17. Smith
Chapter 17
Smith
F uck.
Guns open fire as we run. More of them than I thought. The bullets fly through the air, fast and deadly, and we’re out in the open with no way to reach the fucking jungle.
A bullet sings high as it narrowly misses us both, and I manage to squeeze off a shot before she cries out behind me.
Heart slamming, I turn and push Calista to the ground.
I land on top of her, holding her hands over her head on the dirt and covering her body with mine. “Are you hit?”
She shakes her head, eyes wide with fear.
There’re too many gunmen to take risks. She’s too fucking young and inexperienced to thwart them. And whoever they are, they waited very patiently for us to make an exit.
But they’re shitty shots. Because someone less than an expert would have hit her ten times over. Maybe me, too.
Fuuuck.
There’s a tracker in my ring which will provide the Knights with our location. But that’s not my first concern. It’s her. Right now, I have no idea who’s behind this. It could be anyone.
“Stay calm,” I murmur, not daring to move as the corner of the backpack digs into me. “Just?—”
“I’m not a goddamn damsel.”
Her bite and the warmth of her seeps into me. The backpack is half on her, as if she was thinking to use it as a weapon if needed. I know that’s what I’d do. Behind her snapped words, she sounds calm.
We lie on the dirt, the cool of night vanishing from the burn of concern for her well-being. I focus on the voices.
They’re speaking accented, rapid-fire… not Spanish… Portuguese? What the fuck? As the voices ricochet off the trees, I can only pick out a few words.
Then another voice comes in. This one speaks Spanish. Male. Also accented.
“ Estoy buscando al hacker, Hendrix.” Then he shifts. “Do you know him?”
She jerks a little and I move slightly so my legs hold her down.
The butt of a gun slams into my head, sending pain, white and hot. It explodes beneath my skin, along my nerve endings.
“Did I say move?” English is easier for this asshole. Spanish isn’t his first language.
A nasty thought comes to me. We could have been followed since Germany. Hiding my trail wasn’t ever a priority. We took the scenic route to give me more time with her, to get her talking, to dig into details that I should have left alone.
If I was alone, I’d have made it to the jungle.
If I was alone, I’d have fought from within the mission, escaped a different way .
If I was alone, I wouldn’t be in this position.
“I’m not good at following orders,” I say. “Who are you?”
“You seem to be under the mistaken idea you’re in control. You are not.” He bends close, hot breath stale with cigarettes on me as he traces the edge of a knife down along my cheek. “Are you Hendrix?”
Calista moves again. “Don’t say?—”
“What’s it to you?” I ask over the top of her. And then, pushing down on her to keep her in place, I start to rise because I fucking recognize the accent. It’s Bolivian, and?—
Something big hits me so hard, my vision dots with black spots. A pricking sensation pinches my skin. Then the entire world turns black and pain-free.
When I finally wake up, the crushing pain is back in force. It takes all my effort to crack open my eyes. My vision blurs and I can’t focus, so I keep them closed and listen instead.
I’m not alone. There’s someone with me in this dank, dark place. But it’s not cool. It’s humid as fuck with latent heat seeping from above. I’m guessing we’re near the water since it’s so damp, the air can choke me.
But what water?
Where?
Not Central America.
I can’t have been out long enough to be transported by plane to any place too far away. We could be in Cuba. Maybe Jamaica or Mexico. I’m now just naming hot fucking places. What I’d really prefer is Florida. Or… maybe not. Because there are lots of places in the Everglades where you can get rid of bodies.
Shit. Same with Cuba .
My head throbs. The exact spot I got hit—fucking twice—with a gun and whatever else the Spanish and Portuguese-speaking Bolivian used.
The pain cripples me and my ability to think.
I let out a deep, quiet breath.
This isn’t going the way I’d planned.
We’re underground, me and my pretty cellmate who sighs and tells me everything I need to know about her safety. “How long have I been out?”
“A little longer than me.”
I nod, lean back against the cool brick wall, and cross my ankles without opening my eyes again.
Because yeah, it’s her. Knew it as I came to. But knowing she’s okay, that she’s here with me, in the same predicament.
