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  His companion carried a tray into the room. He was the opposite of the first, scrawny and ugly, his pockmarked face rat-like in its intensity. His clothes were newer but cheap, the clothes of a workman. These two men were not leaders in the cartel, but she didn’t know what their ranks could be. Trevor had done the research, learning everything he could about the organizations. She’d skimmed his information, remembering the basics such as where they were going and how to get away. The order of power in a cartel had not concerned her until she was faced with what she was sure were the bottom-of-the-barrel members.

  The rat man put the tray on the table, and Grace glanced down at it. A white hand towel lay folded next to two large pitchers filled with water. Also on the tray was a plate filled with rice and beans. Her stomach rumbled, the fruit cup having been nowhere near filling. The rat man looked at her when he heard the noise and grinned.

  Grace stared at him, hoping her face was expressionless. She worried that any show of fear would be her undoing. “Where am I?” Her voice wavered, but she lifted her head as if speaking to someone who would automatically answer her.

  The rat man’s smile didn’t change. He shook his head and said, “No hablo Ingles.”

  “Does he speak English?” she asked, jutting her chin toward the stocky man at the door. The man’s eyes didn’t move from her face as he shook his head.

  “No.” The rat man turned and walked out of the cell, leaving the stocky man behind and the door to her cell open.

  Grace stared at him, wondering if she could manage to bash his skull in with the chair. Wouldn’t matter, she grumbled internally. The chain secured her to the floor. I could seduce them, she thought, grimacing as her stomach revolted. I’d rather die…and probably will. Her mind flew through every idea of escape, and she discarded each one as futile. More than anything, she wanted to cry as she looked around the room, anywhere but at the stocky man glaring at her as if she’d kicked his puppy.

  You will not cry, you will not cry, she told herself, listening for the return of the rat man. Her family popped into her mind unbidden. Her sisters, her mother, her nephew…she’d never see them again, she was sure of it. A single tear slipped down her cheek, but she wiped it away hastily when she heard the rat man’s footsteps.

  He walked back in carrying a tripod with a video camera attached to it. He set it up five feet from the table, turned it on, and began making adjustments as he stared at the LED screen. Grace worried she would wet herself. Were they going to videotape themselves raping her? Or torturing her? Her eyes moved so quickly in their sockets as panic set in that when he finally turned to look at her, he hesitated.

  He put his hands out, palms down, and shushed her, as if he were trying to calm her. Grace’s breathing was so rapid she feared she’d hyperventilate and pass out.

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  He gestured to the chair she gripped like a vise. “Sentado.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked, her body rigid as she prepared to swing the chair if they moved closer to her.

  The man hesitated a moment, thinking, then said, “Sit.” He gestured to the chair again.

  “Why?” Her voice was shaking, just like her insides. “Why do you want me to sit?”

  The stocky man moved with surprising speed, reaching her before she could react and lift the chair. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back, using the hair to propel her movements. Grace barely had time to scream before she was sitting on the chair, her hands massaging her scalp after he released her hair. He mumbled at her in Spanish as he put his beefy fingers on her shoulders, forcing her to drop her arms. He stood behind her and held her in place.

  “What are you going to do to me? Let me go!” She fought his hands frantically, scratching and jerking, using all her strength to free herself from his grasp. She screamed and screamed, but nothing but her echo answered her.

  The rat man stepped forward and backhanded her, and her cheek exploded with pain. Her frantic fighting stilled briefly, and she opened her mouth to scream again when she saw the knife poised near her eye. He spoke to her, and though she didn’t know his words, she understood his meaning. She froze, and while the rat man held the knife close to her face, the stocky man produced duct tape and bound her to the chair she sat in. He wrapped the tape around her chest five times and around her wrists as well, which were in her lap. He knelt and wrapped the tape around her thighs and the seat of the chair, securing her in place.

  The rat man removed the knife, and instantly, Grace began to fight again, screaming like a madwoman in the hopes someone would hear her. The stocky man put his hand over her mouth and jerked, pushing her tender lips hard against her teeth. She tasted blood and halted her fighting before he smashed her mouth again.

  The rat man scurried to the video camera and turned it on, checked to make sure the angle was as he liked, and returned to her side. With a calm, collected voice, he spoke into the camera while Grace’s eyes darted about like a rabbit’s in a trap. When he finished his little speech, none of which Grace understood, he turned to her and grinned evilly.

  “We begin.”

  To Grace, the words sounded like a death sentence, and she renewed her fighting. The stocky man released her mouth and she screamed nonsense, spewing blood from her cut lips. The rat man punched her in the cheek he’d slapped earlier, and Grace fell silent for a moment as she tried to recover. Head lolling, she felt the rat man force her face to look at the camera as he spoke again. He laughed, as did the stocky man, at whatever he’d said to their audience.

  “What do you want from me?” Grace asked, but neither answered. Her voice was slurring a little because of the hits and the busted lips, but she yelled anyway. “What do you want?”

