CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR #4
Lachlan keeps his reactions firmly locked down whenever they bring Roman in. Craig Fenwick isn’t especially intelligent, but he’s observant. Lachlan doesn’t want to give him any excuse to downgrade Roman’s status from HVT to a pressure point for interrogation.
Roman only speaks Russian, never a word of English. No one on Fenwick’s team speaks Russian. From what Lachlan sees, both Roman and Mikhail play the part of pathetic rich people very well. Sorrenko is more seriously hurt, beaten within an inch of his life, cut and even burned.
It’s sloppy work, really.
Blood-loss in this heat, not smart at all.
The idiots from the adjacent safe room couldn’t go twelve hours without water, apparently.
They opened the door to their side and surrendered easily.
Thomas Whitlock started barking orders when they dragged him up into the mansion.
He insisted he was in charge, that the attackers would only get paid if he was taken care of.
Lachlan didn’t trouble himself to warn Whitlock that establishing credibility with a spare was a very likely move.
He still remembers the way that fucker looked at Jules.
Quite a spurt.
A single bullet ended his life forever.
Their focus is getting into the safe room that’s still locked.
Fenwick’s team still haven’t found the ventilation access.
The island is small, but combing three square miles in search of the vent exit will take a long time. These men are impatient, unprofessional and sloppy.
The Moroz Front, whatever else, are professionals.
And they were Sorrenko’s all this time. It’s the kind of thing where it was so obvious it just didn’t seem like it would be Sorrenko, like it was too obvious to be—
Someone slaps him.
‘He’s slipping again.’
‘I think,’ Fenwick says, accent thick, ‘they’re all getting thirsty.’
The formerly beautiful mansion is now open-plan mayhem. Blood on broken glass, the bodies in the pool become a feast for the local wildlife and twined with the heat, the smell is unbearable.
The Delacroix twins are tied the same way Lachlan is.
Hands behind their backs, wrists zip-tied.
Lachlan’s boots were taken along with all hostages shoes, so any runners won’t get far.
The glass is everywhere. The stench of death is everywhere.
The massacre in the pool got so bad yesterday that the commandos dragged the bodies to the beach and tossed them into the sea.
Lachlan is on the floor in only his pants, no shirt or jacket. Cuts, bruises and fractures are all easy to ignore, but the sun is roasting him alive.
Soon, Danya will come with help.
That’s what Lachlan holds onto, that’s what he tells himself.
He trusts Danya despite what Sorrenko said.
Lachlan simply being near to the twins exposes him to all kinds of information that’s unworthy of processing.
He learns much of what he already knew about their relationship, their beliefs, corruption and disloyalty.
It would be satisfying in any other context to see them reduced to sobbing children, snot and tears and piss in the corner.
From what Lachlan has gleaned, the people holding them are definitely a private contract team, but their main objective is murky.
They’ve gone rogue at least in part due to Fenwick.
And he knows they’re working with Wake, the photographer.
It’s Wake who pointed everyone out by name, the one who spoke through the safe door to the morons inside and convinced them to come out, told them there was water and that the people holding them were reasonable.
One side believed it and the other didn’t.
‘That one,’ Wake told them, pointing to Lachlan yesterday (day before?), ‘is smart. Keep your eyes on him.’
So they do.
There’s always someone nearby with a gun.
But it’s not only humans nearby now.
In the absence of staff to maintain the place, wildlife slowly moves in.
The crabs come first, heedless of how many times they’re kicked away, they can’t be discouraged. Land crabs and a few ghost crabs at night, Lachlan knows them by the light clip-clop of their claws on the destroyed marble.
The snakes come next, their bright eyes darting around with interest. They are opportunistic little heat seekers and Lachlan likes the way their scales catch the light, prettier than the manufactured rainbows of this now ruined menagerie.
They keep to the sidelines, tracing baseboards and broken marble seams. Most are small and Lachlan doesn’t really know much about snakes, but he knows pit vipers when he sees them.
Lizards draw attention running along what remains of the walls, their green and brown bodies exploring confidently until they sense danger and then freeze as if stillness makes them invisible.
Lines of ants appear after scouts report back.
Cockroaches reclaim where they were forced out.
Beetles investigate with open curiosity.
Flies swarm around the pool even without the bodies.
The rats only come at night.
Lachlan finds it oddly beautiful, especially the snakes.
Balance. Nature. It all reminds him of his little girl.
Does she think he’s hurt?
Does she worry?
Is he even overdue?
Lachlan can’t remember.
