Sleeping With Danger. Wendy Rosnau
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in their iron death trap.
Three men had died last week.
He searched out Roth Erwin and found him lying on his side with his knees curled up into his chest. He hadn’t moved from that spot in two days. Sully looked for some sign of life. Suddenly, as if Roth could feel his eyes on him, he opened his, then Argo nudged Sully in the ribs with the M-84.
“Move out.”
Sully left the dungeon and walked down the corridor. Weeks ago he’d been worried about his legs collapsing beneath him, but tonight there was no fear of that.
He hadn’t been outside in a month, so when he stepped into the moonlight he embraced the warm night breeze on his face. He took a long, deep breath—the clean air better than the best sex he could remember.
Again Argo nudged him with the gun barrel. “Head for the dock.”
Barefoot, Sully followed the uneven path that went up a rocky knoll. When he reached the craggy summit, he spotted a cruiser riding the water a hundred yards offshore. The sleek cigar boat was a badass smoker that no doubt had enough horsepower to outrun anything on the water. Its lines were similar to the Halmatic VSV used by the British for seaborne covert insertions, and the American Rigid Raider interceptor. It also resembled his own cigar boat that he’d used when he was a gunrunner in Ireland.
A small fishing boat was waiting at the end of the dock, Pedro seated in the stern. He climbed in and sat down on the middle seat. Argo covered the bench across from him in the bow.
The M-84 still pointed at him, Argo said, “The boss man wants you alive, but accidents happen. Stupidity could get you killed tonight, pretty boy.”
Sully had no intentions of making a stupid move. Not with a gun aimed at his chest and nowhere to run. He was a good swimmer, but his endurance was questionable. He’d survived too long in hell to throw it away on a futile escape attempt.
Argo would pick him out of the water like a rubber duck floating in a carnival pond.
Pedro sent the boat out to sea and headed for the cigar boat. Once Sully was handed over to the crew, his wrists were cuffed and his ankles were shackled. In irons once again, he was shoved into a seat and locked down, and then the cruiser took off, skimming fast and furious over the water.
The four-man crew were armed with Czech Skorpions, and yet they were dressed like fishermen.
Sully kept his ears open, and his eyes out to sea. He had traveled the Greek Isles over the years, and although he couldn’t speak the language fluently, he could speak some and had no trouble understanding the men’s conversation on the boat.
Before long one of the rebels had unwittingly provided him with their destination. Despotiko was a small island that sat southwest of Paros and east of Sifnos. That meant they were headed north.
Sully glanced back at the fading image of the rocky island where he’d spent most of his incarceration. There were over two thousand islands in the Greek Isles, many of them nameless. The odds of finding this place again would be slim, but not impossible.
He could no longer see the monastery. With the new day dawning, he put to memory passing landmarks—anything that would help him find his way back to hell island.
There…he’d named the island, and he promised himself that if he escaped whatever fate he was headed for, he would be back. He only hoped that some of the men would still be alive.
It had been five hundred and twenty-two days since his capture at Castle Rock when the Chameleon’s men had ambushed his Onyxx team, and he’d been left for dead. By now Sully was sure Merrick had replaced him.
He pushed the memory of his old life out of his mind. Argo said he’d been given the gift of life. He didn’t know why that was, or what he would find on the island of Despotiko, but for some reason he was feeling optimistic. It must be something in the air he was breathing, he decided.
Sully suddenly smiled, knowing what it was. It was the scent of freedom, and it smelled as sweet as a field full of Irish lavender.
The vase of lavender sat in the middle of the table on the balcony outside Melita’s bedroom, high in the tower. She stared down at the wooden post beyond the garden, at the blood on the ground, and the guilt nearly brought her to her knees.
It always happened there, and she knew why. Her father loved to make her watch.
She wiped the tears off her cheeks as she heard him speaking to the guard posted outside her door. Moments later her father appeared on the balcony sipping a cup of coffee.
“Nothing like a little morning excitement to get the blood pumping.”
“Hector did nothing wrong. How could you beat him?”
“Every man at Minare has a purpose. A specific job. You were Hector’s job. I’ve told you before when you disobey me, your actions have consequences.”
“Then punish me,” she railed. “Beat me, not him!”
“The punishment fit the crime. I’ve learned the best way to teach you a lesson is through your misguided attachments to the hired help. Your loyalty to Hector is touching, but you should be more concerned with your loyalty to me.”
“Loyalty to a father who keeps his daughter locked away like a prisoner.”
“You made the choice. A bad choice, but a conscious one. For months I’ve been waiting to hear you confess regret. Today I see that you’ve learned nothing from your hiatus away from those you love. Reckless mistakes are costly. Today Hector paid the price.” He took a sip of his coffee. “It’s a good thing I’m a patient man, and I value my children. I rarely give second chances. But I’ve had to make countless concessions where you’re concerned.”
“Lucky me.”
“Yes, you are. As your father it’s my job to keep you safe from my enemies, and of course, yourself. You do seem to enjoy tempting fate.”
“And who will keep me safe from you?”
“No one. I am the center of your life, Melita. Get used to it.”
“I hate you!”
“Now if I could just channel that anger into something productive we would be making progress. Your latest escapade has proven what I already know. You’re cunning and smart. A survivor, like me. My blood is your blood. That is a fact you can’t deny and I intend to never let you forget.”
“If your blood runs through my veins it’s because I’ve had a transfusion. I’m nothing like you.”
“What you are is a fool if you think rebelling against me will enact your freedom. I control your life as I do Hector’s, and every man who works for me. Hector looked me in the eye and lied to me this morning. He made an error in judgment. His loyalty should be to me, not my daughter. You know how I detest flaws in my men as well as my children.” That said, he made himself comfortable in one of the heavy iron chairs at the balcony table.
He was dressed in his business clothes today, his crisp white shirt stark against his sun-baked face and neck. His black pants were creased, and his shoes as shiny as his short silver hair.
Was he leaving the island again? He’d stayed longer than usual, most likely because of Holic Reznik’s arrival. But he would be growing anxious to see Callia. He never stayed away from Melita’s stepmother for very long.
She pitied Callia as much as she loved her. She must have patience of steel to put up with her father. Or perhaps she was blinded by love. No, her father was unlovable. Callia was just as much a prisoner as she was. The only difference was her island home wasn’t a monastery with a view of a whipping post from her bedroom balcony.
He cleared his throat, and Melita refocused her thoughts. “Where is Hector?” she asked.
“He’s been confined to his quarters.”
“I want to see him.”