The Cyclops Revenge Page 20

  “How much?” Jason demanded

  Luther swallowed. “Five large.”

  “The price went down?”

  As if sensing Jason’s displeasure at the paltry number, Luther tried to justify it. “I didn’t have much choice. It was not negotiable. The guy pulled a gun and said if I didn’t do it he’d kill me. Besides, it’s just keys.”

  “Not a nice feeling, is it?”

  Luther shook his head in agreement.

  “Why are you living here? If I were you, I would have hightailed it out of here. I wouldn’t want to run into the guy I tried to kill. Too risky.”

  “After I got out of the Big House, I was living up in Toano. Keeping to myself, staying out of trouble. Working in a tattoo parlor. But this guy in the Caddy found me somehow, someway. Said I needed to come down here and live until you came to pick up the keys … or me and my family would die. I’m getting the hell outta Dodge as soon as you walk out that door. You’ll never see me again.”

  “I should kill you right here, right now,” Jason said.

  “Like I said. Do it if you’re gonna.” Jason watched Luther’s Adam’s apple bobbing. Sweat erupted on his forehead.

  Jason raised the weapon once more and, aiming for Luther’s chest, cocked the club-shaped hammer.

  Chapter 27

  “Any changes with our guests?” Delilah Hussein demanded. She and Oliver were now back on their compound on St. Barts.

  Charlie, the senior man on the dayshift guard detail, shook his head.

  “Non, Madame. They are chained as instructed in the wine cellar.

  Two two-man teams will keep twelve-hour shifts. Pierre and I will take the day shift and two of my most trusted men will take the nightshift.”

  A wild-eyed, monster of a man, Charlie’s stringy, dirty blonde hair hung below his shoulders and his face was perpetually covered with a growth of beard. His thick arms stretched the sleeves of his sweat-stained black t-shirt. The skin beneath his eyes hung in baggy bulges, as did the skin under his chin. He looked like a vagrant. But she knew his skills as a soldier of fortune had served her well over the years. Hussein estimated him to be about one 190 centimeters, or six three in American inches.

  “Most excellent, Charlie. Keep a close eye on them. If things go as planned, we will only need them for twelve to fifteen hours. Then we can dispose of them.”

  “Oui, Miss Delilah,” Charlie countered. “Pierre has already dug les tombes.”

  “Graves? I did not order you to dig graves.”

  “I thought it would save time. They are in the southern, deserted quadrant.”

  Hussein glared at the Frenchman, moving her head side to side in a displeased manner. She turned to Oliver for a reaction. He provided none.

  “I do not pay you to think, Monsieur,” she continued. “I pay you to follow orders. If no orders are given, you do nothing. Comprends-tu?” Do you understand?

  Charlie lowered his head. “Oui, Madame.”

  “Have Pierre fill in les tombes. We will dispose of les corps at sea. Then we will burn the buildings. As soon as this mission is over, we will be leaving for our next destination.”

  She waved Charlie away. He bowed his head ever so slightly, then departed. Hussein turned to Oliver.

  “Did you take the photographs of the boy and the woman?”

  “Oui.”

  “Are they properly secured?” Hussein asked, not sure she believed the scoundrel Charlie.

  “I checked on them personnellement, Madam Delilah. They will not be going anywhere. And they are in extreme discomfort. They will be fed and allowed to use the bathroom shortly.”

  “Très bon!”

  Hussein checked the computer screen, studying a small blip on it. She looked up at Oliver.

  “Did you talk to Charlie about what is expected?”

  “I did. There will not be a repeat of the last time.”

  “Do you believe him? It seems he has a hard time following orders … or at the very least, doing things not ordered.”

  “Charlie is a well-trained operative. He understands any slip-ups will not be tolerated. He has trained most of the men on the compound. He is very good at what he does.”

  “He may be well-trained but he has a weakness. If he repeats his actions, he will not have to worry about making any more mistakes again … ever. I want you to personally check on our guests and the guards as needed.”