It’s a fucking relief.
I can figure a way out of this.
Whatever the fuck “this” is.
Her being here tells me she’s not working with the people who took us. Not that I thought she was, but it’s good to know for sure.
“Smith, I thought you…”
“Takes more than a whack on the head and some knockout drugs to kill me. Though if you thought I was fucking dead, then you need to go back to spy school. And take some basic dead or alive classes. Forget the first-aid shit. Breathing’s usually an indication of life. Pulse is good too.”
“You’re such a dick.” Her hand settles on my thigh, a burning brand I can’t help but want to lean into.
“You know where we are?”
“They knocked me out, too. An injection. I…” She stops speaking and suddenly, a sharp smack explodes against my face.
I open my eyes and glare at her pretty, scared face .
“There’s food and bottled water, but I didn’t…”
She didn’t eat it. A good rule to follow. So many things could be slipped into food or water. And she knows from experience since I drugged her back at the mission in Belize.
I look around. We’re definitely underground, in a cellar with thick walls and no window to the outside world. I’m guessing we’re in a town or outskirts of a city, one of those places where people can operate unnoticed, but the buildings are close together. This place has that exact feel.
The place smells like earth and brick and the mustiness of being closed in. But it’s also not dirty or full of cobwebs. A clear sign that it’s used.
I look around again. It’s not storage, either. No chairs or boxes or marks on the floor or against the wall to indicate where things might have been kept.
A single bulb on the ceiling casts a pool of light and creeping shadows. I eye the heavy metal door. What I want is to get us the fuck out and lose myself in her.
But the getting out’s an important first step.
I struggle to stand, the pain in my head throbbing with each step I take to reach a bottle of water. The label’s been pulled off, so it’s some brand I’d possibly recognize. Either that or they’re paranoid. Maybe a bit of both.
I twist off the plastic top, take a deep swig, and go to Calista. She looks up at me and it squeezes my chest tight.
She looks impossibly young. Talk about feeling every inch the depraved and dirty old man I am for laying a finger on her. I hold out the water. “Here.”
“I don’t think?—”
“They’re not going to drug it. They want us awake and clear to answer questions.”
Calista’s silent for a long minute, then she takes the bottle I hold out to her. She takes a delicate sip. “How do you know? ”
“Because I’m experienced.”
“Because you’re old?”
A half smile breaks free.
“That, and if they were going to use a truth serum or some other kind of torture—which doesn’t work—they would.”
I hope. Most people haven’t gotten the memo about torture not working on one who doesn’t want to talk.
Some torture works, a little, or when you want to work some aggression off, but… I sweep a glance over her. Apart from the fear, she looks fine.
Although looks can be deceiving. “You okay?”
She hands back the bottle, nodding, but our fingers brush and her fingers are like ice.
Strange when heat seared me at her touch earlier.
Or maybe that wasn’t body heat transference. Maybe it was just the general reaction I have to her. Fuck.
It’s not that I care, apart from having her in one piece to deliver so I can collect. I don’t give a shit that I’m rich. Money’s always good.
Scratch that. Money and secrets are always good. And she has secrets.
Maybe secrets I need.
Especially if they’re about the sick fucks who wanted to do vile things to my daughter.
“You nod but…” I shrug.
She shakes her head and rubs her arms. “I said I’m okay.”
“Are you?” I grab her chin and stare into her eyes. They’re glassy, just a little though. The storm’s receded, and right now, they’re just gray. Apart from those two spots of color, she’s pale.
She smacks my hand away.
“I’m not a child, Smith,” Calista mutters. “This is just a little out of my wheelhouse, okay? ”
“I’m aware. You’re a desk jockey, not field.” I rake my gaze over her, lingering on the soft invitation of her pretty mouth. “Did they say anything to you?”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t really want to deal with hysterics.”
Her eyes snap fire and she rises, fingers sinking into my T-shirt as she grabs it, and I let her pull me in close. “Hysterics.”
“You. Female. Inexperienced. Young.” Somehow, I keep the smile at bay. “Hysterics.”
