Hit Hard Page 13

  Sam eyed him. “Cover all bases.”

  Max sighed and pulled out his cell and dialed. He put his finger in his ear, moved away as he spoke.

  Sebastian walked back through the main room, then knelt. “There’s blood.”

  “Shit.” Sam rushed to him as Sebastian swiped his fingertips over the corner of the coffee table and held them up.

  Sam stared at it for a moment, wondering if she’d just fallen and hurt herself. Perhaps someone came for the tray and found her, and she was in a hospital somewhere. But the blood was dark, hours old. And the tray was still there.

  Sam went to the sofa and stood still, putting himself in her position, the plate left with just crumbs. She’d eaten and drank. He moved toward the blood as if replaying her steps. “She didn’t get that far, maybe three steps from the sofa.” Sam touched the floor and felt the dampness of the tea stain.

  Sebastian went to the carafe, removed the lid and sniffed. “It’s the same scent as on the dart. Like cut grass.”

  Ya pit.

  Sam sank onto the sofa, cradling his head, his fingers still wrapped around his gun. “She’s been gone for at least twelve hours. Those pictures, the slavers were watching her while I was right here!”

  “But why her? She hasn’t been in town long and she said last night that she’d been feeling crummy,” Max said.

  And behaving very oddly, Sam thought. Did she know this was coming? “Hell, I found her easy enough.” He lowered his hands. “Through the museum. She had to give over that gold bracelet.” He’d caught the guard just after his shift and he’d remembered her. “The curator put her in a limo and sent her here.”

  Max came close, closing the phone. “That makes sense. The charges for this”—he gestured to the elegant suite—“are on the museum’s tab.”

  Sebastian frowned. “All for bringing in a bracelet?”

  Sam pushed off the sofa and strode toward the doors. “Obviously it was as priceless as she said it was.”

  Dr. Wan Gai moved into his office and poured himself a small drink, then took it to his desk. He didn’t sit, but turned to the safe and slightly tapped the keypad. The door sprang open and he removed the velvet sack, laying it on his desk. He sat, sipped, and stared at the lump, wondering whether or not he should inform his majesty or simply destroy it.

  He grasped a rock paperweight. The gold was fragile and while shattering it would make noise, the museum was closed and he was alone. He raised the rock.

  “I wouldn’t.”

  He dropped it, lurching out of his chair. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “Not important.” Sam moved out of the shadows, staring at the man. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Sam leveled his handgun. “Guess again.”

  “If you are here to steal—”

  “Sit,” Sam said in a low voice, and the curator dropped into his chair.

  Sam’s first instinct was to beat the dog shit out of the man. He had enough evidence to know Wan Gai had something to do with Viva’s disappearance. He was the last person, aside from Sam, to have any contact with her. No one else knew she was in that hotel. Or in the city. But it was the room service waiter who, with some pressure, confessed that a man had stopped him at gunpoint and sprinkled powder in her food and tea.

  “You have two choices. Tell me where Miss Fiori is, or lose something vital.”

  “You are mistaken. I don’t know who you are talking about.”

  Sam moved forward, snatching the velvet bag, and slid out the cuff. “Really? She had this when I met her, she nearly died trying to protect it.”

  Wan Gai’s eyes flared. Another who knew?

  Sam glanced over his head, and hands clamped down on Wan Gai’s shoulders. Sam screwed on the silencer, slowly, then pointed it to Wan Gai’s kneecap.

  “Last chance.”

  The man said nothing. Sam shrugged and pulled the trigger.

  Wan Gai screamed, jerking violently in the chair. It took him a moment to realize the bullet went into the floor. Sam leaned down in his face. “Let’s be clear, pal, I don’t care what happens to you. I don’t care about the bracelet, the museum, or whatever it means. All I want is the woman.”

  Wan Gai understood he would not walk away from this. It was painted in the man’s features, in the eyes. His life held no value there. “I don’t know where she is.”

  “The next one will be your elbow.” He let the sentence hang, and pressed the weapon into the bone.

  “My man, he did it!”

  “Call him.” Sam picked up the receiver, handed it to him. Wan Gai leaned forward to dial, his hand shaking. When he finished, Sam hit the speaker button.

