Bait (22 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-Three

G
AB
E
BROWSED
THE
aisles of the supermarket, looking for tidbits that might appeal to Christina. He was frustratingly unfamiliar with her tastes, although he could confirm a fondness for strawberries and whipped cream, as cliché as it was.

“Kan ik u helpen iets te vinden?”
A young woman stood in front of him, wearing a red checked apron and an inviting smile.

Gabe shook his head. “Don't understand.”

“Ah. I asked if I may help you find something?” Her look suggested she would help him find what
ever
he was looking for.

“No, thanks. I got it.” He gave her a brief smile and turned away.

“Häagen-­Dazs ice cream is on sale at the moment. The mint chip is especially tasty.” Somehow she had crept closer. Gabe looked her over. Blonde and curvy, but too young for him. Besides, now all he could see was Christina as he'd left her, curly mahogany hair spread across the pillow and a minx's smile on her lips. He briefly thought about finding a specialty store and picking up some handcuffs and strawberry-­scented massage oil, but that would take too long, and he was anxious to get back to her.

“I'm good. Thanks.” This time, he turned and walked away. She did not follow.

He did browse to the proper section and picked up a box of condoms. They'd made short work of the two he carried. He wanted her exactly where she was—­naked and in his bed. Maybe he should reconsider the handcuffs. If he did, though, he suspected she'd turn the tables on him fast, and have him tied to the headboard and at the mercy of her pleasurable torment. He paused to consider that, and discovered the thought turned him on. Straddling him. Moving on top of him as he strained upward . . .

His cell phone rang. He pulled it out eagerly, hoping it was Christina. No such luck.

“Trevor. What's up?”

“I've got bad news,” Trevor said, and suddenly Gabe was all business.

“Tell me.”

Trevor's voice was calm enough, but Gabe heard the thin edge. “The third guy folded. Once he realized he'd been left high and dry, he spilled his guts. He claims they had nothing to do with Émile Bonnet. He maintains he was as surprised as anyone when Jansens fired at them. He didn't even know Jansens wasn't with us.”

Oh, shit.

“They were separate groups,” he said flatly. He'd suspected as much.

Now they knew.

“Did he say who he worked for? Or why they attacked her?”

Trevor whistled through his teeth. “Here's the bad news, mate. The three men were a mix of Iraqi and Ukrainian enforcers, working for a man by the name of Fedyenka Osinov. That name mean anything to you?”

“The smuggler from Baghdad. Christina killed his brother.” He searched his memory. “Yuri.”

“Yes. My team went in and yanked them out of there. It was a little too close for comfort.”

“Is Christina in danger?” How could he sound so calm when he wanted to rip someone's head off?

“I'd have to say yes. Fedyenka Osinov is wily and dangerous, with a wide network of contacts. If he knows Christina killed his brother, he'd never stop until he extracts revenge.”

Gabe dropped his shopping basket and ran for the door. The girl in the checked apron gave him a strange look as he rushed past. No doubt he looked nearly as deranged as he felt. Nothing mattered except getting to Christina and keeping her safe.

Christina had told him Fedyenka saw Christina shoot Yuri in the stomach. Now his men were here, in Concordia. These same men must have been behind Christina's mysterious panel van in Washington, D.C., and they must have followed her here, to Parvenière. Ronnie hadn't been the only target.

Had Ronnie ever been the target?

He broke every speed limit getting back to the safe house. He was out of the car and running up the walk even before he shoved the car into park. Nearing the front door, he slowed, crouching, sliding to one side of it and pulling his Glock.

Shit. It was ajar.

Carefully, he placed his hand flat on the door and pushed it open a few inches. The silence scared the crap out of him. If Christina were inside, she would be struggling, fighting, making noise. The silence meant that she was either no longer inside, or . . . he could not make himself think it.

Without hesitation, for he knew the house would be empty, he went through and cleared each room. As he entered the kitchen, he observed everything at once—­a coffee cup shattered on the floor. The bowl of plastic fruit from the counter sat upside-­down on the linoleum, two apples and some grapes strewn nearby. And a body by the open back door.

He holstered his Glock. Christina was gone.

