Countermeasure (35 page)

Cassandra had pocketed the tools and was heading for the door when a bump against it and the sound of the handle turning caused her heart to race and throat to tighten.
Shit—he was back early!
She rushed further back into the bedroom. With a quick sweep of the room she realized there was no place to hide except under the bed. She dove under it and pulled the bed skirt back into place.

The sound of soft footsteps coming down the short hall sent her scooting up closer to the headboard. Her heart pounded in her chest as she pulled herself into a fetal position, making herself as small as possible. She reached into her pocket as quietly as she could, slid out her cell, and turned it off. A single call would compromise her position.

Cassandra suddenly realized all was silent and no light had been turned on. It was almost as if whoever had entered the room was a figment of her imagination. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end and her scar pulsed in tandem with the blood coursing rapidly through her veins.
Shit!
Did he know she was there? Was he playing cat and mouse? Waiting for her to slip up?

****

Not bad,
Carl thought, walking off the elevator and onto his floor. Things were looking up in a big way. Right after arriving at the casino to try his hand at the tables, he had received a call from a serious buyer. Carl decided it was wiser to have that conversation in private and asked the buyer to call back within fifteen minutes—the time it would take for him to return to the hotel to handle the life-changing call in the privacy of his own room, without any chance being overheard.

He was on a winning streak: a nice, full-expense-paid trip to Europe, his windfall last night at Monaco’s largest casino, and a potential buyer for the formula. He certainly couldn’t complain about his luck.

Carl made it back in record time, with a few minutes to spare. He dropped his jacket on the front chair, tossed the still-unused chips purchased that night, his keys, and phone on the table, and walked through the dark room to the wall-to-wall window. He stood admiring the amazing view of Monte Carlo illuminated in the late hours of the night. He was on top of the world.

He saw a blur of movement reflected in the window and, before he could react, a cold barrel pressed against his temple. His mouth went dry and he instantly lifted his hands out and away from his body, making sure he made no further sudden movement. Seconds ticked as the two of them stood there in the silence. It was clear that whoever held the gun to his head didn’t want him dead right away, otherwise he would have been.

Carl shuffled through the causes that might have led to the position he currently found himself in—Allison’s death, his luck at the tables and the wad he’d left with, the bridges he had burned with a number of clients in the past, and any other number of feathers he had ruffled during his activities—far too many to even attempt to pinpoint the source. One thing was certain: he would have to figure it out before he got rid of the idiot holding the gun.

A voice with a slight, unfamiliar accent finally spoke. “Walk backwards to the chair and sit. Slowly. No rash movements.”

Carl did as he was told. Once seated, he received the next command. “Arms behind the back of the chair.”

Cassandra listened closely and tried to regulate her breathing. Her entire body froze when the door to the hotel room opened again. The second person to enter was not as quiet as the first had been. She heard the door close and what sounded like a wallet and keys being tossed to the table—her first clue that the new arrival had to be Kenyon. Who was the first?
What the hell?
Straining to hear, she tried to picture what was happening.

“Walk backwards to the chair and sit.” A flash of heat rolled over her and she covered her mouth to keep from gasping out loud.

Carl did as he was ordered, anticipating what would come next. It came as no surprise when the man zip-tied his hands behind the chair and his legs to the chair’s. Carl was familiar with the routine; he had used it several times himself.

Once Carl was secured, the intruder turned on the light next to the chair. Carl clinically assessed the man standing before him, looking for flaws he could use to his advantage when they faced off—and they would. The man was unimpressive. Average height and build, dressed in a well-cut suit. It was the coldness of his eyes, the latex gloves, and the clear shower cap over his platinum blond hair that gave Carl pause and had him breaking into a sweat. He quickly understood the gravity of his situation—this was a fight for his life.

To panic at this point wouldn’t do him any good. He needed to stay calm and look for an opportunity to free himself. He would need to be as sharp and deadly as the man in front of him.

Pulling up a chair and sitting in front of Carl, the man crossed his legs and flicked imaginary lint from his pants. He gave Carl a hard, calculating look. “Now we can get acquainted,” he began, as if they were holding a casual conversation by one of the gaming tables in the casino. “My name is Niklas, and you have something I want.”

