They went around the mansion to an entrance that was placed to the side of the structure. The guard, now joined by three more men, opened a door at the bottom of several concrete steps.
The first thing she noticed as they entered was the warmth. It was a boon to her equilibrium. Even the stone beneath her feet was warm. They were then ushered to a room where there were two chairs. Nothing else. The chairs were against a plain gray wall.
Chry turned to look at 2-Stroke and his mouth tightened. What the hell was Zasha up to now?
“Take a seat. Don’t resist. It won’t be good for you, and I’m really pissed at what happened at the island. Your team is quite clever, using Darko’s…obsession against him. We won’t be easily manipulated again.”
2-Stroke looked like he was going to fight, but Chry knew it wasn’t going to help and would only diminish them and their ability to free themselves. She reached out and clasped his forearm, squeezing until he looked at her.
There was an inflexible set to his face, as though he were struggling for control, and the muscle in his jaw flexed. As if surfacing from a long-deep dive, he hauled in a ragged breath and slowly relaxed, sending a look of understanding her way, some of the hardness leaving his face.
He took one of the seats and they tied him to the chair.
“That was touching,” Zasha said. “I might have been going at him in the wrong way all along. I wonder what he would give up for you.”
She didn’t give Chry the option of taking the chair on her own. Zasha set her hand in the middle of Chry’s chest and shoved her. She stumbled back, and the guards caught her arms and slammed her down into the chair, quickly binding her wrists and feet.
Chry’s tailbone ached and the skin at her wrists and ankles stung as they bound her to the chair. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and turned toward the figure. But he stayed in the shadows by the door. All she could make out was a pair of Nike sneakers, blue jeans, and just the hint of a red shirt tucked into the waistband. He had a slight build, like that of a teenager.
Why didn’t it surprise her that Darko didn’t care what a young boy saw?
Zasha pulled out her phone as one of the guards handed her a selfie stick. She attached the camera and started speaking.
“To whom it may concern. I have your people: Petty Officer Neo Teller and Officer Chrysanthe Steele.” She moved the phone toward them, then continued, “Let me preface my offer with the warning that their time is running out. I’m done playing.” Anger radiated from her, and her voice was dangerously quiet. She took some steps away from them, and Chry was sure they were out of the phone’s picture.
Apprehension shot through her when Chry saw the unyielding gleam in her eyes. There was something coldly hostile about the tension in Zasha’s jaw, and she had the unnerving feeling that Zasha was setting the stage…for something terrible.
“I will turn both of them over to you at a designated place, but in return, I want you to give me Lieutenant Ford Nixon for crimes against my family. A blood feud if you want to call it something. If you don’t turn him over to me, both Neo and Chrysanthe will die. I’ll make sure you all get a front row seat.” She panned back to them and Chry worked at keeping her face neutral in the wake of Zasha’s offer. The Navy would never agree to such a trade. Zasha had to be aware of it as well. She was going to claim their lives in the name of her blood feud. Maybe she hoped Ford would see this video and take matters into his own hands and give himself up to Zasha.
She prayed that didn’t happen. Where she and 2-Stroke had the advantage of clinging to the hope of life and escape, Ford would be executed almost immediately without any chance of rescue.
“I’m not unreasonable. I understand there are procedures and protocols, and the engine moves slow. I vow to keep your people safe and comfortable for two weeks. After that time is up, I will either get Ford Nixon or I will kill them…or sell them to the highest bidder. I believe Muhammad Angar Said would be amenable to a deal. The torture I put them through will be mild compared to what will happen to them once he has them. Just food for thought.”
She smiled, then turned toward them, nodding at the guards. Without warning, a hood dropped over her head, and the sound of knuckles hitting flesh was the only sound in the room.
“Oh, one more thing. I reserve the right to punish Petty Officer Teller for his defiance in pushing that ATF agent out of the helicopter.” Her voice hardened as the sounds continued and she was released from the chair and dragged away.
“Neo!” Chry screamed. “Stop it, Zasha. Leave him alone!”
But the beating went on until the sound of his pain and suffering retreated into the distance.
She vowed she would do anything and everything to get them out of here. They were leaving here together, and she and Neo would show no mercy in their escape, for there was none in Zasha or Darko to spare…if any at all.
Saint watched the beginning of the video and clenched his fists and jaw against the sight of 2-Stroke and Chry, bound to chairs, looking worse for wear. Their skin was ashen, bruises everywhere on their faces and necks, but he was bolstered by the determination in their eyes. They weren’t out of the fight.
They had been called to the ready room at their home base in that government-provided building in Sarajevo. Licking their wounds and feeling frustrated and angry at the way the rescue op had gone down—they hadn’t botched a hostage rescue ever—they sat helplessly and had to swallow her dictating terms to them.
When Zasha, that bitch, got to her one demand, he wasn’t the only one who rose to his feet in denial.
“Fuck her!” Hemingway shouted.
“She can fucking kiss our asses,” Pitbull yelled.
“No way!” Dragon barked.
Then the room descended into chaos until Anna, with her shrill whistle, signaled them to all be quiet. She had paused the video when the room erupted into foul language and anger.
“There’s more here, and it’s…just watch.” She pressed play and Zasha, who had been frozen, started speaking again.
When they heard the sounds of 2-Stroke’s beating, Saint had never felt the cold-blooded thought that he would kill this woman on sight. He was a SEAL. They were trained in combat, shoot to kill. But so help him God, when he had her in his sights the next time, he wasn’t going to hesitate to put a bullet in her head. He looked around the table at his quiet, anguished teammates and knew they all felt the same way. This was a personal attack, retaliation toward their CO, their teammate, and their CIA liaison, putting them all through a ruthless wringer designed to break their morale and make them feel helpless.
But her actions had the opposite effect. There wasn’t a man sitting there who didn’t feel the same way as Saint, renewed in purpose, dedicated to action, unanimous in agreement that they would risk much to see Zasha and Darko either captured or dead. There would be no place either of them could hide now. Their tireless pursuit was a given.
The video ended abruptly with Zasha’s smirk and triumphant gleam in her eyes.
Anna was silent for a moment as if she had to compose herself all over again. “The brass has already declined the remotest chance that we would willingly trade one of our own for certain execution. It comes all the way from the White House. Fast Lane will not be traded under any circumstances. We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”