  “Choan, what did you do with her?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “What did you do with her?” he said more sternly.

  “It is best you do not know.”

  Sam dug the barrel harder.

  “Tell me now!”

  “Voslav. The Serbian.”

  Wan Gai paled and looked at Sam. “Where?”

  “I do not know. He took care of it. Just as you wished.”

  Sam leaned and whispered, “It’s tough to walk without kneecaps, try harder.”

  “How did you contact Voslav?”

  “A phone number.”

  “Give it to me, please.”

  There was hesitation on the line. “But sir, you did not want any traces.”

  “Give it to me.”

  Silence for a moment, then he gave the number. Wan Gai started to cut the line and Sam grabbed his wrist. “Where is he?” He inclined his head to the phone.

  Wan Gai hesitated, swallowing. “I will need your help, Choan. Where are you?”

  “In the Keb mall, but I can come to you.”

  Sam shook his head.

  “Remain there till I reach you, please.”

  “Sir, what is wrong?”

  “I have changed my mind.”

  “That’s a shame, she’s already sold.”

  Sam’s heart bucked violently, fury beating it harder. Savagely, he cut the line, pointed the gun at Wan Gai’s head. His fingers worked the grip.

  “Don’t, buddy,” Max warned.

  “Give me one good reason.” Sam ground the gun into Wan Gai’s temple.

  “Murder. And she’s still alive.”

  Sam stared down at Wan Gai, the man’s fear so intense it gave off a rancid smell. Yet he thought of Viva, the terror she was suffering at the mercy of slavers, and he wanted to ghost this fucker. God, he needed to, but killing him now would bring trouble and Viva’s life meant more. Finally, he tipped the barrel up. Wan Gai sank into the chair like a deflated balloon. Then Sam took the bracelet, stuffing it into his pocket.

  “No, please, do—” Wan Gai reached for it, but the barrel in his face stopped him.

  “What’s this Choan’s full name? What’s he look like?”

  “Lon Choan. He is tall and big like you, he has a scar right here.” He made a slash down the left side of his face near his temple. “And he likes American food.”

  Sam debated taking him with them, then decided against it. The curator was trapped, and if he talked, he’d incriminate himself.

  He braced his hands on the arms of the chair. “If I don’t find her alive and well, I will come finish this.” Sam pushed back, then grabbed the phone off the desk and ripped it from the wall. “Warn him and you’ll wish you didn’t.”

  He tossed the phone aside, and backed out of the office through the west doors.

  Wan Gai rubbed his face, his hands shaking. He reached for the untouched drink and tossed it back in one gulp, then poured another. He would retrieve the bracelet later and knew Choan could handle the American. The word please in the conversation should have alerted Choan. Wan Gai never asked for anything. His family stature afforded him much, and now he would use it. He drank the second drink, then reached inside his desk drawer and pulled out a cell
phone.

  He dialed, relaxing back into the chair. As to the American, he would regret ever seeing the ancient bracelet—and its secrets would be safe.

  Nine

  While Max circled the three-block-long mall, Sam was on foot, hurrying toward the service entrance. Workers in black and white uniforms moved swiftly, unloading boxes and baskets of fruit even at this hour. Sam stilled, scanning the area, moving past a truck. The workers spared him a glance, yet continued their duties. Sam was coming around the front of the truck when he saw a tall man leave through an employee door. Choan gave himself away instantly, constantly looking around as he walked. His steps were a near run, and Sam followed him through the rear parking lot filled with trucks.

  He kept his distance, moving laterally as Choan made a quick phone call, then pocketed the phone. Wan Gai had described him accurately, at least: tall, thick shoulders, a weightlifter, probably.

  Sam stopped behind a food-service truck, the odor of raw meat radiating from the rear. He watched the man as he crossed the street to the massive, four-story parking garage. Sam signaled Max, and he drove the van into it from the opposite end. Choan hopped the fence, and stopped, checked his back. Sam was on his heels, slipping behind the small cars, keeping his footsteps quiet when everything inside the garage echoed.