  “Understood. I am making sure he is taking his medication.”

  Hussein motioned for Oliver to sit beside her. She pointed at the computer screen. “What is going on with the pharmacist?”

  “You better explain this minute … and it better be good.”

  Peter opened his mouth to respond to his wife’s stern directive, not knowing what he was going to say. She fired another question at him before any sound escaped his lips.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at Jason’s.”

  After watching Jason drive away in his Hummer, Peter had returned to the house, trying to figure where Jason was going. Jason had never told him the address where he was to meet the character he was supposed to kill. The cell phone marked number one on the counter offered no help. The address was burned into the lid of the coffin … and the coffins were in his Hummer. Jason had taken the second cell phone, the one with the order to kill on it.

  Peter had not been able to find transportation. He knew no one in Jason’s neighborhood. A stranger asking to borrow a car would only result in a call to the cops. So, Peter did the only thing he knew to do. He called his most trusted employee at the gun shop and asked him to pick him up. As he waited for his ride, he’d called his wife to let her know he would not be home right away. In fact, he didn’t know when he’d be home again.

  “What are you two doing?” Lisa Rodgers demanded.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “It always is with that brother of yours. You said this type of thing would not happen again. You promised me!”

  “He needs my help.

  “That’s it. That’s all I get. We’ve been married for fifteen years and all you can say is ‘He needs my help’? The last time he called you like this, you ended up shot and in the hospital. Is he being stalked again? Is he going to be arrested again for murder? And will you be sideways damage in the process?”

  He could be, Peter thought.

  Lisa Rodgers was an intelligent and attractive woman. Peter sensed her frustration. No, he felt her frustration. It was short-circuiting her brain.

  “It’s called collateral damage, honey.”

  Peter forced a chuckle. If she knew the whole story, he thought, her head would explode.

  The former marine rubbed the scar bisecting his eyebrow as his wife bellowed. It was not an unwarranted rant. Peter had been in harm’s way two years ago when he and Jason nearly died. Peter was shot in his own home.

  In a moment of weakness in the hospital room in Suffolk, an hour before two assassins had killed a police officer and tried to kill Jason, Peter, and John Palmer, Peter had confided to his wife the major details of the adventure. It had been a mistake then, and he regretted it even more now. Lisa had hounded her husband ever since, wanting to know everywhere he went, what he was doing … and if it involved Jason in anyway.

  When Jason called yesterday, asking for help after crashing his Mustang, Lisa harangued him for fifteen minutes. Peter had simply walked out, refusing to answer her questions.

  She must be going out of her skull.

  “I can hear the tone in your voice. Are you laughing at me?”

  “No, Lisa. I just need you to understand. I need to help him. He’s my brother, honey.”

  “Don’t you honey me! Is this like it was last time? Does it involve the presidents again?”

  Peter had no trouble picturing the look on her face. He decided to come clean, a little bit.

  “Lisa, it’s Michael. He’s been kidnapped. We’re trying to get him back.”

  “Oh, my God!�
�� Lisa sobbed and wailed all at the same time. “It is happening again, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I can. You can’t say anything to anyone. Do you hear me! I have to go. I need to make some calls. I love you.”

  Peter ended the call before she could say anything more. He needed to make another call. Consumed by anger that he’d been duped by his brother, Peter bristled. Though he fumed about Jason’s duplicity, he understood why he’d ditched him. He wanted to keep Peter away from trouble, to protect him. But, it was not in his nature to sit idle.

  I need to get to him!

  Chrissie’s words echoed in Jason’s ears.

  If you live in the past, Jason, it will end up killing you!

  She had uttered those words in the months after he left the hospital and was still dealing with revenge issues. Chrissie thought Jason had gotten past them. At least she thought he had. He’d done a good job of hiding them from her.

