Part 9 (1/2)
He stood behind her, but she could tell by where his breathing came from that he was tall. He pulled her wrists until she was on her tiptoes, struggling to maintain contact with the floor.
”Okay, shorty, now you're going to do something for me.”
She didn't have the training to beat him in a fight, and she didn't have the strength to wrest herself free. She could only try to make use of the options she'd prepared.
She let her weight sag precariously against her stressed shoulders for one second as she kicked the toe of her left shoe down with enough pressure to pop the stiletto blade out of the heel (the front-facing blade was in her right shoe). Then she slashed awkwardly back toward where his legs had to be. He jumped out of the way, loosening his grip enough for her to rip free and spin around, her left hand flying out for an open-handed slap. He was too tall; she missed his face, and her barb sc.r.a.ped against something hard on his chest-body armor. She danced backward, away from the blow she could hear coming but could not see, her hands extended, trying to make contact with unprotected skin.
Something cut her legs out from under her. She hit the ground and rolled away, but he was on top of her at once. He grabbed her hair and bounced her face against the concrete again. Her nose popped and blood flooded her lips and chin.
He bent down to speak directly in her ear. ”Playtime is over, honey.”
She tried to head-b.u.t.t him. The back of her head connected with something, but not a face-uneven spires, metallic...
Night-vision goggles. No wonder he'd been able to control the fight so well.
He slapped the back of her head.
If only she'd put her earrings on.
”Seriously, stop it. Look, I'm going to get off you. I can see you, and you can't see me. I've got a gun, and I will shoot you in the kneecap if you try one more stupid trick, okay?”
While he was talking, he reached back with one hand and ripped her shoes off, one after the other. He didn't check her pockets, so she still had the scalpel blades and the needles in her belt. He jumped off her. She heard him move away and click the safety off his gun.
”What do you... want me to do?” she asked in her best frightened-little-girl voice. The split lip helped. She imagined her face was a sight. It was going to hurt like h.e.l.l when the drugs wore off.
”Disarm your b.o.o.by traps and open the door.”
”I'll need”-sniff, sniff-”the light on.”
”No problem. I'm switching my night-vision goggles for your gas mask anyway.”
She dropped her head, hoping to hide her expression. Once he had the mask on, 90 percent of her defenses were rendered obsolete.
She limped-too theatrical?-to the panel by the door and turned the light on. She couldn't think of any other option right now. He hadn't killed her immediately; that meant he wasn't under direct orders from the department. He must have an agenda here. She had to figure out what it was he wanted and then keep it from him long enough to gain the advantage.
The bad news was that if he needed the door open, it was probably not just to have an easy escape route. It meant he had backup, which didn't help her odds. Or Daniel's, a voice in her head added. Like she needed more pressure. But Daniel was here because of her. She felt responsible for him. She owed him.
When she turned, blinking against the brilliance of the overhead lights, the man was twenty feet from where she stood. He had to be six foot three or four, and the skin on his neck and jaw was definitely white, but that was all she could be sure about. His body was covered with a black one-piece suit-almost like a wet suit, but rough, with jutting plates of Kevlar. Torso, arms, and legs all armored. He looked pretty muscular, but some of that could be the Kevlar. He wore heavy all-terrain boots, also black, and a black watch cap on his head. His face was hidden by her gas mask. Over one shoulder was slung an a.s.sault rifle-a McMillan .50-caliber sniper. She'd done her homework; it wasn't hard to become an expert on just about anything when you spent all your free time studying. Knowing gun makes and models could tell her a lot about an a.s.sailant, or any suspicious man on the street who might be planning to become an a.s.sailant. This a.s.sailant had more than one gun; a high-standard HDS was holstered on his hip, and a SIG Sauer P220 was in his right hand, pointed at her knee. Right-handed, she noted. She had no doubt he could hit her kneecap from this distance. Given that particular rifle, she figured, he could probably hit her wherever he wanted from however far away he wanted to.
