Hunter (16 page)

He opened the door to the last room and fingers of light from the feeble globe in the corridor trickled inside, softly illuminating the space.

On an impulse, Morgan removed his helmet and ski mask and resisted the urge to burst in. He was sure she didn't need to be any more terrified than she already was.

He saw a single metal-framed bed with a thick gray blanket thrown loosely across it. Ropes tied to the frame at the foot of the bed disappeared underneath the blanket.

"Charly?" he said quietly from the doorway. There was a shuffle. The blanket moved a fraction, the ropes tightened and the frame and springs creaked. "Charly, my name is Alex Morgan. I work for your godfather, Nobby Davenport." He heard a muffled sob. "I'm going to switch the light on."

When the light came on, Morgan found her trembling under the covers. Her wrists were tied to the bed and a cloth was wrapped around the lower half of her face, slack enough to allow her to breathe but tight enough to stifle any screams. Charly's brilliant red hair was a matted mess and her blue eyes were poor imitations of their usual crystalline splendor - they were raw, fearful and apprehensive, but they looked up at him with hope.

Morgan moved quickly but methodically, not wanting to alarm her. He stepped across, gently unraveled 
the cloth from her mouth and set to work sorting out the ropes at her wrists and ankles. The instant they were clear she threw her arms around him and clung on tight, tighter than any woman had ever held him.

"You really know my uncle Nobby?" she whispered through cascading tears.

"Yes," he answered. "He served with your father. Me and the big guy out there work for him. We're here to take you home. But we have to be quick."

"You're the one from the plane,' Charly said groggily as she recognized Morgan's face. "My God. How on earth?"

As she spoke the crying turned to sobbing. Her entire body shook with the intensity of the sudden release from her ordeal. She didn't move and she didn't let go.

"Plenty of time for explanations:' he promised. With that, Morgan made sure the blanket was wrapped tightly around her and scooped her into his arms. "Right now, I need to get you out of here."

*

"Bring them over," Braunschweiger ordered, gesturing for the Albanian police officers to bring their prisoners toward the balcony. He slid back the glass door and watched as each policeman hoisted their respective charges to their feet, unceremoniously dragging tight, woolen bags over them until all three - Muscles, the big Serb and Lazarevic - were cocooned from head to toe.

Morgan emerged from the back of the apartment carrying Charly.

"You OK here, Key?" he asked, noting that Braun-schweiger had everything under control.

"Bound, gagged and bagged," said the Key wryly. "And ready to travel. Go on ahead."

"Roger, we'll see you downstairs." Morgan headed out. Two police officers met him at the elevator.

As Morgan and Charly descended the dozen floors, Braunschweiger wrapped things up in the flat. This was an experiment and he needed crash test dummies.

"Let's go, gentlemen," he said.

The police officers each stepped forward with their packages.

The three struggling bundles were jostled out onto the balcony like thick rolls of carpet. Without a moment's hesitation, as each man reached him - Muscles first, followed by the big Serb and then Lazarevic - the Key hurled them head first into the refuse chute. Their screams of terror were muted by duct tape as they hurtled down at breakneck speed; each believing in those first seconds that they had, in fact, been thrown to their deaths.

They had no clue that they had been tossed into a chute and that the chute led directly into the back of an Albanian State Police van, twelve stories below.

Moments later both vehicles pulled away into the darkness of the early morning.

It was 2.55am.

SUNSET HILL, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, USA
TWO WEEKS LATER

The view across Puget Sound to the snow-capped Olympic Mountains was Charly's most enduring memory of home. It seemed that no matter how far travel had taken her away from this beautiful place, the memory of that view was so indelibly captured in her heart she could recall every aspect and color, every peak and valley, all in photographic detail. Most importantly, it was a memory so familiar, so personal, that she would retreat to it when in need of solace and calm.