  He heard the blip of a car alarm, and moved low and fast. Max drove slowly as if searching for a parking spot. Choan stood beside a black sedan, and Max stopped behind it, blocking him in. Choan started for it, shouting for Max to move as Sam crossed quickly, coming up behind him.

  He pressed the gun into his spine. “How’s it going, Choan?”

  He stiffened, and Sam searched him, relieving him of a small handgun, a cell phone, and a knife tucked behind his back.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m sure Wan Gai told you, the woman.”

  He gets to die for that, Sam thought. “You will never find her.”

  Sebastian threw open the door, grabbed Choan, and yanked him inside. He fell forward, then rolled around to look at them. Sam climbed in and Max drove.

  Choan adjusted his jacket, smoothed his hair. Sam aimed for his face. “Voslav. Find out where he took the woman.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Sam’s arm shot out, the heel of his palm connecting with Choan’s nose so hard his head snapped back. Choan grunted, and blood oozed. “Reconsider.”

  Choan started to reach inside his jacket. Sam aimed at his head.

  Glancing between the two, he carefully pulled out the white square, shook it, and blotted his nose that was rapidly turning purple. “He’s been paid, he doesn’t care.”

  “Convince him.”

  Viva’s life hung in the moments. Sam had the phone number, but the sellers of human beings would be overly cautious. Caller ID and a familiar voice were the only ways inside fast. He dialed, and held the phone to Choan’s ear.

  “Where is the woman? We want her back,” Choan said.

  Sam listened to the reply as Sebastian worked a computer, then paused to adjust the small dish. “Keep him on the line.”

  “She is gone,” Voslav said. “At a hefty price I will enjoy spending.”

  “Ask who bought her,” Sam said to Choan. He put the phone to his ear again, then listened to the reply.

  “I would be out of business if I did that!”

  “Tell him you’ll pay to have her back.”

  Choan made a sour face, then spoke. He shook his head. No deal.

  “Double the offer.”

  Choan did, then nodded.

  Sebastian watched the screen, tracking the cell call, and gave a thumbs up when they had Voslav’s position.

  “Tell him your buyer is coming now,” Sam said, covering the receiver with his thumb again.

  Choan spoke, and Sam heard the accented English. He’d be waiting. Gave a location. One hour. Sam ended the call, pocketed the phone, then secured and gagged Choan, sandwiching his burly ass behind some gear.

  “Damn, the cell signal died,” Sebastian said, frantically tapping keys to get it back. “He shut the phone off.”

  Choan had the balls to snicker, and Sam whipped around and struck, a hard chop to his temple. The man remained conscious for about two seconds, then slumped, his bleeding nose staining his pure white shirt.

  Project Silent Fire

  US–UK Joint Command

  Major General Gerardo sat before a large screen, the view was of the members of the joint chiefs and his boss, three-star General McGill.

  “I don’t need to know how we lost the plans,” McGill said. “Just how to get them back before they use them.”

  A British Royal Marine general leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. “We take full responsibility, sir.”

  “America appreciates that, but it was a joint command.”

  “What have you got in ground intel?” an Army colonel asked.

  “Sightings of Chechens, LTTE Tiger, Balinese, it’s a damn party.”

  “Haul them in.”

  Gerardo shook his head. “Suspicion won’t hold up in a tribunal, courts, or with the UN. They’re experts at torture and would die for their cause, so interrogation methods don’t get us much. We need evidence, and someone in the lower ranks. Someone we can break.” Gerardo had people looking for just that right now, and didn’t have time for reports and discussion.

  “What is the Thai government doing?”

  “They’re assisting but really don’t have the manpower and resources for this,” Gerardo said, and they all knew that giving them too much intelligence would destroy their operation. Half the Thai police were corrupted by mafia ties. “They’ve relinquished authority to Interpol and the US–UK Joint Command.”

  “Good, but that doesn’t take us any further, Al.”

  “We have CIA officers on the ground pulling all resources, but there is little to be had. We get close and they’re dead.”

  “So we have nothing?”

  “Not exactly. Sources tell us one man is running the show. But he wasn’t reliable.”

  “Tell me something good, Al.”

