From her purse she pulled a pair of rust-speckled pliers. She could, of course, afford to buy new pliers, but these had sentimental value. Back when the NSA still looked upon her as a fair-haired child, she'd put the pliers to good use in Honduras, Kuwait, Paris, Afghanistan, and even in D.C. They were supposedly one of the reasons behind her dismissal. The truth, however, was that the “men” in the NSA's positions of power viewed her as a threat. André Vogel, the NSA director, had sacrificed her for political gain, made her a scapegoat in order to advance his career. “Made an example” of her, he'd said. Vogel simply found a way to get rid of her because her continued success and unfailing patriotism undermined his control — if it hadn't been for “excessive force,” he would have created some other fabrication. She'd loved the NSA, made it her life. And now she put the pliers to use in the private sector, for neither God nor Country, but only for money. It was so unfair, so empty.
But a girl still had to pay the bills.
She knew the pliers, knew every nook and cranny, every rust spot, every scratch. The engraved words kmart drop forged (japan) showed on the handle. The tip was good for things like ripping lips off of faces and pulling tongues from throats.
The pliers’ best feature, in her expert opinion, were the four pointed “teeth” just behind the tip. They were designed to let you get at nuts and bolts, give you a good grip on such things. They also happened to fit nicely around fingers.
Around knuckles, to be precise.
She slid the cool pliers around Herbert's knuckle, where the pinkie met the hand. Without a word, she squeezed with practiced strength. A loud crunching sound ripped through the van, like a tree branch breaking under the weight of wet snow. Herbert threw his head back and screamed.
His thrashing sent a tingling jolt through her body. Her skin felt electric, so sensitive she could feel her skirt sliding across her thighs.
Herbert pulled at his restraints, but the wire only dug further into his skin. He stopped fighting and stayed still, but kept screaming. His body trembled with fear — Kayla's breathing came in short, shallow pants. She could feel the blood coursing through her body.
Kayla stroked his hair. He sounded loud, but she knew from experience that such screams were practically inaudible outside the van. He started crying, still trying to mumble through the ball-gag. She recognized these words as well.
"Why?” Kayla said, echoing his question as she slid the pliers up to the second pinkie knuckle. “I'll tell you soon enough, sweet thing."
With a snarling smile and a sigh of passion she crunched the knuckle. Herbert thrashed his head and his screams filled the van. Kayla's eyes sparkled with delight.
She used the pliers to cut the wires and free his wrists, then rolled him over like a limp rag doll. He tried for her throat, but one grab and shake of his broken, swollen pinkie ended all thoughts of resistance. As his face screwed into a mask of agony, she calmly re-wrapped the wire, binding his hands over his stomach.
Tears and snot streaked his face. Bleary eyes looked up at her with mindless incomprehension. In less than ten minutes, he'd gone from a meeting in a sunny park to a helpless torture victim.
She straddled him again, then reached down and unsnapped the ball-gag. It popped from his mouth and hung off his left cheekbone, a thick strand of spit running from the rubber to his lower lip.
"Please stop!” he said. “Please!"
Kayla stroked his hair once again, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I need some dirt on Sonny McGuiness."
Confusion filled Herbert's face.
"I need to blackmail him. I know you've got something I can use."
"Use? Blackmail?” Herbert stammered. “I don't… I don't know anything like that."
"You'd better come up with something,” Kayla said sweetly. “Or I'll do another knuckle."
Sobs racked his voice, each word following a sharp, snot-filled intake of breath. “You… crazy… fucking… bitch!"
Kayla held up the pliers so he could see them clearly. His eyes shot open and his crying ceased immediately.
"Wait a second, just give me a second, okay? I've got something, I swear."
Kayla waited, letting Herbert think. She watched him blink furiously, as if his eyelids were mental speedometers.
"Okay,” he said in a rush. “There was this mine a few years ago. The Jorgensson mine. Sonny discovered it and sold it but it went bust. You could say he knew it would run dry but he sold it anyway…"
Herbert babbled for several minutes, the sound of a broken man begging for his life. The subservient tone of his voice caressed Kayla, adding to the electricity coursing through her body. She pulled a notebook from her purse and scribbled down the information, smiling the whole time. This was exactly what she needed.
He also babbled about Sonny's new site, anything to keep her from reaching for the pliers. The words billion-dollar find rang loudly in Kayla's ears.
She placed the notebook back in her purse. When she finished with Herb, she'd hit the computers and get all the necessary details. Connell would have his information, and by his ridiculous deadline.
Damn you're good, girl.
Kayla stroked his hair one more time, then slid into the driver's seat and started up the van. She checked her watch: She'd snagged him, bagged him, broken him, and got the needed info in less than fifteen minutes. Not her personal best, but pretty damn close.
The gray van pulled away from the empty factory.
Kayla pulled up behind Herbert's Cadillac, then cut the copper wire around Herbert's wrists and feet. She handed him a clean white towel to clean up his wounds. Aside from the broken pinkie, he had only minor cuts on his wrist. All in all, it was a pretty clean job, one that wouldn't draw an ounce of suspicion when Herbert went to the doctor and gave some excuse for the pinkie.
Kayla smiled — true to her word, she hadn't put anybody in a wheelchair.
She opened the van and helped him out. His shoulders slumped and his head hung low, a man broken in spirit and body. He reminded her of an old balloon, saggy and half-deflated.
This, Kayla thought, was the true essence of any man.
"Now, I'm going to let you go,” she said. “And you're going to keep your trap shut. If you don't, I'll give my info to the IRS, and then I'll come for your sons."
Herbert's head snapped up, pain suddenly forgotten, the spark of defiance back in his eyes. Perhaps there was a backbone in there after all.
"Let's just say little Markie and little Lukie will never play the violin again.” She slowly opened and closed the pliers. The metal squeaked like a baby bird calling for food. “You understand?"
He nodded quickly, pain still in his eyes, but suppressed for the moment.
She always threatened the kids. They were better than the wife or the husband, because you never knew who would prefer their spouse tortured and dead. Threaten the children and people listen. In ten years using that theory, she'd only had to keep her promise once. Just once. And that one time had ended her NSA career.
Kayla felt a rush of that familiar anger at the man who'd drummed her out of the NSA. Not a day went by when she didn't think of it. She shook her head and tried to push the thought away. Water under the bridge. You can't go home again. She tried to think of some other folksy sayings to console herself.
Besides, she was very good at her job. Herbert had provided excellent information. Perhaps she needed to find out more, see if there was a way to profit from such a find.
She clicked the iPod and the stereo blared Lacuna Coil's “Heaven's A Lie” as she pulled away. She'd never before pried into Connell's matters for her own gains, but this time was different. This looked like the big meal ticket. “A billion-dollar find,” Herbert had said. The mining industry paid top dollar for information like that — companies with platinum mines in particular. Somehow this whole situation was going to pan out for Kayla Meyers. Pan out in a big way.