And there was blood on the floor.

 

Chapter Twenty-Four

C
HRISTINA
CAME
AWAKE
abruptly, hacking and choking as water rushed into her nose and mouth. A blurry man set a bucket down next to her and retreated a few feet. She tried to raise her arms to wipe the water from her face, and discovered her hands were tied to the arms of a chair. So were her feet. She yanked and pulled.

Blinking her eyes rapidly to free them from water, she stopped tugging and looked up. Her gaze immediately found the man sitting in a chair across from her. The chair was identical to hers; a straight-­backed teak dining room chair with a blue-­and-­green patterned cushion. Unlike hers, however, his had no arms. Why did she notice such trivialities? Why note his Burberry slacks and dress shoes, with a suit jacket hanging neatly nearby?

Because she didn't want to look at his loose, jaundiced skin. His heavy face, his double chin. His thick brows, or the bags under his eyes.

His eyes, black with hatred.

Adrenaline kick-­started her heart and sent her stomach plummeting. Her gasping breaths sluiced more water into her lungs, and she coughed again. She tested the restraints on her arms. Anything to avoid looking at him.

Fedyenka Osinov.

He contemplated her, saying nothing, not a twitch of emotion on his face. Just the burning malice in his eyes. Somehow, that frightened her more than rage would have. They looked at each other for endless moments.

“Untie me.”

Christina broke first, uttering the words as a command, as defiance. It amused him. His eyes crinkled at the corners, though his mouth did not even twitch.

Instead, he nodded to the man who'd thrown water on her. Stas Noskov. She remembered him from Baghdad. He was a forty-­year-­old brute of a man, with broad, heavy features and pulled-­down brows. His hair, beating a fast retreat from his forehead, was buzzed close to his scalp. He'd been a boxer, but now he was fat over muscle, with piggish eyes and fists as big as hams.

Without changing expressions, he backhanded her across the face.

Pain exploded in her cheek, radiating up through her neck into her skull. Blood filled her mouth and ran down her face where his big iron ring cut her. She waited for the pain to ease, head hung. When she could, she spat the blood from her mouth. She tried to reach Fedyenka, but he was too far away. Someone laughed.

Turning her head, Christina saw an eerily familiar face. Anger burst through the terror, and she glared daggers at him, loathing stamped baldly onto her features. She'd been flanked, and had been Tased into near unconsciousness before he clapped a cloth over her mouth that smelled of sweet acetone, antiseptic, and sweat. He'd held it there while her vision blurred and her hearing faded.

Then she'd blacked out.

Now Shay Boyle grinned at her as though they were old friends meeting on the street for coffee. “Hey, Chris. How're things?”

“Did you sell out Interpol for money?” she asked. “Is it as simple as that? No ideology except cash, no allegiance to your country or any other?”

Shay shrugged. “Nothing's ever simple. You should know that, Chris.”

She blanched. “Don't call me that.”

“That's right,” he said. “It's Christina, right? Christina Madison, of the CIA.” He drew out the letters slowly, punctuating each letter. “Not Chris Barlow from Chicago.”

He drew a knife from a sheath at his hip and began to toss it end over end. Flip, flip, flip. She knew that blade. It was eight inches from end to end, sleek and sharp and deadly. His habit of tossing and catching it by the hilt each time had annoyed her. Whether a nervous habit or from boredom, she'd never found out.

Fedyenka stirred and rose, displeased at being ignored. His sagging body had seen better years. He was a bear of a man and while most of his muscle had turned to fat years ago, his arms were still huge. He came to stand in front of her, forcing her to crane her neck back to look up at him.

“You killed my brother,” he said, so low she had to strain to hear. Rage buzzed in his voice. Like Gabe, it dropped when he was angry.

Gabe. Poor Gabe. He was going to return from his trip to the grocery store and find her gone. He'd know she hadn't left of her own accord when he saw the mess. She'd ripped anything she could from Stas as they'd struggled, but she didn't know whether or not it would help Gabe.

“You killed Yuri,” Fedyenka said again, almost monotone.

“He was a criminal,” she said, trying to sound brave. “And you are a criminal, all of you. You belong in jail.”

