Chapter 56
Colcord opened his eyes and saw patches of gray sky above lashing treetops, wondering where he was and what was going on.
His head pounded, and his body felt heavy and wet.
He saw faces and heard voices, and he felt himself being lifted and carried inside, the sky replaced by wooden beams and boards.
He struggled mightily to stay conscious, his mind a swirl of confusion.
His vision swam in and out as he tried to remember how he had gotten here. Jumbled recollections came trickling back and his vision sharpened. He had been worried about Cash—-he had followed her out to Willy Grooms’s cabin—-she was being shot at—-he fired at her attackers—-and then nothing.
Now his carriers dropped him down hard against a cold surface, and the pressure in his ligaments eased. He groaned and tried to sit up, but he was shoved back down and he felt his hands being tied. The sluggishness of semiconsciousness made him weak.
He felt warm wetness trickling down his forehead and into his left eye, and realized it was blood.
His head—-he’d been shot. Winged, maybe.
Adrenaline pumped through him. With a cry, he tried to sit up, but ropes securing his wrists held him back down—-painfully.
He tried to move his legs and discovered they were tied down as well, so tightly he could barely move from his spread--eagle position.
Clarity crawled back, and with it, a realization that he’d been taken prisoner.
He strained to look around. He was inside the Grooms cabin.
There were four of them. One was huge, with long hair, a monster dressed in a camo rain jacket over black robes.
His face was craggy and rough. A monk, apparently.
He was standing next to a thin dry man with glittering black eyes, whose priest’s collar peeked above a down jacket.
Colcord couldn’t understand what they were saying and realized, as his head cleared further, that they were speaking Italian.
The priest was angry and seemed to be calling the shots—-commanding the others in a powerful voice and making sharp gestures as he spoke.
There was blood dripping from his arm—-this was the man he’d hit.
The injury looked like it was to his forearm and, unfortunately, not serious.
Straining against his bonds, Colcord tried to speak, but his mouth wasn’t working, and only a mumble came out.
The rough rope dug into his wrists. He could see the storm had returned in force, sheets of water battering the windows of the cabin, and he realized he was tied down on the same table Willy Grooms had died on.
He wondered if Cash had made it out. He hoped like hell she had.
Maybe she would come back with reinforcements.
Of course, by then, it would be too late for him.
He focused on the others, trying to calm his racing mind.
One was a bald man with thick eyebrows on a shelf of a forehead.
He was pacing from window to window, looking out into the storm.
The other was a tall, lean woman with a scar that ran across her throat—-as if it someone had once tried to kill her, unsuccessfully.
She stood back, watching him with steady dark eyes.
Both had the quick, practiced look of those with military training and were lean and athletic in different ways.
The woman said something in Italian to the priest. He clasped his hands behind his back and approached Colcord. “Where is it?”
Colcord stared. “Where is … what?” he said, managing to get the words out.
At this, the priest turned to the woman with the scar.
“I’m telling you, he doesn’t know.” He turned back to Colcord.
“I’m leaving you with my two compatriots while my monk friend and I track down Agent Cash.
It would be in your best interest to answer their questions.
You know better than anyone what happens to those who refuse. ”
The priest turned and opened the door into the storm, the giant monk stooping to follow him, temporarily letting in the roar and tumult of the wind and trees.
The door slammed, and the scarred woman walked over to Colcord and stood over him, staring down.
He was alone with only two of them now. His mind began to race, his past military training kicking in as he weighed his options.
If he hurled his weight to one side, he might be able to topple the table over.
But that was hopeless; he’d still be tied to it.
His sidearm had been taken, and he could see the two killers were both armed, guns in their waistbands.
He would be shot before he could do anything.
He had to stall them, somehow … if anything, to give Cash time to get away.
The woman smiled, and it was not pleasant. “One more time. The artifact,” she said in a slightly accented voice. “Do you have it?”
He shook his head.
The lean woman shook her head, straightening. “Does the big woman have it?” Her eyes gleaming in the twilight like those of some creature of the night.
Colcord knew that no matter what he said, they would kill him in the end.
His only hope was delay. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his eyes glancing to the cabin windows.
He wriggled his wrists again. There was no chance there: The ropes were tight and cut into his skin.
He was finished; that was clear enough. He tried not to think about it.
Cash might just escape them and survive.
The bald man stepped forward, fury playing across his features. “I’m telling you, he doesn’t know anything, and this is a waste of time.” He pulled out a gun and pressed it into Colcord’s ear.
Colcord had always wondered how he’d react in a situation like this. Now he knew. He was scared shitless. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of showing it, though. He took a deep breath to ease his quickening pulse, trying to clear his mind. He had to stall.
“Wait. Hold on. Are you asking about the alien artifact?”
“What do you know?” said the bald man. “Where is it?”
Colcord tried to think. Now the muzzle dug so hard he could feel it cutting his skin.
“Wait,” said the woman. “Not yet. There’s another question we need to ask.” She leaned over Colcord. “Where is Krikor Khachatryan?”
Jesus, Colcord’s head swam. Was that the guy behind Paradox, that Cash mentioned? Was there a reason not to answer, a reason to protect the man? He couldn’t think of one. “Portugal.”
“Portugal? Where?”
Shit, where was it? “The mountains.”
“The mountains? What mountains?”
The gun dug in.
“Give me a moment,” said Colcord. Where was it Cash had told him? He couldn’t recall. “I’m trying to remember.”
The bald man swore. “He’s wasting our time.”
“No,” said the woman sharply. “He knows where Khachatryan is. I could see it in his eyes: He knows. We’ll make him remember. Get out the boot.”
Colcord stared as the bald man retrieved an ancient wooden box from one of the packs, laying it on the kitchen counter.