The sun is overwhelming, the lack of water disorienting.
Jules is safely underground where it’s cooler. Roman did as Lachlan asked, he filled what he could with water, but it won’t last forever.
In death, Thomas Whitlock brings the wildlife of Sable Key into the area, and the Delacroix twins watch with shocked revulsion as the body of a once powerful man is reclaimed by nature.
Lachlan’s arms are bound behind his back, no chair, he’s just on the floor atop broken glass scattered around like thick, raw chunks of manmade crystal, prettier broken than it ever was whole.
He estimates there are twenty units minimum.
Jules and Savannah are safe.
Alistair is a selfish pragmatist. Lachlan trusts him to conserve resources, and Ariadne’s bed seemed to be self-sufficient for life support.
Lachlan still has no fucking clue what was going on in the blue room, but he can take a wild guess it was something along the lines of a blood transfusion. These fucking monsters quite literally eat their young it seems. The bad feeling remains in his gut but there are others to contend with now.
‘Please,’ Madeline Delacroix begs of Fenwick. ‘Please let us have water. Anything you want. Money. We have so much—’
A soldier punches her in the mouth, and she sobs on the floor.
Lachlan stays quiet, knows better than to ask for anything.
A crunch point looms on the horizon for him in terms of water. They’ll either decide he’s useless or accept that he needs some to survive. He has a nasty, niggling suspicion about how they’ll administer the water, though.
And maybe somewhere else, Lachlan could push four days without water away from the heat and sunlight, but the island is practically under a magnifying glass. His skin is already sunburnt. His body is scorched and there’s no shade to be had where they keep him.
Exposure is brutal.
‘Your money means nothing,’ Fenwick tells her. ‘Bring them in.’
Lachlan stays outwardly neutral, but his insides tighten.
He has a feeling they’re about to up the ante. Wake comes in with Mikhail and Roman, flanked on either side. Roman keeps his gaze down, lip split, black eye. He’s visibly dehydrated like everyone else but otherwise not too bad.
Sorrenko is brought in next, limping badly, covered in tacky blood that won’t dry in this humidity. One of the remaining medics, wearing formerly white scrubs, now a patchwork quilt of red and brown, is brought in with Richard Vale, whose face is a red mess, jaw dislocated.
Fenwick’s boots crunch atop glass as he circles, surveying everyone.
‘So, who’s thirsty?’
‘Please,’ Vale begs in a dry rasp. ‘Please.’
‘I think,’ Craig says, playing silent eenie meanie but Lachlan knows exactly where it’ll land, ‘we’re gonna see how thirsty… the bodyguard is.’
Lachlan is dragged up while the others complain loudly. Lachlan briefly catches Sorrenko’s eye, can’t sign or speak, he just shakes his head minutely.
Two men drag Lachlan to the nearest strip of beach. It’s rough and unattractive, littered with beach weeds and debris from the storm. This isn’t the lovely slice of paradise with netted waters and combed sand.
The waves are tantalisingly blue.
Lachlan’s tongue is thick and dry, head pounding.
‘So,’ Fenwick says when they reach the waves. ‘Feeling chatty today?’
They trained him for drown resistance in RB, but it’s only useful to a point because there’s nothing you can do to calm your body once it knows it’s drowning. Waterboarding is terrifying.
Two men keep guns trained on him while Fenwick kicks him onto his back in the sand, surveying from above. He’s holding a bucket and a towel.
It’s only water.
Blaire said water is God, or God is water.
‘Or are you gonna make work for it?’
Lachlan slows his breathing, wills his heart to calm. ‘Guess.’
The towel is forced over Lachlan’s face.
The bucket is filled with saltwater.
Fenwick chuckles. ‘I hoped you’d say that.’
?
Lachlan can’t remember what he said.
Maybe it’s better that way.
Night rolls around and his stomach hurts from throwing up, and his throat burns from choking, and his lungs are sore from drowning. They drag him back into the mansion and throw him face down on the glass.
Roman is there.
No Sorrenko, no Vale.
The twins are huddled in a corner, both passed out.
‘Lock?’ the boy whispers. Lachlan hears shuffling, hears the tinkle of glass as Roman knee-walks closer. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Ngh,’ Lachlan manages. Broken shards dig into his bare chest, but his body is so fucking hurt from all the dry-drowning he barely feels it. ‘Ro?’
‘What did they do?’
Outside, there’s a fire.
Lachlan hears the crackle pop, the silky roar of flames licking wood.
‘Y’all right?’ he utters, mouth uncooperative.