But that could change if she played her cards right.
And if she stayed alive.
Determined more each day to make her escape plan a reality, Ami took a deep breath and exited her room. She smiled for the man who immediately stood at attention when she stepped through the open doorway.
“Good morning,” she said at a loss for his name.
“Señorita,” was his only acknowledgment.
She remembered then that they called him the Spaniard. So far she had discerned that there were a dozen men in Michal’s group. Two members whose native tongue was unquestionably Spanish, as the one guarding her, Kolin, from Ireland, Carlos, whose origin she couldn’t even guess, at least three Frenchmen, and four of Middle Eastern decent. The whole group appeared to be multilingual. She didn’t even want to hazard a guess as to the other talents they possessed. Tanner’s words kept echoing in her head each time she considered what these men were capable of. That she was a prisoner among them felt surreal, like a bad movie she’d been forced to watch over and over.
But it was real. And somehow she had to escape.
Had to get back to her son.
“I’d like breakfast,” she said to the Spaniard and smiled again, injecting as much sensuality as she could muster into it. The slight flare of his nostrils told her she’d been successful. Nausea roiled in her stomach, but she ignored it. Whatever the price, she reminded herself.
As Ami made her way through the house to the enormous gourmet kitchen she noted a curious tension in the air. The men were hovered in groups in the great room conversing quietly, all were, as usual, armed to the hilt. Their furtive glances as she’d passed through the room nudged at her, made her stomach tighten. Something was up. She had grown accustomed to the Uzi machine guns and various handguns, but this was different.
With as much nonchalance as she could manage, once in the kitchen she sliced a piece of bread from the thick loaf and slathered it with butter. A cup of coffee and she was set.
Pretending to ignore the murmurings of the men, she strolled back into the great room and peered out the floor to ceiling windows facing the front of the property as she negligently nibbled on her bread. The house sat high on a ridge above the valley below. If she squinted she could see the profile of a city in the distance and the sea beyond that. Miles away, she estimated. But even risking the journey through the unknown terrain that lay between here and there was not beyond her scope of comprehension. Better to die in the wilderness than at the hands of one of these terrorists. She suppressed a shudder. She needed to pay attention. Something was definitely going on. Whatever it was it could be important to her.
Ami nibbled and sipped and watched the birds fly past outside the windows, but not for a second did her full attention stray from the quiet voices behind her. Some of the conversation was carried on in a language she didn’t understand, but most of it was in English. Kolin and another of the men had gone into town early that morning to deliver a package. God only knew what the package contained. Ami felt certain she didn’t want to know. Kolin had spotted someone. She frowned, rolling the phrase he’d used over in her mind. Traitre. He said it again, with fervor. Another of the men shouted, “Adversaire.”
Then she knew.
Traitor. Adversary.
Her throat went suddenly dry.
She gulped the cooled coffee. Kolin and the other man had run into an adversary, a traitor. They’d brought him here. Her blood went cold. At least these terrorists she knew, a stranger put a whole new bend in the situation. She trembled with a new kind of fear, but forced herself to pay attention. She needed to know more.
In English, one of the men mentioned that Michal was interrogating the traitor in the cellar at that very moment. Laughter rumbled through the group. Carlos had gone back into town with three other men to sweep the city just to be sure none of the traitor’s friends were hanging around. Another thought that sent her tension to new heights.
Slowly, so as not to attract their attention, Ami turned around. The Spaniard, her guard for the day, had joined his buddies in the discussion about the traitor.
Carefully dividing her attention between the men and her destination, she eased from the room. Once beyond the doorway, she moved faster, heading for the kitchen. She placed her cup and uneaten bread on the table and braced her hands against the smooth wooden surface until she’d fully summoned enough courage to go through with the next step. From the corner of her eye she looked at the door that led to the cellar. Carlos had taunted her with the possibility of being locked down there a couple of times. She shivered again as dread punctuated the thought.
Sparing one last glance toward the expansive hall that connected the kitchen to the great room, Ami wove her way through the kitchen to the door.
Her fingers wrapped around the cold brass door handle. She held her breath as she pressed downward, releasing the latch with a click that rent the air like a shotgun blast in her overcharged imagination. One minuscule increment at a time she opened the door, praying the hinges wouldn’t whine. The wooden stairs that lay on the other side of the door dove downward, a bald low-wattage bulb casting their depths in gloom.
Ami swallowed at the lump of fear clogging the back of her throat. She had to know…had to see if Michal Arad was the ruthless killer Tanner had said he was. Was he the kind of man who would end her life only to assuage his need for vengeance when she clearly had no memory of betraying him?
Ami closed her eyes and hesitated before stepping down onto the first tread. What she really wanted to know was if the man who’d touched her so tenderly two days ago as he’d seen to her split lip and bruises was really capable of cold-blooded murder.
Holding her breath all over again, she took the first step. It didn’t creak. Relief made her knees weak. One more step. Then another. And another until she was midway down the steep incline. At this point, if she crouched she could see the dank, musty cellar almost in its entirety. A floor-to-ceiling rack filled with dusty, unopened bottles of wine lined one wall. Storage shelves covered the wall opposite the staircase.
“You will tell me!”
Ami almost jumped at the shouted words. She cautiously leaned forward a bit more. In the corner, very nearly behind the staircase, was Michal. He stood over a man who looked to be tied to a wooden, straight-backed chair. Michal moved slightly to the side and her assumption was confirmed. The man, who looked about thirty with blond hair and a light complexion, was definitely tied to the chair. His face was bloody and he wore an expression of infinite pain underscored by blatant insolence. She wondered if Kolin and the others had worked him over or if this was Michal’s doing.
Just then Michal raised his hand and hit the man across the face; his head snapped back. The sound of the blow made Ami jump as if she’d felt it herself. Blood gushed anew from his nose. Even in the low light and from the span of twenty or so feet Ami could see that it was broken. Her heart lurched when Michal raised his hand once more.
“You will tell me now!” he shouted.
“Go to hell!” his prisoner barked then winced.
To her astonishment Michal lowered his hand. He stepped away from the man and she froze. If he turned around right then he’d see her.
He moved in the other direction; she released the breath she’d been holding. Taking his time, he unbuttoned the crisp white shirt he wore. Ami blinked, confused. But his movements soon mesmerized her, made her forget all about the prisoner tied up a few feet away. The white shirts Michal wore reminded her of those pirates must have worn as they’d ravaged the ships of old. The sleeves were billowy, the front double-breasted. When he shouldered out of the flattering fabric, her breath trapped in her lungs all over again at the sight of his broad, broad shoulders and back. He laid the shirt aside on a crate and turned back to his prisoner.