“The chips are on the table.” Carl nodded to them.

Niklas laughed. “I don’t want your money, Carl.”

Carl’s stomach tightened. There weren’t many people who knew where he was, especially none tied to his past sins. He had only disclosed his whereabouts to a couple of serious buyers he had contacted over the last few days. That meant Niklas had been sent specifically for him.

To stall for time he asked, “What can I possibly have that would be of interest to someone I’ve never met, yet who somehow knows my name?”

“Carl, Carl. No need for games. We both know why I am here. We need to have a serious one-on-one. Let’s talk about Paris.”

Paris. Carl froze.
How does he know about Paris? Not even the police know.
Adrenaline pulsed through his veins and he schooled his expression.

“Ah, Paris. Such a beautiful city. Do you know how hard it is to find a really good burger there?”

Niklas wasn’t amused and barked out, “Cut the crap. Where’s the hard drive?”

“What hard drive?”
Son of a bitch!
There was no way in hell he was letting this asshole take his golden egg.

“Don’t make me work for it, Carl. You won’t want me to, believe me.”

“I have no clue what you are talking about. I would gladly give—” Fire burned through his leg. “Fuck!” Carl yelled, his shoulders slumping forward in pain as he breathed hard through his nose. Lifting his head, he hurled a defiant dirty look at Niklas just as the phone rang. Startled, Carl’s head whipped to the phone on the desk and stared at it helplessly, knowing his future had just slipped through his fingers.

Cassandra held herself as still as possible in her cramped position under the bed. Dread and frustration filled her, knowing there was nothing she could do to help Kenyon. His painful cry drove it home. Her mouth went dry as she recognized the muffled “woof” of a silencer, and knew right away Kenyon had been shot. She itched to help, but was empty-handed and wouldn’t stand a chance if she left her hideout.

She knew that Kenyon was a dead man. Once he caved, Kenyon and Niklas would discover the drive was not in the safe. She pressed her head against the floor and tried to see under the bed skirt to gauge where the two were located, but with no luck. She rested her head back on the rug and stared at the underside of the bed, straining to hear their conversation. The sound of the phone made her heart jump and she prayed it wasn’t Trevor calling to check on her. When the phone was left unanswered and stopped ringing, she muffled a sigh of relief.

“I told you to cut the crap. Now, tell me or I’ll fill you with holes. I can strategically place them to maximize pain without killing you.” Niklas’s tone was cold, calculating, and confident.

His actions and comments confirmed Carl’s worst fears: he was no amateur. Niklas was a masterful professional who wouldn’t give an inch until he had what he wanted. Carl realized his options had been reduced to two: dying a slow, painful death or a quick one.
What a fucking waste this deal had been. All that trouble, all that work, for nothing.

“In the safe,” he gritted through his teeth.

“Combination,” Niklas demanded.

Carl gave him the four digits he had programmed into the safe and watched Niklas walk to the unit, lean down, and open its door. Niklas squatted and looked inside. A curse filled the room. Niklas swung his gun in Carl’s direction and squeezed the trigger. Carl screamed out in pain as a ball of fire slammed into his other leg. Agony filled him as sobs spilled from his lips. Gray clouded his vision, his thoughts blurred, and he gasped for breath.

He prayed that someone, anyone, had heard his yells and had reported them to hotel security. He sucked air through his teeth to try to ease the pain. Images of Allison Davis crowded his mind—the many times she had cried out and called for help. Nobody had helped her. She had died alone. Was that to be his fate, too?

The click of the safe and another muffled shot followed by Carl’s sobs of pain caused Cassandra to cringe. Kenyon’s death warrant had been sealed. Probably long before this evening, but any hope he may have had of escaping evaporated when she had pinched the drive from the safe.
Oh God, I have to do something.
She searched the space under the bed for something she could use as a weapon, but her efforts were futile. There was nothing she could use. She had told Trevor as much: there was nothing anybody could do if someone’s time was up.

