Deadly Little Lies (6 page)

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Authors: Jeanne Adams

BOOK: Deadly Little Lies
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They drove for a short time on smooth roads, carefully signing back and forth to one another. Oddly enough, the two men in the front were silent. Not even the radio broke the hum of the engine and the subtle creak of the leather seats as they twisted and turned. There was an occasional shout or riff of music beyond the windows, but no bustle of real traffic, no city noises.
That wasn't good. It meant a small airport in a remote location.
Without warning the vehicle dropped off the pavement onto dirt. Now the Jeep slowly jumped and bumped on a rutted, jouncing, pockmarked road. No further spelling to one another was possible since they were both desperately trying to stay on the seat and hang on as the car flung them every which way. Dav hit his head again, and this time, even with the bag, he truly saw stars behind his eyelids.
The endless bouncing was made more unpleasant as the angles changed. They were ascending, turning and twisting along a furrowed trace. He heard branches scrape the sides of the Jeep, felt the lurch, sway and groan of the undercarriage as it managed the rocks in the road.
He fought nausea constantly, thanks to the faint odor of the drugs in the bag, and the incessant movement with no visual horizon on which to focus. It was at least an hour, possibly two, that they traveled. They never slowed, and the road never smoothed out. He was still trying to manage his rebellious stomach when the Jeep lurched to a stop.
He heard the slam of doors, and men's laughter. Voices greeted their captors, who had gotten out. At least two or three more.
“Carrie?” he began, wanting desperately to be sure she was conscious, and okay after the harrowing journey.
Before she could answer, the door beyond his head opened, and fresh, damp, tropical-smelling air rushed in. A new voice demanded, “Come.” He felt a rough tugging at his sleeve and shoulder.
“Now.”
Dav did his best to move quickly, while still helping Carrie. At this point, according to Gates, you did your best to cooperate, assessing as you went and figuring out what to do. That meant not antagonizing anyone or getting hit hard enough to do bodily damage or get dead, so Dav dragged himself out of the car and reached back for Carrie.
“Leave the woman,” the voice said when Dav made it out of the vehicle and fumbled for Carrie's hands, shoulder, anything. “Leave it!” the voice demanded, and rough hands jerked him away from the vehicle. “
Vámonos,
come, both of you.”
Thankfully, within steps, he felt Carrie's hand on his arm. They moved quickly in the wake of their captor. Dav smelled wood smoke and rain, plants and something smoky-sweet—marijuana maybe. Burnt coffee. Bacon.
His stomach clenched with hunger in spite of the ongoing waves of drug and pain-induced nausea. Neither he nor Carrie had eaten lunch and it was now hours upon hours later. His system recognized the scent of sustenance and made its need known.
A hand shoved at him and he stumbled again. He gained his feet, only to have the barrel of a rifle pressed across his belly stop him short. Carrie's hand trembled on his arm; he could feel her grip tighten in fear, as her fingers quivered in a flutter of despair.
“Patrick, take what we need.” The smooth voice was new, menacing, amused. It was also at least ten feet away to his right. An unseen hand jerked open the back of the still-damp bag on his head. He felt the cold play of steel on his scalp as some of his hair was cut away. On his arm, Carrie jerked, then froze into place. He guessed she could see the knife cutting her hair, while he had only felt it. The bag was retied, snugly, and the man with the smooth voice spoke again.
“Get the other item as well,” smooth-voice said. “We'll need to send that with the hair.”
The back of his shirt collar was tugged downward, and he felt the unhoned edge of a blade cold against his skin as it slipped under the chain he wore around his neck. How could they know about that? A memento, his mother's thin gold wedding ring, hung on the chain. He never took it off. It reminded him always of his father's perfidy, and reminded him to beware of the kind of blind, unseeing love she'd bestowed on the old man, the love she'd wasted along with her life.
The chain was whipped to the back, tightening with choking force on his windpipe.
“Got it,” the man behind him said, snapping the chain off his neck in one quick tug. Air rasped into his lungs in a rush, but he still heard the clink of the gold chain and ring, felt the absence of the familiar weight along his collar.
Another voice spoke now. “Get in.” Nothing happened for a moment, then, “Do it now, pretty lady.” Amusement rang in the words. “Or Carlos will shoot you and dump you in. I don't think your gringo millionaire boyfriend would like that.”
“Carrie, do it. Follow their directions.”
“Dav—” Her voice held panic, but was choked off as someone jerked at her, pulling her away from him, and he felt as much as heard her gasp. Fear resonated in the sound. For a moment, he thought she would refuse, clutching his arm with fierce strength. Then, her hand trailed away and he felt her move forward.
It was hard to locate things by sound, but he could tell she was in front of him. Then she whimpered and the sound retreated, with a faint echo to it. He hoped they weren't being separated. He prayed as quickly and passionately as he could that she would be all right, that they would be held together.
The rifle pressing into him lifted and another weapon shoved at the small of his back. He flinched. This, too, was a rifle, not a handgun; he recognized the imprint of the barrel, the small dangerous impression. If the man fired now, his spine would disappear and Carrie would be alone.
“But...” He heard denial in the word, then another gasp as she was either gripped or threatened.
“Do what they say, Carrie,” he said as clearly as he could through the rasp of his bruised throat and the muffling bag.
He heard more rustling and grunting, and the sound of her footsteps receded further, but did not disappear. God, it was so brutally frustrating not to be able to see where he was, see what was happening to her.
“Now you, Senor
millionaire
,” the amused voice spoke again. “Time to go down.”
Down? He scooted a foot forward and felt air under his shoe. He lurched a bit, drawing his foot back from the abyss.
“Turn, and climb down into the hole.”
Down. Into a hole.
With a flash of blinding clarity, Dav realized who was behind his kidnapping, as impossible as it seemed.
