Fight Fire With Fire. Amy J. Fetzer
Читать онлайн книгу.
He slid to the floor. Three fingers pressed below his ear got her nothing, and she jerked back, her head swimming. Her breath rushed, and she licked her lips, tried to swallow. The burn rising in the back of her throat made her slow her breathing. Her hands trembled as she covered her face. I killed him. Her memory bloomed with the last days; his threats to remove her knee caps with a power drill, water boarding, and then humiliation, leaving her naked for days, making her beg for the one bowl of maggot infested rice…and his touching her. He’d treated her as if he owned her soul. She hoped his was frying somewhere in hell.
She lowered her hands, then sank to her knees. She reached for the hood, afraid of what she’d find. She worked it up enough to see under it, and wasn’t surprised by the dark skin, yet his face was obviously swollen. She pulled it further up. Skin was distended around his eyes, nose, and lips, all of it surrounded with deep purple bruises. There was no telling what he really looked like. She touched his cheek and felt a hardness unlike bone. It shifted. Oh no they didn’t. Implants.
She turned her back on the body and crossed to the rookie. When they’d slammed, it knocked him out, but it also cracked the lantern. The phosphorous light was quickly dying and she searched him, taking the keys and night stick. He carried no other weapons. Not even a knife.
What kind of prison is this?
She found chewing gum in the rookie’s shirt pocket and shoved a stick in her mouth. Pineapple and it tasted like heaven. She stripped off his shoes, but they were too big and she settled for the pants, rolling the cuffs. She cinched the belt but was forced to knot it. Some fried foods were in her near future, and she was going to enjoy gaining weight.
She took the rookie’s shirt, and ripped off anything that would reflect, then knelt at Chung’s body, freeing the belt. In her torturer’s trouser back pocket she found exactly five hundred dollars, American. It was the newness of the bills that puzzled her, too pristine to have been in circulation yet. The bills were bound with a money clip, silver plated metal with the outline of a griffin or dragon. She pocketed the cash and clip.
The lack of a weapon bothered her. He wasn’t the type to go around unarmed and she ground her hands down his hips and thighs, searching, then stopped, shoving up the pant leg to take the knife strapped to his upper calf. She felt a little better to be armed, but someone was going miss these two soon.
She stood, then instantly slapped her hand on the stone wall as her world tilted rudely. Her stomach joined in for the ride. She pushed gingerly back, knife in one hand, and wrapped the belt around her other palm, the buckle on the outside where it could do the most damage. She moved to the entrance.
No one came to investigate. Cautiously, she flattened to the stone wall. The only natural light was reflected farther down the corridor. She stepped out.
Sound had always come from the left. Never the right. Left led out. She hurried down the corridor. The floor was flooded a couple inches and she heard water rushing somewhere above her. Her bare feet barely made a sound on the uneven stone floor, and she kept moving, her hand on the wall for support. Everything swayed. Her muscles shook. If they caught her, they’d kill her. She had to get out of here and headed up, toward the sound of water. Then she slowed in front of empty cells.
The prison might be old, but the cells were retrofitted with steel doors, but that’s where it ended. Inside were a few scraps of cloth wrapped around iron cuffs, slave shackles really. She hadn’t been the only guest, and passing the next cell, she realized the light came from gaps in the roof. Vines and ferns shielded the sun, water misting like crystal rain. She tried the door, thinking she could climb to the surface, but it was locked. She tried the guard’s keys and it surprised her that none of them worked. The guard had always opened her cell.
Don’t analyze, she thought, turning away. She hurried down the corridor, stopping at each junction to check her bearings. The light diminished, and she felt as if she was heading downhill. Confused, she stopped, her back to the wall, holding the knife with a white knuckled grip. She took a slow breath, listening. The sound of water had changed and she frowned. It’s splashing, she realized, but hesitated, dissecting echoes from hollow reverberation bouncing in a passageway. She’d be in total darkness in a few steps. A scraping sound came from behind her, the scuffle of footsteps.
Without a choice, she walked into the darkness, blinking to let her eyes adjust, and then advanced, her shadow glinting off the wet floor. She smelled something different—like raw mushrooms—and kept moving forward. It was several yards before her hands touched wood. Her fingers nimbly shaped a door, felt for the hinge and found a padlock. Shoving the knife in the belt, Safia tried the keys. Were they just for looks, she wondered when none of them worked. Dropping the keys, she held the nightstick like a bat and beat the metal. The sound vibrated like a clap, and the footsteps grew closer, faster. She slammed again, and the lock popped suddenly. A crazy surprised laugh escaped her and she worked it off and pulled, but the door was stuck, the wood damp and swollen. Footsteps crowded, closing the distance, voices calling now. She didn’t understand a word, but knew she’d less than a minute before they found her.
She unwound the belt from her fist, sliding it through one of the rings that held the lock. Gripping the leather, she pulled, her foot against the wall. They were coming closer, and she prayed they got lost as she stretched herself out, pulling, the belt bearing most of her weight. The door gave, the wood against stone fracturing with rot. Light blossomed beyond and she flinched, turning her face away for a second, then pulled harder, her freedom inches away. It gave a little more and she wedged herself between the opening, then fell back against the door.
Free.
Twisted trees and overgrown vegetation surrounded her. The sunlight splintered, shadowing the landscape. She stood on a hillside, behind her, steep with rocks and thick vines, a worn path led away from the door. Frowning, she skimmed to her right, close to the wall of stones covered in moss. It looked like ruins, an old fortress or something. The crumbling formation jutted out, casting shadows, yet she could see the reflection of sunlight spilling somewhere beyond. She hoped it led down and edged along till the forest thinned. Gripping the wall, she peered around the jagged rocks.
Two men stood on an outcropping of rocks drenched in sunlight. A few yards behind them, a narrow waterfall poured from a small brook higher in the hill. Their backs faced her. She studied them, determined they were armed, but concealing it. They looked completely out of place, both in light shirts and dark trousers as if they’d stepped away from their office cubicles only moments before.
One man twisted a look over his shoulder, then turned fully. “Well done, Safia.”
It was her boss. The shock of it sent her back a couple steps and she hit something, then jerked around. A hooded man stood near, still concealed. Then he reached under the hood’s hem and pulled a long strap of flesh colored leather from around his throat. She’d missed that, but not that he could anticipate what she would do.
“You almost killed me.”
“Almost wasn’t what I was aiming for.” She raised the knife a little higher and looked at her boss. “Somebody needs to start talking, or I’ll finish this.” She backed away, gripping the knife, point down. Her warden held up his hands as if it would stop her. After what he did to her? She looked at her boss. “Why?”
“We had to be certain your integrity couldn’t be breeched,” he said calmly, moving nearer.
A test. Staged. What arrogant bastards. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “And beating me like a rug was necessary?”
“No.” He walked closer. “He went too far.” There was a tightness in his words, the only sign of his displeasure.
Safia stepped back from them both. “He did more than that,” she said in a low voice, her gaze pinning her shrouded tormentor.
Where did they find him? Was five hundred U.S. the going rate for torture-for-hire? Five hundred to enjoy inflicting pure misery on another human being? Because this one liked it. He’s an outside asset , she realized, and didn’t want to be near him. What she really wanted was his death to be real. She owed him, but she also understood she’d probably