  “I don’t have it. Every trail we pick up is obliterated. As if they know our next step. Someone took a shot at the CIA station front in Thailand. No casualties but a window. However, that cover is blown.”

  “We have a leak? Then it’s higher than terrorist factions.”

  “Agreed, but that means searching for a needle in the ocean.”

  McGill sat back and glanced at his colleagues. Their looks were as grim as the situation. “This weapon, if they create it, how bad can it get?”

  “It’s capable of several tasks,” Gerardo said, uncomfortable with revealing top secret information regardless of the security measures. They wouldn’t be in this fix if they’d been impenetrable. “We are using it on the caves in Afghanistan now. Even at ten percent capability, the force of it makes it impossible for anyone to not react.”

  “The result?”

  “Any illness of our choice, the brain vibrates as well as the skeletal structure. It’s an amazing defensive tool.”

  “Line of sight?”

  “Two hundred yards.”

  “That at least limits it.”

  “For now, yes.”

  On the screen, McGill’s features tightened. “Tell me they can’t modify this thing.”

  “We already have.”

  Viva’s eyes flashed open as if she’d never slept. Instantly she knew she wasn’t in the same place as before. Beneath her was downy soft, above her, a paddle fan spun from a gold ceiling.

  No crying, no chains. No numbed body.

  How do I get myself into these situations?

  The thought of being carted around barely dressed, by men no doubt, sent a flush of helplessness through her. She stared at the bed’s canopy, a wood rectangle carved and gilded, the posts painted light green. The patterned green and gold wallpaper gave her eyes a workout and despite the mounds of gold pillows surrounding her, she c
ouldn’t move, her arms spread wide and tied with thick silk ropes. She tested them, enough slack to bring her arms in a little, but not enough to touch anything. She wrapped her fingers around the rope and yanked. They didn’t budge. The bed creaked.

  She shifted, glad her legs weren’t secured, and bent her knees. She saw green silk. Okay, dressed was good, but the loose pants were ballooned, and she wore a sheer cream top with sprigs of bamboo embroidered in the fabric. And that’s not all, she thought, feeling the tight bra beneath and tried to get a look. Low-cut and embroidered, it was clasped in the center with nothing more than a couple gold chains.

  Jeez, I look like I Dream of Jeannie.

  She leaned forward and instantly choked, something soft and thick around her throat. She twisted, her gaze following the gold rope and ending on the bed frame. Oh crap, she thought, and tried not to panic, reaching for the lamp near the bed and coming up a yard short. Screaming was out of the question. Someone did this to her and they had to be outside those doors. She dropped her head onto the pillows, and tugged on her wrists, trying to stretch the silken ropes.

  A hotel somewhere, she thought, by the service card on the room door. The suite was large, oriental furnishings and a little gaudy, yet looked familiar. Three rooms from what she could see from her vantage point on the bed. In the living room area, a laptop sat on a carved desk, open and running, beside it a webcam, and facing this direction. Great. Just what she needed. A video of her humiliation.

  She kept tugging at the soft ropes, hoping to loosen them and tensed when the door rattled. She heard it open and close, saw a man pass before the wide doorway, and she understood the Scheherazade getup. He was dressed as a sheik, in period clothing, tailored, not robes. She’d seen men wear something like it for formal state occasions. He strolled around the room, doing God knew what, and she kept still.

  He thumb-dialed a phone, tossing a leather sack like a ball. He spoke, and she caught only the murmur of it, something about an appointment time for discussions. He checked his watch. As he closed the phone, he faced the bed, a little smile curving his lips.

  “Ah, my kadine, you are awake.”

  Sam strolled into the darkest pits of Thailand, beyond the temples, the restaurants, the kind people, and into the cavity that gouged every country. He turned into a narrow, wet alley, hookers near the streets, sliding their fingers over his shoulder. He shook them off and continued. So where is Voslav, he thought, nearly at a dead end. A man moved out of the shadows. Small eyes, was Sam’s first thought, lost in the squat face. He looked as if he hadn’t seen a laundry or bathwater in at least a week. The man inspected him and Sam knew what he saw. Wealth in a suit and tie. He couldn’t spend millions without looking like he had it.