“Where is the fucking hard drive?” Niklas ground out as he grabbed Carl by the hair and jerked his head back to face him. The anger on his face punched at Carl and he knew Niklas’s patience hung by a thread.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Carl groaned.

“
Where’s
the fucking hard drive?” Niklas growled.

Carl jerked when the silencer pressed into his groin and a fresh wave of pain radiated from the wounds in his legs. “I told you the truth! It’s in the safe!”

“There’s nothing in there but your fucking passport and money!”

“No! It has to be there!”

“Where did you hide the damn thing?” Niklas barked. “Are you fucking Scottish or something and hid it under the mattress?” he hissed, kicking the bed and lifting the corner of the mattress before letting it drop back into place.

Cassandra’s breath died in her lungs and her body tensed.
Oh God, I’m screwed
, she thought watching the skirt lift. She braced herself, waiting for Niklas to either fall to his knees to look more closely at the bed or toss the mattress and box-spring off completely. When the mattress and bed skirt dropped back into place, she let her breath out slowly.

“I am not lying. I put it in the safe before I left for the casino earlier this evening. It should be there. Check it again!
Check
it again
!”

Niklas walked back to the safe, shoved his hand inside, and pulled out its contents, tossing them at Carl’s feet, “See? No. Fucking. Hard. Drive!”

Carl looked at the items strewn across the rug. His heart beat out of control and his vision grew dim at the reality he faced—the hard drive was gone. It was really gone.

“I don’t understand. It was there! I swear!”

“You need to do better than that, Carl.” Niklas shook his head. With a disgusted smirk he pressed the barrel even tighter against his groin.

Carl tried to pull away from the barrel digging into him. “I am telling you! It was in there when I left. I don’t understand!”

“Where is your partner? The woman.”

The question took him by surprise and Carl spat out, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Niklas turned and walked out of his line of sight. He heard rummaging and then saw Niklas returning with a roll of duct tape and one of his socks.

Carl instantly knew what he was going to do with it and started protesting, “Okay, okay. I killed her in Paris. She’s dead! Shit! Don’t do this!”

“Not the dead one, asshole. I’m talking about the live one. The one you must have handed the hard drive to. I was told you two weren’t connected, but now I’m not so certain. Is she your fuck buddy, perhaps?”

“I am telling you all I know! I have no idea who you’re talking about!” Carl cried out in panic. “You have to believe me! There
is
no other woman!”

Cassandra was stunned and questions spun in her head.
Another woman? Who could she be? Was Carl protecting her? Who gave Niklas information regarding the two?
The rip of what sounded like duct tape and the panic in Carl’s voice snapped Cassandra’s attention back to him and she resisted another urge to move closer.

Niklas stuffed the sock in Carl’s mouth and sealed it shut with the duct tape. He then walked to the little counter and turned on the coffeemaker. Standing beside it, he waited for the warming plate to heat and studied him.

“You’ll tell me what I want to know.” Carl’s eyes bulged when he saw Niklas stick his hand in his jacket pocket and remove a small switchblade, which he then placed on the burner. Several minutes later, he lifted the blade and walked back to Carl.

Muffled sounds of protest came from Carl’s throat and his hope that hotel security would ride to the rescue died. Who had he been kidding? Most of the rooms in the hotel were occupied by gamblers or tourists who were probably still out and about throwing dice. Nobody around to hear his cries.

“Let’s try this again, shall we? Did you have the hard drive?”

Carl nodded desperately.

“Do you know where it is?” Niklas pursued, adjusting the knife in his palm with the blade facing out.

Carl shook his head indicating he didn’t. Niklas snared his gaze and held it. Carl could actually see a hint of glee in his eyes glimmering back at him. Carl’s heart stalled and then thrummed in his chest when Niklas continued to hold his eyes as he raised the blade and placed it against his cheek.

The blade slid into the flesh of his cheek and slowly sliced inch by inch across it, cutting and pulling at his skin. Carl’s world exploded in a red blast of pain and he screamed, bucked, and thrashed, trying to escape Niklas’s torture. The pain of the burn, the deep jagged slice, the wetness along his face where blood flowed from the wound corroded Carl’s last scrap of courage.