She had hardly set foot outside the house since returning home two weeks ago and then only to take cups of fresh coffee to the US marshals who were guarding them day and night. Sitting in her mom's favorite chair, her shoulders wrapped in a thick blanket Gran had knitted, with a cup of hot tea and the gas fire warming the room, Charlotte-Rose Fleming looked longingly out at the Olympics. It was as if she was trying to recalibrate the image she'd so relied upon during her abduction by gazing out of the windows. Like a copy of a copy of a copy of a favorite old photograph, there was always a danger that the more 
frequently you tried to conjure or replicate a memory, the greater the chance of the most important details being lost.

In this room, she was embraced by the familiarity of her mother's things and comforted by the sounds of domesticity downstairs in the kitchen. During her childhood, she recalled, her mother's career limited the amount of actual at-home time they were able to enjoy together - not to mention her father's long absences on military service. Of course, playing the piano had become her comfort. Such was the irony of her life, that the thing she withdrew to during her loneliness as a child was the very thing that would define her as a woman. Still, when the rare opportunities for normalcy emerged over the years, Charly embraced them every time. But she had to admit, Mom had been excessively protective today, insisting, more than usual, that Charly remain upstairs and rest while she prepared the meal. Was she trying to make amends for all that lost time? Well, Charly wasn't complaining.

A pair of deep green eyes and a thatch of thick dark hair invaded her thoughts. Instantly Charly returned to the moment when, tied to her seat in the seaplane, the sudden appearance of that handsome, rugged face fighting furiously with her captors had given her the only glimmer of hope she'd experienced through the entire ordeal. To be given such anticipation of freedom only to have it ripped away as he fell from the plane - Charly had thought she'd never recover. And to then open her eyes later that night and find him standing in the doorway of that awful, stinking rat hole, his strong hands taking hold and leading her
to safety, had conjured uncompromising emotions then and ever since.

It wasn't the first time she'd thought about Alex Morgan since her rescue but every time she did, she found herself wracked with guilt: there'd been absolutely no news on the whereabouts of Raoul.

Charly revisited her fleeting, yet intense, relationship with the charming millionaire, about whom - she realized now - she knew so little. As she sat drinking tea in the warmth and comfort of her family home, she pondered whether the intensity of their connection might have been, in fact, entirely one way.

Raoul was charismatic and good-looking; there was no doubt of that. He had plenty of money, which he was not afraid to lavish upon her. But now the warnings of her closest friends - especially her assistant and confidante, Daniel - that his advances seemed desperate and, in some ways, contrived, had come back to taunt her. The recollection of seeing him with gun in hand on the boat came as such a shock in the midst of the terror from those moments before the abduction. She couldn't fathom why her instinct had been so alarmed at the thought of him, ultimately, trying to protect her.

Again, an image of Morgan flashed into her mind's eye.
God! This is ridiculous,
she thought.

Charly placed down her tea, unraveled herself from the blanket and strolled toward the grand piano in the far corner of the sitting room. Dressed in what she called her comfies - slippers, track pants, a T-shirt and an old rugby jersey that had belonged to her father - she sat down and placed her fingers lightly on the keyboard. It was a Steinway & Sons Chippendale with 
a beautiful mahogany finish. These days, her mother kept an array of special family photos on the closed top. Charly looked upon each of them with a mixture of delight and sadness as her fingers quite unintentionally began to work their way through "Cavatina" by Stanley Myers. It was a piece originally written for classical guitar, but it was most widely known as the theme from the old Robert De Niro film
The Deer Hunter.
The film happened to be one of her father's absolute favorites and for years he would ask her to play it whenever they were together. Looking at the framed photograph of her parents that sat upon the closed lid of the piano, she could almost feel him sitting beside her now as she performed it once again for him.

When she finished, Charly turned to find her mother sitting on the seat behind her, tears of joy filling her eyes.

"That was absolutely beautiful, my darling," said Madeline. "Your dad would have loved it."

"Thanks, Mom," Charly replied with a slightly embarrassed smile. "Hang on. What's with the cat-got-the-cream look on your face? You're up to something."

"Just get showered and change into something nice," Madeline said evasively, dabbing away her tears on a tissue.

"Mom?"

"We're having company for dinner."