  The rat man spoke in rapid Spanish to his partner behind her, who jerked the chair back on two legs. Grace screamed and tried to wiggle free again, forgetting the pain as she realized what they were going to do to her when the man picked up the hand towel and attempted to drape it over her face. She threw her head from side to side, shrieking, and the stocky man let the chair fall to the floor.

  With her breath knocked out of her, she felt the stocky man drag the chair so the camera could see her face. He knelt by her head and grabbed either side of it, staring upside down into her face. All her movements were jerky because she could move so little, and she screamed continuously, even when the stocky man slapped her face again.

  The rat man moved to her left so the camera could see his movements. Grace fought, kicking her feet and squirming, screaming and cursing, as he draped the hand towel over her face. In the sudden almost darkness, Grace froze in fear. She had read about waterboarding, the effects of the torture, and how it felt, but she never imagined she would experience it firsthand. She continued squirming, trying to turn her head, but the stocky man’s hands were like small brick walls on either side of her face.

  They let her panic for several seconds before Grace felt the slow trickle of water on her lips. She pressed them together tightly and inhaled quickly through her nose before the water flowed into it. She held her breath, refusing to give in to them, refusing to inhale. But after an eternity without oxygen, Grace let her breath explode out of her. She immediately inhaled, but rather than oxygen, she sucked water through her nostrils and into her lungs. The damp cloth tightened around her face, and she felt like a clamp had been added to her face, a clamp made of cloth and water.

  Panic gripped her as she felt like she was drowning, and she fought the grip of the stocky man on her head to no avail. The water seemed like an endless cascade over her face, and the towel covering her was like wet velvet, heavy and impenetrable. She opened her mouth to push at it with her tongue, but the water sloshed into her mouth as well as her nostrils. She choked and attempted to cough but couldn’t.

  Just as unconsciousness reached for her, the blackness of death—or what she thought was death—closing its hands around her, the towel was removed. Grace hauled in a rap
id breath, then heaved water out of her mouth when the stocky man forced her face to the side. She coughed and hacked, tears invisible as they coursed through her wet hair.

  After she’d caught her breath, she heard the man speak into the camera again. Her brain was too frightened, too frenzied with fear to listen to him, even if she had understood the language. The stocky man still knelt by her head, and just as her heartbeat settled into a more serene rhythm as her breathing normalized, he grabbed either side of her head and the towel was placed over her face again.

  Two more times, they repeated the torture, each time giving her fewer precious moments to catch her breath before stealing it from her again. The last session, they waterboarded her until she lost consciousness.

  Chapter 4

  For the first time in three months, Tony Romano sat on the balcony of his condo, smoking a cigar and enjoying a glass of scotch. Grateful to have come home without an injury, he leaned back in the chair and propped his feet up on the railing and smiled to himself. The life he led, when he wasn’t on a job, was one many wished for. He owned a condo that sat near the lake on a golf course, he played golf at least three times a week, and he drank the best scotch and smoked the most expensive cigars.

  Yes, he led a wonderful life he’d worked hard to deserve, but to get there, he’d seen the worst humanity had to offer. Ugliness the average Joe could never understand and wouldn’t want to see. Their worst nightmares were tame daydreams compared to the realities he’d seen and wished he could forget.

  Sighing through his reflections, he sipped his scotch and watched a crane lift off the bank of the lake and fly over him, graceful and magnificent. He was gifted with beauty occasionally, but his wariness, his inability to completely relax, blighted the charming aspects of the world. He inhaled the flavorful smoke of his cigar and wondered if he was too young for retirement.

  At thirty-seven, he was only reaching his prime, he thought, and what would he do as a retired man? Golf every day? Travel? He snorted at the idea. When his job—which had taken him to so many countries he couldn’t remember them all—ended, he would stay home for the rest of his life. No place on Earth called to him more than his home, his space, the only place he felt marginally safe. But never one hundred percent safe.

  He grunted as he rose to replenish his drink, reminding himself that he’d signed up for the job and could quit at any time. He had plenty of money—more than enough, if he was honest—to give him time to decide what his next job might be. He could write, create a fictional character based on himself and write of his adventures. The books would sell, he was certain. Americans loved bloody tales.

  All you have to do is quit picking up the phone, he thought, as he wandered through his condo to the bar, glancing at the space he’d turned into a home.

  Because his home was his sanctuary, he’d carefully selected everything in it. The couches, which sat parallel to each other, were leather and dark brown, overstuffed and more than comfortable. A throw rug in a slightly lighter shade of brown lay between them with a large leather ottoman rather than a table in the middle. Each couch had its own end table, on opposite ends, with matching lamps that plugged into sockets on the floor, hidden by the tables. He enjoyed laying on the couches, his head at the end furthest from the door, facing the balcony windows during a storm or at sunset.

  A television mounted to the wall had been turned on perhaps a dozen times in the three years he’d lived in the condo. He enjoyed the fireplace beneath it and a good book much more than any movie or show. The bar was really an island that separated the living room from the kitchen, one he’d designed and had built specifically for the condo. The dark wood had been honed to look like a bar in a saloon, with shelves rather than cabinets underneath, and was fully stocked. A wine fridge was built into it, though he usually put water bottles in there.