He reminded her of Batman, but without the cape. Also, she thought she remembered something about Batman not ever using guns. Though if he did, a.s.suming taste and skill, he would probably choose these.
If she couldn't get this a.s.sa.s.sin out of the gas mask, it wouldn't matter how many super-soldier friends were waiting for him outside. He would have no trouble killing her once he had what he wanted.
”Disarm your leads.”
She feigned a brief dizzy spell as she limped over to the barn door, trying to get as much time for thinking as possible. Who would want her alive? Was he a kind of bounty hunter? Did he think he could sell her back to the department? If they'd put out a contract on her, she was sure that all they would have asked for was her head. So a blackmailerslashbounty hunter? I have what you want, but I'll release it alive, back into the wild, unless you double the reward. Smart. The department would definitely pay.
That was the best guess she could come up with by the time she was to the back edge of the door.
The system wasn't complicated. There were three sets of leads for each area of ingress. The first was outside in the bushes to the left of the barn door, hidden under a thin layer of dirt. Then there was the trigger line that ran across the seam where the door opened, connected loosely enough to pull apart with the slightest breach. The third was the safety, tucked under the wood paneling beside the door; its exposed wires were separated by an inch of s.p.a.ce. The current was only stable if at least two of the connections were linked. She wondered if she should make the process look more convoluted than it actually was, but then decided there was no point. All he'd have to do was examine the setup for a few seconds to understand it.
She wrapped the ends of the third lead tightly together and then stood back.
”It's... off.” She made her voice crack in the middle of the words. Hopefully he would buy that he'd knocked the fight out of her.
”If you would do the honors?” he suggested.
She gimped her way to the other side of the door and then pulled it back, her eyes already on the spot in the darkness where she a.s.sumed the dark heads of his companions would be. There was nothing but the farmhouse in the distance. And then her eyes dropped, and she froze.
”What is that?” she whispered.
It wasn't actually a question for him, it was just shock breaking through her facade.
”That,” he answered in a tone that could only be described as obnoxiously smug, ”is one hundred and twenty pounds of muscles, claws, and teeth.”
He must have made some kind of signal-she didn't see it, her eyes were locked on his ”backup”-because the animal darted forward to his side. It looked like a German shepherd, a very big one, but it didn't have the coloring she a.s.sociated with Alsatians. This one was pure black. Could it be a wolf?
”Einstein,” he said to the animal. It looked up, alert. He pointed to her, and his next word was obviously a command. ”Control!”
The dog-wolf?-rushed her with its hackles rising. She backed up until the barn door was against her spine, her hands in the air. The dog braced itself, snout just inches from her stomach, its muzzle pulled back to expose long, sharp white fangs. A low, rumbling growl began deep in its throat.
Intimidate would have been a better name for the command.
She thought about trying to get one of her barbs into the dog's skin but doubted they were long enough to make it past its thick fur. And it wasn't like the thing was going to sit there and let her pet it.
The Batman wannabe relaxed a bit, or she thought he did. It was hard to be positive about what his muscles were doing under the armor.
”All right, now that we've broken the ice, let's talk.”
She waited.
”Where is Daniel Beach?”
She could feel the shock on her face even as she tried to suppress it. All her theories whirled around again and turned upside down.
”Answer me!”
She didn't know what to say. Did the department want Daniel dead first? Make sure the loose ends were all tied up neatly? She thought of Daniel, exposed and unconscious in the center of the tent-not exactly a strong hiding place-and felt sick.
Batman stalked angrily toward her. The dog reacted, moving to the side to allow the man through even as its snarl grew in volume. The man shoved the barrel of his SIG Sauer under her jaw roughly, knocking her head against the barn door.
”If he's dead,” the man hissed, ”you're going to wish you were, too. I'll make you beg me to kill you.”
She almost snorted. This thug would probably hit her a few times-maybe, if he had any creativity, he would cut her up a bit-and then he'd shoot her. He had no idea how to generate and maintain real pain.
But his threats did tell her something-he apparently wanted Daniel alive. So they had that one thing in common.