LOCATION: UNDISCLOSED

Dressed in the tightest black satin shorts, black lace bra, fishnets and fire-engine-red skyscraper stilettos, a cropped leather jacket slung across a bare shoulder, the girl walked out of the club like she owned it. Every step she took fell to the beat of the Euro techno-pop that thumped as loudly outside as it did in. The four goons on the door, clad from head to toe in black, gunned up and built like they'd require council approval for redevelopment, fell into practiced formation and held back the long line of wild partygoers to allow her to pass undisturbed. They knew better than to let anything happen to this girl. They knew who she belonged to.

She was 6 feet tall with legs so long they could take one stride to everyone else's two. Every man and woman within reach turned to watch as she strutted out to the stretch limousine that sat waiting for her 15 feet from the club's entrance. Her dead straight platinum blond hair tickled all the way down past the dangerously straining bra strap to the small of her back. Full, sensuous lips the color of her shoes stood out on a blank canvas of porcelain-white skin like blood splatter on fresh snow.

To the casual observer, she looked to be in her mid-twenties, at least. The reality was she'd yet to reach eighteen.

Arriving at the limousine, she stopped, threw a cigarette to the pavement and turned to give the thronging masses one last look over her shoulder. The rear door of the limo opened, she stepped inside and the car drove away.

"Get in here, you little slut!" came a voice from the dark corner of the car.

"Baby, what's the matter? I'm here, aren't I? Who is this?" she said playfully, clambering over a stranger's legs. Clear gray eyes caught her attention as she struggled to get in. "Are we having a party again?"

She was answered with a slap that caught her across the entire side of her small, perfect face. The strike dropped her awkwardly to the floor between the two long bench seats and two pairs of men's shoes.

"I've been waiting," hissed the man accusingly. It was an old voice, angry and frustrated. The voice of a man used to getting what he wanted when he wanted it. He grabbed her by the hair, pulled her up to him and held her face close to his. "I took the fucking pill half an hour ago, bitch!"

"I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry," she said, pouting. "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

As the limousine cruised through the streets of the city, sporadic bursts of street lights stabbed through the tinted windows, casting startling images of the tired, bearded old face in a stream of repulsive, ominous flashes. She knew there was only ever one way this could end if she was to avoid a real beating.

Dragoslav Obrenovic pushed the girl back to the floor and began to unbuckle his pants. She helped him. The man on the bench seat behind her casually started to unbuckle his own.

"Be patient, Wolf," said Drago. "Wait your turn."

"I want to take her from behind,
sefa,"
said a deep, smooth voice. "So we can both have her together."

The girl, Jovana, could only listen like a bystander to the conversation between the men. When she ran away from home at sixteen to escape the unwanted amorous attentions of her abusive, alcoholic father, she never dreamed that her life would come to this. But now, the very thought of escape had been long abandoned. Pulling Drago's pants down to his ankles, she fought back an impulse to gag.

Drago grabbed her hair again in two fistfuls and shoved her face down into his crotch.

His eyes closed, he let out a long gasp of satisfaction and his head fell back against the head rest.

"OK, Wolf," he said. "Be my fucking guest."

SUNSET HILL, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, USA

"It really is lovely to have you here again, Nobby," said Madeline Clancy. "It's been too long."

"I'm delighted to be here, darling: replied Davenport, "sitting here again with you and my beautiful goddaughter. I can't begin to tell you how relieved I am."

Davenport turned his gaze across the table to Morgan, who was sitting comfortably, he noted, beside Charly. The general gave Morgan a nod of thanks and, raising his glass of red wine a fraction above the dining table in tribute, said: "Well done, my boy."

"Indeed," acknowledged Madeline, breathlessly. "I can never thank you enough for bringing my baby back home safely, Alex. I know if Peter was still with us, he'd consider himself greatly in your debt too."

"Very much so," Davenport added somberly.

Morgan and Charly shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Morgan waved off the accolade politely, not wanting to belittle the mountain of sentiment behind it.

"Well, it was worth it for the invitation to dinner alone, Madeline," he said. "Lamb shanks are my hands-down favorite, and I reckon you can never go past homemade tiramisu."

"Oh, stop it," Charly piped up warmly, glad of the lifted mood. "Uncle Nobby, where did you find him? He's adorable."