Shay laughed again. “There's nothing to connect me to any of this. I'm Interpol. After this, I go right back to Baghdad and pick up where I left off.”

“You're shit. I'll know.” If I'm alive, she thought. One look at Fedyenka's face, though, and she knew the truth. She wasn't leaving this room.

“You pretended to be fucking Princess Veronica pretty good,” Fedyenka said, staring down at her. “If I hadn't already known what a lying bitch you are, I might have been fooled. 'Course, now you look like the cunt you are.”

With her bare feet tied to the legs of the chair and the overlarge shirt sliding off one shoulder, she felt vulnerable. And sick at heart.

She should have told Gabe she loved him.

“Véronique.”

“What?” This time his voice was whip-­thin, lashing her.

“Véronique. Her name. It's not Veronica.”

Fedyenka leaned down and grabbed a fistful of Christina's hair at the crown of her head, yanking her head back brutally. “Do I look like I give a shit about her name?”

Christina blanched. Fury banked in his eyes, ready to spring forth like a serpent.

He released her hair with a shove and returned to his seat, breathing heavily.

She took her eyes off him long enough to glance around. The structure probably had been a barn at one time. It stood roughly forty feet long and maybe thirty feet wide. Made of timber and brick, it had clearly seen better days. The wood warped and curled; the mortar crumbled around the bricks. Ivy climbing the outside poked tendrils through the windows. Stalls had been ripped out to make room for farm equipment, leaving marks along the floor, but only an old thresher remained.

When he'd gotten himself back under control, Fedyenka nodded and gestured to Shay, who went to the table. Christina looked at it for the first time. Her heart stuttered.

A large car battery sat in the center of the table, attached to some sort of control box with a manual dial. Long thin wires connected the box to a wand with a bronze tip and an insulated handle. Shay picked up the wand and held it out for her inspection.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked, smirking.

Fearful she did, fearful she understood why she'd been doused with water, she looked back at Fedyenka. He hadn't moved.

It was an electric cattle prod.

“My team will find me,” she said, trying for brave.

“Don't count on it,” Fedyenka said. “No one even knows I'm in Europe. I rented this farmhouse through my lawyers for cash, under one of my aliases.”

Christina worked some moisture into her mouth. “Where . . . where are we?”

“In Concordia, still. In Brodeur, as it happens. Plenty of farmland, plenty of places to hide.”

Christina felt a pang of despair. How would Gabe find her? She didn't doubt he'd try, but he'd never find her. There would be no cavalry to rescue her this time.

“Now. What did you tell the CIA about me? My operation?”

Spurred by a sudden spurt of courage, she glared. “Everything. They know everything.”

Fedyenka nodded to Stas Noskov, who flipped a switch on the machine on the table. A low hum filled the room. Shay swaggered over to her, holding the wand in front of her eyes and waving it to and fro. She tried to swallow, but her mouth felt like the Sahara.

“This is called a picana,” Fedyenka said, crossing one ankle over his knee. “It's got advantages over Tasers and cattle prods. Wanna know what they are?”

Christina looked around the room for anything that could help her escape. Maybe if she appealed to Shay's greed? “I can double what he's paying you,” she said a touch desperately.

Shay grinned at her. “Doubt it.”

“My business is damned profitable, despite your fucking interference. You cost me a helluva lot of money, though, and I intend to take it out of your hide. Literally, you bitch.”

Stas Noskov leered down at her, pulling the collar of the shirt out and peering in at her breasts. She spit at him. He slapped her, then grabbed the collar and ripped. It tore to her shoulder, baring skin from her neck to her biceps. Fedyenka nodded again, and Shay touched the tip of the wand just above her collarbone.

She screamed.

 

Chapter Twenty-Five

G
ABE
FOUGHT
AGAINST
unfamiliar feelings of helplessness and despair. He'd felt rage many times in his life, but never ­coupled with panic.

He dialed Mace. Straight to voice mail, which meant the team had already gone wheels up. The hand holding his cell phone shook. Had they hurt her when they took her? Were they hurting her now?