“Whatever Niko is paying you,” he stated, striving for calm, “I'll double it. The woman and I are not of that much importance, but money talks. If you get me out of here, my money can speak my gratitude.”
There was a spate of Spanish and raucous laughter resounded in the night. Listening carefully, despite his rising panic, he detected at least three distinct voices, three, maybe four different laughs.
“Not enough money printed, gringo, for us to stop this,” the man behind him said. “Besides, there are plans. Climb down or I push you in and you maybe break your leg. No matter to me, long as you don't die.”
Realizing that it was futile to argue, Dav knelt and felt for the hole. He caught the edge of the ladder, felt it waver. His guts turned to water as he pivoted in the dirt and fumbled to set his foot on the top rung. More sneering laughter followed his efforts, but the comment about the broken leg forced him to caution. It told him the drop was deep enough that a break was possible.
It also told him they intended to keep him alive, at least for now.
Descending into the earth, in the dark, with his bound hands and covered head, was a thing of nightmare. It took all his considerable willpower to keep moving, to force a dam against the rising tide of his childhood fears. He was unable even to feel his way, or see the ladder in front of him.
Relief flooded through him when his searching foot found solid floor rather than another rickety rung. Carrie's hands reached for him, grasped his arm.
Both of them went flying as the ladder jerked.
“The ladder,” Carrie gasped, struggling to rise. He held her in place. It was no use to try to grab the ladder. What could they do with it, even if they had it?
Wood shavings showered them as the ladder was drawn upward, scraping through the metal opening, and that metal clanged in a deep, harsh note as something heavy was flung over the hole. The snick of a lock told him they were now prisoners, locked in a deep, dark hole.
Overwhelmed by the thought, he stayed down on the dirt, struggling to breathe, struggling to stay in the present, not fly back to the terrible times when he'd been locked away in just such a room. This room too, smelled of old blood and old death. Of fear and pain. Of hopelessness, if such could have a smell.
“Dav,” Carrie whispered. “Dav? Where are you?”
He could hear her shuffling nearer, trying to find him, but his throat was frozen on the words. Finally he fought through his panic enough to say, “Here.”
“Oh, thank God. I thought you'd been knocked out.”
“No,” he managed, his teeth chattering on the word.
“You said something up there, I heard you say something new. Something about Niko? Who is that? What did you mean?” she asked as she ran her hands over his head, which made it pound further as she inadvertently jostled the bumps and bruises he'd sustained in their journey. Her searching hand finally found the ties to the bag that still covered his head. Both the pilot and the guy who'd cut his hair had jerked them tight and tied them snugly, making sure he didn't see a thing. The fact that the ties were now wet as well as knotted made undoing them even more challenging.
“I ... I ...” He couldn't think, couldn't form a coherent sentence. His thoughts were in chaos, partly battling nightmares, partly racing to figure out how Niko could be alive and desperate enough to orchestrate this.
Thinking of Niko settled his mind, engaged it in something besides old nightmares and that which lurked in the underground dark. He'd carefully followed his half brother's nefarious career in prison and his time with a group of mercenaries fighting in South America and Africa. He'd always kept tabs on Niko, both from the hope of reconciliation, and the knowledge that Niko wanted him dead. But he'd been told that Niko had died fighting in the near-constant conflicts in Somalia. He'd had the rumor checked officially and unofficially; as far as anyone, including Gates, had been able to tell, Niko had indeed perished.
Evidently, they'd all been wrong. Only Niko could have conceived of something like this hole as a punishment and a holding pen. Only Niko would know about the cell under their Athens house, and the horrors it represented for Dav.
“Got it!” Carrie said, her voice briefly excited.
Within seconds, sweet air rushed over his face as the bag fell away. Gasping, Dav felt the chill dampness of the night air, and the sticky smell of dusty age and disuse flooded his nostrils along with the faintest underlying scent of rusting metal, and death.
It was that smell, the smell of spilled blood and the faint, sickly sweet smell of decay, that tied his mind and stomach up in knots yet again. Anger burned along with the fear. Only Niko would know how this affected him. Only Niko would torture him this way. Deliberately.
“Dav? Are you okay? Dav?” There was a frantic note in Carrie's voice as she called his name again. She'd removed the bag, but his lack of response was obviously terrifying her.
He marshaled his fear, forcing it aside. It demanded attention, demanded that he look into the dark and see the monsters that awaited. Coming for him. To kill him.
No.
Gritting his teeth, he forced them back. He would not die, they would not kill him.
Carrie mattered to him. He would not give in to the demons of his past, or these present fears. He must be there for her. No one had helped him in his cell, and he'd come to expect that no one would, but he wasn't his father. Nor his brother. He wouldn't leave Carrie to face this alone while he retreated into some recess of his mind, gibbering in fear.
“Then eeseh enea chronon.”
He ground out the words between his chattering teeth. Words he'd just said hours ago as he'd thought about Niko and his father.
I'm not nine anymore.
How ironic.
“What? Dav?” Carrie's voice was laced with anxiety. He could feel her fear in the trembling hands that raced over his face and neck; the fingers that hurried along his arms to chafe his hands were trembling. “Dav? What are you talking about?” When she spoke again, it was slowly, as if to a young child. “Dav, did you hit your head?”
The shock of pain as she rubbed at his hands brought him further back to himself.
“I said, I'm not nine anymore,” he replied. “My half brother and father used to lock me in a dark hole like this.” He had to stop there, just for a moment, and beat back the memory once more. “That's why I tried to bargain up there. I understood at once, that if they weren't killing us, merely dumping us underground to wait, they want money. And probably revenge. Niko, my half brother, is behind this.” He tried to uncurl his stiff body. “Bastard! I will kill him for this.”

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