  Jason’s could feel the muscles in his face twitching. He’d cocked the Hammer on the Smith and Wesson. He’d fired one shot into the chair. Luther seemed unfazed. The urge to pull the trigger battled with his conscience. In the months after the assassinations, Jason hinted to Chrissie that he wanted to seek out the men who had been responsible for his near death in jail. She begged him to reconsider. “Don’t leave me again, Jason. I want you back!”

  Jason promised her he would forget about the past. But eventually, he broke that promise.

  Jason lowered the gun.

  “I guess you paid your price in more ways than one. So just give me the keys and I’ll be on my way,” Jason explained.

  “I put them back in my pocket. So I gotta stand up.”

  “Do it … slowly.”

  Luther rose and pushed his hand into his trouser pocket, extracting the three keys. He held them up, rattling them like a trophy.

  “Put them on the floor and move into the corner behind your chair.”

  Luther squatted and placed the keys on the hardwood floor. He backed up and stood behind the recliner.

  “Don’t move.”

  Jason dropped off the couch onto his knees. He scooted toward the keys, keeping his gaze and the gun on Luther. Jason reached out and patted the floor, keeping his eyes on Luther. Unable to find them, his eyes left Luther in order to locate the keychain.

  As his fingers wrapped around them, a darting movement caught his attention. Thinking Luther was on the attack, Jason recoiled, expecting a blow. He lifted his gaze and looked toward the movement.

  Luther had leaned over the back of the recliner and was reaching into a hidden pocket in the arm. Jason’s weight shifted backward. He pulled the trigger out of reflex. Another round burped from the suppressed barrel.

  Her actions, words, and emotions toward Jason in the last twenty-four hours were miniscule and inconsequential now. Yesterday, her relationship with Jason was falling apart. But now, that disintegrating romance was the impetus she used to try to keep from becoming consumed by fear. Thinking about her troubled relationship with Jason was keeping her mind off where she was and who was holding her.

  Fear and the questions assaulted her. The two issues played ping-pong in her mind, creating a confusing maelstrom.

  Was he following someone? How could I have misjudged him so badly?

  But her mind would not cooperate. Like a flash of lightning, panic shot through her. Panic fueled by fear. And different questions ravaged her.

  Why was she here? Where was Jason? Was he looking for her? Did he even know she had been taken?

  She was on her knees on a hard, rough floor, leaning forward, her hands shackled behind her, elevated away from her back. The chains leading to the wall were taut and rigid, pulling at her wrists. She was unable to sit back on her haunches. When she tried, all her weight was placed on the shackles around her wrists, cutting into the skin. Her arms felt as if they’d break. Someone wanted her in great discomfort. And they had succeeded. Her muscles screamed. Her head pounded. The spot where they had inserted the needle in her neck still burned. Whatever chemical they injected into her had worn off and left a heavy hangover in its wake.

  Chrissie heard the scraping along the floor again. She was growing accustomed to the presence of the vermin in the cell with her. At the moment, the rats were the least of her worries. More questions pummeled her as she set aside her physical pain as best she could.

  Did Jason know she was missing? Had he even come home last night?

  Would she ever see him again? Was he worried about her?

  Chrissie hoped he was looking for her. Then another thought struck her, sending another more potent wave of panic shooting through her.

  Had Jason been taken too?

  Chapter 28

  The round missed, burying itself in the wall behind Luther’s head.

  Luther had ducked, causing his hand to withdraw from the pocket in the chair. He recovered, reaching in again. Jason, ready to fire once more, paused when Chrissie’s words echoed in his ears.

  Don’t leave me again …

  Now, Luther bent over the chair and reached into it again. He lifted something out of the pocket. Regaining his focus, Jason launched himself at Luther and the top of the tattooed head with the exposed, coiled dragon.

  Luther swung his head around as Jason connected. His free hand grabbed at Jason’s gun, clutching his wrist. His other mitt emerged from the pocket of the chair with a massive handgun.