  The wine fridge had been a whim. He didn’t partake in wine unless he was eating at a fancy restaurant, but the idea had been that he might eventually marry. A woman would appreciate such foresight. He snorted again. I definitely have to retire before any woman will marry me, he mused, swirling the scotch in his glass as he returned to the balcony. He left the door open so the cool evening air could penetrate the condo and leave its refreshing scent behind.

  As he pondered the fact that no woman would be able to deal with a schedule like his, his phone interrupted his reverie. You can quit picking up the phone, he reminded himself as he fished the ringing offender out of his pocket. He sucked air through his teeth when he saw the name on the screen. Not a number he could ignore.

  “Hello, Charlie,” he greeted, his voice a step above grouchy. “Been a long time.”

  “Yes, it has,” Charles Hudson answered, his voice as brusque as it had always been, even when they’d been teenagers. “How are you?”

  “Good as can be expected,” he replied. “A little curious about this call. You don’t call just to chat.”

  Charles chuckled. “You’re right about that. I need your help.”

  Tony’s eyebrows furrowed as a frown crossed his face. Charles owned a magazine in New York, was married with two kids, and shouldn’t need the kind of help Tony provided. The two men had served in the Marines together, started together in boot camp, and were sent to some “bad places,” as they’d always joked. While Charles had chosen the civilian life as soon as his time was up, Tony had remained in the Marines and had worked special ops for a time. When he’d finally chosen to leave the Marines, his set of skills was good for one thing: rescue missions for civilians who had put themselves in dangerous positions. He was paid handsomely to bring these people home, and in the few years he’d made this his job, he’d lost only one.

  “Not sure what I can do for you, Charlie.” Tony fished, hoping Charles would take the bait.

  “Are you in New York?”

  “No, but I’m in the States,” he answered cagily. He preferred no one knew where he lived. “I could get to New York quickly if it’s important.”

  “It’s important,” he replied, his voice quietly serious. “How soon can you get here?”

  “When do I need to be there?”

  “An hour ago,” Charles joked humorlessly.

  Tony’s frown deepened, accenting a scar on one eyebrow as it pulled down. “What’s going on, man?”

  His friend cleared his throat on the other end before he spoke. “Let’s talk when you get here. Keep your receipts and I’ll pay for your flight.”

  His eyes narrowed, his friend’s severe tone causing alarms to ring in his head. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s just after six here. I’ll text you when I get a flight.”

  “Thanks, man,” Charles answered gruffly. “Text me what airport and I’ll have a car waiting for you. You can stay with my family.”

  “Will I be staying in New York long?”

  “Hmm, regardless of your answer, I doubt it,” Charles answered. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  Tony stared at his phone as the line disconnected, his frown becoming a scowl. If Charles was calling him, someone he cared about was in danger. Tony knew the magazine Charles owned often contained stories that could pose a threat to the publisher himself or his employees. He wished he could have seen the man’s face while they spoke; he couldn’t get a read on the seriousness of the issue only by listening to his voice. He could guess, though.

  Shaking himself, he downed his drink and stood. He strode to his laptop and packed it in its bag as he called his buddy who could usually fly him anywhere at a moment’s notice and paid the outrageous, last-minute fee begrudgingly. He hurried to his bedroom and packed the essentials, thankful for the private plane so he could carry what weapons he needed. Since he had no idea what Charles needed him for, he packed lightly, determined to come back to the condo if he needed more.

  At fifteen after ten that night, Tony was escorted into the skyscraper that housed the offices for Hudson Monthly News. The security guard on
duty looked askance at him as they walked side by side to the elevator. Tony smirked at his behavior. His Italian heritage leant him a fierce look, with his dark skin and dark, buzzed hair. He had a nose on him, but it fit his face even though it had been broken a couple of times. The healed nose and scar on his eyebrow added to his fierceness, and the fact that he was three inches above six feet and could pass for Dwayne Johnson’s body double didn’t help. He scared people, a useful tool in his profession.

  “Ride the elevator to the twenty-seventh floor. When the doors open, Mr. Hudson’s office is to the right,” the guard explained as he reached for the button to call the elevator. “Or I can escort you up?”

  “I think I can make it on my own, thanks,” Tony replied, his deep voice solidifying the tough-guy persona he liked to exude. As he stepped into the elevator, he said, “Have a good one.”

  “You too, sir,” the guard replied quickly as the elevator doors slid closed nearly noiselessly.

  Tony chuckled to himself as the elevator glided smoothly up. The man had looked in his eyes once and not again. Some security, he thought churlishly, feeling sorry for the guy. Probably doesn’t have much to do other than sign people in and out all day. He stepped out of the elevator and looked both directions, assessing the area as he automatically did when he was in a new place.

  With steps as quiet as a cat’s, he walked down the hall to the door emblazoned with Hudson Monthly News on the glass. He thought the name sounded more like a television news show, but he’d done a little research during the flight and read several pieces. None were fluff pieces but intelligent articles about a myriad of topics, most accompanied by photos that told stories of their own. He was surprised the magazine wasn’t more well-known, though he did discover that national newspapers had reprinted their stories, with permission.