Home > Ravaged With You (Stark Security #7)(4)

Ravaged With You (Stark Security #7)(4)
Author: J. Kenner

“I will kill you,” he said, making the woman chuckle.

“Of course you will not. You are not the hero, Mr. Cooper. You are what we call the victim. But not, I think, the first one.”

It took a moment for his mind to process what she meant. Then his gaze cut to the women. “No.” He swallowed, his mouth entirely dry. “No, don’t you dare. They’re nothing to you. A nuisance. We both know that their programs haven’t done shit to curb your industry.”

Not exactly true. There was in fact evidence that the training programs springing up among flight attendants had in fact helped victims. But he wasn’t inclined to state actual facts.

“Hush, Mr. Cooper. Enjoy our hospitality. We have prepared a show for you.”

As he struggled in his bonds, two of the men pulled one flight attendant from behind a wooden panel. She was naked, her hands tied behind her, her mouth stuffed with a dirty rag.

“Don’t.” His voice was parched. Cracked.

“Oh, we will. The question is, will you survive to see it? I confess I told a little fib. I want these bitches to understand that they have no champion. You are only a useless man, tied to a chair, and your life is completely within my hands. As is theirs.”

He caught Lisa’s eyes, saw the fear and horror reflected back at him. He wanted to comfort her, but there was no comfort to be had. The woman was right. A fact she proved again with a wave of her hand.

With no warning, the men flipped the chair over, then took him upside down across the room to a huge barrel with two bars across it. They lowered him, and though he tried to struggle, it was futile. Soon he was suspended head down in the water, the ropes so tight around his waist and chest and legs that he remained immobile as he shook his head and fought not to breathe, not to allow his lungs to suck in, seeking air, air, blissful air. But there was no air to be had, and soon the inside of his head was black, then red. He felt light, lost, and soon he would have no choice but to breathe as his lungs battled to bring him oxygen.

Soon, he would drown.

And then he was up again.

He gasped. Just once, and they started it all over again.

And again. And again.

Until he was choking and spitting. Until his body trembled and his lungs burned and he was only half-conscious.

“Enough.” It was the tallest man who spoke. “You did well. You have bought her a quick death.”

And just like that, he pulled a pistol, fired, and that woman—one of the two civilian flight attendants his team had been assigned to rescue—fell dead on the hard concrete floor.

“And now,” the woman said, smiling as she stepped closer. “We shall see how the others will die.”

 

 

No.

No, no, no, no, NOOOOO!

His eyes flew open, and he scooted backward, automatically shielding his face from the next blow.

But there was no blow coming. He was on a concrete floor covered with a layer of waffled plastic squares, the scent of yeast permeating the air.

Not Romania.

Not the woman, not the torture.

He was in Los Angeles. In the distillery.

He sucked in air, yanking his knife from his pocket and clutching it like a talisman as he tried to slow his racing heart and feeling like a goddamn failure for falling down the rabbit hole again after so long without an episode.

Stop it. It was a process. Wasn’t that what every therapist he’d seen had said, from government shrinks with high level clearance to the LA doc who’d been all about crystals and cleansing his aura?

The bottom line was that he was strong. He could do this. There was no threat. A body, yes. Memories, hell yeah.

But he wasn’t going to get lost in the memories or cower under the strain. They’d broken him, that was for damn sure. But that was seven long years ago, and he’d clawed his way back. It had taken years, but he’d gotten his shit together. And no way was he backsliding now. He could do this.

Hadn’t he proved as much in New York? A full-on hostage situation, but he’d held it together. At least until he was alone, anyway.

No one saw the way he’d melted down when he returned to his dad’s apartment. The ghosts that haunted him that night. The siren call of one drink, then another and another to soothe those hard edges.

But he’d made it through. He’d done it. Nikki Stark was alive today because he’d taken a bullet intended for her.

He’d survived that hostage situation and he could do this, too. He had to. For Mel’s sake, and for Jo’s.

Oh, God. Jo. He still hadn’t called her. But he needed to call his brother first.

He sat up, then re-sheathed the knife before tucking it back in his pocket. He checked the other pocket, too, making sure Mel’s phone was secured. Then he pushed himself to his feet, thinking about the parameters of the mission he was setting himself on. Identify the perps. Find out what they wanted and obtain it. Arrange an exchange. Then take the fuckers down.

A vague plan, but it would fall into place.

“I’m so sorry, Mel,” he whispered toward the tank that had become his friend’s tomb. “I know you had some shit going on, but I should have known you wouldn’t have taken that way out.”

With the goodbye still lingering in the air, he pulled out his phone again. He dialed, holding his breath until he heard the voice on the other end of the line.

“I was just about to call you,” his brother Renly said. “Is everything okay?”

“No.” Red wasn’t going to beat around the bush. Not with Renly, who’d already gotten a vibe. They might not be identical, but the twin thing was real. “Mel’s dead.”

“Oh, Christ. What happened?”

“Can you get over here? I’m at the distillery.”

“Yeah, sure, but—”

“It was suicide, Renly,” he snapped, and heard his brother’s sharp intake of breath. “Just come. And if Damien happens to be with you, could you drag him along, too?”

“Stark? He’s here. But why—”

“Just hurry. Tell him I asked you to bring him. He’ll come.”

“After the way you saved his wife in New York, he’d buy you the Brooklyn Bridge if you asked. Of course we’ll come.”

“See you soon—”

“Wait.” There was an edge to Renly’s voice. Hard, but softened by compassion. “Are you holding up?”

Red hadn’t told his brother what had happened in Romania all those years ago, but being Renly, he knew that something had gone down.

“I’m still standing,” he said. “Just get here. I need to talk to both of you.”

He’d walked while he was talking, and now he was standing in the outdoor area. He could see the interior of the empty tasting room through the wide windows, then realized that he should have locked the damn door. Anyone could have walked in and cleaned them out, even torched the place. He would have lost not only his partner, but his distillery as well. And now it was Jo’s distillery, too.

Jo.

Her name filled his head, along with an image of her sweet smile. She still didn’t know, and he couldn’t keep putting it off.

He dialed her number, dreading the conversation, only to have the call go straight to voicemail. “Jo, it’s Red. Give me a call. It’s important.” He sounded so professional. So in control. But what he felt was numb. Thank God for his training…

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