  Jason, in turn, clutched at Luther’s wrist, stopping him from leveling the weapon. Their faces inches apart, the two men grunted and struggled in a waltz-like death dance. Luther pushed, Jason pushed back. Jason responded with a surge of strength, forcing Luther into the wall.

  They wavered back and forth, sweat dripping from their faces, grasping each other by the wrist, their hands clutching weapons, their arms flailing in arcs, trying to bring weapons to bear, their strained efforts halted by the other man’s hands and arms.

  Jason pressed his chest into Luther’s. The tattooed man, though smaller, still possessed enormous strength and countered Jason’s surges.

  Jason’s strength and determination eventually won out, pressing Luther into the wall, forcing Luther’s gun down. Luther’s barrel was now pointed at the floor while Jason’s Smith and Wesson twisted closer to the assassin’s face.

  Luther turned away. Ignoring the searing pain in his wounded arm, Jason pushed the advantage, his weapon a few degrees from its target.

  If you live in the past, it will kill you.

  Chrissie’s words shouted in his ears, giving him another pause. His initiative faltered. Luther seized the opportunity. His head whipped forward, the temple connecting with Jason’s cheek. White shards of light filled Jason’s field of vision. A loud crack filled the space around Jason’s head as it whipped to the side. His grip on Luther’s arm slackened. He fell away, his body separating from Luther’s.

  An instant later, Luther’s knee pressed on his chest. Then Luther planted a boot on Jason’s sternum. Jason was catapulted through space. The whoosh of air past his head and the roller-coaster-like sensation of falling consumed his senses. The gun was out of his hand now, flying behind him. Landing on a throw rug, he slid across the hardwood floor, coming to a stop against the opposite wall.

  With his left eye closed and stinging from the head butt, Jason could see only through his right. He saw the lower half of Luther’s body approach, striding toward him with the hand cannon clutched at his thigh. The weapon moved up and out of sight as Luther stepped onto the crumpled rug.

  Jason grabbed the cloth throw, rolling over and away from the barrel that was no doubt aimed at his head. He yanked the rug with all his might.

  Luther’s weight gave way. Luther’s weapon discharged, the report pounding his ears.

  People experience varying levels of fear during the course of a lifetime. The severity and intensity of that angst depend on the causative stimuli, ranging from the simple anxiety of being reprimanded by one’s boss, to
the heart-skipping helplessness of your car careening out of control, to the life-stopping news that a loved one has died. Over the course of decades, most people will experience the whole gamut.

  Thirteen-year-old Michael Rodgers had experienced all of them in the last twenty four hours. Awoken in the dead of night, his alarmed curiosity had morphed into electric anxiety as whispering voices called to him from outside his bedroom. Gut-wrenching panic ensued as a needle was plunged into his neck. He trembled before everything went black.

  He woke kneeling, with his arms chained behind him, his body stiff and aching. Since regaining consciousness, he’d remained as still and as quiet as possible. He only moved when the agony in his muscles became unbearable. The discomfort reared in spurts, forcing him to wriggle in place.

  When he wasn’t trying to get comfortable, he listened. At that moment, Michael realized there was really no such thing as complete silence. It was amazing how noisy a quiet room could be. Wind blew outside, buffeting the walls. The creaking of wood cut the quiet. Tiny creatures scurried around the room.

  Michael shook. Not from cold. At first, terror consumed him. Eventually, he depleted his ability to sustain fear. He decided to make the best of this problem. His father had always told him courage was doing what was necessary despite your fear. What was necessary right now was to determine where he was and who had kidnapped him.

  The sound of a large keychain rattled from beyond a wall somewhere in the distance. Muffled voices spoke in a foreign tongue, followed by the metallic clack of a key inserted into the lock. A door crashed open behind and above him.

  Thick booted footsteps descended a short set of stairs. Something metal was set down beside him. The presence of other humans floated nearby. Their soft breaths and whispers brushed about. The whoosh of clothing preceded a push of air.

  Someone had stooped to his level. Then the whispered, accented voice filled with a manly scent.