Chapter 20
“Fear makes the wolf bigger than he is.” ~German Proverb
Gwen
Honey-buns, you are so fucked. My shoulder angel’s negativity makes me wish, just this once, I could shut her down.
The soft breeze that caresses the sun-speckled vegetation should be inviting. Instead, I shake as I stand with the other passengers on the weathered airstrip. In the shade of a thick canopy of maple trees we watch the captain taxi Ledbetter’s Lear jet under a camouflaged hanger.
After four-legged robots pull green plastic netting over the runway's length, we turn toward an engine’s whine. Anticipating our ride’s arrival, the five thugs, Ledbetter, and the pilot grab their bags. Finally, an airport limo exits the Grimms Brothers’ woods.
As I am about to hop in the back, my abductor clamps onto my upper arm. “Should you try to run, the local authorities will catch you. They will have no qualms about raping you before they hand you over to the Russians.”
No wonder the FBI hasn’t been able to arrest my new employer. He’s in Putin’s back pocket.
If he thinks his bullying can scare me, he is in for a massive surprise. Reaching deep, I pull out my project manager's no-nonsense voice. “I came here of my own free will. Before I begin my research, I need to verify my husband received your video.”
He drags his focus away from his phone screen and shows me a newspaper headline. Charges Dropped. Wulf Released.
Relief whooshes out my lungs, and as I climb into the vehicle, I pat myself on the back. The only thing left to do is capture the arms dealer and escape.
Piece of cake.
Five minutes later, we exit the thick forest and stop at an enormous iron gate surrounded by a six-foot stone, barb-wire-topped fence. For a moment, I fear my liberators will be unable to scale the heights. The obvious solution would be for me to open the entryway, but how?
As I ponder this dilemma, the driver winds between well-manicured trees and a maze of lush gardens where exotic birds squawk. At a hilltop, we pass an eighteenth-century immense mansion complete with carriage house.
Behind these cheerful edifices lies a windowless, one-story cement building, reminiscent of a bomb shelter. Cameras on poles point at the rusty, double-hinged door.
Exiting the limo, Ledbetter walks me to a security panel to the right of the entrance. “Put your eye to the glass center.”
Nose squished on the cold, musty wall, I focus on an inner red light. After it flashes, electronics beep.
Smiling, my reptilian captor types into the numbered keypad. When done, solenoids click, the massive metal opens, and in front of me stands a grim-faced gray-haired woman wearing a colorful babushka and a black knit dress.
“I'll leave you to it.” When the terrorist turns on his heels, I almost run after him.
Surely, he isn’t going to abandon me here. Where is my team? My laptop? The specifications? The last person’s project plan?
The Russian grandmother utters three words in a foreign language while I begin to panic.
As I drop my jaw to say I don’t understand, an artificial voice translates from a speaker overhead. “Follow me.”
Reciting the periodic table under my breath, I traipse over the dull brown linoleum tiles, lit by harsh fluorescent lights. Every ten feet or so, I pass an office door where zombie-faced people stare at their screens.
“This is your lab.” The gloomy scarf lady shuffles away after the AI device speaks her words.
I have so many questions, and it all becomes clear when I sit at my computer and click on the desktop folder labeled READ ME FIRST.
The top of the PDF document contains a picture of my team’s last manager. Expecting the classic headshot, I gasp at the image of him hanging by the neck over the villa’s rose garden.
Why in the world did his people want him dead? Replacing the lead dramatically affects the timeline. Perhaps he was incompetent. Surely, he didn’t deserve to die.
Shaking, my fingers scroll past the image. I tap on the first link, which opens the world’s most popular planning application. In the primary file, I read about delayed shipments and internet outages. Worse yet, the scientists are intent on blaming each other rather than finishing their assigned tasks. Were it not for the looming death sentence, I’d laugh at this classic example of bad management.
Enthused, I dig into blueprints and software designs and read everything. GPS runs on a completely different grid, and disabling it is nothing like my experience with RF weapons.
Fake it until you make it, baby. If I play my cards right, I’ll be rescued before my incompetence shows.
Hours later, Ledbetter taps me on the arm. I must’ve fallen asleep at the computer because my neck aches and my forearms have red marks where I rested my head.
The child-slaver rolls a chair beside me, raises his brows, and scowls. “Impressive.”
What’s going on? Does he want the other team to win?
While I study his face, he reaches for my hand, squeezes so hard my eyes water, and tugs my knuckles to his lips. When he tongues between my fingers’ webbing, I resist the coming wave of puke. Remembering my goal, I allow him to suck my fingers, then turn my head when he tries to kiss me.
Pretending I missed his overtures, I point at my monitor. “These supplies are over three weeks late. If you can get them to us, I’m sure I can have us back on schedule by the end of the week.”
He reaches into his pocket for his reading glasses, peers at my screen, then frowns. “I had no idea. I will see to it.”
“Can you do it now, please?” The urge to run and hide nearly overwhelms me as he pauses for almost a minute and stares.
After dropping his gaze, he stands. “Next time I kiss you, you will not turn your head.”
Swallowing hard, I nod and remember my goal is to survive until I can be rescued.
Wulf, where are you?