With practiced movements, he opened the lid and began to lay its contents on the tile: a pair of plyers, a set of tweezers, a bone saw, some things he wasn’t sure what they were, and what he was pretty sure was an eyeball scoop—-still covered in what looked like dried blood.
Lastly, she reverently lifted out something Colcord recognized: an iron contraption, crude but all polished up and gleaming.
She opened it, exposing wicked rusted spikes on the inside. The infamous Spanish boot.
“My deputies are on their way up here now.” Colcord tried to project his voice with strength. “If any harm comes to me, the FBI will be on you like a ton of bricks. You won’t get away with this.”
“You’re lying,” the woman responded. “We followed Agent Cash up here. She came alone. You followed. Alone.” She added, “We know more about you than you think.”
Colcord could feel the bald man removing his hiking boot and sock.
He tried to jerk his leg away, but the rope had no slack and chafed painfully on his ankle.
He felt the cold grip of iron as well as tiny pinpricks that tickled the bottom of his foot.
He could feel the leather straps tightening around his calf.
“Where is Khachatryan?” the woman asked pleasantly. “You said Portugal. Where?”
Even if he did remember, Colcord had no intention of telling them. They were going to kill him anyway, and he was done talking. He was a sheriff, entrusted with protecting people. He’d been trained for this. Even if decades had passed, it stayed with you.
“I can’t remember.”
The woman nodded at the man, and Colcord heard the squeak of an iron screw and felt a sudden pressure mounting around his shin.
Another squeak, and suddenly the feeling of dozens of cold needles boring into the sole of his foot radiated throughout his body.
He stiffened and suppressed a scream, focusing on a whorl in the wood above his head.
The pain eased to a hot throb. Colcord felt wetness on the sole of his foot.
“Where is he?” the woman said.
“Fuck. You,” Colcord said, and successfully kept his voice from shaking.
The bald man’s brow furrowed.
“Give it another turn,” said the woman.
That hideous rusty squeak sounded again, and the pressure on Colcord’s shin mounted to an unbearable level, the sole of his foot on fire with an insane amount of pain. Colcord gritted his teeth against an involuntary, guttural scream, but couldn’t hold it in, and he heard himself roar.
The woman smiled and held out a palm to the man. The mounting pressure stopped, but the agonizing pain continued. The coppery smell of blood filled the air.
“This can stop, if you tell us where Khachatryan is,” the woman said.
“I don’t know,” Colcord gasped. He wondered what his foot looked like. Hopefully not a mangled mess like the others’. Nothing felt like it had broken yet, at least. He supposed it didn’t matter—-all things considered.
The bald man said, “We’re wasting time. He doesn’t know. Maybe we’ll get what we need from the other one.”
“Fine,” said the woman. “Do it.”
The bald man brought out his gun again.
“I’m Catholic,” Colcord managed to gasp.
She laughed. “Oh, please. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“I’m Catholic. You can’t just kill me like this. You’re not going to give me last rites like the others?”
The bald paused from checking his gun, head cocked. “You’re full of shit.” He raised it.
Colcord wracked his brains for something Catholic to say, something, anything.
“Hail Mary, full of grace …” he gasped. How did it go?
The bald man exchanged a glance with the woman.
“Keep going,” the woman said.
“Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death.”
“That’s not right,” said the bald man.
“I’ve forgotten it,” said Colcord. He tried to calm his breathing.
He was surprised at how afraid he was of death.
A vision of Cash, nose red, cranky, and bundled up against the cold, flared across his mind’s eye.
He had to delay. He had to make sure she had gotten away.
“I was baptized Catholic. And I believe …” He choked up, unable to finish.
There was a sudden silence. Then the man swore. “We don’t have time for this.”
“Are you really willing to take that risk?” Colcord said. “It would be a mortal sin on you to deny me last rites. God sees and knows all.”
The woman scowled, the scar on her throat twisting and enflamed. “Ready the viaticum to assist him on his journey. Hurry up.”
The man swore again but did as she said, retrieving a packet of wafers with the Baby Jesus on them and a chalice, which she poured wine into.
The woman placed the host on his tongue, and Colcord took it.
He then felt the cold press of a chalice rim against his lips, the sweet Communion wine spilling into his mouth. He swallowed, playing along with the charade.
The woman made the sign of the cross and began to pray in Latin.
Colcord listened to the pattering of the rain outside, desperate for the sound of footsteps.
Maybe Cash had escaped and was bringing the cavalry.
But no, it was only the fervent wish of a condemned man.
There hadn’t been nearly enough time for that.
She took some oil on her thumb and anointed his forehead, saying more prayers in Latin. The seconds dragged on, Colcord straining his ears for any sign of Cash. After two minutes, the woman finished her prayers.
Colcord could see concern play across the man’s face.
“Brother Gregory’s been gone a long time,” said the man, staring out the window. “Hurry up. Get the embalming kit ready. Quickly.”
Brother Gregory—-at least Colcord had finally identified one of the killers. A lot of good that would do him.
The bald man paced from window to window as the woman opened a black case and began to take out various tools and lay them out.
Colcord tried to keep from panicking. They were going to embalm him alive.
He knew from the investigation that the next step in the process would be the one that killed him.
The chemical smell of embalming fluid filled his nose as he heard the clinking of bottles she was arranging next to him, laying out rubber hoses and instruments.
The woman then retrieved a scalpel from the black case.
It glinted wickedly in her hand. Her beady eyes gleamed in the light from the window, the angry pink scar across her neck looking like a writhing snake in the shifting shadows. She leaned over him.
Colcord felt the pressure of her fingertips, and the tip of the blade bit into his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the end.