
, taking a few slow breaths.

“You were never supposed to pursue me.
I told you to go on with your life. I sent you the tape so you would know I was gone and leave it alone,” he whispered angrily.

“You sent the fucking tape, and I came back to Paris
to avenge you. Clare called, hysterical over your death.” I shut my mouth. I needed to stay quiet in case I was to let anything slip. “You’re worse than Abelard. You’re a goddamn traitor.”

“Clare
?” He faltered at her name.

The anger was helping kick-start my adrenaline.
I just needed a few minutes alone to try to free myself. Where the hell were Ryan and the rest of the Paris police?

“So you’re work
ing for Sparky now? Son-of-a-bitch would take you out in a heartbeat if he thought you were going to turn on him. Then again, you turn on everyone, just like a rabid dog.” I didn’t think I would be able to win him over to my side, and even if I did, there was no way I could trust him.

“I
know. Ali, who are you working for? Why aren’t they coming for you?”

“He’s going to kill me.”
I had no other play to make. “It doesn’t matter if he finds out or not. He’s going to kill me.” The words were sinking into my subconscious and becoming a known reality. A random memory of Martin interrupted my thoughts, but I pushed it aside. “Why should I make his life easier?”

“I am sorry
. I’ll do as much as I can.” He headed toward the double doors.

“Think about Clare,” I called after him.
For all I knew, she was on the other side of those doors, working with Abelard too, but she was the only weakness I knew to exploit. Jean-Pierre didn’t respond as he continued out of the room.

“Okay, Parke
r,” I spoke quietly to myself, “you took all those damn yoga classes for a reason.” Gritting my teeth, I swung my legs back and forth, slowly gaining momentum. My wrists were most unhappy by this, and I tried to lessen the pressure by grasping at the ropes. It didn’t help. Pulling down on my restraints, I let out a slight whimper as I swung my legs up and over, finally gaining enough height to cross my ankles together over the chain.

M
y bound wrists and locked ankles contorted my body into a circle, and I slid my ankles down the chain until they were resting on the hook, just above my hands. Barely, I got my fingertips into the space between my boot and my shin and maneuvered my middle and pointer fingers to find the button securing the knife in place. Pulling downward, I unsnapped the button and grasped the knife. My wrists screamed in protest against the rope, which currently felt as if it were cutting through my bones, but I maintained a firm grip on the knife’s handle. Mission accomplished, I thought, dropping my legs.

S
awing away at the ties holding me in place, if I could get off the hook and on the ground, then I would worry about getting the rope off my hands. As I sawed, I alternated my gaze toward the double doors. Any second, Abelard would be back. It was a sobering certainty. The rope was severely frayed, so to save time, I stopped sawing and tugged as hard as I could. I bit my bottom lip, trying to keep from screaming as the rope gave way, and I crashed to the ground.