“What do you want from me?”
“I thought that would be obvious. I want what belongs to me.”
“What are—”
“Keep this phone. If you value your life—or the life of his wife—you won’t give it to the police. You’ll call them, of course. But you will say it was suicide. An investigation would be most inconvenient.”
“What did he take? What is it you want back?”
“In case you didn’t know, your partner’s phone passcode is 798465. An interesting little number. Almost as interesting as the last video that’s saved on his phone. Take a look. And remember—keep the phone. It’s our link to you. And, though we found nothing of note, perhaps you can uncover a clue to where your partner has stashed our package.”
“If you think—”
“I don’t mind killing you, but if you do what I say, I’ll forgo my jollies and let you and the little wifey live. If you speak to the cops, though … if you refuse to help me regain what is mine, I will kill you. But I’ll kill her first. Watch the video, Charlie. And don’t make your partner’s mistakes. Be smarter. I’ll be in touch.”
The phone went dead, and some of the tension drained from his body. He shot a look at the tub his friend was in, his heart heavy. “Mel, buddy. What the hell did you get yourself wrapped up in?”
He didn’t want to, but he knew he had to watch the video. He keyed in the passcode, thankful that his training had cemented the number in his memory.
He found Mel’s photos, and the last addition was a video, timestamped just a few hours ago.
Someone thin and dressed head-to-toe in black held Mel by the back of the neck. His partner’s body was weak, his efforts to struggle useless. They’d already beaten him, the bastards. More than that, they’d already tampered with the CO2 scrubbers, allowing gas to accumulate to toxic levels. The assailant was masked. Mel was not.
Then the assailant shoved Mel forward, his face going into the bubbling, semi-liquid mash. One second. Five. Fifteen. Forty. One minute.
Water rushing. Pulse pounding. Garbled voices.
No!
For years, he’d managed to keep those demons at bay. Then New York happened and—
Stop it. You can do this. Just shove the memories away.
Right. He could do this.
He drew a breath, then rewound the video to where he’d been. He watched once more, gasping, as the assailant yanked his partner up. His hand went automatically to the knife he always kept in his back pocket, and he tried to calm his heartbeat.
In the video, Mel’s head wobbled as he tried to catch his breath in a room that was rapidly filling with poisonous air.
Then he was pushed head down into the mash again. Thirty seconds. A minute. Ninety seconds.
You think you can play the hero? You’ll only play the fool.
And then back up to try to breathe, only to find there wasn’t any more air on the outside than inside that tub.
Mel? Or Red? Who was it who needed air?
Again and again and again until finally the assailant shoved Mel’s limp body all the way over the waist-high lip of the tub. And down he went, the mash sucking him in like quicksand.
Memories crashed through Red’s mind. He gasped, dropping the phone as his hand reached for his throat. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fucking breathe.
He tried to swallow, forcing himself to concentrate as he grabbed Mel’s phone and shoved it in his pocket.
Under the water. His lungs squeezing. No air. Needed air.
Gasping, trying to breathe, he pulled out his own phone and dialed 911. He heard himself say that his partner had killed himself. That they needed to send someone. His voice was raw. He had no air. He couldn’t hear the operator, only the hollow echo of the water that surrounded him.
Then his legs gave out, and he crashed to the floor. He could still hear the emergency operator talking as his entire world went black.
Chapter Two
Before
Blackness. Sweet, utter blackness.
He wanted to stay there. Wanted to get lost in it, to never come out of it.
You have to. It’s important.
But why? Why was it important?
He couldn’t remember. Didn’t know what he was doing or where he was. Hell, he didn’t even know who he was.
Icy panic flooded his veins, and he bucked, trying to move his hands, then realizing with more astonishment than fear that they were tied behind him.
Where was he? Who was he?
Charlie…
The name was like a whisper in the dark. A tease. A hint of who he was, or maybe who he had been.
Then a fiery hot sting against his face that seemed to shatter every bone.
“Again.”
The harsh word registered on his senses even as another round of fiery blows assaulted his face. Not English, but he understood it. How? How could he understand?
He was here—but where was here? He’d been captured—but by whom?
More beatings, more pain, more blackness and red pain until something in him seemed to snap and he forced his eyes open and saw his captors. Four tall men, bulky and scarred, and one woman standing behind them, dark hair falling past her shoulders, stunningly beautiful despite a face marred by hatred and disgust.
“Ah, there he is,” the woman said, and now he knew. Romanian. “We knew that you were in there somewhere, Mr. Cooper.”
Memories crashed back. The two flight attendants on a humanitarian mission, training other airline personnel how to detect and help suspected human trafficking victims. And the other woman, a deep-cover SOC agent who’d been taken hostage along with them.
Lisa. The woman he’d been dating on and off for the last two years. A woman whose laughter had reminded him that there was joy in the world despite the horrors he saw in his work.
His work … Him … Charlie Cooper.
He’d been assigned to get them out. Him and his team. Now all captured. Now all dead except for him and the women trapped in chains and cages.
It was up to him to save them all.
“You did not think we would kill you, did you? The last man standing? That is some sort of honor, I think. It has bought you time.” The woman smiled, a beautiful face on a soul of pure evil. “We will kill you eventually, of course. But not so soon. You have caused us much trouble. We will play before we kill, and you will be sorry for the trouble.”
He didn’t move. Not so much out of bravery, but because he was tied to a chair. His legs, his arms, his chest. Only his head had any movement at all.
“You will not enjoy this, I think,” she said, then nodded to the men. “Though we will.”
The men came, two on each side of the chair and lifted him. He was already woozy, and now vertigo hit him dead-on, along with the sickening certainty that he was helpless. This wasn’t a movie, and no matter what skills he’d developed during his years of service, they did him no good right now.
If only he had his knife.…
With his skill and his fury, he could turn the tables on them. He always carried a blade, but they’d stripped him bare, and the tools he’d had tucked away in pockets and hidden in seams—small but deadly blades, practical lock picks—were long gone now. He wore only the rags they’d clothed him in.