He combed through the house, looking for anything that would tell him where Fedyenka Osinov had taken Christina. He found a ­couple of brown buttons, a torn receipt, and a pair of broken sunglasses in the kitchen. Even in the midst of his anguish, he experienced a flash of pride. Christina had been trying, even as she fought for her freedom, to give him a clue.

The receipt was for a Q8 petrol station in a place called Brodeur, Concordia. It was faded, blurry. He squinted hard.

He pressed a speed-­dial on his cell phone.

“As I live and breathe. Archangel. To what do I owe . . .”

“Stephanie, it's an emergency. Christina's been taken.”

“Shit,” Private Stephanie Tams said. “Colonel Granville . . .”

“Tell him later. Right now, I need my team back here yesterday.” He didn't know how much time he had. Maybe none. “Get it cleared.”

“Yes, sir.” Through the phone line, Gabe heard Stephanie yell for someone. “Tell the colonel we're not done in Concordia. And get the team back to . . . where are you, sir?”

“The safe house we stashed the princess at.”

“Got it. Wait one.”

The silence on the phone grated on his already fraying nerves.

“Gabe.” Just by her voice, he knew he wasn't going to like what she had to say. “Colonel Granville won't authorize the plane to turn around. They've got a live mission. Don't tell anyone I said so, but you're going to be recalled, too. I'm sorry, sir. You're on your own on this one.”

Fuck and double fuck. He dropped his head into his hand.

But that wasn't going to help Christina. “I found a receipt for a gas station. Pull up a map of Concordia.”

“Done. Where in Concordia?”

Gabe squinted at the receipt. “Place called Brodeur. Zoom in on a gas station at Rue Grande 41.”

“Okay. Using Google Earth. Wait one.”

It couldn't have been more than ten seconds, but it felt like a lifetime until Stephanie said, “Switching to street view. I found the gas station. What now, sir?”

“Okay. I need a map of the surrounding areas. I need isolated areas where he might be holding her. Farmhouses, abandoned castles, windmills. God, I don't know.” The truth was, he couldn't think. His heart was frozen in his chest at the thought of what they might be doing to Christina at this very moment. They would kill her; he had no illusions about that. But Fedyenka Osinov would want revenge for the death of his brother.

Osinov.

“Get back to me, Steph.” He disconnected and dialed Trevor.

“Carswell.”

“Where are you?” He couldn't keep the tenseness out of his voice. “Fedyenka Osinov snatched Christina.”

“Shite. How the hell did he know about the safe house?”

Gabe exhaled hard. “And the timing stinks. They wait until Ronnie's gone to attack? Somehow, some way, they knew Christina was impersonating the princess. They must have been waiting . . . dammit.”

“Breathe, mate. I'm still in Parvenière. Where are you?”

“Still at the safe house, but I'm leaving for Brodeur.”

“I'll meet you there. Ninety minutes.” He paused. “Me, mate. I can't involve my team in an unauthorized mission.”

“Haul ass.” He'd take whatever help he could. “Thanks, man.”

His next call was to the local police.

“Chief Van den Nieuwenhuyzen.”

“I need Federal Police help,” he said. “I need Aart Jansens. Are you still holding him?”

“
Ja
. I can talk to him for you. What do you need?”

“I need his sniper skills. I need a shooter.”

Silence.

Gabe pressed on. “Also, I need him to help me find an isolated area in or around Brodeur. I need information about any houses or buildings that have been rented or leased recently, or have been owned for a long time but unoccupied until recently. Ones where the renter or new owner paid in cash, or went through a broker. Uh, I have to tell you something. About your crown princess.” He briefly closed his eyes. He could go to jail for this. The operation had been classified from the start. But he didn't hesitate one iota as he filled the police chief in. “I have to find Christina soon. She doesn't have long.”

“An interesting tale. And quite the conundrum for you, I suspect. You may rely on my discretion. However, what you ask might take some time,” the chief said.

“Christina doesn't have time,” Gabe practically roared down the phone line.

“I'll use every influence,” the chief promised. “Jansens will cooperate for a reduced sentence.”

Gabe threw himself behind the wheel and pointed the car toward Brodeur.