“I’m not hysterical.” She takes a breath. “And you know it. No, they didn’t say anything. You went limp, and then they stuck me with a needle and I woke up here.” Calista bites her lip. “But Smith… they took the bag with the computer…”
“Hey.” I draw her in, kiss her gently. At first, it’s just meant to be a comforting kiss, but it deepens, twists down into something more and I wish… I draw back.
Her sweet taste is on my lips, in my mouth.
“You said there wasn’t anything on the computer.”
“Just the photos,” she says. “But… with hacking, like with spy work, everything leaves a trace. I should have… I should have destroyed it.”
I turn her words in my head, selecting the right ones.
Calista’s smart. So I go for the truth. But I keep it generic.
I shrug. “I want to know. I’m nosy.”
“I’m your kidnap job.”
“And now we’re here. Who’s after you and why? And why the fuck was someone texting you from Estonia about the Collectors? They were more or less broken apart not too long ago.”
“Are you going to add that you can only help me if I help you?”
“Will it get you talking?” I ask.
“No. ”
I smile. “Here’s what I think’s gonna happen. Soon one of them will come through the door and take me and then you. I’d like to know what I’m up against.”
Her shoulders slump in defeat. “I don’t know anything, nothing more than you. Back in Germany, my field agent said he thought something wasn’t right, so I… I collected bits and pieces. But I haven’t been through them. Haven’t connected the dots.”
They think she has something. Question is, who?
“What about the Collectors?”
She slants me a look. “I don’t know.”
Now that’s a lie, but I keep it to myself.
“But you have suspicions,” I say quietly. “About the weapon.”
“I think it’s more than one person trying to sell stolen blueprints.” She pauses. I can feel her groping for the right thing to say. “And I think it might go deep. Bolivia’s involved. I think the misdirect is to the usual suspects in the Middle East. But… until I can get my data back and go through it, I won’t know.”
She talks, and it’s a whole lot of nothing but I’m fixated on what she let slip, ‘until I get my data back.’ She has it all. In one place.
I draw information from her, switching the subject, talking about her hacker days, entrepreneur sidelines, of a server in Jersey and a cloud full of nothing, and apps she hasn’t released.
Any other job, and I’d let it go. I’d have taken her back right after the show at the art event. And then I wouldn’t have thought of it ever again. She knows nothing about the pieces on the black market that have already been made. And the weapon is not exactly my business. Just the hefty windfall for her pretty little head.
But Bolivia and the Collectors and the sex trafficking? Combine all that with interested parties coming into the picture along with a new weapon?
It’s definitely of interest to the Obsidian Knights.
And I can’t rely on them busting through that the door. What I need is a plan, and?—
The door creaks open and a big, tattooed asshole in need of a shower and a shave comes inside the space. His eyes light up at the sight of Calista.
It makes my blood turn to acid.
The guy grabs her by her hair and hauls her up from the floor, making her yelp. It takes everything I have to not move. To not wrestle the gun from him and kill him for daring to touch her.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” the big goon says, his hand stroking over her as he holds her tight by the hair.
Her lips are firmly pressed together, and her body vibrates with anger and fear. It’s so strong I can almost smell it.
The asshole’s hand grabs a tit, squeezing, making her wince. There’s a fine line between pleasure and pain. Exquisite, delightful.
In game mode.
With a willing partner.
The line between good pain and bad is a fucking rift. And he’s on the wrong side.
“Maybe I take her and make her talk. What do you think?” he says, his rough beard grazing against Calista’s cheek as he rubs it with his own.
“I say stop touching her.”
“Or what?” The guy’s hand moves lower and starts to touch her cloth-covered pussy. My vision bleeds red.
I want to rip his balls off, filet his damn cock. I want to poke the fucker’s eyes out and cut out his tongue. But first I want to cut off each fucking finger that touches her, that brings the gleam of tears to her eyes.
“Or,” I say, trying to hold my temper, ready to take a gamble on what I’m about to say next since I don’t know what the hell is even happening. “I won’t give you what you want to know, because after a little chat with the girl, now I know where the blueprints for the weapon are.”