Warrior Without Rules. Nancy GideonЧитать онлайн книгу.
no longer swallow and the very real threat of choking on her gag kept her fighting for that tenuous hold on reality. Take slow, shallow breaths. Just enough to survive until her father came for her.
And when he did, they would be sorry.
She sat up away from the wall. Her cramped muscles shrieked in protest.
What was that?
She strained to catch the sound again.
There. Footsteps overhead. Friend or foe? Rescuer or executioner?
Whimpers pushed against the gag.
A door opened. Footsteps, one set, started down, coming for her. Slow, heavy steps. Not the hurried sound of liberation.
She pressed back against the cut of stone, her body jerking in uncontrolled spasms as she waited helplessly to learn her fate.
She heard breathing, almost as harsh as her own. Then pacing, agitated movements that kindled her own massing fear. A curse. Another. Guttural explosions of fury and frustration.
And then he spoke to her. None of them had spoken to her before.
“That son of a bitch. His own daughter. Can you believe he wouldn’t pay a penny to save his own kid?”
A terror like nothing before it rose in a wave. Powering the surging fright was a tidal force of truth. A truth too terrible to contain.
He wasn’t going to pay her ransom.
His money was worth more than her life.
Chapter 1
Alone figure moved down the hallway, slipping instinctively from shadow to shadow. He made no sound. It was late. Those in the old building slept contentedly, unaware of his passing. He might well have been a cloud drifting across the cool gleam of the moon.
He paused, glancing behind him. He would have to retrace his steps to make sure he hadn’t left a blood trail. Later. For the moment he had only one goal, one destination, and it consumed him.
The key turned smoothly in the lock, admitting him into the darkened room. The scent of furniture wax and fresh herbs almost disguised the overall impression of emptiness. No one was home. No one had been home for a long while.
He crossed the spacious living room without the benefit of light, heading with purpose toward the back of the large third floor apartment. He moved like smoke, like predawn fog, light, almost without substance, even as the toll of the past few months caught at him, threatening to drag him down. He couldn’t afford to hesitate. Not yet.
He turned on one small light. It illuminated the mirror over a pedestal sink and the ghastly reflection it held, of hard features garishly detailed with traces of black and olive green paint. And smears of crimson. He wasted no time reacquainting himself with that grim mask. His attention turned to his right hand and the hasty wrap he’d bound about it. Slowly, he undid the saturated cloth and let it drop into the basin where it rapidly discolored the delicate porcelain. He moved his fingers, allowing a grimace. He’d need stitches.
Moving more gingerly now, with obvious difficulty, he undressed, letting his stale and stained garments remain where they hit the marble tiles. He’d pick them up later. Right now only one thing interested him. He reached to turn the water on full blast. When steam started to billow behind the circling curtain, he stepped over the high lip of the claw footed tub and into the merciless spray. A sigh escaped him.
He stood for countless seconds, letting the heat and force of the water beat the tension and achiness of abuse from his body as it washed the remaining face paint and blood—some of it his, some of it not—down the drain. Finally, because he knew if he didn’t move, he’d be sleeping on his feet, he reached for the fine milled French soap and began to scrub away the layers of jungle soil and sweat. The pleasure was indescribable. At last, when he felt close to human again, he rinsed off in an icy sluice.
Even though he was physically ready to collapse on his wonderfully forgiving Egyptian cotton sheets, he wasn’t finished yet. He had calls to make, a report to write. Mental miles to go before he could sleep. And then he would sleep for days.
Standing naked in the kind glow of the bathroom light, he carefully attended his wounded hand. After the biting sting of antiseptic, he stuck on a couple of butterfly adhesives to hold the edges of the gash together, applied a sterile pad and mummified the damage with gauze. Tomorrow it would hurt as if the teeth of hell were chewing on it but he was philosophical about the pain. Better his palm than his throat. He dry swallowed several pain killers, purposefully not meeting the eyes in the mirror.
It had been a bad past few months. He’d almost forgotten the delights of becoming civilized once again. He pulled on his silk pajama bottoms, enjoying the feel of them against his skin after wearing the same rough, filthy fatigues until they obtained enough personality of their own to demand a seat next to him on the aircraft home. Home, where civilization and the finer things of life awaited him. Where he would decompress and forget the past weeks as if they never happened. No one really wanted the details anyway, just the results. His success rate was nearly untarnished. Which was why his phone wouldn’t remain silent for long. He’d soak up as many pampering luxuries as he could before the next call would send him who knows where, but he knew it wouldn’t be pleasant or remotely civilized. Terrorists were bloody inconvenient that way.
Switching off the light, he padded barefooted back toward his front room via the kitchen, hauling his weariness behind him like Jacob Marley’s chains. Scrooge that he was, he’d managed to miss Christmas again. One of the calls he had to make was to his mother, who knew better than to expect him but did, anyway. She wouldn’t complain. She’d tell him he could make it up to her. She already held more markers than a loan shark. But she wouldn’t complain. She knew why he did what he did. Sometimes that made her graciousness all the harder to bear.
Lights from the surrounding city created a soft pallet of colors upon his parquet floor. He loved the view at night, when mankind slept and the solid, unchanging history of the place seemed to come alive. Maybe he’d just sit awhile and soak up the peaceful ambiance. Maybe—
His gaze narrowed and flashed about the dark front room even as he deftly snagged a thin-bladed boning knife. Without breaking his stride, he continued toward the living room, his step light and now lethal, his body becoming a coil of deadly force.
“Tough night?”
Recognizing the voice from the shadows, Zachary Russell let the air rush from his lungs in a puff of relief. “Tough decade.” He set the knife on the counter. “You took a chance popping up unexpected. How did you know I’d be here?”
“I know people who know people.”
Zach advanced into the cavernous room. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could make out the figure of his friend, Jack Chaney, seated in the deepest shadows near the window. That Jack had been inside his rooms without him sensing it was a testimony to his exhaustion. Of course, he could count the number of men on one hand with skills of his friend’s caliber. He was one of them.
“Come all the way from the States for some of my coffee, did you?” Zach asked.
“If you were making some. Just black. None of that steamed milk or fancy flavored stuff, Russ.”
“You Yanks are so plebeian in your tastes,” he said, quirking his lip at Jack’s nickname.
“We’re just simple folks.”
Zach switched on the light in his huge gourmet kitchen. It was the reason he kept the massively overpriced rooms he so seldom saw. He replaced the knife in the block and set about brewing a fresh grind of beans. The routine gestures and familiar smells were a salve to his battered soul.
It was always good to see Jack. They’d been best mates since his early days in British Intelligence. Jack was a straight shooter in their knife-in-the-back, cloak and dagger world. He’d secretly cheered when he heard of his friend’s retirement. Not many of them actually got the chance to walk away from what they did,